Notorious in Nice

by Jianne Carlo

  “I plan to.”

  “Shall we go down?”

  “Yes. I have to find the kitchen and speak with the caterer.”

  “The caterer?” Thomas halted midway to the door. “Did I hear right?”

  “Su-Lin’s allergic to macadamia nuts and bacon. She accidentally had something with her vegetables last night and was as sick as a dog this morning. She should be wearing one of those medical warnings. I’ll speak to her about one tonight.”

  “Never heard of anyone being allergic to bacon. Nuts, yes, but bacon?”

  “Her lips turned blue at one point. Scared the daylights out of me. I’m monitoring her food from now on.”

  “You do realize you’re obsessed with her?”

  “Yes,” he said and rolled his eyes. “I’m past the point of simple obsession. I watched her breathe for a couple of hours this morning. Almost put a mirror under her nose just to make sure.”

  “I know the enfant terrible peculiarity only too well, Ter. It’s called love. It’s the worst thing in the universe, the only thing worth living for, and it plays havoc with your mind.”

  Arrested by his twin’s turned-down lips, the dreary crinkles bracketing the corners of his eyes, Terry recognized a cognizant soul.

  “You too,” he said. “Love stinks, the proverbial wisdom says.” He cricked his neck. “Nothing a stogie can’t blinker for a few minutes. Want one?” Terry asked, proffering a sable Churchill cigar.

  A half smile sprouted at Thomas’s mouth. “I didn’t know how much I’ve missed you until now. Thanks. Is this for when the men retire to the smoking room?”

  “Come again?”

  “We’re recreating a Regency masked ball to a T, including dance cards, midnight buffet, a card room, and the den’s the place for port and cigars.” Thomas appeared to enjoy his reaction, grinning when Terry’s lips curled toward his feet.

  “Jaysus. This promises to be a long, long night.”

  “Be grateful Suresh nixed the idea of period music save for waltzes.”

  “Fricking hell, dancing. Make my night, why don’t you? There better be good scotch if I have to take to the dance floor.”

  “Chin up, brother. You can disappear with Su-Lin as soon as the dancing starts. Her aunt and uncle aren’t here, remember? No chaperones.” Thomas jabbed an elbow into his twin’s rib cage. “See, good news somewhere. We may as well get going.”

  “I haven’t danced since our bloody lessons with that fricking dance master.”

  “That was sheer torture.” Thomas gave an exaggerated shudder. “Do you know what Su-Lin’s wearing?” he asked as they strode out of the suite.

  “No, she wanted to surprise me,” Terry answered and stopped dead at the top of a three-story staircase burdened with a wide landing on the middle level.

  “Did you have any idea so many people were coming?” Thomas’s hushed question mirrored Terry’s stunned shock at the throngs milling the packed ballroom.

  Candlelight provided the only relief for the shadowed corners of the immense room. A classical band to the right of the staircase played “Amelie’s Waltz.” Dancers twirled graceful circles around the perimeter of the rectangular space. Powdered wigs, floor-length ball gowns swirled the vicinity. Miniature citrus trees bearing lemons, oranges, bowl-shaped grapefruits, perfumed the air, aided and abetted by the heat of thousands of candles flickering a soft, golden glow over the Cinderella setting below them.

  Scanning the room, Terry’s fingers flexed into fists when he couldn’t find Su-Lin. But all the women looked alike with powdered wigs, mask white complexions, and frothy, lacy gowns of all colors, a myriad of ice cream-colored hues. His mouth curved as he thought of how the scene below would enthrall her.

  “Frig,” Thomas said, “we’ll never figure out who’s who.”

  They descended into the fracas. Before they could take two steps into the hordes milling about, a hand clamped Terry’s forearm.

  “I want to raise at least eleven mil from this event, so I need you to pander to the power brokers, buddy.”

  “Suresh, how in the hell did you make me?” Terry checked his friend out, decked out in long black coat-tails, a moss jacket, cream poufy shirt with lace everywhere, and beauty spots, actual beauty spots, one glued to the right of his mouth and one below his left eye. “Jaysus, boyo, you’re wearing beauty spots.”

  “So what? I’ll have you know Su-Lin put them on, and she thinks they’re sexy.”

  “’Scuse me. Did I hear right? You let my woman touch you?” He emphasized his outrage by stabbing a finger at Suresh’s chest.

  “Simmer down. And before you punch my delicate face, I surrender. The woman is gaga about you. Now listen up. Everyone’s paid ten thou for an invitation, but we’re having an auction after the midnight supper, and that’s where I expect to raise the most money.”

  “Suresh, I see Bill and Melinda over there. What the bleeding kind of auction would interest them? Their spare change is in the billions, and they’re giving it away.” Thomas punctuated his statement with a dramatic incline of his head.

  “I’m not interested in them. They’ve already given their max. And forget about Warren, he’s done the same. I’m interested in the European royalty who’s here. Follow me, let’s work the room.”

  “Where’s Su-Lin?” Terry asked.

  Suresh let out an exaggerated sigh. He pointed to the far corner of the room. “I believe she’s over there behind a potted lemon tree. She’s guarding her dance card, wouldn’t even let me claim one dance until she’s seen you.”

  His senses heightened, and all at once, he became aware of feminine smells, a hint of flowers here, a certain musky aroma to the right, and the background of excited murmurs circling the room. Terry grabbed a fluted champagne glass from a passing footman and downed its contents.

  As he pushed through the multitudes, his shoulders and chest brushed breasts bared to nipple point by skimpy necklines and plumping corsets. He hadn’t seen so many uplifted breasts since his stint in LA. His lips pursed at the memory.

  Then he spotted Su-Lin and his mind blanked.

  She wore shamrock-green satin, the color so dark in the uncertain lighting it appeared a shade above black. His mouth watered and a strange tenderness blossomed in his chest, making it hard to take regular breaths. Even with the white wig, the pale face paint, her slanted jade eyes couldn’t be mistaken, that plus the innocent exhilaration animating her face, her whole posture. Shoulders lifted, one slippered foot tapping in time to a minute waltz, a splayed oriental-patterned fan waving a graceful arc in one hand; he knew at once -- he would never let her go. He stood stock-still, entranced.

  Terry couldn’t fight it any longer. He, thirty-one-year-old, hard-ass sailor, was in love.

  Big-time.

  Fricking, puppy-adoring love.

  Do-anything-to-keep-the-princess love.

  Carol-Ann-ruining-it love.

  Jaysus.

  He felt as if someone had rammed him in the gut.

  “Terrence,” she said and glided toward him like an angel taking winged flight. “You look so handsome, except for the wig.” She scrunched her nose. “I hate mine. How did people ever wear these things? It’s so itchy, and I keep wondering how they clean them after they’ve been used. Where’s Thomas?” She stuck her head, powdered wig and all, around his shoulder blade. “We shouldn’t leave him alone tonight. I have this feeling.”

  He found his voice. “Want to dance?”

  He hated dancing, but the thought of holding her in his arms won victory over his left feet.

  “I’ve never danced a waltz, but it doesn’t look too hard,” she answered, and her eyes glowed her happiness. “One, two, three, turn, one, two, three, turn. Such simple steps, yet it looks magical, as if the couple’s twirling on air. Yes, please, I want to dance the waltz with you.”

  The opening strains of “The Blue Danube” whispered across the room, conquering the low murmur of conversation as violins hit a crescendo,
and the familiar rhythm, playful, perfect, hypnotized their movements. Steps ingrained from his mother’s dancing master captured Terry’s feet. Su-Lin’s natural grace matched him twirl for twirl, and their eyes drowned in each other’s.

  A lifetime in a dance.

  A universe in a dance.

  Neither realized the music had stopped, so engrossed in the flawless moments, so ensnared by the other.

  “I need to speak with you.”

  Reality shattered the magical minute.

  Harrison’s voice was as coarse as gravel on skidding skin.

  It took Terry aeons to find his brain again, so suspended had it been by Su-Lin, by his stunned realization he had found the only woman in the world for him.

  “Go away, Harry,” he growled, unable to wrench his gaze away from her flushed cheeks, the flowing emotion between them.

  “Can’t, Terry. I need to speak with you.”

  Something in Harry’s clipped tone raised the hairs on his chest, back, forearms, anywhere the damned follicles grew. Terry’s head snapped to the right, and Harry’s expression sent each lock on his body into a full-fledged salute.

  “Darlin’,” he said, turning to face her. “Wait right here. Don’t move. Let me take care of whatever it is Harry wants.”

  “Okay.” She sighed and her lungs did the sweetest thing to the cleavage, brimming her rounded breasts to spilling over the meager neckline.

  A thought snapped his cock into a psychedelic reaction, twitching and jerking in the snug breeches. Was she wearing a corset? Something scarlet and lacy?

  “Tell your prick to take a break,” Harrison ordered and dragged Terry through two-story-high French doors. “Carol-Ann’s here.”

  “What?” He prayed he’d heard wrong and shook his head.

  “Read my lips. Carol-Ann’s here.”

  “Fricking hell. Where is she? Ballroom?”

  “With Suresh.”

  “Suresh? What the hell?” Terry knocked the powdered wig askew when he tried to drag his hands through his hair. “Why?”

  “She hasn’t seen me yet, so I’m disappearing in exactly five minutes.”

  “What?”

  “Chrissake, Terry, concentrate. Get Su-Lin and do a Without a Trace. Get gone. Take her back to Nice, to the Glory.”

  “Settle down. Give me a complete recon,” Terry commanded. “Pronto, Harrison.”

  “SITREP. She arrived in France two days ago. She knows I’m here.” Harrison scraped the wig off his head and tossed it into a jasmine-scented hedge bearing tiny white flowers with pale lemon centers.

  “Whoa! Stop that,” Terry said, and he stumbled into the stone balcony railings, his mind reeling. “How does she know you’re here?”

  “She asked Suresh for me, and you.”

  “What?”

  “Saw her with Suresh, made a beeline for her.” Harry scowled when he saw Terry’s expression. “For freaking sake, she’s wearing a white wig and a gown cut so low her puppies were showing. Figured she’d be an easy lay. Got close enough to hear her asking about you. Recognized her voice and almost puked. Turned around and hid.”

  “Where’s Thomas?”

  “Beats me, but not here.”

  “What?”

  “He hightailed it out of here a while back. Pissed Suresh off. That’s when Carol-Ann latched onto him. She’s seeing greenbacks.” Harry ditched his rented navy coat choosing different greenery to decorate, an eight-foot tangerine tree laden with squat orange globes.

  “Stop the dramatics.” Terry knuckled his eye sockets. “Let me think this through.”

  Harry’s explanation hit too many hotspots, too many coincidences.

  “You’re right. I’ll take Su-Lin back to the Glory. Stop stripping, Harry. Look, I can’t take a chance on running into Carol-Ann. You have to go back in there.” Terry pointed to the ballroom. “And get her.”

  Harrison had shed clothes by the second and now stood dressed in a pirate’s open-necked white ruffled shirt, buff breeches, and mirror-polished ebony Hessians.

  “Why on God’s green earth do you have a boner?”

  The question seemed to surprise Harrison. Eyebrows lifted, he shot a furtive dart at his groin and groaned. “Like I need this now.” He flicked a hand in the cool evening air. “I ran into a situation.”

  “A situation,” Terrence repeated.

  “A freaking incredible situation. I’m not going back in there, not on your life.” Harrison held up his hands and jangled car keys.

  At that precise second, the orchestra stopped playing and the metallic clunking jarred Terry’s ears.

  Harry leaped onto the balcony rail, bowed at the waist, and jumped.

  Terry cursed, sidled to the open doors, and peered around the white-painted wooden door frame. He cursed again and slipped into the ballroom, keeping to the shadows. It took him a good ten minutes to make his way to the spot where he’d left Su-Lin. He couldn’t find her.

  Palms damp, he searched for Suresh, Geoff, Thomas, anyone he trusted. Shoulder skimming the cool stone wall, he did a perimeter of the room, gaze surfing the couples on the dance floor.

  Nada.

  He recognized a couple of celebrities in the card room, smelled a rich Churchill cigar, and worked his way to behind the man smoking the stogie. Swearing under his breath when the man only resembled Geoff in profile, he stalked to the dining room.

  A burnished mahogany table laded with canapés, stacks of triangular porcelain plates, and crystal glasses brimming with miniature cocktail forks dominated the room. Under a flickering three-tiered chandelier, masked women and men flirted and conversed above the musical notes of a chamber trio playing in one corner of the room.

  Nothing.

  Worry tightened his trapezius as minutes ticked into an hour.

  The old-fashioned boutique hotel didn’t cater to computer cards, and Su-Lin had the only brass key to her suite, which was located on the ground level. Terry found a side door and left the ballroom. Manicured lawns softened his footsteps, and wisps of fog gave the sole relief to pitch-blackness. He headed to the far end of the rough-textured stone château.

  An open, terraced balcony fronted Su-Lin’s room. Loping up the steps, a stiff breeze lifted the tails of his coat and cooled the sweat peppering his neck. Muttering a curse, he fumbled with the cravat, tearing lace in his haste to remove the elaborate necktie. His hand closed around the brass doorknob, and he twisted it, stunned into a sudden immobility when he found it unlocked. Caution slowed his jerky hand, and he waited until his heart settled back into place before inching the heavy door open.

  Not a thimble of light sliced the room.

  A persistent hum played in the background.

  Terry halted in the doorway, edging the wood frame back into place. Deprived of clear vision, he let his other senses join the game. Attuned to every nuance, he identified the source of the noise, a minirefrigerator stacked under a microwave.

  A faint hint of patchouli tainted the air, and it spurred memories of Su-Lin’s toes kneading his knotted back. The turndown service had left a triplet of gold-foiled chocolate squares in the center of the king-size bed. His overdeveloped sixth sense had his fingers loose, flexing.

  No Su-Lin.

  Yet he felt her presence.

  He slid out of his heeled shoes and crept through the room on stockinged feet. The door to the sitting area yawned open, but midnight shaded any hint of its contents. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, fear coating the surface acrid.

  Terror sheathed his inching steps. His feet heavier than the rest of his limbs, Terry stepped through the arched doorway and had to squelch down the bile rising in his throat.

  Su-Lin lay sprawled on the sofa, powdered wig off center, dipping down over one closed eyelid. One nipple protruded from the sweetheart neckline of her verdant gown. Dark patches covered the bodice, irregular wet spots as if a drunk had sprayed her with a champagne bottle. A bottle of absinthe, green and glowing like a neon sign,
spilled liquid onto the paisley buttercup couch. Vomit green blotches on a picture-perfect background.

  An anvil stamped his chest; Terry rushed to her and knelt beside the sofa. He grasped her wrist, and the weight bearing down on his rib cage lifted when her pulse pushed against his thumb. One survey of her face brought the proverbial monkey onto his shoulders. This was no natural sleep.

  Lips clamped together, fingers shaking, he grabbed for the phone. The receiver hit the plush carpet, and Terry scrambled for the earpiece. It smashed his ear when he finally regained control and stabbed the Front Desk button.

  “Get me an ambulance. Now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Terrence?” Su-Lin frowned, and the effort cost her a throbbing back-of-eye-sockets headache. She knuckled her right eyelid, which drummed harder for the effort.

  “Thank God,” he said and collapsed onto the bed. “Speak to me. How do you feel?”

  “Not good,” she answered and dug the heel of her palm against the right side of her head. “I have a rotten headache and I feel queasy.”

  “The anesthesia should wear off soon, and you’ll feel better.”

  “Where am I?” Her glance searched the room, found the IV inserted into her left arm. “Am I in a hospital?” Vision blurred as a wave of nausea coiled bitterness over her tongue. Fear developed the taste into a poisonous sourness.

  “Yes, you’re in a private hospital in Grasse.”

  “My brain doesn’t seem to be working,” she said, and her tongue slowed the words so they came out one at a time in cadence with her mind. “I feel awful.”

  “Having your stomach pumped will do that to you, darlin’.” He brushed a damp lock of hair off her cheek.

  “I’m sorry?” Confusion warred with reality inside her brain. “My stomach pumped?”

  “It appears you drank an entire bottle of absinthe.” He traced a finger over her knuckles.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Terrence asked.

  She squinted at the instrument beeping on a square metal table adjacent to the hospital cot. The blood seemed to pump faster in her veins as scattered images flitted through her mind. She caught onto one and fixed it in place. “The masked ball? We waltzed?”