French Kiss (14 page)

The door opened a few inches, and the whiff of warm, fresh chocolate practically knocked them over.

At least the chocolate part was right, Nicky thought, feeling a modicum less anxious.

After she asked for the owner by name, a few moments later, a slender, young man with a shock of black hair appeared from behind one of two gleaming stainless-steel machines that were spreading chocolate in a thin coating over every imaginable filling. Trays of delicate chocolates were everywhere.

The sight of so many bonbons reminded Nicky of the
I Love Lucy
episode where Lucy and Ethel were working on the candy conveyor belt and stuffing chocolates into their mouths and pockets as fast as they could. Definitely a thought, she reflected, her fingers unconsciously flexing, her saliva glands ramping up into overdrive.

She even forgot about possible danger for a moment with her senses assailed by such a largesse of chocolate.

As the man approached, Johnny broke into Nicky’s blissful reverie by saying, “Ask him if a woman or two women and two men were here recen
tl
y? One would have been blond. He might even know Lisa from the movies. They were coming here for some special chocolate order.”

Nicky tamped down the sudden fear that reasserted itself at Johnny’s words and quickly translated his queries.

“Non, non
.
”
The shop owner shook his head and proceeded to explain in a torrent of French.

Johnny glanced from one to the other until the man finished. “Lisa was here?” Her name had come up several times.

“They were all here, but he told them he couldn’t fill their order,” Nicky interpreted. “He has more customers than he needs. And he didn’t like the mens’ attitude. He’s an artist, he says, not a shopkeeper, and he grew up in the rough part of town, so he can’t be intimidated. He told them to take their business elsewhere. Actually, he told them to shove it.”

Johnny’s brows rose. “Brave man,” he murmured. “But just in case they show up again, ask him to give me a call.” Johnny handed the man his card.

Another rapid-fire conversation in which the Frenchman sneered a reply even Johnny could understand. Then with a beaming smile and the words
U2
—clear in any language—he proceeded to hug Johnny and kiss him on both cheeks.

Whisking a large red box from a nearby shelf filled with red boxes, the chocolatier handed it to Johnny with a sweeping bow. Glancing at Nicky, he spoke again in rapid French.

“The chocolates are for you. He’s making these for some prince, but he wants you to have this box. Or take them all if you want, he says.” Nicky grinned. “He thinks you’re real special.”

Johnny took the offered box, smiling. “Thank him and tell him we appreciate his information. Then cut it short. We have to go, babe. ASAP.”

Shortly after, they were being escorted out of the factory by one of only eleven chocolate specialists in recent years to have received the MOF (Meilleur Ouvrier de France—those most
honored chefs and patissiers). They were also extended an effusive invitation to come back any time.

After more kissing of cheeks all around, they were finally back in the Mercedes.

“Dalloyau next,” Johnny instructed the driver. “And Lisa better be there,” he grimly said. Because if she wasn’t, he was out of options—and maybe patience, too. Who knew if this wild-goose chase was even for real?

I
n the course of their drive to D
alloyau,
Nicky tried very hard not to
give in to
her
weakness
for chocolate. Especially at a time
like this.
They were on a serious rescue mission, not to mention
she’d
almost freaked out only minutes before. Her cravings should have been irrelevant. It was probably disrespectful to even
consider
them
at a
time like this. But then they got stuck
in traffic,
and
everyone started
swearing. As if she wasn’t stressed
enough, what with guns
and hit squads.

Take a deep breath. Focus. Think of
ocean waves
washing the shore.

Yeah, right.

“Would you mind?” Nicky blurted out, pointing to the red box lying on the floor between them.

She got one of those blank looks like she might have if she’d
asked when the rocket to the moon was lifting off. And then joy of joys, her question seemed to register.

“Sure. Go for it,” Johnny said.

Then he was off in some other dimension again, his gaze on the snarl of cars surrounding them in the traffic circle. Every driver was honking his horn and making lewd gestures, as if the din and acting out would unravel the gridlock.

Not that Nicky minded everyone’s serious mind-set on the traffic. It allowed her an opportunity to open the box and offer obeisance to distinguished chocolate unheeded by those less discerning of its wonder. Plucking out a small round bonbon, she popped it into her mouth, letting her taste buds absorb the matchless flavor of chocolate nurtured by loving hands from plantation to finished product. Ohmygod, it had a coconut center. That made it almost as good as sex. Really. She’d given this considerable thought over the years. So stress wasn’t her only excuse for eating chocolate. She had a boa
tl
oad of reasons. The motto
CHOCOL
ATE isn’t just for BREAKFAST
was prominentl
y displayed on her fridge.

By the time the Mercedes broke free and was moving again, she’d sampled three exquisite chocolates and was luxuriating in gustatory bliss. “Want one?” She offered the box to Johnny in one of those automatic gestures.

He glanced over, frowned, opened his mouth, shut it, then apparen
tl
y deciding to be polite, smiled. “Not right now, but thanks.”

Oops. Clearly, he was distracted. As if she didn’t know. “Sorry,” she murmured. “You must be really worried.”

He looked at her for a second like she’d grown another head. “Worried? Hell no. I’m fucking pissed. Do you know how many
times Lisa’s done thi
s to me? How many ti
mes we’ve had to deal with her real or make-believe disasters? Ask Cole—he knows— hey, cut over two blocks to the left, Vinnie,” Johnny said, sharply, leaning forward and concentrating on the road. “We’ll make better time.”

If she’d bee
n perhaps slightl
y clueless before, she
no longer was, having been bluntl
y apprized of the current state of affairs between the former Mr. and Mrs. Patrick.

And truth be told, she was feeling considerably better for having broached the subject. Johnny and his wife would not be reconciling any
t
ime soon. Not that she should be concerned one way or the other. And she wasn’t—truly; she was firmly based in reality.

Vinnie had taken a sharp turn to the left, then a right, and they were driving down a street with very little traffic. Vinnie was pushing the speed limit enough that—in the interest of surviving to finish the box of chocolates—Nicky grabbed hold of a conveniently placed hand bar and sent up a prayer to whatever saint was in charge of traffic accidents. The Mercedes ran three red lights, taking numerous corners on squealing tires, until Vinnie brought the car to a hard braking stop perpendicular to the curb. In a no parking zone. Ten feet from the entrance to a classy looking shop with a display of pastries in the windows so spectacular they didn’t look real.

Maybe they just dusted off the plaster of Paris facsimiles from time to time, she was thinking as Vinnie opened her door and helped her from the car. After almost bumping into a Maserati, Nicky noticed several other upscale cars in the no parking zone. Big money had its privileges, apparen
tl
y.

After being whisked through the door of Dalloyau’s, Johnny came to a stop just inside the entrance. He surveyed the room
while Nicky took in the dazzling sight of every delicacy known to man. Not just pastries lined the display cases, but gorgeous, pretty-as-a-picture, take-out food for royalty.

Indeed, the customers all reeked of status.

She did a quick check of shoes, the ultimate sign of wealth. Sure enough. Not a Payless shoe in the store.

Before she could move up to estimating wardrobes, she was being nudged forward.

“Lisa’s not here,” Johnny muttered. “We’ll check upstairs.” The curved staircase was paneled in some exotic wood and illuminated with muted co
rn
ice lighting, the room at the top of the stairs filled with ladies who lunch, a schoolgirl or so with her father (one would hope), and
a smattering of tourists distin
guished by their guide books and camera bags.

“Wait here.”

She didn’t mind Johnny’s brusque command, since it offered her the opportunity to examine the desserts everyone had ordered. The diners weren’t just eating desserts, of course, but the colorful confections were an obvious draw at Dalloyau.

Before she had time to decide which she’d like best, Johnny and Cole returned, looking displeased.

“Nothing,” Johnny said in the essentially shorthand speech he’d adopted since they’d left the chocolate factory. “Fuck.” Figuring that was an expletive rather than a question, she didn’t reply as they moved to retrace their steps.

“What now, boss?” Cole asked as they stood at the bottom of the stairs.

“Good question.”

“Would you mind if I did a little shopping while you two decide what to do?” Nicky interjected—real politely though—just
in case they were inclined to say no. “It’ll just take a second,” she added with a smile for good measure.

Cole looked at Johnny.

Johnny frowned at her. “I need you to ask someone here a few questions.”

That didn’t sound like a yes. Too bad. Then again, everything looked like it was at least ten thousand calories, so maybe God was telling her something. “Ask what?”

“Has Lisa been here? With anyone? And when.” Clipped, curt, all business.

Which didn’t promise time for any shopping, she gloomily decided. After a swift glance around, Nicky figured the woman wearing a suit and name tag in the back where all the boxes of chocolates were displayed looked managerial. Unlike the shopgirls behind the counters.

Approaching her, Nicky smiled, prefacing her queries with an apology for her accent. The French always liked when you spoke French, even if it was the antiquated version of Fr
e
nch-Canadian still spoken in her grandmother’s part of northern Minnesota. The woman turned out to be more than amiable.

Yes, Lisa Jordan had been here. Obviously, this manager knew her celebrities. But the men who had
come
in with Miss Jordan, she said, had offended her. She referred to
them with a
vulgarity, then added with a shrug, “But what can
you do. They’re
regular customers.”

In better humor, however, she went on to describe Miss Jordan’s exquisite coral-colored Chanel ensemble as well as her friend’s and not wishing to offend, Nicky listened at some length to the runway-type descriptions. It was true. Haute couture
was
in every French person’s genes.

When the description finally wound down, Nicky thanked the manager for the information and returned to Johnny. “Your ex was here,” she explained. “They all were—just a short time ago. The women walked out first while the men made some purchases. The men were crude, but good customers, so they’re tolerated, it seems.”

Johnny grunted.

Whether in affirmation or dissent was unclear.

“Back to the Ritz, then?” Cole’s brows rose in query. “I don’t suppose it would be wise to call your ex’s cell phone?”

“Probably not. She sounded frightened.” Johnny shrugged. “Whether it was true or not, who the hell knows.” He turned to Nicky. “Buy something if you want.” He pulled some large bills out of his pa
nts pocket and held them out. “
We’ll wait a few minutes.”

He didn’t smile. His voice was without expression. Should she or shouldn’t she?

It was a short-lived debate, surrounded as she was by beautiful, succulent delicacies beyond the imagination. Or at least the imagination of anyone from Black Duck.

“Thanks, but I have money.” Then understanding she was on sufferance, she rushed through the store making her selections. She couldn’t eat them right now, what with their crisis and the fact that she’d just eaten lunch and some chocolates, but clearly she wasn’t going to be back here anytime soon. One had to take advantage of a rare opportunity like this.

Literally five minutes later, carrying three little boxes, she joined Johnny, who was waiting at the door.

Gentleman that he was, he took the boxes from her and even
managed to open the door with his hands full. But his mouth was set in a firm line, his brows drawn together in a scowl.

She felt a twinge of guilt for her selfishness.

Until she reminded herself that she’d asked. He could have said no.

She was really excellent at rationalizing.

“I’d say the Ritz is our best bet,” Cole noted as they walked toward the car.

“No doubt,” Johnny muttered. “And I’m in the mood to pistol whip someone about now.”

Jeez. Was it her? Nicky shot him a look.

“If Lisa is at the Ritz with those guys, I’m pissed off enough to set them straight. They’re fucking wusses anyway.”

No pistol whipping for her, thank you, Nicky noted, although she would prefer being somewhere distant if any serious disputes took place.

“Sounds like a plan, boss.”

“Where do you want these?” Johnny asked as they reached the car, half lifting the boxes in Nicky’s direction.

Close enough to inhale the sumptuous aromas, Nicky wished to say, but not with that scowl on his face. “I don’t care. Wherever.”

“Hey, Vinnie, open the trunk!”

Some people apparently
didn’t appreciate the gustatory pleasures of life as much as other people, she thought, but didn’t dare protest as her litt
l
e savories were placed in the trunk.

The mood in the car was dark as they pulled out of the no parking zone in front of Dalloyau. Even without a word being spoken, an inhospitable air of ruthless purpose permeated the car. Or maybe it was
because
no one spoke.

Scrunching into a co
rn
er of the backseat, Nicky tried not to breathe too loudly. It was that quiet.

They hadn’t traveled very far when Vinnie rapped out, “There they are. By the Elysees Palace. Beside that guard with the Uzi.”

“Yesss.” Johnny breathed, victory and satisfaction in that sibilant utterance. “Pull over at the corner. Slowly. I don’t want any sort of scene.”

The residence of the president of France was on the posh Rue de Faubourg St. Honore where all the fine shops were located. When Paris had been smaller, the palace had once been home to notable women—Mme. Pompadour, Napoleon’s sister, Empress Josephine. Just as Dalloyau had been their litt
l
e local market of choice.

And now another notable woman was in the neighborhood, standing only yards away from the soldiers on guard before the Elysees Palace. The stunning Lisa Jordan in her dazzling Chanel ensemble and a dark-haired woman of equal beauty were admiring the facade like tourists.

“She’s with Chantel.”

“Who else?” Cole affirmed. “Sisters in addiction.”

“Do you see any punks in the vicinity?”

“
That limo down the block might be theirs.”

Johnny smiled. “You have to give the ladies credit. They picked a pretty unassailable position.”

At which precise moment, Johnny’s cell phone rang.

He glanced at the number an
d grinned as he flipped open the
phone.
“I’m looking at you, babe.” There was a smile in his voice.
“Stay put.
We’re coming to get you.”

Johnny
and
Cole were out of the car in a flash, striding toward the women like heroes in a movie, Nicky thought, finding
the scene mildly disturbing. There he was, being gracious and obliging to his ex, going to her rescue her like some selfless defender of the weak and oppressed. Maybe Johnny didn’t really know if he liked his ex or not. Maybe he was still enamored of her after all. Although, it was none of her business whether Johnny Patrick was happy to see his ex or not. She had absolutely no right to feel an ounce of possessiveness after sleeping with him once. Probably half the women in the world had as much right as she, according to the tabloids.