by Myla Jackson
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Trouble With Mitch
ISBN 9781419921780
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Trouble With Mitch Copyright © 2009 Myla Jackson
Edited by Shannon Combs
Cover art by Willo
Electronic book Publication May 2009
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
TROUBLE WITH MITCH
Myla Jackson
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
GQ: Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.
Manolo Blahnik: Blahnik, Manolo
Plexiglas: Rohm and Haas Company
Prada: Prefel S.A. Corporation Trouble With Mitch
Chapter One
“I couldn’t possibly take it. It’s a priceless asset to the museum. The public deserves a chance to see it.” Amira Nassiri held her hands up, refusing to accept the beautiful blue-green bottle recently discovered on an archeological dig in the Zagros Mountains of Iraq. Her fingers itched to smooth over the details of the hand-blown glass, miraculously intact after a thousand years. She shook her head and stepped back. “No, I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
“You don’t understand. This bottle is particularly special because it’s from the sarcophagus of an ancient princess. Unfortunately, we had to return the sarcophagus and its princess to its native country. Fortunately for you, I kept this bottle.”
“Isn’t that stealing?”
Mr. Baumgartner shrugged. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. And since I can’t display it in the museum without raising suspicion, I want it to go in a private collection where it will be most appreciated.”
“And not seen by just anyone. Thanks. You’re passing on a stolen artifact.” Amira hiked the strap of her Prada bag up her shoulder, preparing to leave.
“It’s only stolen if someone knows about it.” The museum curator leaned closer, his breath smelling of stale coffee. “It’s said to transfer magical powers to the woman who possesses it.” He pushed the bottle toward her. “Look at it. Its beauty is beyond compare.”
“Even more of a reason for me to leave it in your care.” Besides, Amira didn’t believe in magic. She did however love beautiful bottles of all shapes and sizes and this one was so very unique and old. Still. “No, I can’t take it.”
“I insist. For all you’ve donated—done for the museum—you deserve it.” In the dim yellow light of his office at the back of the museum, Mr. Baumgartner’s face glowed a purplish-red. A testament to years of overindulgence in liquor. “It will only take a minute to wrap it for you so that you can carry it home safely. Or I could have it sent via courier?”
Amira didn’t want to take the stolen bottle, but if she didn’t, there was no telling who the curator would give it to. Better to take it and figure out a way to get it back into the care of the museum without the curator being aware of it. “Okay, if you insist.” The thought of a courier dropping the precious glass, made Amira’s heart skip a beat. “But a courier won’t be necessary.”
As the curator fumbled with the packaging, Amira admired the play of light on the colored glass. She really should insist on leaving the bottle with the museum. Taking one step outside the museum with the stolen artifact made her just as much a criminal as Mr. Baumgartner. But the ancient blues and greens captivated her. She couldn’t allow its beauty to be spirited away into a private citizen’s collection. Such a gift should be shared…
“My assistant, Edie, disappeared on me,” Mr. Baumgartner groused. “Do you know how hard it is to get good help these days?” He glanced at her and smiled. “I guess you do, what with being in the perfume industry and all.”
She nodded, rather than answer with words. She’d hoped to be home by now. If not for the call she’d received from Mr. Baumgartner on her way back to her Manhattan penthouse apartment, she’d have been soaking in the hot tub with a glass of wine.
Much as she wanted to tell him it could wait, she’d too often been surprised by gifts of rare antiquities from Mr. Baumgartner that she hadn’t been able to refuse. This gift would have to be the exception.
He knew she had a weakness for bottles. Her line of perfume was world famous for their exotic and unique packaging with limited numbers of the most unusual being produced. The bottles represented collector’s items with or without the exquisite perfumes inside. She’d seen one of her perfume bottles bring as much as twenty-thousand dollars at a private auction.
The museum curator wrapped the bottle in tissue paper and gently laid it in a box. When he was done, he closed the lid and held it out to her. “A beautiful gift for a beautiful woman.” He bowed, his heavy jowls jiggling so much, Amira fought giggles rising in her throat.
She took the box and backed away. “I’ll be sure to plump up my donation, Mr. Baumgartner. Thank you.”
“Please, won’t you stay for a drink?” The man straightened his tie, his gaze falling on the vee of Amira’s blouse.
“No, I think not.” Amira resisted the urge to cover her cleavage. Mr. Baumgartner might come up with fabulous treasures to add to her collection, but she had no intention of suffering through a drink with the man. Just like every man she’d met, they were after only one of two things…her money or sex. The first, she gladly gave to good causes, the second, she preserved for…
In her hurry to exit the warehouse, Amira paused. What was she “saving” herself for? Not that she was a virgin, although she might as well be. Her father kept her on a very tight leash.
If not for her one fling with womanizer Mitch West, she might never have experienced the pleasure of the most exquisite orgasm. Oh the way he made her feel. Just the memory of the places he’d touched had her creaming in her panties.
They’d met at a party her father threw for his employees and support staff in the lobby of his corporate headquarters. After several drinks, she’d managed to slip upstairs to her office. Mitch followed. They’d talked and stared out the window at the New York City skyline, sharing their dreams. Then they were kissing and before she knew it, they were sprawled across her desk, making love like they were meant to be together.
That he’d dropped her like yesterday’s fashions after that one night made it all the more disheartening. Why? Had she been that bad? She thought it had been pretty terrific. But he never called her afterward. Not once. He’d handed over her father’s investments to another stockbroker and she hadn’t seen him since. Had he been put off by the way her father treated her
? Please let it be that and not her lack of prowess in lovemaking.
Amira sighed. Sometimes she wished she could be like normal, everyday women who didn’t have a constant entourage of bodyguards crowding her every step. It had to be a total turn-off to men. What she wouldn’t give for the freedom to walk about the streets, carefree and most importantly…By. Herself. But how could she? While she stood in the warehouse at the back of the large museum, her bodyguards waited for her in the lobby. A limousine stood on the street out front, ready to take her anywhere her heart desired, when all her heart desired was to be by herself, independent of her jailors, free to be with whomever she chose.
A red, lit Exit sign at the rear of the warehouse caught her attention. “Mr. Baumgartner?”
“Yes, Miss Nassiri?” He hurried to her side.
She pointed at the sign, a thrill of excitement tingling through her veins. “Where does that door lead?”
“Into the back alley.” He frowned. “Why?”
“And the alley leads to?” The excitement bubbled up like champagne in her belly.
“A side street.”
Escape. She could leave her bodyguards behind and roam the streets of New York. Just like any anonymous person. “I’ll leave through that door, Mr. Baumgartner.”
“But Miss Nassiri, your car is waiting out front.”
“Is there a problem with me leaving through the rear of the building, Mr. Baumgartner? Security alarms, locks?” She’d learned from her father never to take no for an answer and never to explain herself.
“No, I can unlock the door and let you through.” The curator tugged at his tie. “What about your bodyguards? Are you sure that’s what you want?”
She answered with raised eyebrows, when her knees were shaking. She’d never tried to dodge her bodyguards. Her father would be livid, but right now, she didn’t give a damn. Besides, he was in Venice for the week. On the streets of New York City, she could easily lose herself and her bodyguards with no problem.
Without waiting for permission, she strode to the chained and padlocked back door and waited, tapping her bright red Manolo Blahnik pointed-toe pumps.
Mr. Baumgartner raced over, fumbling in his pocket. “Just a moment while I find the key.”
As the man inserted a key into a padlock, a commotion at the door leading to the front of the building set Amira’s heart pounding. Had her bodyguards become impatient? “Please hurry, Mr. Baumgartner. I don’t have all day.”
The lock clicked and the hasp swung free. Mr. Baumgartner loosened the chains and pushed on the lever, opening the door.
A shout sounded behind them.
Amira sucked in a deep breath, and without looking back, passed through the doorway and out into the alley.
“What’s the meaning of this—” The door swung shut, cutting off Mr. Baumgartner’s words to the intruders behind him.
In high heels, Amira didn’t have a chance of outrunning the bodyguards if they had already made it across the warehouse floor. Quickly, before she could lose her nerve, she grabbed a loose board from the ground and shoved it through the two handles of the back door. That might not stop them, but at least it would slow them down long enough for her to duck out of sight.
With freedom a short jog ahead, Amira tore out, the box tucked under arm, running like a football player breaking into the end zone.
The door behind rattled.
Amira didn’t look around, she kept running. If she could make the end of the alley, she could merge into foot traffic and lose the bodyguards altogether. Her heart hammering against her ribs, she ran as fast as she could in her spiked heels, wishing for the comfortable shoes she worked out in with her trainer.
She rounded the corner and slipped into a crowd of tourists, ducking low to blend in, cursing her bright red coat. The crowd flowed toward a double-decker bus parked against the curb. Amira allowed as many people as possible to pass her, keeping a buffer of ten tourists between her and the corner she’d emerged on.
“Next stop, Times Square!” the tour guide shouted above the noise of fifty people talking at once. “Don’t be left behind.”
The announcement caused a renewed surge of humanity, trapping Amira in their ranks and shoving her forward to the steps of the bus. When she tried to back up and slip out of the line, she found herself sandwiched between two large women intent on making it onto the bus before it left without them.
With the two women shoving her forward, she was forced to step up onto the bus or be cut off at the shins by the bulldozing women. As she climbed the steps, shouts erupted from pedestrians nearby. Two big men dressed in black suits and wearing dark sunglasses on a cloudy day broke through the crowd, shoving people to the side.
These men weren’t her bodyguards, but they’d emerged from the same alley she had and they were searching for someone.
At the top of the stairs now, she hurried onto the bus, clutching the box in her hands, and bending over to watch the men through the windows. The two women behind her pushed her forward and she stumbled, catching herself on the back of a seat.
The tour guide climbed on board, swung the door shut and grabbed the hand-held microphone. “Everyone ready for Times Square?”
“Yes!” the group shouted in unison.
“Take your seats, please,” the guide instructed, even as the bus lurched forward into traffic.
Amira found a seat near the rear of the bus. As she settled into it, her gaze connected with one of the men who’d been searching for someone. His eyes widened and he shouted to his partner, pointing at the bus.
No, he pointed at her!
Amira ducked, hoping she’d been incorrect, wishing she had been a good little rich girl and left the museum with her phalanx of hired muscle. Although, why those men would be after her, she didn’t know. She settled the box in her lap, a sudden horrible thought occurring to her.
Hadn’t Mr. Baumgartner admitted that the bottle was stolen? What if she was caught in possession of stolen merchandise? Those men could be policemen, FBI or CIA.
Her breath caught in her throat and she spun in her seat as the light changed and the bus chugged forward. The men ran alongside the vehicle, pounding against the side of the bus.
“Jesus! What’s wrong with those people?” The woman beside Amira stared in horror at the men raising such a ruckus beneath where she sat. “What do they want?”
“Probably missed their bus. Can’t they tell a tour bus from a city bus?” asked the grizzled old man in front of her, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt. “Get the fuck away, you morons!” He shot his middle finger at them.
Could this bus go any slower? Amira fought the urge to move to the other side of the aisle, away from the crazed men.
The traffic eased enough the bus could speed up, leaving the men behind. One of them stood in the middle of the street, blocking an oncoming taxi.
Was he crazy or just stupid? Taxi drivers didn’t stop for anything in New York City. Amira’s father didn’t allow her to ride in taxi cabs, stating they were Kamikazes on wheels.
Amira squeezed her eyes shut against the blood and guts sure to be spread all over the pavement. Tires squealed and a horn blared. She opened her eyes not to a dead man laying sprawled on the street but to the taxi driver being thrown out onto the street. Both the men jumped into the front seat of the taxi. As the vehicle shot forward, the passenger bailed out of the back door, rolling to a stop against the curb.
“Did you see that?” The woman beside her nudged Amira with her elbow. “What’s this world coming to? Are they filming a movie?” She craned her neck, apparently searching for the cameras.
“I don’t think so.” She watched in morbid fascination as the taxi dodged through traffic, following the path the bus took. A light changed, trapping the taxi behind several others. With the men stuck at the light and distance growing between them and the bus, Amira didn’t have much time. The bus turned at the next block, giving her the chance she needed.
Sure no
w that the men were following her, Amira searched the streets ahead, hoping for a miracle or an escape route to materialize. Why were they after her? For the bottle? Or to kidnap her? She had no intentions of waiting around to find out. Hugging the box to her chest, she staggered to her feet and ran to the front of the bus.
The tour guide blocked her way. “Please take a seat while the bus is in motion, miss.”
“You have to let me out,” Amira gasped, fear making her heart beat too fast and her breaths come in short, shallow rasps.
“I can’t do that. We have a schedule to keep.” The woman, resembling a guard at a prison facility, crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ll have to wait until the next stop.”
“Let me out or I’ll…” Amira struggled with what could be bad enough to move the tour guide out of her way. “I’m going to puke. If you don’t let me out, I’ll puke on you.”
“Oh, good Lord, let her skinny ass out, for Pete’s sake!” One of the large women who’d practically forced Amira onto the bus earlier shouted at the guide from halfway down the aisles.
The tour guide glared at Amira. “Fine. But we’re not waiting on you, so hurry it up.”
The bus screeched to a halt and the door swung open.
“You don’t have to wait. I’m not getting back on.” Amira descended the steps and darted into an Oriental rug store.
The door closed and the bus filled with tourists continued on its way to Times Square.
Before Amira had a chance to determine just where she’d landed, tires squealed and the taxi with the two thugs blew past the rug store, hot on the tail of the bus.
Amira ducked behind a rolled carpet and waited until the bus and taxi disappeared. Then she left the building and headed back the way she’d come.
Unwilling to take a chance on a taxi, she hailed a bicycle rickshaw complete with a clear vinyl tent around it. As she stepped inside and allowed the young man to tuck a dirty blanket around her legs, she sighed. Who would think to look for the daughter of the richest perfume tycoon inside a bicycle rickshaw?
