Seven Books for Seven Lovers
Page 80
“Hoped what?” asked Lisa Bee gently.
“That this might be the one. That it was even remotely possible that there might be a one.” Now that she had started, she was unable to stop the outpouring of emotion and anger. “God, I feel like such an idiot saying that! I hoped that there was one man left on this earth strong enough, and smart enough, and ready and willing to take all I have to offer. I don’t know.”
“I get it, Legs. I think this way all the time. I’ve just kind of given up hope. But you—I don’t know. You’re such a tough chick on the outside. I don’t think anyone knows you’re this weepy on the inside. Maybe you just need to show someone—”
“What, Bee? That I’m so weak and vulnerable? That I’m not ‘too much’? That I’m not really as strong as I play? That’s a bunch of bullshit and you know it. I’m every bit as strong as I play, and I want someone who wants that. I want someone who can meet me eye to eye. I want someone who is as strong and as brave as I am! I mean, god, are there no fucking men anymore? What the fuck!” Looking into Lisa Bee’s sympathetic gaze, she took a breath, then went on. “Here’s the thing: I want what everyone else has. I want to meet my match, and marry him, and love him till the day I die. I just . . .” Her voice choked up with tears again, and Lisa Bee grabbed her hand. “I guess I just hope he exists. Somewhere on this earth.”
“He does, honey,” said Lisa Bee with compassion in her eyes. “I know he does. And you deserve it more than anyone I know. It’s just that you are one in a million. You are. And finding someone special like that, to match someone special like you . . . Well, it doesn’t happen every day, you know?”
At that there was a knock from the connecting window and the Boss slid it open. “Sorry, but I just can’t be trapped up here with Jackson any longer. He’s cutting the shawarma into hearts and handing it out to the ladies.”
“Just tryin’ to spread the love, Bossman,” Jackson said, sidling up next to the Boss and winking at Lisa Bee. Then he turned to Susannah. “Ready to rock, Legs? I think it’s time to show this joker who’s boss.”
“You got it,” Susannah said with a smile. “I’m ready. What’s our next move? We got an idea or are we brainstorming?”
“Well,” said the Boss, “I do have a plan in mind. . . .”
‡‡‡
CHAS WAS ALMOST back at the meeting when his phone rang. As it was a restricted number, typical of Pierre’s cadre, he answered immediately. After all, his smoke break had been quite a bit longer than planned, and he was sure that Pierre was growing impatient.
“Palmer.” He answered on the second ring.
“You’re a tough man to track, Tex,” said a sultry voice, and he began to harden at the very sound of it.
“Legs? Is that you?”
“Does anyone else call you ‘Tex’? And does anyone else have the privilege of you running out on them after an evening of unmitigated passion?”
He laughed. “I’m sorry about that, sweetheart. I had something important come up.”
“Mmmm . . .” she breathed, “but not the important thing I was hoping would come up.”
Chas smiled. “Well, I’ll be back soon. I’m hoping you made yourself comfortable?”
“Oh, I did. I was very comfortable up until I got on the flight to Paris.”
His smile widened. “I’m so glad the idiots you work for were able to follow the trail I left for them.”
“Well,” she murmured, “at least they were able to get me back to you.”
‡‡‡
BACK IN THE falafel truck, Susannah was patched in through the surveillance system. Though Bossman had known it wasn’t the best plan, he knew Susannah was tough enough to take it on. He figured if she just pretended to come clean and allowed herself to be seduced, she’d be in the ideal position to collect the intel they needed. He told her, biting his lip, that she’d have to play dumb. She seemed to agree without incident, though Lisa Bee took offense, feeling a combination of feminist rage and self-righteous fury, and threw the hot dog port at his crotch. After knocking the wind out of him, Lisa Bee felt better, and also agreed to the plan.
They were all sitting in the back of the truck when Chas made the comment about them being idiots. Lisa Bee’s face turned red, Bossman’s turned steely, and Jackson made an obscene gesture that revealed two things: one, that Chas really had gotten on their bad side; and, two, that Jackson’s package was significantly larger than any of them had previously thought.
They kept quiet while Susannah laughed throatily and subsequently made a plan to meet up with Chas that night. Then she disconnected and threw her earpiece at the wall, using such force that it exploded into smithereens.
“Well,” said the Boss, after a long silence, “that’s earpiece number two wasted on this jackass.”
“JACKASS?” shouted Jackson. “That the best you can do? How about pretentious-motherfucking-self-lovin’-asswipe who doesn’t know enough to know our girl is the best GOD DIGGITY thing that’s ever fucking happened to him?”
“God diggity?” asked Lisa Bee.
“WELL, I DIDN’T WANT TO OFFEND ANYONE.”
“Interesting,” the Boss murmured, “that ‘motherfucking asswipe’ made the cut.”
“Okay, you guys, listen,” said Susannah. “I’m going to be fine. I’m going to get into his hotel room, drug him—Bossman, you have the stuff from Scrubs?—and make my way out. Clean. Easy. And then we’re outta here. And I promise you, I’m really okay. It’s not meant to be more than another box of shit in the evidence locker, that’s all.”
“All right, Legs.” The Boss sighed. “I’m apprehensive, but I trust you. And just so you know, Jackson will be undercover as the hotel concierge, I’ll be here in mission control in the truck, and we’ll have eyes and ears on you the whole time.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, “I’m gonna bug the shit out of it the second I set foot in the joint. I’ll make sure you’re okay. Always, Legs.”
“Great,” Susannah said. “And what about Lisa Bee?”
“Well,” said Lisa Bee, “if there’s one chick who knows how to play a stupid American tourist . . .”
Susannah laughed. “Okay, guys. So you’ve got my back.”
“We’ve got it all, Legs,” the Boss replied. “Back, front, and middle. We promise. No harm will come to you.”
“Well, then,” she replied, tossing the tissues aside, “game on.”
‡‡‡
THE MEETING WAS just wrapping up when Pierre called Chas aside. “Hot date tonight?”
Chas quirked a smile. “Well, Pierre, you know I need to let off a bit of steam berfore a big job. Can’t a man mix a little pleasure with business?”
Pierre returned the smile. “Yes. I was told she is quite pretty. Blonde, tall, and beautiful lips.”
Chas was taken aback and swallowed deeply. “You had me followed?”
“I just wanted to make sure my asset was protected. But it seems you were protecting assets of your own.”
Shit. Chas felt deeply uncomfortable. If they had him followed, and someone recognized Tyka, it could be the end of them both. She was the missing link between him and his father, between his secret plan and his father’s betrayal, and if she was outed, he would be killed, she would be silenced, and everything he worked for would be shot to bits. Including him. He had to think, and think quick.
“Actually, Pierre,” he said, thinking quickly, “it’s not what you think.”
“Really?” Pierre queried. “I thought you loved fucking beautiful women.”
“Oh, I do,” Chas responded quickly. “But this is about something more. I didn’t want to involve you, that’s all.”
Pierre looked intrigued and somewhat amused. “Whatever do you mean, Monsieur Palmer?”
Chas paused. He realized at that moment that he had very few choices and that he had been stupid. That he had lost control. He ought to have known Pierre would have him followed; after all, Pierre was possessive and believed that C
has belonged to him. He believed Chas was his secret weapon, no more, no less. That was how Chas had gotten so close to the inner workings of his organization. So now what could Chas do? If he let them track or investigate Tyka, her ability to hunt the Italian was compromised, and his ability to take down Pierre and his henchmen was also compromised. Could he let it lie, pretend that she was just some chick he hooked up with to take the edge off? Maybe, but that left too much to chance. His only hope of throwing them off was to convince Pierre he was with someone else entirely. But who?
His mind flashed to Susannah. She and Tyka were about the same height, and from a distance they could be confused. Was it possible to give Pierre her name but not put her in danger? The truth of the matter was that he wanted Susannah as far away from these men as possible. She was an undercover operative who specialized in white-collar crime; from what he could dig up, every one of FTP’s cases was about a lot of money and high-end thievery, and none of them involved death, murder, or terrorist activity. Pierre and Bruni were the opposite: for them rape, murder, and dallying with the sleazy underbelly of society were their lingua franca. If he blew Susannah’s cover, Chas reasoned, he could get her back to the States, and fast. He could get her out of this racket before she’d really gotten into it. He could spare the woman who had somehow crept inside him the indignity of living a life on the run.
If he only blew her cover.
Chas swallowed and then took a breath. He realized this was a coward’s choice. And that he was about to ruin the life of the only woman who had come close to breaking down the walls that guarded his heart. But he also realized that it was the only answer: Pierre was a bloodhound, and the only way to throw him off the scent of fresh meat was to throw fresher meat in his path.
“She was wearing a wig,” Chas said in a rush. “She’s a redhead, actually. An American. She’s been tracking me, but I blew her cover a couple of days ago. Now I’d like to blow it further, so she has no hopes of undermining our operation. And you’re right, I’m only keeping her around for one reason. . . .” He swallowed the acid rising in his throat. “She’s an extraordinary fuck.”
Pierre laughed. It was a sound that could peel wallpaper, a sound sure to pierce the keen ears of a dog. And he loved stories of sexual conquest: likely to live vicariously. Pierre was a rat who attracted only the most vile gutter trash to share his cold and death-like bed.
“What is her name, Monsieur Palmer? We will be happy to take care of whatever you may need.”
“First of all,” Chas said, barely able to get the words out, “I’ll take care of it. You are not to lay a hand on her, Pierre. She’s mine. Got it?”
“But of course, monsieur,” Pierre said with a sneer. “I know how you like to be in control of your . . . work.”
Chas paused for a beat, his throat dry. At least they wouldn’t lay a finger on her—that was some comfort. And if they blew her cover, well—she’d be out of this game, and it would be better for her in the long run. She could figure something out, right? Hell, maybe she’d even decide to take a job in the art world, like she’d said she would have liked to do at one time. “Her name is Susannah Carter. She goes under the alias Susie Quinn. And she’s small potatoes. All she needs,” he choked, “is to be outed, and humiliated. She’s a whore, that’s all. Someone who’ll fuck anyone and anything for a piece of intel. Which would be fine if she ever actually got anything. But in truth she’s just a total joke with a great pair of legs. And . . .”
“Yes?”
“And if you wait a couple of hours, I can fuck her senseless before she loses her job.”
Pierre laughed again. “Well, if she’s such a good fuck, Monsieur Palmer, perhaps I should also give her a try.” Chas cringed inwardly and tried to laugh as well. Then he lost his self-control and closed in on Pierre, grabbing him by the collar of his cheap button-down.
“I meant what I said, Pierre. She’s mine. Don’t fuck with her.”
“Oooh, I do like it when you mark your territory,” Pierre said, licking his lips. “All right, have it your way. Just make sure she’s out of the picture in twenty-four hours—or I will.”
“Got it, Pierre. I’ll make sure she’s out of a job and out of town ASAP.” Her job? That was the least of it. Hell. She was about to lose her identity. And he’d actually called her a whore to boot. And a joke? He could make her the laughingstock of the international undercover community if he wanted to. Her livelihood, her reputation, and her work were now squarely in his hands.
He picked up a bottle of whiskey off the table and took a long, needy draft, gulping it down like it was water. It was going to be a long night with the woman he was falling for. And unfortunately, it was going to be their last.
7
SUSANNAH ARRIVED AT the Hotel George V and was welcomed by Jackson, dressed in a concierge outfit replete with cap, name tag, and an extraordinary moustache. He greeted her in flawless French, and when she gave him a frustrated look, pissed that his French was better than hers, he leaned in and said, sotto voce, “We’re trying to make this look authentic, Legs. Look nice. Stop being an asshole.”
Susannah choked down a plethora of curses and tried to “look nice.” This was not easy for her, but she promised herself she’d kick Jackson later, right where it counted. Lord knew it was a big enough target.
“I’m a guest of Monsieur Charles Palmer,” she said in French. “He’s expecting me.”
Jackson leaned in again. “Your French isn’t bad, Legs, but you could use some help with les formules de politesse.”
“Seriously, Jackson? I mean, really? French lessons—now? Why don’t you just show me to my room and shove the politesse where it counts?”
“Technically, it’s not your room. . . .”
“Are you asking me to rip your nuts off?”
“Well, Legs, that’s a pretty hard offer to refuse. Especially with you in that fine dress. Is it a dress, by the way? Or a cocktail napkin? I can’t quite tell.” When she made a move toward him, he laughed and said, in a perfect French accent, “Pardon, madame. Please follow me, s’il vous plaît. I will escort you to ze elevators, and you may find your way to Monsieur Palmer’s suite. By the way,” he said, lowering his voice, “do you need condoms? I have a shit ton of ’em.”
“You know what, Jackson? I don’t want to know why you have a shit ton of them, or when you may find time to use them, but, no, I don’t intend on sleeping with him, so there’s no need.”
“Humph.” Jackson frowned.
“What?”
“Well, I never picked you for an idiot, but okay.”
“What the fuck?”
“You’re gonna sleep with him, sweetheart, you know you are. But that’s okay. He’s fucking half the free world. Surely he has condoms of his own. ’Ere we are, madame,” he exclaimed, lapsing, once again, into accented English. “You will be ’appy to know zat Monsieur Palmer is staying in ze penthouse suite. Sure to be one of ze most extraordinary experiences on your trip to Paris.”
“Right,” she said, “that, and seeing your cock mounted on my wall.”
Jackson smiled broadly, waiting until the elevator doors were almost closed to say, in perfect French, “Oh, Legs. You and I both know your apartment’s way too small for that.”
‡‡‡
CHAS FOUND THAT HE was having a hard time breathing, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Part of it was the fact that he had just thrown Susannah under the bus, and there was no way he could make that right, even if it was partly to protect her from getting any further in. And the other part was that he was nervous—excited—jacked to see her again. She did something to him, this one did. Around her he lost his senses, his control, his equilibrium. Around her he became a fucking puppy dog.
The hotel concierge rang up to say that his guest was on her way. He waited eagerly, playing with his cuff links and running an errant finger through his hair. When the elevator doors opened, he felt he was fully prepared. Until he saw her.
“L-L-Legs—” he stuttered. “Holy shit.”
She laughed and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. Between her curled, teased hair and her heavily mascaraed eyes, she looked like she’d just walked out of a Bon Jovi video. He thought it was the hottest thing on earth that she could pull off rocker chick as easily as she had upper-crust socialite, the belle of the ball as well as the girl on the Jeep in a power ballad video. Her nails were painted fire-engine red and a glimmering choker with chains and a ruby in the center emphasized the long line of her neck. Add to that the thigh-high suede leather boots with the—what?—eight-inch heel? He could feel every piece of himself stiffen, harden, and tighten with desire and pent-up need.
“Well, Tex, what a greeting,” she murmured through glossy pink lips. “If I had known, I would have done my best Beyoncé quite a bit earlier.”
“No, it’s not quite Beyoncé—more Whitesnake with a twist of supermodel and a side of Wonder Woman.”
She laughed again, and he shook his head, trying to figure out if this were a dream. Honestly, he had to pinch himself to make sure he was awake. Was this woman really here? For him? After a substantial pause, he gulped and said, “Well, mademoiselle, please come in. I am hoping to treat you to the night of your dreams. And judging by your entrance—well—you’re already treating me to mine.”
‡‡‡
SUSANNAH ENTERED THE SUITE and felt like she was walking on air. First of all, she kind of was walking in the clouds in these high-heeled boots. Second, Chas was so taken with her that she felt, for the first time in her life, truly wanted. And last, this was the most elegant, extraordinary, and romantic place she had ever seen. Then of course, she immediately came down to earth. After all, this was all a game, right? This was the man who had screwed someone else at lunch, presumably. It was hard to figure out what was what with her heart jumping so high, then plummeting so low. And she was ashamed of herself as well. Why was she falling for his charms again? Maybe it was because this suite was as close as she’d come to fairyland.