by LYDIA STORM
John grinned. “Not always.”
The food arrived, delicious and steaming hot. They ate in silence, and just as it had been in the car on the ride down to DC, it was a chummy, comfortable silence. They ordered cannoli and cappuccinos for dessert. Veronica took a bite of the Italian pastry and sighed like she was in heaven, licking the extra cream around her lips. John was torn between watching her movements and staring once more at the fiery red ruby between her breasts. She fingered the necklace provocatively and looked at him through her lashes.
“Those rocks real?” he asked.
“Maybe after dinner you’d like to examine them more closely and decide for yourself,” she purred in her low voice.
“I’m no expert.”
“Oh,” she dangled the jewel along her décolletage, “maybe I could help you out.”
He looked up into her face and her eyes smoldered under his gaze.
John flagged down the waiter. “Check, please!”
John and Veronica walked arm in arm through the Mall admiring the national monuments lit up all around them. Feeling a slight chill in the air, Veronica put her hand in John’s pocket.
“Is that a gun in your pocket or do you just have a thing for tall, pointy monuments?” she asked.
They were standing in front of the Washington Monument, which seemed to reach up to the stars from the dark park below.
“That necklace has got to be worth a couple million dollars and we’re walking through a dangerous park at night. I better have a gun on me.”
“Oh.” She stopped and looked down, her voice low and breathy. “I was hoping you’d say it wasn’t a gun or a building; maybe you’d say it was me.”
John lifted her chin and looked deep into her eyes but couldn’t see what lay in their depths in the darkness. Was she playing with him?
He didn’t care.
He lowered his mouth to hers and gently kissed her. The tenderness and shivering passion he felt coming from Veronica hit him like an electric current. He pulled her closer. The burning ruby pressed against his heart and his hands were in her soft dark hair. He could still taste a hint of dessert on her sweet mouth and the scent of L’Heure Bleue filled his nostrils.
It had been a while since he’d kissed a woman like this. Since it had felt the way it did now. He didn’t want to let go. If he were still drinking, he would have dragged her into the bushes and had his way with her here and now. But he wasn’t drinking any more and she wasn’t quite like any woman he had ever kissed before.
Veronica pulled back. From this angle, the light of the Washington Monument lit up her beautiful face. Her eyes blazed with desire.
“Let’s get a cab back to the hotel,” she whispered.
He nodded and, wrapping his arm around her waist, led her quickly to Independence Avenue to hail a taxi.
When they entered Veronica’s hotel room, without a word, she reached for him.
John grabbed her hips and held her firmly back for a moment. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
He knew it was stupid to ask. What if she said no? But somehow he found himself feeling protective of her. This couldn’t be just some one-night stand. Or could it? His brain wasn’t working right. There was too much testosterone raging through his system, confusing him, muddling his mind. The specter of Simon rose up and then disintegrated. When she pulled him in tight with a soul kiss that reached down to the very root of him and then wrapped a long leg around his hips, he knew it was over.
They pulled at each other’s clothes as they fell down on the bed, the heat between them making their actions almost violent. All the reserve John had been forced to employ since he’d met Veronica slipped away as he consumed every tender morsel of her pampered flesh. His almost brutal passion seemed to awaken a fire that had burned in Veronica behind her mask of cool beauty. She struggled out of the tight dress and a low moan of pleasure escaped her lips as John inched down the red lace bra to reveal her swelling breasts and slipped his fingers beneath her matching panties. The feel of his sensitive fingers probing her seemed to drive Veronica wild; she pulled at his shirt, his pants—anything that came between his flesh and hers.
At last, he felt the velvet warmth of naked skin on skin and it seemed as if neither of them could wait a moment longer. Taking charge, John pushed her down on the bed, feeling her arch up under him as they melted together. She moaned and pulled him close, wrapping her arms and long legs around his muscular back. His hands were in her hair pulling her head back; her pink lips parted, her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, and the ruby necklace blazed like a supernova against her sweaty flesh. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.
She squeezed and pulled him deeper, moaning and crying out with each violent thrust. There was nothing left of the lofty ice princess he had met three days ago. Veronica Rossmore had melted into a boiling wet cauldron of fire.
John felt a surge of lightning run up his spine. He was reaching his peak. “Open your eyes,” he commanded and relaxed into a slow burn.
Veronica obeyed and looked up at him, helpless with desire. He kissed her lips and cradled her flushed face in his hands, their bodies moving like the slow powerful rise and fall of waves. He looked deep into her eyes; beyond the lust, underneath they were naked with emotion. The same feeling he had experienced at the restaurant returned now as their gazes fused and they understood the depths of each other. Only this time the moment had an otherworldly feeling about it. As if now that all the barriers had been torn down they gazed upon each other’s souls, as if they’d reached up and captured a bit of eternity.
The spell was broken as Veronica cried out and shivered in her final moment. Accelerating their rhythm, they both surged together in a blinding climax that closed his eyes and all he could see were the fireworks going off in his head.
****
The next morning when John awoke, Veronica lay sleeping at the other side of the bed, a little frown creasing her brow, her dark hair tangled around her pale face. All the rosy glow from the night before was gone. Now that the smoke had cleared, John didn’t know what to do. His usual MO was to run like hell the minute he woke up in a woman’s bed, but he didn’t feel like running this morning. Still, he didn’t know how she would react to what had happened. He figured he’d handle anything she had up her sleeve better after his morning prayers and a few passages from the AA Big Book.
John slipped out of bed and quietly into his clothes. He tiptoed to the door, but as he was pulling it open, someone twisted the knob from the outside. He opened the door to see who it was and came face to face with the notorious jewel thief, Nicholas Bezuhov.
Chapter Eight
The White Russian stood in Veronica’s doorway looking well-rested and like he had just come from the posh barbershop downstairs. He wore cream-colored pants and a light blue, button-down shirt. John almost rolled his eyes when he noticed the ascot tied neatly around the thief’s neck.
“Well, good morning,” said Nicholas Bezuhov, his Russian accent making him sound just a little bit like Dracula. “I thought you’d retired. What brings you here?”
“I wish I could ask you the same question,” growled John.
Nicholas smiled brightly. “Why, I’m here for the Diamond Ball, of course.”
“I bet you are,” said John. “What are you doing outside Veronica Rossmore’s room?”
“I don’t know,” said the White Russian, looking John up and down with an amused smirk. “What are you doing sneaking out of her room in last night’s suit?”
John took a step forward, forcing Nicholas to back away from the door. “That’s none of your fucking business,” he said, his temper rising. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll walk away and not come back around.”
The White Russian laughed. “I’m sorry, but it is not a crime to pay a visit to an old friend, now is it?”
That took the wind out of John’s sails. That changed everything.
“If you don’t mind,” said the
thief stepping forward and reaching for the door. But John’s hand shot out and grabbed Nicholas’s wrist in a tight grip.
The White Russian’s dark eyes glittered dangerously. “You are beginning to annoy me.”
“Miss Rossmore is asleep right now,” said John. “I don’t think she would appreciate you busting in on her.”
They stared each other down for a moment, but a maid pushing a breakfast cart rounded the corner, leaving it parked in front of a room two doors away. John and Nicholas turned to look at her and she nodded politely.
“Well,” said Nicholas, pulling his hand away and straightening his cravat, “I’ll come see Veronica later on.” He started to walk away.
“What happened to the blonde?” John called after him.
The thief turned with an amused grin. “You mean Jessica? Do you know her?”
John didn’t answer. He just watched his man.
“What am I saying? Of course you don’t.” The White Russian’s grin broadened. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Monroe.”
“We’ll be watching you,” warned John.
Nicholas didn’t look worried. “It was my understanding you are no longer a member of the FBI—something about a drinking problem.” He smiled nastily.
“Still, there’s nothing to stop me from making a citizen’s arrest if anything disappears from this hotel.”
All mock innocence, the White Russian threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. As I said, I’m just here to attend the Diamond Ball—charity, you know.” His smile deepened and he turned away.
John watched the jewel thief as he walked down the hall, careless and arrogant. After the elevator doors closed behind him, John turned back to Veronica’s door. There were a few things he’d like to ask her, but he was too angry. He decided to head back to his room, take a shower, order some eggs, and cool off.
****
When John returned to his room there was a message waiting from Quinn.
“Call me back,” barked his ex-partner on the hotel voicemail.
John went to the minibar and opened it. He had to smile. It was jammed full of seltzer and pretzels. He pulled out a seltzer. The bubbles burned his throat, but the cold burst first thing in the morning felt good. He stripped off his wrinkled clothes and jumped in the shower. It was nice to take a shower in such a blindingly clean, white bathroom. There was plenty of room to move around, good lighting, and good-smelling bath products lined up along the marble sink. He closed his eyes as the explosion of cool water jets washed away last night’s sweat and this morning’s anger. He let it all go down the drain. Pulling a fluffy towel from the rack, he rubbed it through his hair and all over his body and then donned the white terry robe hanging on the bathroom door.
He headed into his room and sat down in a patch of sunlight on the floor. He crossed his legs Indian style, the way Bethany, an ex-pothead in his Thursday night AA meeting, had shown him.
He took a breath in and then exhaled long and slowly. His mind went back to Bethany. He remembered how she had taught him one night at two a.m. to stop the thoughts whirling in his mind from looping over and over on the same old bad news. John had come to her after not sleeping for three days straight, and he knew that if he didn’t get some rest soon, he would go crazy. Simon had made the call to Bethany. Mercifully, she hadn’t seemed to care about the late hour.
Bethany had sat John down in her yoga-den living room with its honey-toned candles. The floor had been covered in old flea-market Persian rugs and the room smelled like incense. Bethany had seemed to glow with an inner light, her soft brown eyes reassuring. Her tanned hands, covered in silver rings, were gentle as she ran her palm along his spine, showing him how to sit straight and relax at the same time. She had touched his third eye with her finger and told him to focus. She taught him how to breathe deep and let everything go with a long exhale.
Before sobriety John would have stayed away from Bethany and her meditation room like it was a den of ghetto-raised pit bulls, but that night he learned how to meditate and he finally slept.
Since then, whenever the world spun off its axis, he had learned to sit down and pretend he was in Bethany’s apartment with the incense swirling and Indian chants playing in the background. If he was lucky, he experienced a fleeting moment of peace.
He sat now with his eyes closed and felt the sunlight warm on him. He slowed his breathing down and let his mind go blank like a television screen without a channel, all white fuzz. But out of the fuzz Veronica emerged, her eyes glowing dark blue, her naked breasts swelling up against him, the ruby around her neck crackling like a fire…
Frustrated, he opened his eyes. His room was peaceful and orderly except for his wrinkled suit which he had thrown on the floor. He couldn’t meditate right now. So he switched positions and climbed onto his knees. Squeezing his eyes closed again, he whispered, “God, help me to do your will today and to stay out of trouble. Thank you, Amen.”
He stood up, pulling his robe tighter around him, and punched Quinn’s number on the phone.
“Special Agent Quinn Brown.”
“It’s John.”
No one was bothering with the niceties this morning.
“Maggie the Cat’s booked herself a little show on a private yacht floating off Long Island,” announced Quinn, sounding like he’d been up all night.
“I can top that,” said John. “I saw Nicholas Bezuhov this morning outside Veronica Rossmore’s room. Said they were old friends.”
“The White Russian?” asked Quinn.
“Your friend and mine.”
“He knows Veronica Rossmore?”
“That’s what he says,” replied John.
Quinn exhaled a world of worry and stress into the phone. “I don’t like that at all.”
“Me neither, makes my job tougher, but why’s it so bad for you? It gives you more information on him.”
“It’s b-bad for me,” Quinn stuttered the way he sometimes did when he was mad, “it’s bad because I have my hands full! We still don’t have a clue about what happened to the Puck Diamond and Katherine Park is like a goddamn dog with a bone over the whole thing. Half my people have gone off to Houston where the president is meeting with the entire Arab world’s leaders to try and straighten out that mess. The last thing I need to worry about is Nicholas Bezuhov running off with Veronica Rossmore’s jewelry collection!”
“Listen, partner, you don’t have to worry about that,” John tried to reassure his friend. “That’s what I’m here for, right?”
There was a pause on the other end. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. You know what you’re doing. So I’m not going to worry about it. I’m crossing that one off my list.”
“Good.”
“All right, I’ll see you at the Diamond Ball,” said Quinn wearily.
“I’ll see you there.”
“I can’t wait till this friggin’ thing is over,” barked Quinn right before he hung up.
John was thoughtful as he put down the receiver. Had Quinn always been this stressed out and John just hadn’t noticed because he’d been too lost in his own vodka-drenched haze? Then again, dealing with Katherine Park, the First Lady, the Hope Diamond, and a bunch of jewel thieves circling the Smithsonian like sharks would be enough to give anyone a good bloody ulcer.
****
Pandemonium reigned at the normally well-run Fabulous Food catering company. Nancy Malone, the owner of Fabulous Food, had just hung up the phone with her pastry chef, Armand. One way or another, he’d spent the entire morning on the toilet with gut-wrenching cramps and nausea that left him as green and limp as a piece of overcooked asparagus. With the Diamond Ball only a little more than twenty-four hours away, this was a major catastrophe.
As every caterer and restaurateur in DC was aware, the First Lady had a serious sweet tooth and was notoriously fussy about her pastries. Since this was the biggest event of the year for Lillian Spencer, failure to provide anything but absolute perfection
could mean losing out to her archrival, Le Grand Gourmet Catering, for all future White House parties.
Mentally Nancy ran through the list of suitable pastry chefs in the area. Almost all were either already employed at one of the city’s major hotels or restaurants, impossible to deal with, or out of town. Nancy put her head in her hands. She was on the verge of stamping her feet and screaming her head off, the staff in the kitchen behind her tasteful little gourmet shop be damned!
The tinkle of the bells attached to the shop’s front door made her look up. A sweet-faced, little old lady in a beautifully tailored dress and a plaid shawl made her way past the neatly lined shelves of champagne vinegar and tins of beluga.
“Good morning,” said the old lady cheerfully.
Years of plastering on smiles in impossible situations served Nancy well. In a flash, her pearly whites were on display as she greeted her customer. “Good morning. How may I help you, ma’am?”
“Well, I’ve just moved here from Philadelphia and was told by many people that you are the very best caterer in town.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Nancy wondered how much money it would take to steal famed pastry chef Casper Dupres from the Willard Room for one night.
“Well, I’m no gourmet,” said the old lady with a warm smile, “but I’ve been told I make the best cookies and brownies in the universe and I was wondering if you might be interested in carrying them in your lovely shop?”
Nancy didn’t have time for this. “You know, we bake all our own…”
But now the old lady lifted the napkin that lay over her basket to reveal an array of beautifully arranged dark chocolate brownies dripping with fudge sauce, golden cookies dusted with powdered sugar, and light fluffy meringues smelling sweetly of lemon and orange oil.
“Oh,” was all Nancy could say, staring at the pile of homemade goodies.