by Nina Bruhns
Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember locking the case again even though he never went to bed without first making sure his book collection--and for that matter, his apartment--was secure for the night . . . which brought him right back to Margot.
Where the heck was she?
She had to be somewhere in the apartment or the alarm would have gone off if she’d tried to leave in the middle of the night.
But if she was in the apartment, why hadn’t she awakened him earlier?
Slipping on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, Antonio made his way out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and through the empty living room, checking the empty balconies that overlooked Central Park as he swept through what was obviously an apartment without a woman.
Had it all been a wine induced dream?
Or had it been something worse?
He called out Margot’s name to no response.
Trying not to panic, Antonio walked into the library, padded over to the Charles Dickens bookcase to find the door wide open. His heart beat faster as his head throbbed harder with each step, almost making it impossible for him to function.
His signed first edition of Oliver Twist was missing.
A white envelope was taped to the bookcase door.
A key, an address in London and a note were tucked inside:
Sorry luv. Couldn’t resist. You can have your book back anytime, but you’ll have to fly to London to get it…I don’t do one-night-stands…Margot
Everything He Never Wanted: Chapter One
Margot James traveled light. Not that she had traveled much in the last forty-one years of her life, but if she had, she would have packed exactly as she had for this trip to London. Fortunately, her best friend, Jackie Silverman, had given her the expensive Louie Vuitton carry-on for her recent birthday as an added incentive to make this trip. The suitcase hadn’t made the positive impact Jackie had probably hoped for and they had argued not only over the cost of the high-priced bag, but over whether or not Margot would actually use it to visit her, a costly extravagance Margot couldn’t seem to justify, no matter who paid for her flight.
For the past fifteen years Margot had been busy raising her two children essentially on her own. Their father, Harry James the Third, had taken up with Elianna, the babysitter, during their son’s kindergarten graduation party. Margot had caught the illicit lovers doing the deed in the playhouse Harry had built for the kids out of recycled wood from his father’s barn. The fact that Harry had gone through all the trouble of building the playhouse with recycled barn wood should have been a red flag to Margot. According to Harry’s mom, his dad used their barn as his love shack whenever his mom would travel.
Of course, his mom didn’t bother to tell Margot this bit of family history until after she accidentally came upon Harry and Elianna while she was looking for their daughter Stacy’s favorite baby-doll, a fortuitous misplacement at best. If Stacy hadn’t lost her baby-doll that day, there was no telling how many Eliannas would have made their way to Harry’s love shack. Harry never did settle down to one woman. That loyalty trait was simply not part of his DNA.
Ever since that totally disruptive and eye-opening day, Margot had not only taken a sledgehammer to the playhouse, then burned all the wood in a spectacular bonfire, replacing the playhouse with a sturdy plastic shed, but she had made a conscious decision to never completely trust another man, and also to never leave her children with Harry overnight. There was no telling who he might bring into his adult-sized love shack.
Because of these decisions, the only traveling she’d ever done was a week in Anaheim at Disneyland a few times when the kids were young enough to think a week was a long time, and an assortment of visits to her parents’ house in Phoenix, Arizona. None of these trips required air travel due to the fact that Margot lived in Fallbrook, California and could simply load up the SUV, pack a few soft-sided bags and drive to their vacation paradise. Flying to London to visit her best friend required an actual suitcase, flight arrangements, and ground transportation, none of which Margot had the slightest idea of how to accomplish, but had decided she was willing to learn.
Her kids had made all the arrangements, and Stacy had even helped her pack for the occasion, a truly nerve-wracking experience.
“Mom, it’s not like London is an uninhabited island and you won’t be able to buy anything you need. I’m sure they have plenty of shops where you can pick up a dress or another pair of shoes if you need them.”
Thus the reason Margot had finally agreed to pack light.
“I know, but I’d rather not spend the money.”
“Mom, this is a once in a lifetime trip for you. Your kids are grown. You’re a free woman now. Take a risk. Buy something you don’t ‘need.’ See the sights. Spend the day at an art museum. Make love to a stranger.”
The thought of getting into bed with a man gave Margot an instant headache. “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m way past all that.”
Margot hadn’t been with a man since Harry and the fact that she conceived two beautiful children from that man was somewhat of a miracle. They rarely had sex, most likely due to the fact that Harry was doing the deed with other women and didn’t need her or he simply wasn’t interested. Either way, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant with Stacy right out of high school, she would never have married Harry. He simply never did it for her, but that was beside the point.
“You’re still a hot little number, Mom. All my friends think so. Dirty sex might be exactly what you need.”
“Is that any way to talk to your mother?”
Stacy took a step back and looked her mom over. “When your mother looks like you do, oh yeah, that’s exactly right. Dirty sex. It’s what you deserve.” Then she bobbed her head, and snapped her fingers.
“You make it sound so naughty and easy. Like there’s a decent guy out there waiting for me.”
“I’m sure there is. You just haven’t met him yet. But you don’t need a decent guy. You need a bad boy to get you back in the groove.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m too old for that kind of thing.” Margot couldn’t think of taking her clothes off for someone like that, someone who probably only wanted a younger woman with perky breasts and a round firm butt.
“Mom, you’re beautiful. You work out all the time and eat like a bird. Any man--or woman, for that matter--would love to see you naked.”
Margot sucked in a breath, shocked at what her daughter was saying. “I’m not interested in other women. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with it. That’s simply not my path.”
“So, that must mean you really are interested in a relationship with a man, only you’ve been keeping that side of yourself in check. Mom, it’s time. Go for it!”
Margot could feel the blush streaking across her face. “I haven’t met a man yet I can trust. Honor and morals are a rarity these days. Look at my girlfriends. More than half of them have divorced and the other half are in miserable marriages. I only have one friend who’s happily married and that’s because she married a saint of a man.”
“Mom, I’m talking about sex, down and dirty sex, not a marriage proposal.”
Margot knew her daughter wouldn’t let up on the subject until she promised to at least consider it. Stacy was just like Margot: stubborn.
“Fine, I’ll put it on my To Do list, and if the opportunity presents itself--which I doubt, considering I’ll be with Jackie most of the time, and I’m really picky when it comes to the type of man I would even consider sleeping with--I’ll leave myself open to the possibility.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll meet someone. If London is anything like New York, there’s a good looking guy around every corner.”
There was only one thing that Margot had an issue with. “So tell me, if I do take up with a man, and I’m not saying that I will, does the man bring the protection or is that still the woman’s responsibility?”
Stacy rolled her eyes. “Mom, you really don
’t get out much, do you?”
“Not since the early nineties.”
In the end, at least Margot was grateful that she didn’t have to also shove condoms into her suitcase, especially since she wasn’t planning on having sex with anyone, no matter what she promised her daughter. Plus, she couldn’t comfortably justify spending extra money for a date dress or date shoes while she was in London, so, instead, she stuffed her carry-on suitcase to the brim with everything she could possibly need, including a mini laptop which she used as her journal.
Margot had been keeping a journal ever since she was thirteen years old. It was her way of coping with life when times got tough, and even when times were good Margot always wrote. It was the one constant in her life, the one thing she had complete control over . . . her imagination. What she put down on those pages or typed on her laptop acted as her life raft through the muddy waters that happened to be Margot’s life.
Because of the last minute additions to her carry-on suitcase, causing it to weigh nearly forty pounds, she was doubtful she could lift it into the overhead storage unit Stacy had told her about. So, instead, she added a backpack and moved her laptop into it, stuffed in an extra pair of shoes, some jewelry and a few other items that were making her suitcase so heavy. She figured she could fit the backpack under the seat in front of her which, in the end, she could not and only proved just how she really needed to get out more.
Now, as she sat in the backseat of one of London’s iconic black cabs racing up and down London’s streets on the wrong side of the road, watching the meter click off the outrageous price for a ten-mile ride from Paddington train station to Jackie’s flat in Kensington, she wondered if this trip had been a smart decision, after all. She could think of a myriad of other, more important things her money could buy instead of this extravagant trip, like a new sofa for the living room. The one she had was old and parts of it had been shredded by that overly active tabby cat Stacy had brought home when she was fifteen. Or a new fridge with the freezer on the bottom--she really liked those--or even a new TV in her bedroom, a sleek flat screen instead of the bulky Motorola she’d bought on sale at Target right before her son started high school.
“Here we are, then,” the dark-haired driver said. “Fifteen pounds, twenty.”
Margot came out of her trance as the driver opened her door, and pulled out her heavy suitcase, along with her black backpack, and placed them on the sidewalk as she stepped out of the cab. She pulled a twenty pound note out of her wallet and wondered how much she should tip the man. She and Jackie hadn’t discussed these things, and even though Margot had bought Rick Steve’s London, she hadn’t had time to crack it open.
“Keep two pounds for yourself,” Margot told him.
“Thank you, Miss,” he said handing her some change she couldn’t even begin to figure out. She shoved the change into her bag, turned toward the white two-story row of houses all attached to one another, grabbed her things and walked toward number forty-nine. Jackie lived at forty-nine Lexington Street, in the flat with the sky-blue door. Margot knew this because Jackie had taken a picture of herself standing in front of that door when she’d first moved in and invited Margot to come visit.
That was over three years ago.
Margot pulled her bag up the four front steps, and was about to knock, when the door swung open and a smiling Jackie greeted her with open arms and a strange request.
“Be a luv and tell your cabbie to wait, will you, sweetie? I didn’t have time to ring one up myself, so I thought I’d use yours.”
Margot did as she was told, leaving her bag on the top step to run down to tell the cabbie to wait. Then she reversed her steps and ran back up the stairs, giving her friend a tight hug. “Are we going somewhere?”
“I’m so sorry, my darling, but I have to dash off to Paris for a few days. I couldn’t get out of it. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, and help yourself to any wine you might want. I have a lovely supply, so don’t be shy. I left you a map and a note on the table to help you maneuver London. I should return in two days, three at most. That should give us plenty of time to catch up. When do you leave?”
“In eight days”
“Fabulous! We’re going to have such fun. Sorry about this little inconvenience, but I’m sure you understand.”
She watched as her friend pulled the exact same Louie Vuitton carry-on she’d given Margot, the suitcase now trailing behind her thumping down the stairs, as she slung a black Prada bag over her shoulder and hurried to the waiting cab. When they were kids, they would often buy the same outfits, shoes and purses and even wear their hair in the exact same styles. Jackie liked to tell everyone they were twins, even though they looked nothing like each other, and lived with separate families. She said they were un-identical twins and created an entire fabricated story about how her mother couldn’t afford to keep both babies, so she gave Margot to her best friend to raise. For a long time, most of their friends believed Jackie’s story, until Jackie’s mom heard about it and forced Jackie to tell everyone it was a lie.
Jackie never forgave her mom for that, and because of it, they rarely spoke.
“But I just got here.”
“I know,” Jackie said as the driver loaded her suitcase into the front of the cab. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She slid into the backseat and closed the door tight, then rolled down the window. “Text me if you need anything. And remember, luv, no matter what happens, you’ll always be my poody-bear.”
Poody-bear had been the nickname Jackie had given Margot during a time when Margot had defended her in elementary school. Sister Anna, their sixth grade teacher, accused Jackie of stealing money out of the offering box from the back of St. Christopher’s Church. Margot, having the utmost trust in her best friend, never questioned Jackie about the incident. Instead, she defended her with such vigor they both ended up on church cleaning duty for an entire month.
That was what best friends did . . . they looked out for each other. Always and forever.
Margot thought of those days as she watched the black cab speed up the street leaving her alone in London with no one to depend on or talk to and wondered if she actually knew the real Jackie Silverman.
* * *
Antonio Milani wasn’t the kind of man who let other people do his dirty work. His family liked to keep their problems close to the chest, so even though he should have called the police to report his stolen book and prosecute the woman for any number of crimes, including possibly drugging him, he employed a private firm to find her exact location and run a background check on her. Once that task was accomplished, he’d take it from there.
The problem was, the Margot James who had pinched his books and had dazzled some of the editors at Market Street with her short stories, was not the same woman who lived in the apartment in London. The Margot James he’d bedded in New York and who stole his book was in reality Jackie Silverman, who, by profession was some sort of publicist for the rich and trending. There was another Margot James, but she lived in Fallbrook, California with two grown children, owned the local bookstore/coffee shop and didn’t seem to write anything.
Since that night, he’d managed to get a text through to Jackie Silverman a couple times, acting as if her borrowing his book was all right and only added to his passion for her.
Yeah, right…
He had about as much passion for her as he did for an ingrown toenail.
The woman had lied about her true identity, stole his book and, based on his mysterious hangover, more than likely had drugged him that night.
And because she was living in another country there was little he could do to prosecute her for any of it, if he in fact chose to press charges. Extradition laws were less likely to be enforced for non-violent crimes, so instead, he decided to go along with her demand for more sex in exchange for his book. After all, the little that he remembered from that night of lust, sex with Ms. Book Thief was more than adequate.
Besides, he wanted
to know more about the stories she’d submitted to Market Street. If she was, in fact, the author and simply using the pen name of Margot James, Paulo had insisted he sign her despite her thieving ways. Paulo reasoned that no one but a collector would know the real worth of his book. Therefore, Ms. High-Society Book Thief probably thought she was indeed simply borrowing an old book in exchange for another night of passion. Part of Antonio hoped that was the case, and he was willing to give Margot/Jackie the benefit of the doubt despite his gut telling him otherwise.
And his gut was rarely wrong.
Truth be told, nothing mattered to Paulo if the writer could produce a best seller. Sometimes Antonio thought his brother would sell their own mother for a best-selling author and knowing their mom’s similar business acumen, she’d probably go along with the deal.
Antonio hadn’t planned on an April trip to London, but after the book heist he had no choice. He decided to attend the London Book Fair, which was happening then, and play the game Jackie had set up, hoping like hell it all worked out in his favor . . . and her stealing his book was really an expensive prank.
He’d texted her about his arrival date, and she’d answered with a sexy, ‘I’ll be waiting in my bed, naked,’ reply.
The woman knew how to tempt a man, he had to give her that.
After his arrival in London, he stopped in at a local pub for a late night dinner of fish and chips, two pints of beer, and watched the local football game on a giant-sized pull down screen, cheering along with all the other fans. He arrived at Jackie’s apartment later than he’d let on, knowing full well she’d probably be asleep. Antonio wanted to have the upper hand in his exchange with Jackie, so getting to her apartment while she might be woozy with sleep would give him the freedom to search for his book before he confronted her.
No answer to his knocking at her blue door.
