“Relax, Natalie. Nothing happened. You passed out cold.”
Mortification threatened to swallow her whole, and she clutched the sheet to her breasts and sat up, to the rage of those angry Lilliputians still banging inside her head. “I did not.”
“Yup. You did.” Eric sat up, too, and then stretched luxuriously. “Not surprising, considering you had at least five stiff whiskeys in the bar and no dinner.”
“I am an idiot,” she said gloomily.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Happens to the best of us. Besides, you were upset about the necklace.”
Horror engulfed her. “I told you about it?”
“In living color.”
“Oh, my God. Are you going to—”
“Report you? No. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“You don’t feel a moral obligation to—” She stopped. Eric was laughing.
“Do I look like Dudley Do-Right?” he asked. “Seriously.”
She sat there, again transfixed by his looks and some charismatic quality that she couldn’t identify. All she knew was that she felt almost magnetically drawn to him. She was furious at herself, not for picking him up but for passing out.
“So unfair,” she muttered, unconscious of saying the words aloud.
“What’s unfair?”
She flushed. “I don’t want to say it because your head won’t fit through the door.”
He just eyed her quizzically.
“Oh, fine. I think it’s unfair that the one time I have a . . . a fall from grace and pick up a gorgeous guy in a bar, I manage to go to sleep before anything interesting happens!”
He burst out laughing.
“No, it really ticks me off.”
When he could catch his breath, he winked at her. “The offer’s still good this morning.” Casually, he pulled the sheet tight over his lap, and she almost fainted at what was outlined.
He raised an eyebrow and shot her a come-hither smile. The man didn’t have bedroom eyes; he had bor dello eyes.
“But I don’t have a toothbrush . . .”
“You can use mine.”
Ugh. No, thanks. “. . . and my head’s killing me.”
“I have ways of distracting you from that, not to mention ibuprofen.”
“But I’m sober now,” she wailed.
“So?”
“Well, but—I can’t just—”
“You can’t?”
“No.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Eric pushed the sheet aside and swung his legs out of bed, walking stark naked past a stunned Natalie, who couldn’t look away.
Uuuuunnnnnhhhhh!
Long, muscled legs. Smooth, taut, tight, positively drool-worthy buns. There was some kind of dark, square tattoo on his left one, but she couldn’t quite make it out.
He had wide shoulders that segued beautifully into a trim waist with six-pack abs. And the other side of him . . .
She could kill herself for passing out. She was being deprived of the joys of sluttiness before she could even regret anything.
Eric strode past her with vestiges of a naughty smirk on his face. He gave her another wink and then disappeared into the bathroom.
She slumped down under the covers. She was hung-over, she was going to get fired when she went in to work, she’d be lucky if she wasn’t arrested, and she couldn’t even engage in some nice, sweaty, therapeutic sex with a perfect stranger whom she’d never see again. What was wrong with her?
But with sobriety her social awkwardness had returned, and that definitely ruled out getting wild and naked with this guy Eric. In the cold, whiskeyless light of day she recalled that she hadn’t shaved her legs in at least a week, her breasts were small, and her toes were probably gnarled, since her feet hadn’t seen a pedicure since August.
Natalie glanced at the clock and saw with relief that it was barely seven. She still had enough time to go home and shower before hustling to work and facing the music.
She slipped out of bed just in time to model her almost nudity for Eric, who came out of the bathroom. He wolf whistled, his gaze roving straight to her breasts. She clapped her hands over them immediately.
“Tetas ricas,” he said with a predatory grin.
“Excuse me?” Her face burned.
“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing.”
“No, translate, please.”
“I said you have great breasts, sweetheart.”
She snatched her skirt off the floor and clutched it to her body. “You shouldn’t have looked.”
“Hey, they were right up front and waving at me. What’s a poor slob to do?”
“Well, it’s not nice to comment.”
“I told you last night—I’m not at all a nice guy.” He flashed white teeth at her.
“Will you turn your back while I change, please?”
“Fine. Seems a little silly, since you slept with me practically nude, but whatever.” He turned and faced the other way. Darn it, she could see only the edge of the tattoo and still couldn’t quite make it out.
“I was not nude. I had panties on,” Natalie said, scrambling into her skirt and then her bra.
“And I coulda had ’em off you at any time.”
Hateful man. She pulled her top over her head and stuffed her arms into the sleeves. The fabric smelled just like the bar. Ugh.
Eric had gone back into the bathroom, and when he emerged he held some ibuprofen tablets and a glass of water. He handed them to her.
“Thank you,” she said. Okay, he wasn’t hateful. But he was still stark naked, and though she kept trying mightily to keep her gaze above his waist, she wasn’t entirely successful. Worse, he seemed to know it, and she was sure it amused him.
“Aren’t you going to get dressed?” she asked.
“Why?”
“Don’t you have to go to work, or do something?”
He laced his fingers behind his neck and stretched his shoulders. “Not for a while. You?”
She nodded, sat on the bed, and shoved her feet into the toes of her tights. “Yes. I have a nine-o’clock appointment to get fired.”
“Great. Can I take you to breakfast afterward?”
She laughed, despite the day’s gloomy prospects. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I think you’ve got a real cute snore, and I’d like to hear it again sometime.”
“I do not snore.”
“You do.” He walked over to the chair where her messenger bag lay, flap open, and plucked her cell phone out of the front pocket.
“What are you doing?”
He flipped open the phone and pressed some buttons. “Making sure you have my number.”
“It’s nice to ask first . . .”
He raised his head and aimed a wicked blue stare at her. “I thought we’d established several times that I’m not a nice guy.” He finished entering the numbers and then hit the call button. His own phone rang, and he got it out of his pants, which were lying on the floor. “And now I have yours,” he said.
“Great.” She retrieved her phone and bag and headed for the door. Somehow he was in front of it before she got there, blocking it with his body.
He took her face between his big hands and kissed her lips. She melted and her knees went weak; when he lifted his head, she was dazed.
“Natalie,” he said softly. “You’re gonna do fine this morning. And whatever happens today, you were great last night. Funny and entertaining and infinitely seductive. I’d like the chance to sleep with you again.”
Well.
When he phrased it like that, how could a girl say no?
Eight
Because she was nervous, Natalie was twenty minutes early to work. By the time she’d gotten to the brownstone, she’d almost chewed a hole through her cheek.
Her hands trembled as she put her key into the lock, turned it, and swung the heavy wooden door open. Funny, the alarm didn’t beep, even though all the lights were off and the place seemed empty. It was very unlik
e Luc to forget to set it before he left for the day.
She shut the door behind her, locked it since they wouldn’t open for business until nine, and flipped the main light switch for the foyer. She’d taken only a couple of steps forward when she heard the moan.
“Who’s there?” she called.
Another faint moan and some weak coughing came from the direction of the kitchen. She was torn between fear and curiosity. Should she bolt out the door or go into the kitchen? She’d almost opted for bolting when she realized that someone could have come in early, as she had, and had a seizure or a heart attack, or had simply slipped and fallen.
Natalie pulled her cell phone from its pocket under the flap of her bag and dialed 911, just in case. Then, her finger poised over the talk button, she crept forward. “Hello? Who’s there?”
Another guttural moan emerged from the kitchen. She rounded the corner and stopped, shocked. Luc, her boss, lay sprawled and bleeding on the old linoleum. His face had been beaten beyond recognition, and blood had dried in horrible rivulets from his nose and a split lip.
“Luc—oh, my God! What happened?” Natalie dropped both phone and bag and ran to him, sliding the last couple of feet on her knees.
He opened his bruised eyes but didn’t move. “B’jour, Natalie,” he said with effort.
“Who did this to you?” Her voice had gone high and reedy with alarm. “Luc, are you all right?”
He managed to make a thumbs-up sign with one hand.
“I’m going to call nine-one-one,” she said, crawling back toward the phone she had dropped.
“Non,” he croaked. He lifted his head. “No.”
“Luc, you need medical attention! And the police—”
“No police,” he reiterated. “Promise.”
“Why not?” But she knew why not. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she knew. Luc couldn’t afford for his business dealings to be investigated. Luc was involved in things that weren’t aboveboard. It explained the Mercedes. It explained the huge diamond on Giraffe’s hand. It explained his nervous reaction to the man who’d dropped off the necklace for repairs.
He struggled to sit up. “Help . . . me.”
She was afraid to touch him, since she didn’t know where he’d been beaten. But she slid an arm under his shoulders and heaved mightily to get him to a sitting position. Then, using all of her body weight and every ounce of strength she possessed, she dragged him over to the kitchen cabinets so that he had something to lean against.
“Mer-merci, Natalie.”
They both sat there, trying to catch their breath. He shouldn’t thank her at all, since she had an awful feeling that she was directly responsible for the beating. Oh, God. How to tell him? Where to start?
And Nonnie. Fear coiled in her belly, slithered through her gut. Please God, I can keep Nonnie safe . . . This is all my fault.
“Luc, who did this?” she asked again.
He shook his head. “Better . . . that . . . you do not . . . know,” he said with difficulty.
She jumped up and searched in a drawer for a tea towel, then wet it at the sink and tried to minister to his poor, battered face. “Does this have to do with the necklace?” she asked, though she didn’t really want to.
He winced as she wiped blood away from his swollen, broken nose. Then he nodded.
Fear broke the surface of her emotions and then rushed in like high tide. Tears poured down her cheeks. “Luc . . . oh, God. Listen, I’m the one who borrowed the necklace.”
He jerked back from her hands and hit his head against the cabinet door. “What?”
“I borrowed it,” she sobbed. The words poured out of her in a tumult. “I wanted to show it to my grandmother—and she’s blind—so I couldn’t take a picture. Our family—we used to have a similar necklace—I meant to return it over the weekend—but she won’t let me have it back . . .”
Luc grabbed her wrist. “You get it from her. Today, Natalie. Comprends-tu? Now. You bring it to me, or my life is worthless, eh?”
She nodded, wiping her wet face with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry. I thought it would be harmless and I’d have it back in the safe within twenty-four hours.”
“Go. No, help me to my car first. I cannot have the other employees see me like this . . .”
Natalie mopped up the floor quickly with paper towels.
They left through the back door, which was unlocked. No doubt the men who’d roughed up Luc had entered and exited that way. He directed her to set the alarm and lock up after them.
He wrapped a scarf around his injured face, and they walked outside to his gray Mercedes coupe.
“Do you want me to drive you to your apartment?” Natalie asked, though she didn’t want to be responsible for a $70,000 car. It was the least she could do.
He shook his head. “I want you to get the necklace. Bring it to me at home as soon as you can. And say nothing to anyone, eh? Nobody.”
Natalie nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I assume that I’m fired.”
Luc didn’t reply, but his silence said it all.
Natalie took the subway to Grand Central Terminal, and then the Metro-North rail to the Stamford station, where she changed trains and took the New Haven line to the Springdale platform. Springdale was a cozy little neighborhood in Stamford where not much seemed to have changed since the 1950s. Nonnie had lived there in the midst of its working-class charm for more than thirty years.
Natalie exited the train and walked down Hope Street toward her grandmother’s house on Knicker bocker Avenue.
The little Cape Cod was painted slate blue with white shutters and doors and had looked the same for as long as Nat could remember. She climbed the three cement steps to the small enclosed porch and opened the storm door, wiping her feet on an ancient straw mat that needed replacing. As she approached the main door, she noticed that not only were no lights on inside, but no classical music played.
Natalie tried the door, but it was locked. She rang the bell, but Nonnie didn’t come to the door. She knocked repeatedly, hysteria rising in her throat. Of course she had a key, but she hadn’t planned on coming here today, so it was in her apartment in the city.
Finally she left the porch and went around the side of the little house, toward the rear yard and the garage.
She ran to the back door and banged on it, calling her grandmother’s name. It, too, was locked, and no sign of life came from within the kitchen. At least Nonnie wasn’t lying beaten on the kitchen floor . . .
Just the thought had her recoiling, and she fought to control her growing panic. Where was Nonnie? She never left the house. She hadn’t just gone for a walk around the block or made a run to the bank.
What if the people who’d beaten up Luc had been there? What if Nonnie was stiff, cold, and blue in her bedroom? Dear God. Natalie had to break in and make sure she was all right. She whirled and ran toward the garage, and then stopped in her tracks. The side door to the garage was slightly ajar.
Shaking now, Natalie forced herself toward the building, which held only one car: Nonnie’s ancient Buick Regal. No sounds came from within. Nat put her hand on the cold metal doorknob and pulled.
The garage was empty, except for old garden tools and various odds and ends. The car was gone.
The car was gone . . . but Nonnie was legally blind and couldn’t have driven it. So who had? One of the neighbors? Or had someone broken in, robbed a helpless old lady, and then stolen her car? Oh, God, what if they’d killed her and put her body in the trunk?
Her hands shaking, Nat grabbed a spade from a hook on the wall and started toward the house again. Her cell phone rang and she almost jumped out of her skin, dropping the spade.
She grabbed the phone and flipped it open, half afraid that this was a ransom call. But instead, Eric McDougal’s voice said cheerily, “Breakfast?”
She broke down.
“Natalie,” he said urgently. “What’s wrong?”
The words poure
d out of her mouth disjointedly.
“Do not go into the house alone,” he instructed her.
“But—”
“Go to a neighbor’s house. Call the police—”
“Luc said no police,” she sobbed.
“I’m coming out there,” he said with grim determination.
“What? But you barely know me . . .”
“I don’t care. I’ll be there in under an hour. Go to a neighbor’s and I’ll call you when I’m close. What’s the address?”
Bewildered but intensely grateful for the support, she told him. After all, he was a security consultant.
“Where could she be? You don’t think they killed her over”—her voice broke—“over the necklace, and then took her body to d-d-dump it?” Natalie sank to her knees on the cold ground and shut her eyes against the possibility.
“No,” Eric said in reassuring tones. “They wouldn’t have known who took the necklace. Luc didn’t, so why would they?”
“They have to know it’s an employee. There was no break-in. It was clearly someone who has the combination to the safe at Ricard and Associates.”
“Natalie, don’t jump to conclusions. And don’t go into that house alone. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”
She nodded and then realized that he couldn’t see her. “Okay,” she managed. “Eric? Thank you. I don’t care what you say—you really are a very nice guy.”
A long pause came from his end of the connection. “Yeah. I’m a prince among men. See you soon. Bye.” He hung up.
She rose to her feet, stowed her phone, and left the spade where it was. Unbelievable. The handsome stranger from the bar was riding to her rescue like some kind of knight from a fairy tale. Stuff like that didn’t happen anymore—it just didn’t.
But her parents were hundreds of miles away in Vermont, she knew few people in the city, and she wasn’t going to look a gift knight in the mouth.
Nine
McDougal hung up the phone and let out a string of curses. Granny was MIA. Judging by the beaten-up boss, wolves other than himself were closing in, and Little Red Riding Hood was in tears . . . not to mention quite possibly in danger. What if her boss, in order to save his own skin, told his violent visitors who had the necklace?
Take Me for a Ride Page 5