by Nic Saint
“Now wait a minute,” said Piet, and Kate returned to the gathering, sensing trouble.
“We just got word someone is out to get me,” hissed Van Damme. “Now I see this woman attacking my son. I think it’s clear for the meanest intelligence where the danger lies.” He pointed a stubby finger in Kate’s direction. “I want her arrested.”
“What?” said Piet, not a little bit surprised. “Are you nuts? That’s my daughter!”
“Your daughter!” exclaimed Van Damme. A look of comprehension spread across his jowly features. “Of course she is! Oh, what a devilish ploy, Peeters! Now I see what you’re up to. You should be ashamed of yourself! Sending your own flesh and blood after me!”
“Are you mad!” vociferated Piet, rising to his full height and towering over his competitor. “Kate’s the one who discovered this plot, you idiot! I just hired her to provide protection!”
“Well, then you better unhire her, for when I’m through with her, she’ll be spending the rest of her miserable life in jail!”
A police officer had ambled up out of nowhere, and stood listening to the altercation with a mild expression of interest on his face.
“What’s all this?” he said, rocking back on his heels.
“This woman,” said Van Damme, once again jabbing his stubby finger in Kate’s direction, “has just attacked my son. And I have it on good authority she’s planning an attack on my person as well!”
“Nonsense, dad,” a voice piped up. Chris had joined the party, and stood there, his cheek bright red, his eyes hard and unrelenting. “Kate and I were simply having an argument. This has nothing to do with the campaign whatsoever.”
“But Chris,” said Van Damme. “She tried to kill you!”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Chris, addressing the police officer who had taken out his notebook and now stood scribbling frantically. “Kate was angry with me because of something she thinks I did to her.”
“I don’t think you did something to me,” Kate said. “I know you did. And so do you, Chris. There’s no sense denying it.”
“But I am denying it,” he said. “I left you a note that morning.”
“Yeah, right,” Kate said, rolling her eyes.
“I had to leave immediately but I left you a note with my phone number, email and address, hoping you’d get in touch.” He shrugged. “Since you never did, I just assumed you weren’t interested.”
Kate gave him a skeptical look. “So you’re sticking with that story, huh? Good luck with that.”
“You two know each other?” said Van Damme, looking from one to the other.
“Looks like they know each other well,” said Kate’s father. “Very well indeed.”
“So this lady here hit Mr. Van Damme in the face? Is that how it went?” said the policeman, now thoroughly confused.
“We just had a fight,” said Chris.
“Lovers’ tiff,” clarified Piet.
“Lovers?” exclaimed Van Damme, his beetling eyebrows working furiously. “You two are… lovers?”
“No, dad, we are not,” said Chris, glaring at Kate.
“Most definitely not,” agreed Kate emphatically.
“The lady doth protest too much, don’t you think?” said Piet with a gay twinkle in his eyes.
“I’ll say,” said Van Damme, staring from his son to Kate. Then his lips curled up into a smile, and he barked a single laugh. “Young devil.”
Piet clapped his political opponent on the back as the two men set a course for the radio station entrance. “Young blood, my dear fellow. Young blood.”
“I didn’t even know you had a daughter, Piet?” said Van Damme.
“It’s a long story, Jacques.”
Hock and the ice lady followed the two candidates inside, and the crowd dispersed. Only the policeman still stood wavering, notebook and pencil in hand. “So nothing happened?” he said, just to be sure.
“Nothing happened,” Chris assured him, and the man of the law tipped his cap, and ambled off, his face still marred by a look of confusion.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Kate when the last of the onlookers had disappeared and they were alone again.
“I really did write you that note,” he insisted.
She shook her head. “I don’t believe you, Chris. So please give it a rest, all right?”
“But I did!” he assured.
“I really don’t want to know,” she said.
“But…”
With a quick shake of the head, she set foot for the station, Chris falling in step beside her. “Let’s just forget all about what happened and focus on the issue at hand,” she said. “Possibly someone is out to harm our dads, and it’s up to us to find out if there’s truth to the threat or not.”
“Oh, all right,” he grunted, but she could see it wasn’t.
She faced him. “Let’s settle this once and for all. Since we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, I don’t want what happened between us to distract us from our work. Let’s forget the past and move on. Can you do that or not?”
For a moment, he seemed to waver, and he opened his mouth to protest, but then he relented. “Fine,” he finally said, jaw set and eyes hard. “Have it your way.”
Chapter Nineteen
There’s something about a public brawl that enlivens the spirit and clears the cobwebs from one’s mind. No man likes to be yelled at in front of an audience, let alone slapped across the face by an enraged woman, but somehow the scene had done Chris a world of good. Until now, he’d always thought Kate was one of those girls who flit from lover to lover like a bee from flower to flower.
Only now did he realize their fling had meant as much to her as it had to him. She hadn’t simply bedded him and promptly forgotten all about him. Far from it. Even now, six months later, she still harbored the same resentment she’d had on the morning she discovered him gone without a word.
He didn’t blame her for not believing him. And neither did he blame her for slapping him. If he really had been the kind of cad she thought him to be, he deserved every bit of anger she’d just thrown at him. And what was more, the fact that she was still angry after all this time clearly indicated she still cared for him.
No, he told himself, what had happened just now was really a good thing. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny two things: she was royally mad and didn’t believe a word he said. And two, she was engaged to be married to another man. So even if she still harbored feelings for him, there was no way they’d ever be together again.
And that depressed him.
So as his dad and hers verbally sparred in the soundproof broadcasting booth, a duel expertly led by an elderly woman listening to the name Bessie, one of the station stars, he and Kate sat in the technician’s office, staring at the glass pane, and didn’t exchange a single word.
His cheek smarted—she had put all her pent-up anger into the slap—but what hurt still more was the knowledge that here sat a woman he was deeply enamored with, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He felt truly, utterly miserable until a thought occurred to him. He had to regain her trust. Somehow he had to convince her he was not the hound she took him for. And what was more, he had to make her fall in love with him all over again, so much so that she sent that fiancé of hers packing, and broke off the engagement.
The moment the thought occurred to him, he perked up considerably, but then instantly he saw the fatal flaw in his plan: if she was in love with another man, who was he to come between them?
No, what she said was right. They just had to make the most of a difficult situation, and forget all about what happened between them that happy weekend in New York.
There was nothing else to it.
So he ignored his pain, cleared his throat, and became the security expert.
“What do you think is going on here?” he said quietly, for he’d already noticed the technician sitting next to them had big ears.
She gave him a sidew
ays look and he stared back blankly, indicating that from now on, she had nothing to fear from him in the form of real, genuine emotion. Only the cold, hard stare of the consummate professional. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“I think someone is planning to hurt the candidates,” she whispered.
“Who? Do you think Gnat is involved?”
She wavered. “I doubt it. Piet seems to think he’s nothing but a petty blackmailer and I believe he’s right. He runs a newspaper, not a crime syndicate.”
“But where did he get the shots?” said Chris.
“I don’t know,” said Kate pensively. “That’s something we need to find out.”
“Perhaps we should pay him a little visit?” suggested Chris.
Kate arched a shapely eyebrow. “Again?”
“Why not? Only this time we target the man, not his safe.”
She gave him an appraising look that made his skin tingle. “I like your thinking. Are you free later?”
“Sure,” he said.
“It’s a date,” she said. Then quickly amended, “I mean, a job.”
“Of course.”
* * *
Kate recognized the twinkle in Chris’s eye. She’d seen it before in New York when he’d suggested they go for a late night stroll along Fifth Avenue. The night had ended in bed. Possibly the worst mistake she’d ever made. And even though sitting so close to him now made her yearn to reach out and touch him, she resisted the urge. Chris Van Damme was bad news, she knew that now. She just had to make it through the next week, and all would be fine.
He’d looked so startled and confused when she’d hit him outside, that she almost wanted to kiss the spot and make it well. And not just that spot, either, but other spots. In fact all the spots. And there were quite a few spots on her body she wouldn’t mind for him to kiss, either.
Oh, hell. It was exactly this kind of thinking that had landed her in a heap of trouble before. She now knew the kind of man Chris was. The kind who enjoyed frivolous sex. He’d fooled her once, but not again. No matter how cute he looked now, with his stubbled cheek and his tousled hair, she just had to keep herself firmly in check, and this would all be over before she knew it.
Then she could finally get married and start her dream life.
Just when she thought the interview was over, another addition to the party blew into the studio. It was a young woman of about her own age, though from the amounts of make-up and the extreme tan, it was hard to tell. She was wearing a halter top over a bright pink leotard, stretched taut across a derriere that gave the term buns of steel an entirely new meaning. A mane of frizzy yellow hair completed the picture.
“Hello, darlings!” the newcomer shrilled as the entered, clearly used to making a spectacle of herself.
“Jeanie Geyser,” whispered Chris, when Kate’s mouth fell open.
“Miss Geyser!” said the technician, a spotty bespectacled young man. At the sight of his celebrity guest, he practically jumped from his seat. “Welcome! Most welcome!”
“Oh there they are!” La Geyser cried as she sighted the two candidates through the glass. “Yoo-hoo, darlings!” she exclaimed, and gave them an exaggerated wave.
Though they probably couldn’t hear her, they most certainly could see her. Both men’s faces lit up, and they waved back. Even Bessie the interviewer seemed happy with the new arrival.
A door buzzed open, and Jeanie was admitted to the studio to join the others.
Bending over to plant smacking kisses on both men’s brows, she perched on the chair offered, pulled the microphone close, and before long was answering questions like the consummate professional she undoubtedly was.
“Do they know they’re both involved with the same woman?” said Kate, surprised.
“I don’t know about Piet,” said Chris, “but my dad found out this morning. He’s still in denial, though.”
“I never knew Belgian politics was this exciting.”
“Politicians are just people, you know,” said Chris. “They fall in love, have their hearts broken…”
For a brief moment, their eyes met. And before she looked away, she had the fleeting impression of a deep hurt reflected in his cornflower blues. He loved her. He loved her still. Then, before she could do anything foolish like lean into him for a hug or, even worse, a kiss, she quickly broke the spell.
If he kept looking at her like this, the week was going to prove a lot harder to get through unscathed than she’d anticipated.
Why, oh why had she ever accepted this assignment?
Chapter Twenty
Kirt, who’d had difficulty getting to sleep the night before, due to the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about Lauren Huckleberry, was only one of two patrons populating the popular café The Perch at this early hour. Apart from Aldo Trevatt, owner and proprietor of the Perch, a crusty old gentleman with an eternal smile, and his wife Celina, as aged as Aldo and just as gregarious, only Genaro Rowlock was present and accounted for.
Genaro was pretty much a fixture at the Perch. Some people even went so far as to suggest he actually lived there, for no one had ever seen him enter or leave. Genaro, a quiet, introspective man of average build, somber demeanor and a grizzled beard, occupied the barstool furthest to the left as if he were glued to it, a baseball cap plastered to his skull, and an ancient letter jacket prominently featuring the letter G indicating that at some point in time he had, perhaps, been something of a sportsman.
Since Chris had been adamant to catch his dad alone, the two friends had agreed to meet after the meet to discuss the… meet. Though what Kirt really wanted to discuss was his growing infatuation with Lauren.
Last night’s passionate encounter had done much to further endear her to Kirt, and now he couldn’t wait to see her and deepen their relationship. And that’s where Chris came in. As someone closely acquainted with Lauren’s best friend, he wanted his sage advice about the next step to take.
As far as he was concerned, only one step came to mind. His heart had been touched, and love had entered his being. And once Kirt Raisin’s heart got involved, the only course of action he could think of was discussing a date with the priest and order the best wedding cake in town. But that, of course, was him. He had no idea how Lauren would feel about this. She was, after all, American, and he didn’t know how American girls felt about marrying Belgian guys who look like a bear or, for that matter, any guy who looks like a bear or anyone they only met the day before and only kissed once. And looks like a bear.
But boy oh boy, what a kiss it was.
He checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Where the hell was Chris? How long could a meeting with his dad take? He’d already sent his buddy a text but so far no sign of life.
“How’s tricks, Aldo?” he said, raising his glass to his lips.
Aldo, a middle-aged globular man with a face like a cherub and no hair on his head apart from his eyebrows, looked up distractedly from his business of taking inventory of his supply of beer glasses.
“Oh, as well as can be expected, Kirt,” he said.
“That doesn’t sound so well,” Kirt said.
Like every other Brugean, he was fond of Aldo, whose bar he practically grew up in. Playing pool and gabbing with Aldo had been his and Chris’s idea of extracurricular activities all through high school.
Aldo leaned against the bar and eyed Kirt with a twinkle behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “When you’re my age, Kirt, you’ll understand the meaning of the word ‘aches and pains’.”
“That’s three words,” said Kirt, a keen observer.
“Wise-ass,” said Aldo good-naturedly. “And what are you doing in here at this early hour may I ask? Don’t you have some rat of the underworld to trail or cheating householder to catch in the act?”
“Wow, Aldo,” said Kirt. “You’re quite the cynic today. As a matter of fact, as far as I know, no householder has recently been caught outside of the conjugal bed, and the only rat of the underworld we’ve been
able to find so far was your garden-variety blackmailer. Hardly worth the trouble.”
“Then what about that bombing last night, eh?” said Aldo, leaning in and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s terrorists in Bruges these days, my boy. Actual terrorists at work in our midst. And you better catch them before they tear this place down next!”
Kirt, taking a casual swig of his tankard, said, “Don’t believe everything you hear, Aldo. I have it on good authority that was a simple misunderstanding.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” said Aldo, disappointed.
Kirt grinned. He knew exactly what Aldo was thinking. For one thing, the rotund barman didn’t like it when other people knew more about what went on in Bruges than he did, and for another, astute businessman that he was, he wouldn’t have minded a terrorist running amok in town. In times of trouble, people tend to flock to bars and churches, and though Aldo wasn’t a priest, he ran the best bar in town.
“If you know so much about it, what are you doing hanging around here for then, eh?” Aldo said sourly. “You should be talking to the police instead, giving them all the help they need. As far as I know, they still haven’t caught the culprit.”
“I’m waiting for Chris. He had an early meeting with his dad.”
“About?” said Aldo without shame or embarrassment.
Kirt grinned. Now these were the pitfalls of talking to the owner of the Perch. Aldo was unscrupulous when it came to prying into the private lives of his patrons.
“Can you keep a secret?” whispered Kirt, after exaggeratedly looking left and right for eavesdroppers.
Aldo leaned in across the counter. “You know I can,” he whispered back, his eyes sparkling.
“Someone is trying to kill old Jacques Van Damme and we’re trying to find out who.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Aldo matter-of-factly.
“It doesn’t?” said Kirt, who was surprised.