I'd Rather be in Paris

by Misty Evans

  As he sank a hand into her hair, he twisted her head to the right. A sharp sting ran from her ear down to her collarbone like fire. She grabbed his hand with hers, trying to ease the pressure on her scalp and keep him from snapping her neck. He hauled her up by her hair and propelled her through the bathroom door, where she fell in an unceremonious heap in front of a pair of three-inch black Dolce and Gabana slingbacks.

  "Darling,” the woman said, and Zara raised her gaze from the shoes, up the fishnet-stocking-covered legs, past the woman's black skirt and silk blouse to look at her face. Highly glossed red lips smiled down at her with unqualified disdain. “We need to talk."

  She'd seen the woman's face on the street, smelled her musky perfume on Lawson's clothes. Yvette LeMans.

  Time to play dumb blonde. “Who are you? What are you doing here?"

  Yvette walked to the coffee table where the contents of Zara's purse had been dumped out. “That is exactly what I was going to ask you.” She picked up Zara's alternate-identity passport. “Sara Lerner,” she read from the inside and glanced between the picture and Zara's face. “This is you, no?"

  A chill rolled over her and Zara wrapped her arms across her breasts and awkwardly stood. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” She looked down at her naked body. “In more ways than one."

  The man moved behind her and she tensed, but a swift shake of Yvette's head stilled his threat. Yvette's focus slid down her body, and Zara forced herself not to squirm under the woman's assessing gaze.

  She tilted her head and dropped the passport back on the table. “No wonder Isaac was not interested in my help. He has you."

  "I don't believe help was what you were offering."

  One corner of Yvette's red mouth lifted. “Touché.” She motioned toward the man. “Get her a robe.” A moment later, Zara wrapped the plush white robe around her and tied the belt.

  Yvette lit a cigarette. “Isaac didn't mention he was traveling with a companion. Where is he, by the way?"

  "Out."

  The woman took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke toward Zara. “His little prank this morning annoyed one of my most affluent clients, which in turn has angered one of my business partners. I like him, you know? But his prank has cost me some business and I cannot let that go...” She raised her hands, palms up. “How should I say it? Unpunished?"

  Zara's heart skipped a beat. Where was this discussion going? “Look,” she said, in her best woman-to-woman, help-me-out-here voice. “I haven't had a decent meal in almost three solid days. Isaac promised to take me out to dinner, and I really need to get back in the shower and finish getting ready because, short of an act of God, I'm eating something delicious and fattening tonight and getting a full eight hours of unadulterated sleep. As you can see, Isaac's not here. In fact, he's returning the car he borrowed from your friend. I'll be glad to tell him you stopped by, and I'll have him call you later, after we eat. That way, I get what I want, and you get what you want. Comprenez-vous?"

  Yvette smiled at Zara through a faint cloud of smoke. “You have verve. My client enjoys young, athletic types full of insolence. You will make the perfect conciliatory gift for him, and I will teach Isaac a lesson at the same time."

  She nodded at the man standing behind Zara. Beefy hands grabbed her shoulders.

  "Get dressed,” Yvette said to her, and the man pushed her toward the closet. “Wear the Prada and make it quick."

  This just cannot be happening. Zara shrugged out of the man's hands and faced Yvette again. “I'm not going anywhere with you. Not tonight. Not ever."

  Sighing, Yvette ground out her cigarette on Zara's passport. “Your attitude annoys me."

  She was annoyed? “No one tells me what to do or what to wear.” Except on occasion, Lawson. “Especially some high-priced Eurotrash slut like you."

  Yvette circled the loveseat to stand in front of her. “You do not seem to understand the situation here. You now belong to me. You will do what I tell you to do or you will meet with unpleasant circumstances.” She flicked her gaze to her mercenary.

  Zara pulled herself up to her full height and set her hands on her hips, mostly to hide the fact they were shaking. “Actually, I understand quite well. You think because you sleep with rich, powerful men you own the world. Guess again, cherie. If you think I'm going to help you get your fat ass out of trouble with your pimp, you're not only wrong, you're stupid."

  Yvette's open hand flew at her face. Zara blocked it. Yvette's eyes widened a fraction, and before she could speak, Zara delivered a full-fisted blow to her mouth.

  She stumbled backward, losing her balance on her D&G's and emitting a low howl of pain.

  The man was quick, but not quick enough. Zara jumped out of his reach, lunging for the door to the hallway. Fighting Yvette was one thing. Guido, the bodyguard, was a whole different story.

  She was two steps into the hallway when Guido's hand clamped down on her shoulder, spinning her around. She let out a karate yell and flailed her arms at him, making contact with his head a couple of times before one of his giant mitts smacked her on the side of the head. Her ears rang and her vision blurred, and she dropped to the floor, the robe falling open.

  She almost missed the familiar creak of the hinges coming from the door at the end of the hall. As she raised her head to call for help, Lawson appeared, dropping his leather bag to the floor. His other hand aimed a gun at Guido's head.

  "Back off,” he said, soft and businesslike as he took a step toward Zara, “or you'll be dead before you blink."

  The door to the suite across the hall opened and a bald man stuck his head out, saw Lawson's gun and retreated back inside. Zara scooted over to the wall, yanking the robe closed and trying to stay out of the line of Lawson's gunsight.

  Yvette sauntered out of Zara's suite and stood by her bodyguard. She reached under the man's jacket and pulled out his gun, letting it dangle at her side. She sucked on her bleeding lip and smiled at Lawson like he was her long-lost friend. “Darling,” she cooed. “I've been looking for you."

  Lawson ignored Yvette and kept his eyes and his gun trained on Guido. He took another step toward Zara. “You all right?"

  No, she wasn't all right. She was tired, hungry and pissed off. Her vision was blurry and her knees were starting to swell. Her dinner plans were ruined and she hadn't even had a decent shower. All in all, she was feeling pretty darn cranky.

  "You know me.” She eased her body up and leaned on the wall for support. “I live for this stuff."

  She wasn't sure but she would have sworn the corners of Lawson's mouth twitched. Great. She was on the verge of hysterics and he was amused.

  "I see you're out of jail already,” he said to Yvette. “You should be more careful about the company you keep."

  The woman smirked and made sharp clucking sounds. “You have stepped on the wrong toes, Isaac. I must correct this and make amends with my client. I had planned to have Giovanni here beat you to a pulp, but now I think I will take the girl instead. Is she weaned yet?"

  "What?” Hot anger shot through Zara's veins. She pushed off the wall to face Yvette and blinked several times to clear her vision. It almost helped. “Are you calling me a baby?"

  When Yvette dismissed her with an exaggerated eye roll, the urge to go for her neck rose like molten lava inside Zara. “This baby is the one who fattened your lip, or have you forgotten that already?"

  Yvette raised the gun and pointed it at her forehead. “I have had enough of you. Shut up."

  Zara couldn't suppress the little squeak that escaped her lips as she jumped backwards.

  "Put the gun down,” Lawson said from behind her. “Or you'll be the first to die."

  From the nearness of Lawson's voice, Zara knew he'd shifted his position to get a better shot at Yvette, but standing smack dab between two loaded guns was worse than playing Russian roulette.

  Yvette was silent for a moment, seeming to think Lawson's demand over as she held Zara's
gaze. Her face remained impassive, but Zara saw something flicker in her eyes a second before her finger moved on the trigger.

  Diving for the floor, Zara threw her arms over her head. Yvette's gun went off twice. Or maybe it was Lawson's. Zara wasn't sure until a second later when Yvette's body dropped to the floor next to her, and she saw a bloody hole where the woman's left eye had been. Yep, definitely Lawson's gun.

  Scuffling noises came from behind her, and she looked up to see Guido—Giovanni—and Lawson circling each other. Why didn't Lawson shoot him? Glancing around, she saw Lawson's gun on the floor at the end of the hallway. This just cannot be happening. How in the world had Giovanni disarmed Lawson?

  In the next second, Giovanni lunged and Lawson blocked the man's fist from connecting with his stomach. Then Lawson spun and kicked out at him, knocking him down.

  Zara scrambled out of the way as Giovanni fell across Yvette's limp body, but when she saw him reach for his gun, still in Yvette's grip, she yelled, “No!” and dove for it too.

  He was closer, but Zara was faster. She knocked the gun out of Yvette's hand and sent it spinning across the floor. Giovanni roared another choice Italian expletive at her and smacked her across the face. She fell backwards, stunned again from the man's strength, but before she could sit up and clear her head, a gun went off. She opened her eyes to see Lawson standing over the man's lifeless body.

  He pulled the end of his T-shirt out of his pants and wiped the gun down, dropping it on top of Giovanni, whose blood poured out, soaking the carpet.

  His face was grim as he offered her his hand. “Get up."

  Rubbing her cheek, Zara let him pull her to her feet. She swayed slightly when he let go to run down to the end of the hall and retrieve his gun. He snatched his bag off the floor and swung the strap over his head to settle it across his chest. “Hotel security will be here any second. We've got to go. The police won't be far behind."

  "But,” Zara began as he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door to the stairs, “what about my stuff?"

  "No time.” He jerked the door open and pushed her through.

  She seized the handrail to stop her forward motion. “Lawson, I don't have any clothes on."

  He slipped his arm around her waist and dragged her along beside him as he descended the stairs. “The robe will do."

  Her feet barely touched the stair treads. She shoved him away with all her strength and started back up the stairs. “I am not leaving without my jacket and my purse!"

  "Zara!” His voice boomed in her ears as she ran back through the door. “There's no time."

  Behind her, he cursed and then she heard the sound of his footsteps following her. Blinking to clear her vision, she ran as though the devil himself were after her.

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  Chapter Sixteen

  Right Bank

  Zara was looking for a miracle. She passed the red BMW 5-series and cupped her hand around her eyes as she looked in the window of a Renault. She wasn't even sure what street she and Lawson were on, just that it was semi-residential, there were hardly any pedestrians out and there was a nice restaurant nearby. The tantalizing smell of roasted chicken drifted down the street, causing her stomach to growl. The one thing she was sure of was a woman running around in a white bathrobe in Paris at nightfall was bound to draw attention. She had her bag with her Prada jacket, gun and miniskirt stuffed inside it, and she had sneakers on her feet, but she didn't have time to change. She needed to find a car and she needed to find it fast.

  A police siren blared a few blocks south, and Zara moved onto the next car. Lawson was on the other side of the street, canvassing cars as well. He had told her to look for an older car without an alarm or tracking system that he could hotwire. Zara thought it was wiser to look for one with the keys hanging from the ignition. This was the Right Bank after all. Crime was rare, local drivers had already had several glasses of their favorite beverage and she and Lawson were in a bit of a hurry to get out of town.

  The next car was a mid-nineties black Audi sedan with the windows down. Zara leaned in to look at the ignition, but it was devoid of keys. She smacked the door with her hand. She was supposed to be on her way to dinner right now. Instead she was dodging police with no underwear on.

  The police siren drew closer. She moved onto the next car, a silver Porsche Boxster. Wouldn't that be sweet for a getaway car? Heck, at the moment, she'd be glad to use it for a changing room. She needed to ditch the robe and get her clothes on. Grabbing the door handle, she lifted. No luck. Doors were locked.

  Letting out a sigh, she turned and looked across the street for Lawson. He was on the sidewalk, leaning against a light pole with his head down while a pair of lovers idled past him. The man's voice evoked soft laughter from his female companion.

  Without warning, the police car she'd heard in the distance turned the corner at the end of the block and headed straight toward her. Lawson raised his head and their gazes locked across the narrow street. Zara swung away from the police car and backtracked to the black Audi. As if she owned the car, she opened the driver's door and slid inside.

  The police car slowed as the officers swept the neighborhood. She tried to catch sight of Lawson, but he'd disappeared. She dropped her head and rummaged in her bag. Just as the police car pulled even with the Audi, she found the tube of lip gloss she'd swept off the coffee table into her purse. Flipping the window visor down to use the mirror, she jumped when the keys to the car fell into her lap.

  Light from the police car swept across her face, and she opened the lighted mirror in the visor and began applying her lip gloss. At least she'd have color on her lips when they took her mugshot.

  She could feel eyes on her and she glanced out the open window. The male officer driving the car nodded at her, and she gave him a flirty smile back. The car moved on and Zara dropped the lip gloss back in her bag, closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

  When she opened her eyes again, she scanned the street for Lawson. She couldn't see him, but his intense, unwavering attention was there. In the rearview mirror, she watched the police car turn the corner and disappear from sight. She leaned out of the car window, put her index and pinky fingers of her left hand in her mouth and gave a sharp whistle. Then she started the car.

  Ten seconds later, Lawson threw his bag into the backseat and slid in next to her. In the dim light from the street and the dashboard, she saw the grim set to his jaw. He looked her over and gave her a nod. She put the Audi in gear and took off down the street.

  * * * *

  They had just passed the city of Dijon and were sailing through the French countryside headed toward Geneva, Switzerland. Annette had left Lawson a message while he and Zara had been at the farmhouse that there was indeed some suspicious activity with lab equipment sales as well a spike in common antibiotics and antiviral medications being shipped into the area. It wasn't much, but since they were need of a new base of operations, it was good enough.

  As mile after mile of dark road flew under the car, exhaustion made Zara's limbs numb. Lawson had been quiet, busy watching over his shoulder for any sign of a tail. She was functioning on autopilot, driving toward Geneva and the one place her gut was telling her she could find food and rest and safety. Her friend and ballet mentor Christian Bernier's house.

  "Pull over,” Lawson said.

  She glanced down at the gas gauge. Still over half a tank. She looked around at the landscape and saw little in the way of civilization. “Why?"

  Lawson grabbed his leather bag from the backseat and pulled out his phone. “I'll drive now."

  She didn't want to stop, not even to change drivers, so she kept her foot buried in the gas pedal. “I don't think that's a good idea."

  Lawson turned to her as he punched numbers into his phone. “You're exhausted."

  True, but she didn't want to admit it. “I'm fine."

  "You don't even know where you're going. Now pull over and let me
drive."

  Zara gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I do too know where I'm going and I will have us there in another hour or so. Quit worrying about me and place your call."

  Lawson closed the cover of his phone with a snap. Zara could feel his gaze on her. “You did okay back there, but you're lucky Yvette's bodyguard didn't get to that gun first. Next time, stay clear so I can handle the situation. And next time, don't go back for anything."

  She kept her attention on the road, letting his words sink in. “If I hadn't knocked the gun away, you'd be dead and I be sucking some rich Italian asshole's dick right now. And I had to go back for shoes. I have limits, Commander. I don't run from the goddamn police barefoot."

  Silence enveloped the car again and then Lawson's low laughter broke through it. “I see your swearing skills surface when you're under stress."

  Her mother had taught her that a proper lady never used vulgar language, but at the moment, Zara didn't feel much like a lady at all. She should probably just keep her mouth shut. It was better listening to Lawson talk anyway. Kept her mind from overanalyzing their current situation.

  "Did you really punch Yvette in the mouth?” he asked, a grin on his face.

  "She was going to kidnap me and give me to the client you pissed off. I sure as hell wasn't going down that road without a fight. She tried to bitch slap me, so I punched her."

  He reached out and ruffled her hair. “That's my girl."

  She jerked away. “Don't call me ‘girl'. I am not a freaking girl. I am a woman who has lived through more than her fair share of shit in this world, and I'm sick and tired of people insinuating I don't know my right from my left."

  He dropped his hand and went into business mode again. “Zara, pull over. Now. I'll drive, and you get out of that robe."

  Zara tightened her grip on the steering wheel another notch. It was solid under her hands, and she needed something to hang on to. “The only reason you want to drive is because your male ego can't stand a woman behind the wheel."