French Kiss

by Susan Johnson

  So it was a bolt from the blue when she felt a hand slip under her arm and lift her to her feet before she was half done with her dessert.

  “Vernie, if you’ll take Jordi back to the hotel when you’ve finished,” Johnny said, taking the spoon from Nicky’s hand and dropping it on the table. “I just received a business call I have to handle, and I need Nicky to translate for me. This fellow doesn’t speak English very well.”

  But my dessert, Nicky silently protested, eyeing the chocolate pastry with longing.

  “We might stop at the arcade on our way back,” Vernie declared.

  “I’d rather you didn’t until I return.” Johnny’s voice was mild, but he held Vernie’s gaze for a charged moment. “When you’re finished here, Barry will take you back to the hotel.”

  Vernie nodded; if Johnnie had called Barry to come for them, she wasn’t about to ask questions. “We’ll work on that fairy tale Jordi’s been writing instead.”

  “I’m on page ten already, Dad. Vernie helps me with the spelling, but otherwise it’s all my stuff.”

  “She has your creative talent,” Vernie said, smiling at Johnny. “It’s a fascinating story.”

  Jordi jabbed her finger at her father. “But you can’t read it till it’s all done.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetie. This shouldn’t take long. I’ll be back soon.”

  With a wave, he began leading Nicky from the restaurant, when a male voice called out, “Hey, Surfer Man!”

  She could feel Johnny’s grasp tighten, but his smile was in place as he turned to the nearby table. “Hey, yourself, Mikey. Small world.”

  “We’re here for the races. What about you?”

  “Hi, Jill.” Johnny nodded at the woman seated beside Mikey in the banquette. “Just a visit for me. This is Nicky Lesdaux. Nicky, Mikey and Jill Chambers. We all went to high school together.”

  Mike did a thumbs-up. “Championship football team our senior year, right?”

  “Thanks to you. Mikey was our quarterback,” Johnny explained to Nicky.

  “If your sticky fingers hadn’t caught every one of my passes, we never would have made it. So how’re things goin’ for you?”

  “Can’t complain,” Johnny said. “You know, mostly workin’ hard. How’s the law firm?”

  “We’re keeping our heads above water. You have to come back, and we’ll hit the waves on Casper Beach.”

  “Jeez, I haven’t surfed in years.”

  “I go out with my kids.” Mikey smiled. “You know, maintain the skill set—or at least try.”

  “Christ, it sounds good. I’ll give you a call. I have an appointment, or I’d stay and chat. Great to see you both.”

  As they moved toward the door, Johnny said, “Mikey and I used to watch the weather forecasts and wait for the big waves. It’s not world-class surfing up there, but damned fun.” He blew out a breath. “Christ, life fucking changes. That was Lisa on the phone, and she’s in some goddamned mess. I had to call Barry and Cole. Not that they had to come far,” Johnny grumbled. “They were parked across the street.”

  Personally, Nicky was glad they’d ignored Johnny’s orders to stay at the hotel. Talk of drug cartels and money laundering made her nervous. “They just worry about you, that’s all,” she said.

  “I guess,” he muttered, as they stepped outside. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute,” he said, walking toward the Mercedes that was sitting at the curb. The passenger-side window rolled down, and he leaned forward and started talking fast.

  His voice was low, so Nicky couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she could tell he was pissed. His tone was brusque, his dark brows were set in a scowl, and then he said loudly enough for anyone to hear, “Fucking Lisa. She’s nothing but trouble.” Moments later, Barry accompanied Johnny back. As he went inside the restaurant, Johnny took Nicky’s arm. “We’re taking the car. Barry, Vernie, and Jordi will go back in a cab.” Helping Nicky into the Mercedes a moment later, he took his seat beside her. Cole gave them a nod from up front beside the driver, and the car pulled away from the curb and eased into traffic.

  Cole half turned. “Where to, boss?”

  “Lisa was in hysterics as usual, but near as I can tell, we have two choices. She was whispering—apparently she’s on her boyfriend’s shit list for taking something of his—so she didn’t make a lot of sense. But she needs rescuing; that much I figured out.” He smiled tightly. “Sound familiar?”

  “Been there, done that, boss. The woman is in constant crisis mode.”

  “Affirmative there, but this time, she might be in over her head. These guys she’s with are loser hoodlums, but their daddies aren’t above sending out a hit squad or two.”

  “Not to worry. We brought along extra firepower. Yours is under my seat.”

  “New stuff,” the driver added in a distinct Bronx accent. “Prime stuff.”

  “So where to first?” Cole asked.

  “A shop in the fifteenth arrondissement.” Johnny gave the address.

  Extra firepower? Had she heard right? “Did he say extra firepower?” Nicky murmured, hitting Johnny on the arm just to make sure he was paying attention.

  “You won’t be in any danger,” Johnny replied, intent on unzipping a small duffel bag he’d pulled out from under Cole’s seat.

  “Then why do you need WEAPONS?” she gasped. Cars with guns in bags under the seats were way the hell outside her normal operating zone.

  “Relax.” Johnny glanced up and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s just insurance.” He sat up, a deadly looking handgun held lightly in his grasp.

  It didn’t help her peace of mind when he slipped out the clip, checked it, and shoved it back into place. It really, really didn’t help when he bent over again and pulled out another smaller handgun.

  “This is nice. Is it custom?” The weapon shone in his palm with a jewel-like, poisonous gleam.

  “Beretta’s newest model,” the driver noted. “I couldn’t pass it up.”

  “Who could. It’s a beauty.”

  In her world, beauty was defined in terms of nonlethal objects. She was truly out of her element. In fact, she was so far outside anything remotely recognizable that she felt as though she might melt into a peddle of fear where she sat. Like now—this second.

  “Hey,” Johnny whispered, as though he was psychic. “It’s okay. Don’t freak. We’re going to two chocolate shops, there’ll be lots of people around, you couldn’t be safer.”

  “If it’s so safe, why does your ex need rescuing?”

  “She probably doesn’t. She probably just thinks she does.” And that might even be true, although Lisa’s boyfriends—zoned out or not—gave him pause. But he wasn’t going into any detail about possible risks because he needed Nicky to ask questions once they reached the shops. She had plenty of protection between the three of them anyway. And it was broad daylight.

  Dropping the smaller handgun into his jacket pocket, he shoved the other one back under Cole’s seat. Then, he took Nicky’s hand and held it the rest of the way to their first stop, making casual conversation as though the subject of guns and hit men had never come up. He even made her laugh once or twice before they reached their destination.

  Unfortunately, at the sight of the dingy neighborhood, low-rent government office buildings across the street, and the battered white door before which they eventually stood—unmarked and without a handle or bell to ring—Nicky’s apprehension returned.

  “Are you sure you’re at the right place?” she whispered. It didn’t look like a chocolate shop to her. There was no sign, no windows, not a clue that anything existed behind the crusty facade.

  “We’ll find out,” Johnny said and banged his fist on the peeling paint.

  The door opened a few inches, and the whiff of warm, fresh chocolate practically knocked them over.

  At least the chocolate part was right, Nicky thought, feeling a modicum less anxious.

  After she asked for the owner by name, a fe
w moments later, a slender, young man with a shock of black hair appeared from behind one of two gleaming stainless-steel machines that were spreading chocolate in a thin coating over every imaginable filling. Trays of delicate chocolates were everywhere.

  The sight of so many bonbons reminded Nicky of the I Love Lucy episode where Lucy and Ethel were working on the candy conveyor belt and stuffing chocolates into their mouths and pockets as fast as they could. Definitely a thought, she reflected, her fingers unconsciously flexing, her saliva glands ramping up into overdrive.

  She even forgot about possible danger for a moment with her senses assailed by such a largesse of chocolate.

  As the man approached, Johnny broke into Nicky’s blissful reverie by saying, “Ask him if a woman or two women and two men were here recently? One would have been blond. He might even know Lisa from the movies. They were coming here for some special chocolate order.”

  Nicky tamped down the sudden fear that reasserted itself at Johnny’s words and quickly translated his queries.

  “Non, non.” The shop owner shook his head and proceeded to explain in a torrent of French.

  Johnny glanced from one to the other until the man finished. “Lisa was here?” Her name had come up several times.

  “They were all here, but he told them he couldn’t fill their order,” Nicky interpreted. “He has more customers than he needs. And he didn’t like the mens’ attitude. He’s an artist, he says, not a shopkeeper, and he grew up in the rough part of town, so he can’t be intimidated. He told them to take their business elsewhere. Actually, he told them to shove it.”

  Johnny’s brows rose. “Brave man,” he murmured. “But just in case they show up again, ask him to give me a call.” Johnny handed the man his card.

  Another rapid-fire conversation in which the Frenchman sneered a reply even Johnny could understand. Then with a beaming smile and the words U2—clear in any language—he proceeded to hug Johnny and kiss him on both cheeks.

  Whisking a large red box from a nearby shelf filled with red boxes, the chocolatier handed it to Johnny with a sweeping bow. Glancing at Nicky, he spoke again in rapid French.

  “The chocolates are for you. He’s making these for some prince, but he wants you to have this box. Or take them all if you want, he says.” Nicky grinned. “He thinks you’re real special.”

  Johnny took the offered box, smiling. “Thank him and tell him we appreciate his information. Then cut it short. We have to go, babe. ASAP.”

  Shortly after, they were being escorted out of the factory by one of only eleven chocolate specialists in recent years to have received the MOF (Meilleur Ouvrier de France—those most honored chefs and patissiers). They were also extended an effusive invitation to come back any time.

  After more kissing of cheeks all around, they were finally back in the Mercedes.

  “Dalloyau next,” Johnny instructed the driver. “And Lisa better be there,” he grimly said. Because if she wasn’t, he was out of options—and maybe patience, too. Who knew if this wild-goose chase was even for real?

  Twenty-three

  In the course of their drive to Dalloyau, Nicky tried very hard not to give in to her weakness for chocolate. Especially at a time like this. They were on a serious rescue mission, not to mention she’d almost freaked out only minutes before. Her cravings should have been irrelevant. It was probably disrespectful to even consider them at a time like this. But then they got stuck in traffic, and everyone started swearing. As if she wasn’t stressed enough, what with guns and hit squads.

  Take a deep breath. Focus. Think of ocean waves washing the shore.

  Yeah, right.

  “Would you mind?” Nicky blurted out, pointing to the red box lying on the floor between them.

  She got one of those blank looks like she might have if she’d asked when the rocket to the moon was lifting off. And then joy of joys, her question seemed to register.

  “Sure. Go for it,” Johnny said.

  Then he was off in some other dimension again, his gaze on the snarl of cars surrounding them in the traffic circle. Every driver was honking his horn and making lewd gestures, as if the din and acting out would unravel the gridlock.

  Not that Nicky minded everyone’s serious mind-set on the traffic. It allowed her an opportunity to open the box and offer obeisance to distinguished chocolate unheeded by those less discerning of its wonder. Plucking out a small round bonbon, she popped it into her mouth, letting her taste buds absorb the matchless flavor of chocolate nurtured by loving hands from plantation to finished product. Ohmygod, it had a coconut center. That made it almost as good as sex. Really. She’d given this considerable thought over the years. So stress wasn’t her only excuse for eating chocolate. She had a boatload of reasons. The motto CHOCOLATE isn’t just for BREAKFAST was prominently displayed on her fridge.

  By the time the Mercedes broke free and was moving again, she’d sampled three exquisite chocolates and was luxuriating in gustatory bliss. “Want one?” She offered the box to Johnny in one of those automatic gestures.

  He glanced over, frowned, opened his mouth, shut it, then apparently deciding to be polite, smiled. “Not right now, but thanks.”

  Oops. Clearly, he was distracted. As if she didn’t know. “Sorry,” she murmured. “You must be really worried.”

  He looked at her for a second like she’d grown another head. “Worried? Hell no. I’m fucking pissed. Do you know how many times Lisa’s done this to me? How many times we’ve had to deal with her real or make-believe disasters? Ask Cole—he knows— hey, cut over two blocks to the left, Vinnie,” Johnny said, sharply, leaning forward and concentrating on the road. “We’ll make better time.”

  If she’d been perhaps slightly clueless before, she no longer was, having been bluntly apprized of the current state of affairs between the former Mr. and Mrs. Patrick.

  And truth be told, she was feeling considerably better for having broached the subject. Johnny and his wife would not be reconciling any time soon. Not that she should be concerned one way or the other. And she wasn’t—truly; she was firmly based in reality.

  Vinnie had taken a sharp turn to the left, then a right, and they were driving down a street with very little traffic. Vinnie was pushing the speed limit enough that—in the interest of surviving to finish the box of chocolates—Nicky grabbed hold of a conveniently placed hand bar and sent up a prayer to whatever saint was in charge of traffic accidents. The Mercedes ran three red lights, taking numerous corners on squealing tires, until Vinnie brought the car to a hard braking stop perpendicular to the curb. In a no parking zone. Ten feet from the entrance to a classy looking shop with a display of pastries in the windows so spectacular they didn’t look real.

  Maybe they just dusted off the plaster of Paris facsimiles from time to time, she was thinking as Vinnie opened her door and helped her from the car. After almost bumping into a Maserati, Nicky noticed several other upscale cars in the no parking zone. Big money had its privileges, apparently.

  After being whisked through the door of Dalloyau’s, Johnny came to a stop just inside the entrance. He surveyed the room while Nicky took in the dazzling sight of every delicacy known to man. Not just pastries lined the display cases, but gorgeous, pretty-as-a-picture, take-out food for royalty.

  Indeed, the customers all reeked of status.

  She did a quick check of shoes, the ultimate sign of wealth. Sure enough. Not a Payless shoe in the store.

  Before she could move up to estimating wardrobes, she was being nudged forward.

  “Lisa’s not here,” Johnny muttered. “We’ll check upstairs.” The curved staircase was paneled in some exotic wood and illuminated with muted cornice lighting, the room at the top of the stairs filled with ladies who lunch, a schoolgirl or so with her father (one would hope), and a smattering of tourists distinguished by their guide books and camera bags.

  “Wait here.”

  She didn’t mind Johnny’s brusque command, since it offere
d her the opportunity to examine the desserts everyone had ordered. The diners weren’t just eating desserts, of course, but the colorful confections were an obvious draw at Dalloyau.

  Before she had time to decide which she’d like best, Johnny and Cole returned, looking displeased.

  “Nothing,” Johnny said in the essentially shorthand speech he’d adopted since they’d left the chocolate factory. “Fuck.” Figuring that was an expletive rather than a question, she didn’t reply as they moved to retrace their steps.

  “What now, boss?” Cole asked as they stood at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Good question.”

  “Would you mind if I did a little shopping while you two decide what to do?” Nicky interjected—real politely though—just in case they were inclined to say no. “It’ll just take a second,” she added with a smile for good measure.

  Cole looked at Johnny.

  Johnny frowned at her. “I need you to ask someone here a few questions.”

  That didn’t sound like a yes. Too bad. Then again, everything looked like it was at least ten thousand calories, so maybe God was telling her something. “Ask what?”

  “Has Lisa been here? With anyone? And when.” Clipped, curt, all business.

  Which didn’t promise time for any shopping, she gloomily decided. After a swift glance around, Nicky figured the woman wearing a suit and name tag in the back where all the boxes of chocolates were displayed looked managerial. Unlike the shopgirls behind the counters.

  Approaching her, Nicky smiled, prefacing her queries with an apology for her accent. The French always liked when you spoke French, even if it was the antiquated version of French-Canadian still spoken in her grandmother’s part of northern Minnesota. The woman turned out to be more than amiable.