by Eve Langlais
Or should he call it nightmareland since he’d once again returned to the day she left him?
The moment he’d lost his man card and all self-respect. Once he realized she was gone, he’d essentially lost his shit. He rushed to the police to report Fran missing, but they no longer provided that type of service. They advised him to hit social media. He posted on all her accounts. To no avail. No one had seen her. What if she were in trouble?
The truth wasn’t penetrating at that point. The empty drawers and missing suitcase were surely a cover-up of the crime.
Eventually, though, even he couldn’t deny it. Fran had left and wasn’t coming back.
The blow was the worst thing he’d ever suffered. He didn’t handle it with poise or dignity at all. He got drunk. Really plastered—enough that Marcus had to bribe a whole bunch of people to get him on board a plane home. Remove him from the place of his downfall.
Once home, Darren didn’t snap out of it. He spent a week getting wasted. Anything to numb the stupid pain.
I loved her. She left me.
The morning he’d woken in a pile of vomit was a wake-up call. The moment he said, “Fuck this. And fuck you.” No woman was worth that kind of depression. He’d been perfectly fine with himself and his life before he met her. Time to return to his happy bachelor state.
In the spirit of cleansing, he poured the booze down the sink, burned anything of his that reminded him of her—like his soft cotton T-shirt. A plain black shirt that he couldn’t help but picture her wearing, the hem just hitting the tops of her thighs.
It ignited better than expected, as did the jacket she used to borrow because every time they went out, she wore a thin dress and a little sweater.
The dancing flames acted as a balm to his spirit. It gave him the reboot he needed to step back into his life. An existence going along great until she returned. That first moment he’d seen her on the island—as gorgeous as he remembered, and aloof—had resulted in an urge to grab her, shake her, and then hug her close. His emotions proved intense. Very powerful. He’d expected the hatred for what she’d done, but the lust took him by surprise.
How could he want the woman who’d betrayed him?
A raised voice snapped Darren awake. A man argued with the flight attendant, claiming that the woman beside him threatened to cut off his hand if he so much as looked at her again.
Darren would wager he knew whom the man sat with, because Marina certainly wasn’t seated beside him. Partially on purpose, but mostly by circumstance. The airplane had been pretty full when Harry booked the seats, with only single seats available; meaning, they weren’t together. He’d gotten first class—with the legroom and wide cushion—while Marina sat in coach, rows behind him. Far enough that he couldn’t see her, even by accident. Couldn’t talk to her. He should have been relieved. Instead, anxiety gripped him. It didn’t matter how far away she sat. He knew she was there.
He stood and made his way to the washroom. The damned thing was smaller than a closet. A tall man, and wide too, Darren had to turn himself, arms at his sides, to finagle any room. He pulled out his phone and used it despite all kinds of FTC regulations. No matter what Marina thought, he didn’t always play by the rules.
The message he tapped was short. Nada. As in nothing had happened. Not yet, at any rate. Halfway through the flight, and the most excitement was the guy who thought he could creep on Marina and not get schooled.
I should punch him.
The violent thought took him by surprise. Why the sudden urge to defend Marina’s honor? The woman could take care of her herself.
Harry answered his text. Laid. Short for “The plan we hatched is getting put in place.” Marina might mock the work of BBI, but Darren knew their reputation on a global level. It was better than good.
Chillax. Which meant exactly what it said. Chill and relax. Wait for something to happen or instruction from Darren.
A knock came at the door along with a belligerent, “What’s taking you so long?”
Sounded like the same man who’d complained to the flight attendant.
“Sir, you can’t be up here. This washroom is for first-class guests only.”
“The other one on board has a puker in it, which means, unless you want me to piss in the goddamned aisle, you’re gonna let me use this.”
More arguing ensured as Darren fake flushed and washed his hands, taking his time, hearing the flight attendant retreat with a muttered, “Fine, use it and then return to your seat.”
“Shut your piehole,” the man retorted.
What an asshole. Exiting, Darren bumped into the belligerent ass and whispered, “Touch her again, and I will make sure you die before the next sunrise.”
The man started to bluster, “Hey, dick—”
Darren shifted his body to hide himself, acting as if to move around; meanwhile, his hand shot out and pinched a nerve on the man’s neck. The belligerent male slumped as Darren turned and walked away.
“Miss,” he said, spotting the flight attendant in the aisle. “A passenger has fainted. I think he’s drunk.” As she hurried past, he added, “You might want to put him in restraints and have him checked out. He said something while I was in the bathroom about killing us all.”
Which, these days, was enough for the guy to get put in a jump seat, his movements restricted, snoring away as they finished their trip.
The plane landed in France without further incident. As they were parked, security boarded. The bleary-faced man was yanked from the jump seat and told he was coming for questioning, which resulted in him yelling about the fascist pigs who should roast if they thought to take away his rights. That earned the fellow some cuffs and frog marching.
A petty revenge, but Darren enjoyed it.
The passengers disembarked, stretching and yawning, jostling for position to exit the plane. First-class privilege meant he got to leave first. Darren pretended that he traveled alone, wheeling his suitcase behind him—his second one in less than twenty-four hours, given the one Sergei got him had burned in the fire. Which was probably a good thing. He’d ditched everything Sergei acquired as soon as he could just in case it was bugged. His new suitcase, and Marina’s as well, were cobbled together before their hasty overseas flight.
No one spared Darren a second glance. The customs agent barely looked up as she stamped him through. His passport and reason for visiting—tourism—was accepted without question. He walked straight from the customs area to the taxi corridor. Only then did he turn to casually peek behind him, expecting at any moment to see Marina come sailing after him, ready to bitch him out for getting too far ahead.
Only he didn’t see her. At all.
The worry didn’t hit right away. Not until the lineup for passengers had thinned, and he was the only one left standing with men barking at him in French, asking if he needed a ride.
Should he leave? The plan they’d quickly hatched on their way to the airport was to pretend they didn’t know each other. Not in the airport, on the plane, or once they landed. They were supposed to take separate vehicles. An attempt to muddy a trail that had his enemies looking for two people.
Although, he did ask her about the logic of it.
“Shouldn’t my bodyguard be with me?”
“If I’m with you, then who will save you if they decide to ram the taxi you’re in and do a dash with your bleeding body?”
“That is a very disturbing scenario.”
“That’s why I’m the expert.”
She most certainly was, taking the plan he’d hatched with Harry and then changing it. The first part, taking a flight over, had been accomplished. Next step? Take a taxi to the hotel Harry had booked for him. Darren would register and go up to his room only long enough to drop his suitcase, then leave via a service entrance to meet up with Marina at the pastry shop they used to frequent, a place only they would know about. His concession to Marina, who seemed to think her office was clean and that it was BBI who had a mole. H
e couldn’t wait to prove her wrong but needed to be around for that. Which made him realize she still hadn’t exited the customs area.
Was she detained? Had the crazy woman smuggled a weapon on board and gotten caught?
Perhaps she’d ditched him. Decided he wasn’t worth the bother.
Not a big deal either way. He didn’t need her. Other resources existed. Even though he was in Paris, Harry could hook him up. Hell, if Darren put in a call to Marcus—his usual bodyguard—Marcus would move mountains to bail him out.
He stared back, hoping for a glimpse. Nothing.
Get in the taxi. Keep to the plan.
But what if he got in and never saw Marina again?
Things remained unresolved between them. He didn’t like it. He needed closure.
He peeked back at the airport, still not seeing her.
What if she were in trouble?
She could take care of herself.
She could, but…what did that say about him that he wouldn’t even try to check on her?
Morals. Argh. They made a man stupid. So fucking dumb, he grumbled quietly to himself as he headed back into the terminal.
He knew how it would look to her. As if he didn’t trust her to do her job. Yet, he couldn’t help it. The vain male part of him asked, What if she needs me? And then there was that nagging feeling in his gut, the one that said something was wrong.
The concourse was a bustling place. People moving, the chattering a steady hum. A man standing by himself staring in the midst of it would appear out of place. He needed a place to conceal himself and watch. A payphone on the wall by a potted plant provided great cover. Receiver to his ear, Darren faked a call. From his vantage point, he scanned the crowd, a constantly shifting scene as bodies moved erratically all over the place. Many things drew his eye, and a sudden thicker flow of people as a plane arrived and disgorged its passengers meant he almost missed her.
The men flanking Marina were big, the pair of them towering over her. The shiny pate of the tallest one gleamed under the lights. They each had a hold of her upper arms, which would have seemed normal if the men wore uniforms. But they didn’t. They sported casual clothes—jeans for one, athletic pants for the other, and collared T-shirts under leather jackets. Definitely not the dark suits of security or the distinctive garb of law enforcement.
Who were these men?
Marina had her lips pressed into a flat line. Her gaze passed over him. Widened. He saw her give a little negative shake.
Don’t get involved? Hell, no. The male gene demanded that he do something.
Darren hung up the phone and wandered in their direction, his rapid clip closing the gap. The trio walked briskly, and he wondered when Marina would make her move. This docile version of her didn’t seem right. She probably lulled her captors as she plotted the best place to act.
Where would she make her move? Not in the terminal, that was for sure. It would draw too much scrutiny, especially these days when terror attacks were common and the reaction swift. She’d probably wait for someplace with less chance of law enforcement swarming and shooting.
Marina and her escorts exited the terminal and hit the area for passenger pickup. A blue Fiat pulled up to the curb, and the men angled toward it. Any second, he expected to see her yank free. He got closer.
The door to the car opened. Still, she did nothing, didn’t even turn back to see if he was there. Marina slid into the back seat of the vehicle. The two men entered after her, one in the front, the other beside her.
Why didn’t she dive out the other side?
Was one of the men Sergei?
Something hot burned in his chest, urging him to act. Do what, though? Run over there and pound on the car? Demand answers? Seemed a little over the top. Perhaps Marina wanted to go with them.
His gut said otherwise, but his instincts always said to exercise caution, which was why he swerved and headed to the median for a taxi. He flagged down a cab, yanking open the passenger door to toss in his suitcase before diving in after it.
He immediately pressed his face against the plastic shield separating front and back. “I need you to follow that blue Fiat.” He jabbed a finger to this left.
The man, wearing a turban and a fabulous curled mustache, replied in heavily accented English, “No do crime.”
“I am not doing anything illegal. Look, I came to surprise my wife. She works at the airport. But I saw her get into that car with some men. I think she’s cheating on me.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Cheating bad.”
“Exactly. So, can you follow them? I have money.” Darren fanned some bills in the window.
“We follow.” The driver slapped his meter on, and in moments, they were off, leaving Darren’s stomach behind them.
Seriously, the guy drove faster than a bat out of hell.
Darren had worried they’d lose the other vehicle given it took off just ahead of them, but his driver—on a mission to help Darren catch his wife in flagrante delicto—was most earnest. He weaved through tight spots that caused Darren to a lose a few years off his life, ran a red light that sprouted a new gray hair, and then dropped to a spot two cars back from the vehicle holding Marina.
While his driver kept track of her, Darren pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. He logged into an online dating website and sent a message to a profile on it. Since he was out in the open, he was more cautious with his communication.
Made it to the city of lights. But having a hard time finding a place with vodka. Might need a recommendation.
Which was code for: in Paris, lost Marina, might need a new plan.
The phone beeped at him. Delivery failed. Stupid piece of junk. He’d managed to use it on a plane with some WiFi finagling, but in the middle of a city, he lost the signal.
He tucked it away and kept an eye on the things around him. The familiar and, at the same time, alien nature of Paris struck him. This was a city where old and new cohabited. The press of age, bound into every original stone block, seeped, giving the city a majestic feel you didn’t get in the colonies of the good ol’ U S of A. They headed toward the Seine, the river meandering through the heart of Paris.
The buildings bordering the important waterway ranged from exclusive and expensive homes and apartments to more commercial endeavors. The farther they went from the city, the more he banked on the latter.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. The message finally delivered as the buildings thinned and the signal could make it. He’d need to gather a better phone as soon as possible.
They lost their buffer cars hiding them from the Fiat. His driver noticed and turned.
“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning forward. “You’re going to lose them.”
“This way better,” was the heavily accented reply.
The driver took him on a parallel route. At one point, he turned and brought them back, and Darren cursed and ducked as he saw the taillights of the Fiat disappearing into a warehouse.
The rolling door cranked shut behind it.
“Stop the car by that hydrant,” Darren ordered, digging into his pocket for money.
He paid his driver, who thanked him profusely once he saw the size of the tip. Darren slid out of the back of the car then stood a bit flummoxed on the sidewalk with his suitcase. What should he do now?
He looked completely out of place in this district. Overdressed, under-armed, and definitely not French, which gave him an idea.
The knock on the warehouse door took a moment to be answered. One of the thugs from the airport peered out suspiciously.
“Qu’est ce que tu veux?”
“I’m lost. I don’t suppose you have a phone I could borrow.” Darren smiled, doing his best to appear benign.
The man didn’t buy it. He grabbed Darren by the collar and yanked him inside.
Chapter Thirteen
Will he ever shut up?
Pierrot, a short Frenchman with a shaved crown, a goatee—because it made
him look artistic supposedly—and tiny Lennon glasses, still ranted, and had been since the moment his thugs escorted her inside. “The nerve of you. Thinking you can just up and leave without a word or even a thought to the mess you left behind.”
“You had plenty of other girls to use. I got called for another job.”
“You were already on a job,” he railed. “Working for me. You ruined the show.”
Highly doubtful given there were dozens of models at any time willing to work the runway. However, Pierrot took it as a personal slight. A melodramatic man to start with—most designers she’d met were—he thrived on things he could go ballistic about. A model gaining a few pounds before a show. The makeup artists not grasping his vision. Marina not sticking around to model one of his precious creations. That and more was enough to set him off. Hence why she’d not told him she was leaving in the first place. She’d hoped to avoid the drama, except he’d somehow found her. He’d known to grab her at the airport. Proof that Darren’s precious BBI had a leak. Or was it the message she’d sent to Sergei that led to Pierrot finding her?
Sergei wouldn’t screw me. However, Sergei also wasn’t happy with her. Was this his way of punishing her for not doing as told? Damn Darren for planting a seed of doubt.
“How did you know I was back in France?” she asked.
“I have my methods. You and I are more alike than you think. Marina.”
The fact that one of his men had used her Russian name was the only reason she had allowed them to bring her here—instead of killing them and disposing of their bodies. They’d confronted her, waylaying her just after customs, the big bald one saying, “Are you Marina Sokolov?” She’d wanted to shoot them on the spot for exposing her. But logic prevailed. Dead men couldn’t answer questions.
Who’d sent them? Exactly how badly was her cover blown? Pierrot only ever knew her as Francesca, and she’d never known him to kidnap people before. Was this all a strange misunderstanding?
The first tactic she adopted? Ignorance. “I think you have me mistaken for someone else. My name is Francesca. Remember? You hired me.”