Take Me for a Ride

by Karen Kendall

  “Hi, Marty,” McDougal said, then took a deep breath. “How ya doin’?”

  “How do you think I’m doing?” Marty yelled. “My wife’s wearing a diamond bracelet that I didn’t give her, and she’s started up some kind of prostitution thing. Worse, she isn’t paying taxes on her illegal earnings!”

  “I’m not a whore,” Sheila yowled in the background. “I told you, it’s only phone sex. And I only did it for the jewelry, because you’re so damn cheap!”

  McDougal winced and pretended he hadn’t heard her. “Okay, okay, calm down, Marty. Look, I admit the tax thing is bad.”

  “Calm down? Are you kidding me? We may have to pay penalties. And interest.” He voiced this last word in a squeaky, appalled whisper.

  “Did I tell you he was cheap, McDougal?” shouted Sheila, who’d evidently grabbed the phone. “Did I?”

  “Lesson in man psychology: You are not making this any better. Quit calling him cheap.”

  “I’ll quit calling him cheap when he quits calling me easy.”

  If the shoe fits . . . “Put Marty back on the phone, will you?”

  “Fine.” Stomping and rustling ensued.

  “Yeah?” Marty barked.

  “Look, man. I want you to listen to me. Your wife loves you. She really does. And you’ve got to understand, Sid Thresher is a deranged sexaholic who flirts with anything that moves. I’m sure he started it first.”

  “Hmm,” said Marty.

  “And Sheila, you know she’s got a smart mouth . . . She replied in kind. And Sid sends women gifts—inappropriate or not, he does—and I’m sure that’s how this all started. You know he sent Gwen a bunch of diamonds, too, don’t you? And I can guarantee she never slept with him.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “I’m sure because Gwen never slept with me, either, and it wasn’t for lack of invitation or opportunity.” McDougal coughed, feeling his face flush in the darkness.

  “So you really think this is some harmless game?”

  “Yeah, man, I do.”

  “Sheila says you overheard her one time. That she never said anything very dirty.”

  “Er . . . no.” He dragged his hand down his face, steering with his knee for a moment. “Nothing, um, X-rated or anything.”

  “You swear?”

  McDougal sighed inwardly. Oh, who gave a damn? He was already going to hell. No escaping it. “I swear.”

  “If you’re lying to me, I will be happy to put a bug in the ear of the IRS, and you can enjoy an audit.”

  “Marty, Marty, Marty. Why would I lie to you, Mart-Man?”

  “Okay. But how am I going to pay taxes on that bracelet . . . ?”

  McDougal thought fast and came up with a way to save Sheila’s marriage and yet torture her at the same time. He was good that way. “Easy, man. Easy. You just have Sheila clean a few houses on the side until she saves up the money.”

  Marty ruminated. “Yeah, maybe that would work . . .”

  “Piece of cake. You keep your wife. She keeps her bracelet. Both of you live happily ever after.”

  “Okay. Okay, I could see that. Thanks, McDougal. Thanks for helping us through this.”

  “No problem. Listen, you give that naughty girl Sheila a kiss for me, ’kay?” In the face of the ensuing silence he clarified, “On the cheek.”

  McDougal’s GPS unit guided him the rest of the way to Bykovo Airport, which was small enough that he found Avy and her group easily, despite her disguise. The stretcher supporting the unconscious man piqued his curiosity, though. Who was he?

  Beside Avy, who was dressed as a middle-aged nurse, was a tall man who looked a little like Sigmund Freud.This had to be the notorious Liam James, also in disguise.

  And they were also hanging out with a tiger? What in the hell was going on?

  As McDougal pulled up and shut off the car’s engine, Avy walked over to greet him, taking note of his bruised face and neck. “Wow. You look like hell.”

  “Stop it with the compliments already,” he said. “You’ve looked better yourself, Nurse Ratched.”

  Her lips twitched and she fingered the large, faux mole she’d added to her neck. “Why are people shooting at you, McD?”

  “Well, it’s like this, Ave: Once you piss off the Russian Mafiya, they want to kill you. I’m a target now.”

  “How did you let that happen? They should never have been aware of you.”

  “How did you become a target for the Greeks, Avy? For chrissakes, it’s not like I registered with these people! I didn’t sign my name on their ‘Please Kill Me’ list.”

  “You got involved with the mark,” Avy said flatly. “You’re banging the restoration artist, aren’t you? And they’re after her.”

  McDougal clenched his jaw. Then he glanced at Liam deliberately, looked him up and down, before turning his gaze back on Avy. Without saying a word, he’d pointed out that she, too, had gotten involved with her onetime mark.

  He opened a rear door of the car and grabbed the take-out bags. When he turned around, a dark red flush had climbed her cheeks.

  “Avy,” he said, “you may be my boss, but you have no say in how I live my personal life. Understand?”

  “You’re right, McDougal—as long as your personal life stays personal, and doesn’t spill over into your professional one.”

  Again, he glanced at Liam, wasting no subtlety.

  Avy ignored this, but the color in her cheeks didn’t fade. “Is she here in Moscow? The mark? Are you babysitting her?”

  “I’m not babysitting anyone. But yes, she’s here.”

  Avy didn’t look pleased, but for once she refrained from comment. His point had hit home. “We need to talk about this necklace you’re chasing.”

  “Why? You threw me off the case, remember?”

  She shot him a glance that said she wasn’t born yesterday. “There’s evidently a big question about who the legitimate owner of the St. George piece really is.”

  “I can tell you that, and it’s not the Russian thugs who consigned it to the care of Luc Ricard Restoration. It’s Tatyana Ciccoli, aka Natalie Rosen’s grandmother. You know Natalie as ‘the mark,’ ” he added by way of explanation.

  “Oh, yeah? That man on the stretcher claims to be the owner.”

  “And just who is that guy? Why do you have him here?”

  Avy fidgeted. “He’s . . . a recovery.”

  McDougal stared at her. “What do you mean? Since when have we gotten into bounty hunting? And he doesn’t look like he’s recovering. He looks like shit.”

  “Ha-ha. He’s a Nazi war criminal. We’re ‘recovering’ him for the World Court. But here’s the thing: He’s the old man I told you about. The second person who tried to hire us to track down the St. George necklace.”

  “Holy . . .” McD stared at her, then turned to look at the Nazi. “Natalie told me that her great-grandfather was murdered in front of his children over that necklace. What’s this man’s name?”

  “Weimar von Bruegel. He’s been living as Oleg Litsky in Moscow since about 1949.”

  “Von Bruegel,” he repeated. “How old is he?”

  “Eighty-two.”

  “Jesus, it’s him. Natalie’s grandmother is going to have something to say to this guy; I can promise you that.”

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself, McD. We have a major problem: We took on the necklace recovery job for Ricard’s insurance company—”

  “Why is that a problem? The policy won’t cover stolen goods. It’s fraudulent and will be declared null and void.”

  “It’s a problem,” she said, “because we won’t get paid. Two hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, and we’ve run up serious expenses here.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care,” he said flatly. “The necklace is going to the old lady. It’s the right thing to do. You can dock my expenses out of my next checks.”

  “McDougal, are you asking me or are you telling me this?” she questione
d him in steely tones.

  He straightened and looked her right in the eye. “I’m telling you, Ave. I’m telling you. You may be the boss, but there is no debate on this one. If you try to pull rank and force me to give that necklace to Hiscox, then you’ll have my resignation as soon as the words are out of your mouth.”

  Avy gave him a long, evaluative stare through her ugly makeup. Then she nodded, and the corners of her mouth turned up unexpectedly. “You’re all right, McDougal.”

  He squinted at her. “Yeah?” he said sarcastically. “Good to know that, Ave. Because, being the shy and insecure type, I wasn’t sure.”

  She grinned. “You’re all right,” she repeated. “And you’re also in love with the mark.”

  He snorted, loudly. Then he said, “She has a name: Natalie. And I’m not in love with her.”

  “Mmm. I’d bet about two hundred thousand dollars on it,” she murmured.

  McDougal changed the subject abruptly. “Where’s the damn tiger? This I have got to see.”

  Thirty-three

  The tiger didn’t like Mongolian barbecue, but everyone else did, and the officials liked the cash bribes Avy supplied for dessert so that she, Liam, the Nazi, and the tiger could all take off into the starry night sky.

  Liam cheerfully lashed the Nazi’s cot into place next to the big, cranky kitty, displaying not an ounce of pity for the man, even when his eyes rolled in his head and he fainted from sheer terror. The big cat twitched its tail and seemed to find Nazi-in-the-raw much more interesting than smoked meat.

  McDougal saw them off, shaking his head. Then he exited the airport himself, eager to get back to Natalie. He topped off the Renault’s tank and returned the car to the same street from which he’d borrowed it.

  Then he took the subway to the Kremlin and made his way back to the Savoy, watching carefully for any sign that he was being followed. There was none. He seemed to have lost the Russians for the time being.

  Wearily, he entered the room that he shared with Natalie, hoping that she’d been able to get to sleep. But all the lights blazed and her suitcase stood next to the door, packed and zipped.

  “Natalie?”

  A tornado in a sweater, she rounded the corner from the bathroom and pummeled him with her fists.

  McDougal staggered back under the force of her rage as she caught him under the jaw and then right in the solar plexus.

  “You bastard!” she said with loathing.

  He caught her wrists before she could hit him again. “Natalie, it’s not what you think.”

  She struggled in his grasp, her small white hands still clenched into fists. “It’s exactly what I think, you creep.”

  He tried to keep his hold on her gentle. He didn’t want to bruise her or cause her pain. “No. No, it isn’t. Please let me explain—”

  “Take your hands off me!”

  He was afraid that if he did, he’d never be allowed to touch her again. A nameless emotion tightened his chest, rose painfully to his throat, and threatened to strangle him. For a moment he was unable to speak.

  “Let. Me. Go.” Her tone was low and deadly.

  I can’t let you go. You’re under my skin; you’re inside my head. You see me, truly see me—you understand who I am. God help me, but you’re the one. The one I never thought I’d find.

  “Please,” he said again, drawing her closer in spite of her clear efforts to get away. Her face was six inches from his. If he bent his head, he could kiss her. Maybe his lips could communicate physically what they seemed unable to say verbally.

  She seemed to read his mind.

  She turned her face away.

  He’d never in his life had to say “please” to a woman. They said it to him. They lay down for him. They forgave him instantly.

  But Natalie?

  Natalie’s eyes were no longer navy. They’d gone black with betrayal and contempt. Her lids had become armor, the lashes around them tiny swords to keep him at bay.

  Her lips formed tight, straight lines. Even her skin, usually rosy with invitation, had gone pale and blank as a wiped slate.

  “Please,” he said a third time. “Let me explain.”

  She tore herself from his hands, her normally sleek hair wild around her face. “There’s nothing to explain, Eric. I saw the message from your colleague. You work for ARTemis.”

  Skewered by her gaze, he could only nod.

  “You deliberately targeted me and got me drunk in Reif’s to pump me for information on the necklace.”

  He bowed his head. He would have given anything to deny the fact.

  “Admit it!” she shouted.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse and strange to his own ears as he damned himself. “I met you on purpose.”

  “You’ve used me from the moment we met—”

  “It’s not that simple, Nat. I didn’t count on—”

  “You are despicable.”

  “—liking you so much. Caring for you.”

  “Stop it, you smooth, sickening liar. I have been a job to you, and nothing else.”

  “No—”

  “A job!” she shouted.

  “No,” he said forcefully. “That’s not true.”

  “What do you know about the truth, McDougal? You’re a born manipulator; you lie for a living; you steal for a living. And you seduce for a living!”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Did I seduce you, that first night?”

  Her face flushed pink in mortification.

  “As I recall, I did not.”

  “You got me drunk,” she pointed out.

  “Did I? I forced that whiskey down your throat?”

  Her color deepened to brick. “You—”

  “I took advantage of you later? Tore off your clothes and had my way with you?”

  “Why do you have to humiliate me on top of everything else you’ve done, Eric? Is this fun for you?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not trying to humil—”

  “I was a slut! Okay? Is that what you want me to say? The nice girl hit the whiskey and her inner slut emerged to dance around your pole. Well, you know what? I’m glad. I’ve never done anything like that in my entire life, and maybe it was about time.”

  “That makes two of us. Because I’ve never done what I did that night, either.”

  “What?” She turned a still furious but puzzled gaze on him.

  “I’ve never—not once in my life, Natalie—turned down what you offered that night. I’m the king—no, the emperor—of the one-night stand.”

  “Congratulations,” she said in a withering tone.

  “Damn it, will you listen to what I’m trying to say? It didn’t feel right with you. I couldn’t do it—even if you hadn’t passed out cold on me. You were different.”

  Her expression was skeptical, to say the least.

  “When I made love to you—”

  “Made love?” she scoffed. “You screwed me—in every sense of the word—for a commission, Eric! Do you know what that makes you? You’re a gigolo. A male whore.”

  He winced. McManWhore. “No,” he said firmly. “When I made love to you, it had nothing to do with the job. You have to believe me.”

  Again, that scathing glance. “I thought you were some kind of white knight,” she said, shaking her head. “The way you came riding to my rescue. I couldn’t figure out why you’d buy me a first-class ticket to Moscow. I was dumber than a brick! You knew I’d lead you right to the necklace.”

  McDougal couldn’t deny this. He was guilty as charged in terms of initial intent. “Natalie, it started out that way. But I couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Really? Then where’s the St. George necklace?”

  He eyed her helplessly. “I don’t have it on me right now.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she said. Scorn dripped from her voice. “My grandmother will die of heartbreak, I’ll go to jail, and you’ll cash your commission check without a trace of conscience.”

  He shook hi
s head. “I put the necklace in a safe place in case the Russians came after me again. But I swear—”

  “Don’t bother, McDougal. The lies never end for you, do they?”

  “Nat, I’m not lying,” he said quietly. “I will bring you and your grandmother the necklace.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you do that?”

  It was certainly a valid question. Why? And as McDougal stood there, desperately hoping that he could salvage his relationship with her, he understood at last that Avy was right, damn it. “Because . . .”

  He’d never said the words to a woman other than his mother. He’d never wanted to betray their meaning, like his father.

  “Why would you do that?” Natalie repeated.

  McDougal swallowed hard. “Because . . . I love you.”

  Clearly incredulous, she started to laugh. It was the worst sound he’d ever heard.

  “You aren’t even able to stop lying, are you?”

  “I love you, Nat.”

  “You don’t love anyone but yourself, Eric.” She stalked to the door and yanked up her suitcase.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Why would that be any of your business?” she asked brutally.

  “Natalie, don’t put yourself at risk because you’re angry with me. Those men are still out there.”

  “How do I even know that those attacks weren’t staged? It’s mighty convenient that you’ve come to save me every time I’ve been threatened. Did you hire those men? Were those exercises just to win my trust?”

  Appalling thought. “That’s crazy, Nat!”

  “Answer the question. Was it you who trashed my apartment in New York? Before you so gallantly rode to my rescue in Connecticut?”

  “No! How can you think that?”

  “Easily, Eric. Your lies have blown open the door to any possibility.”

  “I could never—Nat, I love you,” he said again.

  “I don’t believe you. You’ve left me with nothing to believe in.” She looked down and pressed her lips together hard, as if to stifle a sob.

  “My grandmother,” she said, “is still convinced that you’re a modern knight, that you’ve been sent to us by St. George himself.” She laughed again, bitterly. “Poor, deluded woman. And now I get to go and inform her that far from being a knight, you’re a serpent—the dragon.