I'd Rather Be In Paris (13 page)

Zara let herself into her suite and closed the door behind her. She threw the lock, dropped her bag on the floor and leaned against the door with a sigh. She was tired and dirty and hungry from the past eight hours with Lawson and all she wanted was a hot shower and a nap before the two of them hit the city for dinner.

He'd promised to take her anywhere she wanted to go. She smiled at all the possibilities as she kicked off her shoes and hung up her jacket. She'd done well with the target practice and, while Lawson had kicked her butt through most of the defense training, she'd still managed to make him sweat. More than once, she'd even had him breathing hard. He'd thrown a lot of tough scenarios at her and there had never been any question she wouldn't fight back with every ounce of female determination she possessed.

Before she took a shower, she needed to make contact with Director Flynn. Using her cell phone, she typed a text message.
So far, so good. Plenty of bread crumbs to follow. Mother Goose is demanding but manageable.

Stripping out of her sweaty clothes, she dropped them on the floor as she made her way to the bathroom. Her partner had revealed a lot during the past few hours. On the drive back to Paris, he'd told her a few things about his independent contracting jobs, most of which were classified.

The majority had come through the CIA, but he'd also contracted with several other government agencies. He'd worked with Navy SEALs on black ops to retrieve nuclear warheads as well as with the East Coast FBI Hostage Rescue Team in a couple of delicate situations involving kidnapped children.

Team Pegasus was his pride and joy. He had personally recruited the men and trained them himself. Today, he was training her.

She caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Even though her hair was matted and her face had dirt smudges on it, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining. Tiredness aside, she felt emotionally and mentally revived, like waking from a deep sleep. She'd faced the ghosts that haunted the farmhouse and still went on to eat a picnic lunch in the yard. She'd blasted the snot out of the side of the barn and practiced self-defense in the exact place she'd been stripped of some of her dignity. Today, she'd taken her dignity back.

The sound of a bike bell came from her phone. Opening her messages, she read Flynn's reply.
Keep Mother Goose happy, but find Big Bad Wolf. No retreat. No surrender
.

The last two sentences were Flynn's code for
eliminate threat
. Zara sighed to herself and responded.
No retreat. No surrender
.

Turning on the shower, she pushed terminating Dmitri from her mind—ugly business, but incredibly necessary to protect innocent people—and concentrated on the coming evening. Lawson had dropped her at the hotel so she could get cleaned up while he went to return the Mercedes. She wanted to pick a nice place for them to eat, but it couldn't be too fancy or even hint at romance. Cloth napkins, a breathtaking view of the city's lights, a dinner cruise on the Seine, all out. She needed casual but hip. Maybe a café in the Latin Quarter on the Left Bank, near the Sorbonne. The two of them could blend in with the young professionals there, and maybe after dinner they could visit a wine bar or a shop or two.

She hopped into the tub and started washing her hair. Her arms were fatigued from the target practice and self-defense training, but she welcomed the heaviness. It reminded her of the feel of Lawson's hands on her body as he guided her through different fight scenarios. Of the solid wall of his chest planted against her back and the feel of his fingers on her neck, wrapped around her wrists, grasping her hips. He was hard muscle, rogue confidence and brute strength with just a touch of Southern gentleman thrown in when she least expected it. She would have sworn the only reason he'd offered to take her out to dinner was because he blamed himself for causing her so much anxiety she freaked at the farmhouse and passed out on him.
Farmhouse Incident II
.

Finishing the second rinse of her hair, Zara saw movement in the bathroom on the other side of the shower curtain. Her heart leapt into her throat and she froze.

The shadow of a man appeared on the curtain again, his hand rising to pull her protective screen back. She reached for the only weapon she had—her shampoo bottle. When the man jerked the curtain open, she threw the bottle at his head.

He flinched and grunted as the small bottle hit his paunchy cheek and fell to the tile floor. He was under six feet tall, and with the bathtub raising her up five inches off the floor, Zara was staring directly into his small, piercing black eyes.

Her reflexes still heightened from her afternoon of training with Lawson, she swung her flat hand at his ear and made contact. He let out another grunt, shaking his head and calling her a choice name in Italian. But he didn't stop his advance. When she took another swing, he grabbed her wrist in mid-aim and jerked her out of the tub.

Off balance, she slipped on the floor and went down hard on her knees. Pain shot up her thighs and she grabbed her attacker's legs to keep from falling over. They were as solid as the pink marble columns on the ground floor of the hotel. He didn't budge an inch.

As he sank a hand into her hair, he twisted her head to the right. A sharp sting ran from her ear down to her collarbone like fire. She grabbed his hand with hers, trying to ease the pressure on her scalp and keep him from snapping her neck. He hauled her up by her hair and propelled her through the bathroom door, where she fell in an unceremonious heap in front of a pair of three-inch black Dolce and Gabana slingbacks.

"Darling,” the woman said, and Zara raised her gaze from the shoes, up the fishnet-stocking-covered legs, past the woman's black skirt and silk blouse to look at her face. Highly glossed red lips smiled down at her with unqualified disdain. “We need to talk."

She'd seen the woman's face on the street, smelled her musky perfume on Lawson's clothes. Yvette LeMans.

Time to play dumb blonde. “Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Yvette walked to the coffee table where the contents of Zara's purse had been dumped out. “That is exactly what I was going to ask you.” She picked up Zara's alternate-identity passport. “Sara Lerner,” she read from the inside and glanced between the picture and Zara's face. “This is you, no?"

A chill rolled over her and Zara wrapped her arms across her breasts and awkwardly stood. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” She looked down at her naked body. “In more ways than one."

The man moved behind her and she tensed, but a swift shake of Yvette's head stilled his threat. Yvette's focus slid down her body, and Zara forced herself not to squirm under the woman's assessing gaze.

She tilted her head and dropped the passport back on the table. “No wonder Isaac was not interested in my help. He has you."

"I don't believe
help
was what you were offering."

One corner of Yvette's red mouth lifted. “
Touché
.” She motioned toward the man. “Get her a robe.” A moment later, Zara wrapped the plush white robe around her and tied the belt.

Yvette lit a cigarette. “Isaac didn't mention he was traveling with a companion. Where is he, by the way?"

"Out."

The woman took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke toward Zara. “His little prank this morning annoyed one of my most affluent clients, which in turn has angered one of my business partners. I like him, you know? But his prank has cost me some business and I cannot let that go...” She raised her hands, palms up. “How should I say it? Unpunished?"

Zara's heart skipped a beat. Where was this discussion going? “Look,” she said, in her best woman-to-woman, help-me-out-here voice. “I haven't had a decent meal in almost three solid days. Isaac promised to take me out to dinner, and I really need to get back in the shower and finish getting ready because, short of an act of God, I'm eating something delicious and fattening tonight and getting a full eight hours of unadulterated sleep. As you can see, Isaac's not here. In fact, he's returning the car he borrowed from your friend. I'll be glad to tell him you stopped by, and I'll have him call you later, after we eat. That way, I get what I want, and you get what you want.
Comprenez-vous
?"

Yvette smiled at Zara through a faint cloud of smoke. “You have
verve
. My client enjoys young, athletic types full of insolence. You will make the perfect conciliatory gift for him, and I will teach Isaac a lesson at the same time."

She nodded at the man standing behind Zara. Beefy hands grabbed her shoulders.

"Get dressed,” Yvette said to her, and the man pushed her toward the closet. “Wear the Prada and make it quick."

This just
cannot
be happening
. Zara shrugged out of the man's hands and faced Yvette again. “I'm not going anywhere with you. Not tonight. Not ever."

Sighing, Yvette ground out her cigarette on Zara's passport. “Your attitude annoys me."

She
was annoyed? “No one tells me what to do or what to wear.”
Except on occasion, Lawson.
“Especially some high-priced Eurotrash slut like you."

Yvette circled the loveseat to stand in front of her. “You do not seem to understand the situation here. You now belong to me. You will do what I tell you to do or you will meet with unpleasant circumstances.” She flicked her gaze to her mercenary.

Zara pulled herself up to her full height and set her hands on her hips, mostly to hide the fact they were shaking. “Actually, I understand quite well. You think because you sleep with rich, powerful men you own the world. Guess again,
cherie
. If you think I'm going to help you get your fat ass out of trouble with your pimp, you're not only wrong, you're stupid."

Yvette's open hand flew at her face. Zara blocked it. Yvette's eyes widened a fraction, and before she could speak, Zara delivered a full-fisted blow to her mouth.

She stumbled backward, losing her balance on her D&G's and emitting a low howl of pain.

The man was quick, but not quick enough. Zara jumped out of his reach, lunging for the door to the hallway. Fighting Yvette was one thing. Guido, the bodyguard, was a whole different story.

She was two steps into the hallway when Guido's hand clamped down on her shoulder, spinning her around. She let out a karate yell and flailed her arms at him, making contact with his head a couple of times before one of his giant mitts smacked her on the side of the head. Her ears rang and her vision blurred, and she dropped to the floor, the robe falling open.

She almost missed the familiar creak of the hinges coming from the door at the end of the hall. As she raised her head to call for help, Lawson appeared, dropping his leather bag to the floor. His other hand aimed a gun at Guido's head.

"Back off,” he said, soft and businesslike as he took a step toward Zara, “or you'll be dead before you blink."

The door to the suite across the hall opened and a bald man stuck his head out, saw Lawson's gun and retreated back inside. Zara scooted over to the wall, yanking the robe closed and trying to stay out of the line of Lawson's gunsight.

Yvette sauntered out of Zara's suite and stood by her bodyguard. She reached under the man's jacket and pulled out his gun, letting it dangle at her side. She sucked on her bleeding lip and smiled at Lawson like he was her long-lost friend. “Darling,” she cooed. “I've been looking for you."

Lawson ignored Yvette and kept his eyes and his gun trained on Guido. He took another step toward Zara. “You all right?"

No, she wasn't all right. She was tired, hungry and pissed off. Her vision was blurry and her knees were starting to swell. Her dinner plans were ruined and she hadn't even had a decent shower. All in all, she was feeling pretty darn cranky.

"You know me.” She eased her body up and leaned on the wall for support. “I live for this stuff."

She wasn't sure but she would have sworn the corners of Lawson's mouth twitched. Great. She was on the verge of hysterics and he was amused.

"I see you're out of jail already,” he said to Yvette. “You should be more careful about the company you keep."

The woman smirked and made sharp clucking sounds. “You have stepped on the wrong toes, Isaac. I must correct this and make amends with my client. I had planned to have Giovanni here beat you to a pulp, but now I think I will take the girl instead. Is she weaned yet?"

"What?” Hot anger shot through Zara's veins. She pushed off the wall to face Yvette and blinked several times to clear her vision. It almost helped. “Are you calling me a baby?"

When Yvette dismissed her with an exaggerated eye roll, the urge to go for her neck rose like molten lava inside Zara. “This
baby
is the one who fattened your lip, or have you forgotten that already?"

Yvette raised the gun and pointed it at her forehead. “I have had enough of you. Shut up."

Zara couldn't suppress the little squeak that escaped her lips as she jumped backwards.

"Put the gun down,” Lawson said from behind her. “Or you'll be the first to die."

From the nearness of Lawson's voice, Zara knew he'd shifted his position to get a better shot at Yvette, but standing smack dab between two loaded guns was worse than playing Russian roulette.

Yvette was silent for a moment, seeming to think Lawson's demand over as she held Zara's gaze. Her face remained impassive, but Zara saw something flicker in her eyes a second before her finger moved on the trigger.