French Kiss

by Susan Johnson

  “Sure, why not,” she said, knowing Buddy was going to scream his head off—but what the hell—she’d deal with it. She was in Paris, after all. “I’ll take advantage of the art scene while we’re here, run through a few of my favorite museums and galleries, stuff like that.”

  “Sounds good. Jordi and I’ll just hang out.”

  Whether he was being polite or preferred the no-fraternization policy between the boss and the hired help, she couldn’t tell. But she didn’t need company to enjoy Paris. In a way, maybe gypsy fate had taken a hand and given her a short break; her schedule had been nonstop lately. She could use some time off. She’d give Buddy a call when she got back to the hotel, square away another day in the world of tree house construction and then play tourist tomorrow.

  Nicky was surprised to find the arcade was über-upscale; she’d never seen so many kids in designer clothes. The claw machine didn’t have the usual shiny plastic jewelry and cheap stuffed animals, the soda machine was filled with politically correct juices and fancy bottled water. Even the video games were posh—embellished with walnut veneers and leather seats and wiped down constantly by a staff in crisp white shirts and black slacks. The lights overhead were colorful, Italian handblown glass—Murano, no doubt—while the plush carpet was devoid of the usual sticky gum-spots and soda stains.

  This was one swanky place.

  She didn’t take more than a second to register the opulence and decide Lyle’s in Black Duck, with its linoleum floors and duct-taped machines, was way down on the list when it came to decor.

  Jordi was frantically waving them over to a machine.

  Her dad played her first, and Jordi beat him big-time at Off Road Rally. Or maybe he just let her win. Whatever. Jordi was having a ball.

  When Nicky took her turn, she realized that Johnny might not have let his daughter win after all. It required serious focusing just to keep from being put down in the first round of Tekken. For maybe ten minutes she eluded defeat, before her samurai eventually succumbed to a fatal blow.

  The kid was really good.

  Jordi ran off next to try her luck with the claw machine, giving Nicky and Johnny an opportunity to adjourn to the wine/coffee bar with the other parents and child minders.

  “Jordi’s one super-coordinated kid,” Nicky said, smiling, while Johnny ordered them each a glass of wine. “I think she’s ready for the world tour.”

  “Sometimes I think she’s too damned ready for everything.” He smiled wryly. “But then I’m not in charge of the world.”

  “Kids are growing up faster than they did in my day.” Nicky shrugged. “Of course, Black Duck is way off the fast track.”

  “It’s not as though Fort Bragg is exactly the center of the cultural universe, either,” he said with a grin. Lifting the wine glass the waiter had set before him, he said, “To the prospect of more-sheltered childhoods. And thanks again for your help.”

  Nicky raised her glass. “I didn’t do much.”

  “You talked the manager of the Ritz into that phone call. That was important.”

  She smiled. “To obliging managers, then.”

  They each took a sip in a companionable silence.

  “This is really good,” Nicky said, indicating her glass with a nod. “Is it something special?”

  “Sort of. My friend owns the vineyard.”

  Her friends owned economy cars and affordable houses. Maybe an occasional sailboat. He was way out of her league.

  But then he suddenly touched her hand and gave her an intimate smile—like friend to friend. “I just want to say again how much I appreciated your company last night. I was stressed to the max. It helped that you were there—you know… like a sympathetic ear.”

  At his touch, her pulse spiked into the stratosphere for no rational reason; she found it impossible to speak for a second, even though she told herself he was just being polite. “No problem,” she finally choked out, wondering if every woman was dazzled by that intimate smile.

  He grinned. “You didn’t sign on for this extra duty when you agreed to build Jordi’s tree house. I’d like to get you something in appreciation. Like Hermes? Or Chanel? Maybe some of that perfume by JAR. They’re all close by.”

  “God, no. That’s not necessary.”

  His brows rose. The women he knew didn’t turn down expensive gifts. “Are you sure? We could have some things brought up to your hotel room. Those JAR scents, in particular, are supposed to be something special.”

  “Please, no. I don’t need anything, and I’d be intimidated as hell to have someone from Hermes come to my room.” She waved a finger downward. “Take note of my clothes. I’m not a Hermes kind of person, or Chanel or anything like that. But thanks—you know… for the offer. I’ll be more than happy just to see some of the new exhibits tomorrow. The Louvre has an Ingres show and one on Bernini’s drawings, or maybe the Turner exhibit would be—”

  She was grateful the bartender came over just then, curtailing what was turning out to be a rambling, convoluted, gauche explanation of why she couldn’t take his gifts.

  The bartender set a bottle of wine on the marble bar top with a flourish. “Compliments of your friend,” he said, motioning toward a table in the corner.

  As Nicky followed his gesture, her mouth dropped open. Sean Penn was smiling and giving them a finger-gun wave.

  “You know Sean Penn!” she whispered, not sure if she should pretend she didn’t see him or stare.

  “Yeah. We go way back.” Johnny returned the wave, then turned back to Nicky as though nothing unusual had happened. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “They have good hors d’oeuvres here.”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” She was still trying to digest the fact that Sean Penn was maybe thirty feet away having a drink while his kids were playing video games. In her everyday world—rich clients aside—she never saw actual celebrities.

  “I’m going to have something. I forgot to eat.” Johnny ordered an assortment of hors d’oeuvres, along with some pastries, and while Jordi proceeded to pillage the claw machine, he ate and Nicky tried real hard not to keep looking at Sean Penn. She loved every movie he was ever in.

  But of course, ultimately she ate, too. Everyone knows there’s no such thing as bad French food. Even the crepes in the street stands were to die for.

  Johnny asked her about the tree house as they ate. She was grateful. Unlike couturier houses and A-list movie stars, tree houses brought her back down to earth. She proceeded to describe the next stage in Jordi’s treehouse—her hands moving rapidly as she talked, her concepts rendered with lifelike clarity. She didn’t do designer-speak or express herself in esoteric terms. She talked about plumbing, lighting, exterior finishes, about satisfying Jordi’s wishes and her own in the bargain.

  Johnny found himself charmed. Even though they’d talked last night and he’d seen her a few times at home, he’d never sensed this enormous warmth in her. She was completely different from his usual companions; nice different. He asked her more about Minnesota, wondering if he’d missed something in her background to explain why he was feeling this special rapport. “Does a place like Lake Wobegon truly exist?” he teased. “Where the men are all strong, the women good looking, and the children above average?”

  She laughed. “Of course and add to that—we have the biggest mosquitoes known to man and winter temperatures you Californians couldn’t endure. But most of the people are really friendly and nice, and the countryside is lush green in the summer unlike the Bay area. There’s lakes everywhere—ten thousand plus. I have a cabin on one of those lakes up north—on an island.” She smiled. “No mosquitoes on an island. And no bears.”

  “Whoa. Bears?”

  “Wolves even. They aren’t endangered anymore thanks to the wolf project started years ago in Ely by one man with a vision. And the eagles are coming back, too, with the help of the local raptor programs. There’s a nest on the lakeshore across from me.”

  “It sounds like real wilderness
. I have a cabin in Tahoe, but the area is getting to be condo city.”

  “I only have loons in my neck of the woods. There’s not a condo in sight, nor likely to be any. It’s too far from everywhere. My favorite spot is my screened porch. It’s suspended over the lake with a diving board off one corner, so you can dive in for your morning swim.”

  “Sounds nice. Do you get there often?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. How about Tahoe?”

  He shook his head. “Hardly ever. Business gets in the way.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m working five crews and still having trouble keeping up.”

  “And now I’ve dragged you away.”

  “Hey—extenuating circumstances. Anyone would have said yes.”

  He wasn’t so sure about that. “So how’s Buddy doing?”

  He remembered her manager’s name; the man paid attention. “Buddy’ll survive,” she said. “He bitches, I listen, he bitches some more, and then we get on with our lives. I told him I’d be home soon.”

  “Day after tomorrow. After you check out the museums, maybe we could meet for a late lunch. Jordi tends to sleep in. I’ll check out some toy stores with her, you could catch your exhibits, and we could compare notes over lunch.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good,” he said, figuring a couple glasses of wine had probably precipitated his invitation for lunch. He hadn’t intended to ask. He preferred noninvolvement—his mantra of late. Maybe her refreshing lack of artifice inspired him to disregard normal procedures. She was like a breath of fresh air in his climate-controlled, synthetic world of make believe. Even her clothes were without pretense. Slacks and a T-shirt. No name slacks and a T-shirt. And he knew the difference—labels were de rigueur in his flash and dazzle business.

  The first bars of “Vertigo” echoed from his pocket, interrupting his useless speculation, and flipping open the cell phone, he frowned slightly. “Excuse me,” he muttered and turned away to take the call.

  “Yes, I said I would,” he murmured, a faint irritation in his voice. “I promise, okay? Yeah, really. Look, Lisa, how about I give you a call when Jordi’s signed up.”

  Nicky was trying not to listen, but it was impossible at close range. She could hear his ex’s voice, although her actual words weren’t decipherable. But she was going on about something at great length. That much was clear.

  “We’re both on the same page,” Johnny said, taut and controlled. “There’s nothing to argue about. I’m with you all the way. Can we talk about this later?” As the monologue continued, the muscles of his jaw clenched and unclenched, his nostrils flared, and he finally said, tight-lipped, “Look, I’m hanging up. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Shutting the phone with a snap, he slipped it into his jacket pocket, turned back, and grimaced faintly. “Sorry. My ex is on some roll, but I doubt she’ll remember anything tomorrow.”

  “All’s well with Jordi, though, right?”

  Exhaling softly, he shot a glance toward the claw machine and smiled. “Yeah, life’s good.” He met Nicky’s gaze once again. “So—where were we?”

  “Lunch tomorrow.” She shouldn’t have said that. She should have said something innocuous and let him remember himself. But she found herself really wanting to go.

  He looked surprised for a moment, like she might have said, My gown for the Oscars is ready to be picked up. Then he collected himself. “Lunch—right. We’ll go to Dominique Bouchef’s restaurant. Jordi likes the desserts, I like the wine list, and the chef is a friend of mine.”

  Oh, shit, he hadn’t remembered. Not that she was so obliging that she’d let him off the hook. It must be the Paris air. Or else she was acting like a fifteen-year-old, dazzled by his drop-dead good looks. Either way, lunch sounded good. “You have lots of personal friends,” she said, repressing any guilt she might have with only a minor qualm.

  “It goes with the territory. Not that I’m complaining. I could be working in the Georgia-Pacific mill in Bragg.” He grinned. “If it was still running.”

  Fourteen

  “Here, have a little more. It'll mellow you out.”

  “The man is a total ass,” Lisa Jordan muttered, taking the small glass pipe from Chantel. “He hung up on me.”

  The pretty, waiflike woman ran her fingers through her short, black curls and smiled faintly. “He’s not an ass, and you know it. He’s beautiful as sin and hardly ever gives you any grief. Plus, he brought you this fine weed.”

  “He’s still irritating.”

  “Aren’t they all at times? Look how Yuri sulked when you said you were going to let Johnny come in.”

  Lisa shrugged, her lightly tanned shoulders lifting slightly. “But Yuri came around when I told him he could go to my next premiere with me. He likes to party and have a good time.”

  “And he also doesn’t mind being part of the international cinema scene,” Chantel murmured.

  “So that gives me leverage,” Lisa purred. “I like having leverage.”

  “Johnny never played that game—or did he?”

  “Are you kidding? He abhors the limelight. Although,” Lisa said with a small sigh, “he used to be ready for anything—anytime, anywhere.” She wrinkled her nose. “After Jordi was born, he turned into a damned Boy Scout overnight. Boooooriiing.”

  “But nice boring, you have to admit. Speaking of really boring, though, what did you think of that little side trip to that museum in the Marais after we got here? The place looked more like some old lady’s apartment to me.”

  “It was some family thing Yuri had to do.” Lisa slowly exhaled a mouthful of smoke. “Did you see how hot he was about that old jewelry?”

  “I don’t know why we had to see it.”

  “He was proud of it for some reason; I think it was Russian and some empress’s.” Lisa did a little palms-up gesture. “Whatever—it turned him on.”

  “Like those stops at the chocolate stores.”

  “That was for his father. Yuri has some—like—shopping list of special chocolates he has to bring down to Nice when we go.”

  “Speaking of Nice. We’re going to need some new bikinis for Yuri’s yacht.”

  Lisa set the pipe down, stretched languidly, and studied her manicured fingernails for a moment. “No problem. There’s tons of shops in Nice. I’m not sure I like this color. What do you think?” She held her hand out for Chantel to look at.

  The women were dressed casually in pastel slacks and little matching barely there tops. Both women affected an ultrafeminine style that accented their ethereal, delicate beauty.

  “Try that pink sparkle we saw at Chanel—what was it called— Stargazer Pink?”

  “Or maybe the glossy melon…”

  “You know, I was thinking—”

  “You like the pink.”

  “No, I was going to say it worked out well that Johnny took Jordi back home. She wouldn’t have had much to do while we were partying. And if we’re enjoying Yuri and Raf’s pharmaceuticals, you wouldn’t have had time to spend with her anyway. Plus, you don’t like that nanny around with her constant sour expression.”

  The pale perfection of the film critics’ favorite face took on a studied reflection. “I suppose you’re right.” Lisa sighed. “You are right. Not that I’m going to tell my ex that, prick that he is.”

  Chantel smiled. “And why should you? So, let’s try some of those chocolates Yuri bought. I’m getting the munchies.”

  “I don’t eat chocolate.”

  “More for me, then.”

  “Be my guest. I’m going to help myself to one or those strawberry tarts”—Lisa waved at a pastry tray that had been brought up by room service—“and then I’m going to help myself to some of those black pearls Yuri has in his luggage.” She flashed a set of dazzling white teeth, thanks to Beverly Hills’s finest dentist. “Yuri won’t miss a few; there must be hundreds there. And they can’t be too valuable, or he would have put them in the safe with all that other stuff.”


  Chantel’s azure eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t take any. He might have counted them.”

  Lisa made a small moue, like she had so effectively in Whisper of Life the year it won the Palme d’Or. “I’m sure Yuri can afford to give me one or two. Or if he takes issue”—she half-lifted her slender hand in a negligent gesture—“I’ll offer to pay for them.”

  “I wouldn’t mess with anything of his. The man has a temper.”

  Lisa marginally lowered her delicately colored lashes. “Trust me—I can handle Yuri.”

  While the two ladies were indulging in chocolates, pastries, and some quality cannabis, Yuri and Raf were seated opposite two men in the back room of a dingy warehouse on a largely uninhabited cul-de-sac in Montmartre. The rude graffiti on the boarded-up structure deterred the curious, as did the barbed wire on the wrought iron fence surrounding the property, while the faded sign in Cyrillic characters above the shabby main door lent an air of neglect or possibly risk to those passing by.

  Yuri lounged in his chair with the jeunesse dorée indolence of a wealthy young man, his hands resting lightly on the arms of an Alexander I Empire-style cathedra that looked wildly out of place in the room. Although if one looked beneath the dust sheets on scattered furniture surrounding the scarred table separating the men, one would have found that more than one item would have borne museum serial numbers. “You have the sketchbook?” he drawled in French, immune to the cold gaze of the heavyset man opposite him who looked like a Bulgarian weight lifter.

  “The money first.” An unwavering stare.

  Yuri slowly surveyed the man’s shaved head, no neck, and muscled arms that could probably bench press a horse, then shrugged and turned to Rafael. “Show him the money.”

  Rafael’s lesser rank was the result of their respective father’s relative status in the hierarchy of global crime. Yuri’s father had prospered in the new Russia, but then everyone who had connections had, organized crime included. Raf came from a South American cartel of lesser scope, their business solely drug-related. Although both families were becoming immeasurably richer since the collapse of the Taliban. Opium production in Afghanistan was at an all-time high.