Take Me for a Ride

by Karen Kendall

  So whatcha gonna do, dumb-ass? Date her? Yeah, right. Even without this whole necklace business, how long would you give yourself, a couple of months, before you’d be cheating? You are a hound. You can’t make her happy. She will curse the day she ever met you, McDougal. You should get down on bended knee and apologize for taking what she offered just now.

  Men like you make women cry.

  He hated that. He really did. McDougal dragged his hands down his face as he stood watching Natalie sleep. The only way to avoid making women cry was not to get involved with them.

  He’d make some phone calls and arrangements, and then he’d walk away before he hurt her, if it wasn’t too late already.

  He started toward the bedside lamp to turn it off but remembered that she’d asked him not to. Still, how did she sleep with the light burning into her eyelids? He required total darkness.

  He stepped back into the bathroom to make his calls, taking his laptop with him. He sat on the edge of the tub, using the closed toilet lid as a desk.

  Then he uploaded the images of Giselle that he’d snapped with a tiny camera built into his wristwatch. He e-mailed them to Miguel at ARTemis for identification, putting urgent in the subject line. If her picture was in any database anywhere, Miguel the magician would find it.

  I don’t exist, she’d said.

  Oh, yes, you do. And we’ll track you down.

  She’d threatened Natalie’s family, which McDougal didn’t like at all. It was time to call some reinforcements of his own to guard them, some biker muscle.

  He hit a number on speed dial and waited while the phone rang.

  “Yeah,” a deep, Florida cracker voice growled.

  “Harley, it’s McDougal.”

  “Hayadoin’, McD?”

  “I’m all right, man. Got a favor to ask, though.”

  “S’that?”

  “How would you feel about an all-expenses-paid trip to Vermont?”

  “Ver-fuckin’-mont?”

  “Yes. You and a buddy. A big, mean-looking buddy.”

  “I dunno. S’cold up there, McD.”

  “Change of pace, change of scenery.”

  “An’ what’re we doin’ up there, tippin’ cows?”

  “Looking out for a couple of professors that I don’t want banged up.”

  “Pro-fessors? Th’ain’t gonna try to teach us nothin’, are they?”

  “No. If you do the job right, they won’t even know you’re there. But the Russian assholes will spot you.”

  “Russians?” Harley sounded more enthusiastic all of a sudden. “Cool. Kin we knock ’em around?”

  McDougal cleared his throat. “Well. Not too much. And only if they look at you funny.” What happened to a couple of Russian thugs was not really his concern. Maybe it would teach them to stop trashing apartments and killing people.

  “I gotta feeling that they’ll look at us real funny.”

  “Yeah? Me, too. You and I, we are men of rare intuition and insight, Harley. Even wisdom.”

  “So how much you payin’?”

  McDougal named a sum, reflecting ruefully that ARTEMIS would not be reimbursing him for this particular expense. But what the hell.

  “A’ight. That’ll cover some beer. When you want us up there?”

  “Yesterday. I’ll call you back with an address.”

  “Okay. But I got a question for you, McD. Elk said he stopped by your place with that kick-ass windshield that you ordered, the Double Bubble. You wasn’t home, so ’e picked the lock on your garage door an’ went to put it inside.”

  McDougal winced. He knew what was coming next.

  “Elk said he raised that door and almost shit ’imself. Said your ZX-14 you bought from us was a real purty shade of pink.”

  Eric cleared his throat. “Yeah. It’s a long story.”

  “Fuckin’ pink, dude.”

  “I pissed off a woman.”

  The rumble of amusement coming from the phone sounded like a lawn mower.

  “It’s not funny,” McDougal said tightly.

  The rumble turned into a bellow. “Right. It ain’t funny at all. It’s fuckin’ hilarious!”

  Eric scowled. “I’ll call you back with an address.” He hung up.

  His next call was to Avy Hunt, co-owner of ARTemis. She needed to know what was going on and what type of people they were dealing with. And he needed to check on his dog, Shaq, before he left the country.

  He called Avy’s cell phone, but she didn’t answer. God only knew where she was these days. She’d been traveling in Europe, and Gwen, her best friend, was being very closemouthed with details. Something was off-kilter, but clearly nobody was sharing with the likes of him, the onetime suspected murderer.

  Man, did that burn his ass. With a renewed sense of injury that might be petty but was also justified, he dialed Gwen’s number next.

  “Hello?” she said in her melodic, upper-class Southern tones. “McDougal?”

  “Yeah, just taking a break from murder and mayhem to check in on Shaq.”

  “Oh, McD. How many times do we have to apologize? Shaq’s fine. Kind of mopes around, though—he misses you. Quinn walks him on the beach every day.”

  “Are you brushing his teeth every night?”

  “Yes, and what a disgusting process that is. Chicken-flavored toothpaste!”

  “You know you’re dying to try it. Listen, I’m going to be leaving the country, probably tomorrow, so I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “How’s the job going?”

  “It’s complicated. More so than I thought. I’m headed to Moscow.”

  “Avy’s in Moscow.”

  “She is?” That was news. “What’s she doing there?”

  “Being mysterious, as usual. I have a feeling it has to do with Liam. They’re up to something . . .”

  “Sheila said she caused some kind of international incident at the Venice airport. Got on a flight and then back off—they had to evacuate everyone, screen every inch of the plane. Is she nuts?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on with her. But once she was interrogated by security, officially bitch-slapped, and then released, she boarded another flight for Moscow.”

  “Strange.”

  “Yes. I have a bad feeling that Liam may have gotten in trouble with a Fabergé egg or something.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me, given that he was an active art thief for years. That guy is like smoke. I went after him twice on recovery jobs and never could catch up with him.”

  “Liam’s . . . unique. Anyway, give Ave a call while you’re there. Check up on her.”

  “Since when has Avy needed checking up on?”

  “McD, I’m telling you that something’s off-kilter with her. She needs us. Confidentially, her dad, the U.S. Marshal, is out to get Liam.”

  McDougal whistled.

  “Exactly. It’s a big, ugly can of worms. And for the first time in her life, she’s showing signs of stress.”

  Avy was, hands down, the coolest and most level-headed woman Eric had ever encountered. This didn’t sound like her . . . but then, having her very dogged father trying to hunt down and put away her fiancé had to cause a woman more than a headache.

  McDougal promised Gwen that he’d call her when he got to Moscow. “So how’s the baby?” he asked.

  “Babies,” Gwen said. “Fine.”

  “You’re having twins? Jesus. Congratulations.” McDougal tried to bend his mind around the concept of fatherhood and couldn’t. “So,” he asked cautiously, “how’s Quinn feel about that?”

  “Overjoyed—and scared spitless, just like me,” Gwen said cheerfully. “We’re already interviewing nannies.”

  “I thought he was staying home with the kids.”

  “He is . . . but he’s going to need some help.”

  “I’ll just bet he is. Tell me he’s not going to wear an apron.”

  Gwen laughed. “I think that’s pretty unlikely. Don’t worry, McD. Quinn will c
ome out of this with his cojones intact.”

  Eric made a rude noise. “You’ll store them with the baby powder and diapers in some piece of furniture covered with little yellow duckies.”

  “Evolve, McDougal. Try. I know it’s hard, but try.”

  “Never.” But he hung up with a grin on his face.

  The grin faded when he went out to check on Natalie again. What had possessed him to have sex with her? It was a complication that he simply did not need. A smart man would pack his bags and check out before she woke up.

  McDougal had always considered himself a smart man. So it was almost a reflex for him to pull his go bag out of the hotel room closet, take it into the bathroom, and sweep his toiletries into it. A simple thing to throw in the clothing laundered by the Waldorf, then his laptop and some odds and ends that he’d left on the desk.

  And of course it was dead easy to open the door quietly in order to make his escape. A relief to let it close behind him as he walked down the corridor to the elevators. But with every step he took away from the room, he felt like a bigger and bigger jerk.

  Nice, McD. You can’t even stay until the morning? You have to scurry away in the dark like a rat?

  But it was cleaner this way. Better. She’d be angry instead of hurt, and forget him faster.

  Why did that thought depress him?

  Pull your head out of your ass, man. She’s a nice girl. Way too nice a girl for you.

  He kept putting one foot in front of the other until he got to the elevators. He hit the down button and waited for the doors to open. But when they did, he couldn’t get in. He stood there growing more and more irritated with himself.

  Indecision. He couldn’t abide it. Indecision made a man weak—and stupid. And slow.

  Still, he stood there like a giant waffle.

  Just plate me and add syrup. Stick a fork in me . . .

  Disgusted with himself, McDougal forced his feet into the elevator car and rode it down to the lobby, where he arranged for Natalie to stay a few days on him.

  He got into a cab and directed it to LaGuardia, where he’d arrange to get on the first flight to Moscow. Clean break. He’d find Natalie’s grandmother and her elderly escort, repossess the necklace, and be home in Miami inside of seventy-two hours, if all went well.

  The cab smelled of oranges, burned coffee, and old vinyl. The hot, stale breath of the cranked heater had him lowering the window to let in fresh air, despite the cabbie’s dirty look.

  Even well after rush hour, the traffic was bumper to bumper, stop and start. Evidently the cabbie wasn’t the chatty sort, and McDougal was relieved. The farther they got from the hotel, the blacker his mood became.

  He pictured Natalie waking up alone, disoriented and terrified, at three a.m. or so. Realizing that he’d cleared out. Feeling used on top of everything else.

  Damn it. He hadn’t used her. But what the hell did he do, leave a note—something about a “click”? Yeah, right.

  I don’t think so.

  He saw a naked Natalie on top of him, mesmerized yet again by a slow build of pleasure . . . the surprise dawning on her face as she came again . . . the sweet, dirty shame as she touched herself for him and liked it.

  He couldn’t do it. He could not leave her this way. She was fun; she was nice; she made him laugh. She trusted him and saw something good in him that not many women saw. He wanted to live up to that. Natalie deserved at the least a good-bye kiss and a big bouquet of flowers.

  The cabbie had long crossed the Triboro Bridge and turned onto Grand Central Parkway. They were only a mile from LaGuardia when McDougal said, “Turn around. Take me back to the Waldorf, will you?”

  The cabbie raised his eyebrows until they touched the edge of his multihued woven cap. He didn’t voice his opinion that his passenger was nuts, since his expression spelled it out clearly. But he just shrugged and took the next right, working his way back the way they’d come.

  McDougal could have shot himself. You’re in the middle of a high-dollar job, man. This is not the time to grow a conscience or fake being a nice guy. What are you doing?

  But when they pulled up to the hotel once again and the quizzical doorman stepped over to welcome him back, Eric tipped the cabbie double. He nodded at the doorman, went straight into the lobby, and requested his key again, muttering something about a delayed flight.

  Once in the elevator, he couldn’t even meet his own eyes in the polished reflective surfaces. He got out, walked back to the room, snicked the electronic key through the slot, and snuck back in.

  Natalie stirred and rolled over as he eased the zipper of his bag open and pulled a few things out. He disappeared into his bathroom office again with his laptop and phone, feeling completely crazy but somehow . . . better.

  Seventeen

  Avy emerged from the Kropotskinskaya metro station and blinked in the sunlight. Across the street, the bright golden domes of the Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer gleamed over the bleached white building. The cathedral was truly spectacular. She’d taken two steps toward it when her fiancé strode up to surprise her.

  “My darling!” Liam said expansively, holding his arms wide and breathing something lemony and alcoholic into Avy’s airspace. “How was your flight?” He seized her and kissed her on the lips before she could answer, lifting her off her feet. “You look exhausted, my love.”

  She felt the familiar weakening of her knees at his touch and a singing in her blood. However, she hadn’t gotten where she was in life by being stupid. Not only had Liam been drinking during the day, which was unusual, but he was nervous.

  Liam was flippant, irreverent, incurably elegant, and inordinately handsome. He possessed a winning personality, buckets of charm, and a colossal set of brass balls. But he was never, ever nervous.

  When he set her on her feet again and gave her an affectionate squeeze, she looked up at his aristocratic countenance and narrowed her eyes. “What’s up, Liam?”

  “Up? My spirits upon seeing you, gorgeous.” He seized her carry-on, which was all she ever traveled with, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he grabbed her by the hand and towed her along the road by the river, all the way to the Bolshoy Kamennyy Bridge, under it, and past a guarded gate that he explained was Boro vitskaya Tower, the official, presidential entrance to the Kremlin.

  The Kremlin itself was a vast and varied complex, not at all what she’d expected. Instead of looking like a Russian version of the Pentagon, it contained all sorts of buildings, from towers to palaces to cathedrals and gardens.

  Liam kept up a constant stream of tourism patter, and she almost fell for the distraction. But once they were alone in his sumptuous room at the Metropol, Avy fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. “Liam, why exactly are we here in Moscow?”

  “Oh,” he said airily, “you know. The usual.”

  “What are we replacing?”

  “Well . . .” His tone downshifted into cautious. “It’s not precisely—that is to say, not quite a, ah, um—”

  “Liam!” For him to be this stumbling and inarticulate, whatever he was up to was very, very bad.

  “Yes, love?”

  “Do you remember when you promised that you’d never lie to me?”

  He squirmed visibly. “Yes. Which is why, my darling—”

  “And do you remember when you promised that you’d go straight, for good?”

  “I do indeed, my love. There’s just been a tiny wrinkle in my overall plan to be a properly righteous citizen . . . nothing that can’t be quickly ironed out. I am, I swear, ninety-nine-point-nine percent straight.”

  Avy shook her head, her mouth set grimly. “Liam, you’re more bent than a paper clip!”

  “Not so,” he protested. “I’m as straight as the edge of a book . . . It’s just that at the moment I have a wee—truly microscopic—uh, what you might think of as a rather dog-eared page. Only one!”

  Avy kicked off her shoes and lay back flat on the bed, putting her hands over her eyes. Her
temples throbbed. “I knew it. You’re back to your old tricks.”

  “No, I swear to you, I’m not. I’m up to someone else’s trick. Someone to whom I made a promise.”

  “Then break it,” Avy said shortly.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then you can consider our engagement broken.”

  Suddenly Liam’s big body straddled her own on the bed, and he took hold of her wrists. “Please, Avy. Please just listen to me.”

  “No!” she said, struggling.

  He didn’t release her wrists. “Please, I beg you. Just hear me out.”

  Avy didn’t do helpless well. Anger began to crackle through her; instinctive female panic at being held down flared it into a blaze like burning newspaper set under dry kindling. Without warning, she bucked, pulled her knees through his, and slammed both her feet into his chest. The force of it propelled Liam into the wall, and his head into a framed painting that hung there. He went down hard, the picture joining him.

  “Bloody hell!” he said, staring up at her.

  “Don’t you ever, ever, hold me down like that again,” she told him, panting. “Understand?”

  “I’m sorry. I meant nothing by it, Ave—you must know that. All I wanted was for you to listen. I still need you to listen.”

  Adrenaline wasn’t finished pulsing through her, but she got her breathing under control.

  “Christ, love, remind me never to meet you in a dark alley,” Liam muttered, putting the painting aside and getting to his feet. He flexed his shoulders and winced. “I do believe you’ve imprinted my spine into the Sheet-rock, you vixen.”

  “Talk,” she said without sympathy.

  “Oh, you’re all ears now? There’s female logic for you—”

  “Liam, I’m giving you one shot to explain before I walk out of this hotel and out of your life. I will not marry a career criminal. I won’t do it, understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Liam sighed and sank down on the bed. “This is not an ordinary theft, by any means. But you could actually look at it as a recovery, Ave.”

  “Oh, I could, could I? And why would I do that?”

  “Because it involves bringing the . . . er . . . item back for a trial.”

  Avy folded her arms across her chest. “A trial as in test run?”