I jolted upright in bed, the man’s deep, seductive voice echoing through my mind.
And just as quickly as I’d popped up, the pounding in my skull knocked me back down again. I groaned as I rolled to my side and squinted at the light pouring in through the wispy white drapes in the hotel room.
Why did that voice seem so real? And why did I feel like I’d been run over by a train? And why couldn’t this lavish hotel have invested just a little extra money in black-out blinds for their guests?
Squeezing my eyes closed once more, I willed the room to stop spinning around me. Did I drink last night at the hotel bar? All I remembered ordering was a sparkling water. Plus, I never drank when I was away from Paul. I never drank at all, actually. And I certainly wouldn’t have started while away on business in Paris, the night before I was set to fly home no less.
I rubbed my throbbing forehead, and as my stomach cramped, I thought of Angela’s deathly contagious flu. Oh, God. I must’ve caught it. How would I fly home in this state? Please don’t let it be the flu. I can’t handle that right now. I have to be healthy this week. I’m getting married in—.
“My name is Claude.”
I jerked back up to a sitting position, my eyes now wide open, my breath caught somewhere between my seizing stomach and my spinning head.
Why was that voice lodged in my head? And who was Claude?
Jagged snippets of memories scissored their way through the cobwebs in my brain, refusing to form a cohesive picture.
A crisp black suit. Deep indigo eyes. Chiseled cheek bones and slick black hair.
“Let us have just one more drink in your room. I am having so much fun with you. I never want this night to end.”
I could still hear his thick French accent ringing in my ears, feel his warm hand as it wrapped around mine and led me down the hallway of the fancy hotel.
One last memory taunted me. I remembered tripping and ramming my shoulder into the doorway . . . as I’d let the suave French man into my hotel room.
“Oh la la, ma chérie. You must be careful. We have a long night ahead of us, non?”
“No,” I said out loud, shaking the images from my mind. “No,” I repeated. “It was all just a dream. A vivid, awful dream. Get it together, Chloe.”
But when my right shoulder began throbbing, I peered down before I could stop myself and spotted a swirl of black and blue.
Oh, God. What had I done?
Slowly, I turned my head toward the other side of the bed, dreading what—or who—I might find.
The sight of crumpled white bed linens coupled with a firm dent in the fluffy pillow confirmed my worst fear.
I hadn’t slept alone.
The intoxicating scent of aftershave emanated from the crisp white sheets, making my stomach lurch. I stumbled out of bed and nearly slipped on the creamy marble floor in the bathroom as I lunged for the sink, filled my hands with cold water, and splashed it over my steaming face to combat the nausea.
And the guilt.
How could I have brought that man into my hotel room? What had I done with him? And where in the hell was he now?
I lifted my bloodshot eyes to the mirror and gasped when I spotted my black bra and underwear fitting snugly over my pale skin, no sign of the business suit I’d been wearing the day before.
This time I lunged for the toilet.
After confirming in the worst possible way that I most definitely drank more than one glass of red wine at the hotel bar last night, I wrapped my shivering body in a towel and forced myself back up to the sink to brush my teeth.
I scrubbed my tongue, my gums and every crevice of my mouth until it was raw, hoping to rid myself of the guilt and the questions that threatened to swallow me whole.
What had really happened last night? Why had I agreed to drink wine with some random French man at the bar? How could I have brought him up to my room? And worse, what had I done with him to end up in my underwear?
Tossing my toothbrush back onto the bathroom counter, I ignored the pounding behind my eyes and tried to recall what exactly had happened the night before.
When I couldn’t put another memory into clear focus, my thumb automatically reached for my left ring finger to twist my engagement band around—a nervous habit I’d picked up ever since Paul had proposed last year.
But the minute I felt bare skin where my ring normally would’ve been, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
Where was my ring? I never took it off. Not even to shower.
The fluffy bath towel slipped off my scantily-clad body as I raced out of the bathroom and over to the dresser, where I would’ve left my purse. But my sparkly ring wasn’t there. And neither was my purse.
I tore apart the gorgeous hotel room, yanking the covers and the pillows off the bed, opening every drawer, every closet, peering in every crevice. But in the end, all I found were crystal chandeliers, empty glasses with remnants of red wine settling in the bottom, my tall black heels—one by the bathroom, one by the closet—and a slinky red dress that most definitely did not belong to me.
No suitcase. No purse. No phone. No diamond ring.
And no passport.
It was gone. It was all gone.
I sank onto the king-sized bed, the room now spinning even more fiercely than before, last night’s drinks threatening to make one more trip through my stomach, when another image flashed through my brain.
Claude’s tall, dark-haired silhouette stood over the bed, his firm hand stroking my hair.
“Yes, chérie, go to bed now. I will see you in the morning . . .”
I’ll see you in the morning all right. After I’ve taken all of your possessions.
I buried my head in my hands as panic seized my chest. What had I done? I had a flight to catch. And more importantly, my wedding to Paul was in six days. Six days. How was I going to get home without a passport? And how would I explain this to him? He wouldn’t even believe me. I was always under control. I didn’t drink. I worked to the point of exhaustion. And in the eight years we’d been together, I’d never even contemplated cheating on Paul.
Plain and simple, Chloe Turner did not do things like this. Ever.
A screeching sound made me jump from the bed.
It was the hotel phone. Maybe someone had caught that lying, stealing French man on his way out the door.
“Hello?”
“Chloe, I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell, but it seems to be turned off. Are you okay?”
I cringed as my breath once again failed me.
“Hi, Paul. I . . . I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
Two
“I was starting to get worried. You never turn your cell off. Did the battery die or something?”
What was I supposed to tell him?
“Chloe, are you still there?”
Just spit it out. Paul is my fiancé. I can’t possibly lie about something this serious.
But the dent in the pillow. Me waking up in my underwear. My ring. My passport. Oh, God.
“My phone was stolen,” I blurted.
“What? How?” Paul’s voice rose about three octaves, making the dread in my stomach turn sour.
“It . . . it was my fault. We were having dinner last night near the conference site, and I . . . I left it out on the table, and when I remembered and came back, it was gone.” My cheeks blazed with heat. I’d never lied to Paul before. I’d never done anything I’d had to lie about. Not in all the years we’d been together since college. But I couldn’t possibly tell him what had really happened . . . not until I figured it out for myself.
“Jeez, Chloe. It’s bad enough that you agreed to do this business trip a week before our wedding, but now your phone? What a disaster.”
I glanced around the empty hotel room, then down at my half-naked body, realizing Paul was clueless as to just what a life-altering disaster this had become.
“So, how are things at home?” I asked him, desperate to change the subje
ct.
“Nuts. Your sisters have been calling non-stop with wedding demands, and I guess Sophie is flying in tomorrow. Did you know that? Why does she need to come so early?”
This couldn’t really be happening right now. I had to get home.
“She’s the maid of honor, Paul . . . and she’s my sister. She’s coming early to help out.”
“Well, I still don’t understand why they have to play such a big role in our wedding. You’re an event planner for God’s sake. You can obviously handle this without their input. Even your dad has been calling me with questions I don’t know the answers to. You know the long hours I’ve been putting into the firm lately, and I don’t have the time to deal with his anxiety over every last detail of his flight arrangements and his tux fitting. I can’t believe Angela asked you to take this trip. And even worse, that you agreed. Is this job really worth it to you?”
“We’ve already discussed this Pa—”
“Never mind. What’s done is done. We can talk about your job when you get home tonight.”
My lips froze, paralyzed at the gravity of the situation.
“Chloe? Are you there?”
I snapped back to reality. I couldn’t let Paul know that something was wrong. He was already freaking out about the wedding coming up and my crazy family overwhelming him. I would work everything out. I would go straight to the U.S. embassy and they would help me get home. And as for whatever I’d done with Claude . . . I could only hope that somehow, some way, it would turn out to be a horrible misunderstanding. Surely, even in my drunkest state, I wouldn’t have actually had relations with some French man I’d just met when I’m about to walk down the aisle in less than a week?
“Chloe?” Paul’s voice shot impatiently over the line.
“Sorry, I think the jet lag is still wearing on me. I better run though. I need to eat some breakfast and get ready to head to the airport.” I peered over at the clock. It was eight a.m. My flight left at one o’clock.
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Bye, Paul.”
I listened for Paul to say goodbye, but instead was met with a blaring dial tone.
How could I have let this happen? How could I have gotten so drunk that I couldn’t remember what I’d done with this French guy? Or how I’d ended up in my underwear? I couldn’t worry about that right now though. I had to focus on getting home.
With no other choice in apparel, I slipped the mysterious, short red dress over my head, threw on my three-inch black heels and snatched the room key off the night stand—at least Claude had left me that. I ran down the hallway and busted through the closing elevator doors to find a woman in a large red hat and a light-blue sundress giving me the once over before lowering her eyebrows and turning her back to me.
Oh, God. She probably thinks I’m a prostitute.
What a nightmare.
As the elevator let me out on the ground floor, I ignored the heavy stares that trailed me while I charged around the corner toward the front desk of the Plaza Athénée Hotel. Amidst the bouquets of fresh white calla lilies, the tall, creamy pillars, and the Louvre-worthy art on display, two police officers loomed over the desk, speaking with hotel management.
I dashed toward them, but stopped abruptly when I spotted the taller, black-haired officer revealing a large photo to the manager.
I strained to see the glossy picture as it tilted in my direction.
My breath caught in my throat when I made out a woman with long, wavy, auburn hair, holding a glass of red wine and laughing.
It was me . . . from the night before.
Why did they have a picture of me?
“La femme s’appelle Chloe Turner.”
My heart slammed in my chest. Even with his strong French accent, there was no mistake that the police officer had just said my name.
Before I had a chance to process any of this, the hotel manager met eyes with me and nodded in my direction. The police officers swiveled around, then after a quick sideways glance at each other, they marched over to me.
The taller officer flashed his badge as his beady eyes combed the length of my body . . . and the short length of this stupid red dress. “I am Officer Laroche, and this is my partner, Officer Fournier.” He gestured to his shorter, lighter-haired counterpart. “Please follow us, Mademoiselle Turner. We need to ask you a few questions.” They took off down the hallway without giving me a chance to respond.
How did they know my name? And why did I suddenly feel like I was the one in trouble? No, that was ridiculous. They were obviously here to help me and to bust this Claude guy. I just needed to tell them everything that happened . . . well, everything I could remember that is, and they would certainly help me get some kind of emergency passport and make it to my flight on time.
I followed the officers into a secluded office at the end of the hallway where they gestured for me to have a seat opposite them. Just as I was opening my mouth to explain what had happened, they slid two photos across the desk.
There I was again. My cheeks flushed, my long, unruly hair let down. But I wasn’t alone. Claude’s arm draped loosely around my shoulders in one photo, and his lips pressed against my cheek in the other.
I felt bile rising in my throat as I realized I couldn’t remember either of those moments actually taking place. But what startled me even more was the distant, off-centered look in my own green eyes in each of the photos. I barely recognized myself.
How many glasses of wine did he get me to drink?
Officer Fournier spoke first. “Tell us how you know this man.”
Tearing my eyes from the photos, I met the officers’ stern glares. “I met Claude last night at the hotel bar. He must’ve convinced me to drink a lot, which I never do, because I don’t remember exactly what happened. But I woke up this morning, and all of my things were gone. My passport, my wallet, my luggage, my clothes. He even took my engagement ring, and then he left me this awful, skimpy red dress. I would never wear this. I would never normally even talk to someone like him. I don’t know what happened, and I really need your help. I have a flight to catch in a couple of hours, and—”
Officer Laroche held his hand up to quiet me. “Yes, we know. You are getting married this weekend. And please, do not bore us with your histore triste. We have heard it before—the red dress, the memory loss, all of it. Just tell us the truth about how you know Claude Dubois.”
Don’t bore them with my sad story? What? And how did they know my wedding was this weekend? And the red dress? Had Claude done this to other women too?
Gripping the sides of my chair, I forced myself to keep calm. “I’m telling you the truth, Officers. I met this man last night at the hotel bar, and he stole all of my things. You do believe me, don’t you?”
They didn’t respond. Instead Officer Laroche slid a piece of paper across the desk. “Can you explain this to us, Mademoiselle Turner?”
I peered down to find a bank account snapshot with both Paul’s name and mine listed at the top. It was our joint checking and savings. How did they get this? Before I had a chance to ask them, I noticed two highlighted transfers. One for $13,000 and another for $20,000. My stomach clenched as I focused and refocused on those numbers, wishing my eyes were playing tricks on me.
But they weren’t. Those transfers had been made out of our account. Without my knowledge. And certainly without Paul’s.
My hands trembled underneath the desk as I shot pleading looks at the officers. “This is insane. He must’ve tapped into our account. He stole my purse, which had my debit card inside, so somehow he must’ve used that to access our funds. You have to help me figure this out and get this money back.”
Officer Fournier tapped his long, skinny finger against the paper. “Not so fast, Mademoiselle Turner. You may want to take a closer look, because if what you are saying is true, that Monsieur Dubois just stole your things last night, then why were these transfers made close to forty-eight hours ago?”
“W
hat? That can’t be . . .” I started, but my voice strangled in my throat when I saw that the date for the transfers was in fact two days earlier.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my breath quickening, my stomach feeling so nauseated I could’ve been sick right there on the desk. “I don’t understand what’s going on. I didn’t make these transfers. All I know is that I have to get home today. And I have to get that money back. I’m getting married this weekend, and we can’t afford to lose that kind of money!”
Officer Laroche stood abruptly. “I am afraid you will not be going home today, Mademoiselle Turner. You are under investigation for fraud, and you will not be permitted to leave the country until the investigation is complete.”
My eyes jetted frantically back and forth between the two officers, willing one of them to tell me that this was all a huge misunderstanding. A cruel joke they played on unsuspecting foreigners. But they said nothing.
I couldn’t let them do this to me. I had to get home today.
“You’re making a huge mistake!” I blurted as I grabbed one of the photos and shook it in their faces, unable to control myself for a moment longer. “This man, this con-artist, he is the one who came in here, got me drunk, stole my things and somehow messed with my checking account! You have to believe me. What could I possibly have to do with any kind of fraud?”
The officers raised their eyebrows at each other before turning to face me again.
“Calmez-vous, Mademoiselle Turner,” said Officer Fournier, the sting in his voice making me flinch.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t think you understand what’s really going on here. I have nothing to do with any of this, and I have to get home today.”
“We understand your urgency, Mademoiselle Turner. But you clearly do not understand the mess you are now involved in. And if you are innocent, as you claim to be, then of course you will have nothing to worry about. Either way, I think you will find it in your best interest to cooperate with us and to refrain from making a scene. For now, you must follow us to the station for further questioning.”
The smugness in his voice made me want to scream.
Kissed in Paris Page 2
