Read I'd Rather Be In Paris Online

Authors: Misty Evans

I'd Rather Be In Paris (6 page)

BOOK: I'd Rather Be In Paris
13.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Chapter Six

Charles De Gaulle Airport, Paris

Lawson stared at the black car and the uniformed chauffeur waiting for them beside the curb in total disbelief. “What the hell is this?"

Zara greeted the chauffeur in rapid-fire French, and he nodded regally as he took her bag out of her hand. “
This
is a Mercedes Benz, Lawson,” she said in that professional-suit voice she had. “I arranged transportation for us."

Gritting his teeth, he set his leather bag on the concrete and pulled Zara aside. “What did I tell you about this operation? Remember
covert
?"

She looked up into his eyes and smiled like a Cheshire cat. Like she enjoyed eating him one feather at a time. “Would you relax? I told you, I know what I'm doing."

This is another of her stupid tests
. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the chauffeur reach for his bag. “Don't touch that."

Maneuvering around Zara, he grabbed it himself. The chauffeur raised one haughty brow before giving a pert nod and stepping off the curb to shut the trunk of the car. Lawson returned to face Zara, hanging the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “This is
not
low profile."

She cast a glance around at the other travelers loading their luggage into taxis and private vehicles before bringing her gaze back to him. “The only thing attracting attention is you."

As the driver extended one hand to her, she stepped toward the car. In one graceful motion, she slid into the backseat, her legs disappearing from view as she glided across to the other side. The chauffeur turned to Lawson and raised his eyebrow again. “
Monsieur
?” His gloved hand directed Lawson to the backseat.

Lawson hiked the strap of the bag higher on his shoulder. Men and women scurried past him, luggage, purses and children in tow, looking for shuttle buses or hailing taxis. No one appeared to be paying them any attention, and why should they? In Paris, as in most international communities, climbing into the back of classic Mercedes to be chauffeured around the city was as second nature as brushing one's teeth.

If the CIA had taught him anything, it was that there was
always
someone watching. His best move was to follow Zara's lead for the moment. Shifting his bag again and reining in his impatience, he nodded to the driver and dropped onto the gray leather seat next to her. He set the bag on his lap and blew out a controlled breath.

She flashed him a triumphant smile. “There, that wasn't so hard, was it? Albert will have at us at the hotel in about forty-five minutes."

If Zara had hired a car like this with its own driver just to take them across town, Lawson knew he wouldn't like the lodging she had arranged. “And which hotel would that be?"

Albert slid into the driver's seat and put the car in drive while catching Zara's eye in the rearview mirror. She nodded at him. “
L'Hotel Ambassador
."

A muscle twitched between Lawson's shoulders. This was definitely a test. “The Ambassador,” he repeated as the driver maneuvered the car into the busy airport traffic with ease. “You booked us into a four-star hotel?"

"Well, of course.” Her tone suggested he'd lost brain cells in the air. “Where did you expect me to stay when I'm in Paris?” She cast a quick glance at his face, turned to her window. “The George V is luxurious but it isn't the same since they remodeled it. Besides, you'll love the Ambassador. It's decorated in vintage 1920's art deco and their restaurant has the best espresso in the whole world."

Lawson tightened the grip he had on his bag and lowered his voice. “Did you register under your real name?"

Zara lowered her voice to match his. “We're registered at the Ambassador under Sara and Isaac Lerner, the brother and sister team Annette set up. We're in Paris looking to expand our American security business. I arranged separate suites joined by a door. Kitchenettes and king-size beds, but no whirlpool tubs.” She glanced at him again and held his gaze. “I wouldn't want you to get too comfortable and enjoy yourself."

He forced his attention away from her teasing baby blues to look out the tinted windows of the Mercedes. She was playing him big time. He would put a stop to it, but not in front of the driver.

Zara touched his hand where it gripped the bag, and he swung his attention back to her face. The eyes were wide again, the smile practiced. She knew she was causing him internal turmoil and she was enjoying it. “I've got everything under control."

That's what scared him.

* * * *

L'Hotel Ambassador du Paris

Sometimes it was nice to have money, Zara decided as she pulled the sheer shower curtain partially around the claw-footed tub and sank down into the hot water. She released her breath and sighed. The water was infused with avocado and lemon bath crystals, and she drew the brisk scent deep into her lungs hoping the refreshing smell would perk her up. The past fifteen hours had yielded little sleep and an overdose of adrenaline. She'd plunged herself back into the world of espionage, and the thrill screamed through her nerve endings like a roller-coaster ride.

As she leaned her head back against the bath pillow, she let her feet float. Her pink toenails bobbed above the water. She'd made it to Paris, gotten herself and Lawson checked in, deposited him in the suite next door and unpacked the few essentials she'd brought from her travel bag. Then, out of Flynn-ingrained, paranoia-induced habit, she'd double-checked the window locks and even looked under the bed. Lawson might not give her credit for being a good spook, but she was. He'd learn that soon enough.

Once her room check was complete, she'd washed out the microfiber pants and her panties in the sink. They were now hanging over the shower curtain above her head to dry.

Before the showdown at the farmhouse, Paris had been like her second home. It had seduced her with its style, its art and its history. Even now, the city wove a spell around her with its clashing mix of vintage and modern, the smell of fresh pastries and musty museums, and the clichéd air of promised romance. The naysayers could be damned in Zara's book. Paris was still the most dramatic and seductive city in the world.

So even with her heart pounding at the thought of being so close again to Alexandrov Dmitri, she had moved from airplane to car to hotel as though she owned the world. With the grace her mother had instilled in her. With her chin up and an air of self-confidence that at moments was completely faked. As usual, it had worked like a charm. No one questioned her, doubted her or called her bluff.

Except Lawson. He'd kept his mouth shut during the drive to the hotel and the check-in, but his silence and clenched jaw spoke volumes. She might be a natural blonde but she wasn't stupid. Her partner was wound tight and he didn't like her tests one little bit.

Zara dialed up Tchaikovsky on her iPod and stuck the ear buds in her ears. She cupped her hands and pulled the warm water toward her chest. Back at Langley, she'd found out a few things about her rescuer through the Agency grapevine. Annette had told her stories about successful rescues and extractions attributed to his Pegasus team, but it was Lawson who got the most acclaim. According to Annette, he was a quiet, competent, loyal warrior who always got his man.

Or woman.

Watching a drop of water fall from the gold-plated faucet, Zara hummed along with the music in her ears. Once he let go of his pseudo-spy complex and realized they were safe, he'd be okay with everything. After all, what human being in his right mind would refuse a night at the Ambassador?

The rooms were stylishly decorated, comfortable and conveniently connected. She and Lawson could come and go from each other's rooms without anyone seeing them and it made sense Isaac and Sara Lerner, the owners of a successful security consulting business, would stay in an upscale hotel.

Yes, she was sure once Lawson had a chance to rest up, he would realize the Ambassador was the perfect place for them to stay while they figured out what Dmitri was up to. Along with that, she hoped he would also realize what an asset she was to the Agency. Not that she cared what Lawson thought, but the desire to prove to him she wasn't going to let Director Flynn down sat like a rock in her chest. She knew this world as well as any and could take care of the behind-the-scenes details like accommodations and transportation
and
help Lawson track down Dmitri.

Zara smiled and closed her eyes. Once Lawson saw her in action, this partner thing was going to work out just fine.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seven

This partner thing was not going to work out.

Lawson paced the pale gray carpet of his suite—she'd reserved freakin’
suites
—and cursed himself for being such an idiot. Flynn could spout Farm skill and achievements all he wanted, but Zara didn't understand the first thing about clandestine operations. From the moment he saw her jump the ditch at the farmhouse on her Ducati, he'd known she was an in-your-face type, not a smooth undercover operative. You didn't sashay into town, throw a bunch of money around and call dubious attention to yourself, unless that was the intended cover. Which it never was, because, contrary to Hollywood's propaganda, playing James Bond wasn't cool, it was deadly.

Running a hand over his face and through his buzzed hair, he looked around the suite again. The Ambassador was a nice place. Way too nice for someone like him. Everything from the funky wallpaper to the oddly shaped blond furniture made him squirm. He wouldn't know Retro from Victorian when it came to decorating, unless it was something straight out of the eighties. Even then, if it didn't look like it belonged in a college dormitory or his mother's house where everything had country geese on it, he was screwed.

Pacing into the kitchen area of the suite, he pulled a bottled water out of the tiny refrigerator. Good God there was even a miniature two-burner stove along with everything else. A microwave, coffee maker and some contraption that looked like a juice machine.

He tipped his head back and drank half the bottle in a couple of gulps. All this ...
stuff
. It was enough to give him a headache.

Over the past ten years, he'd practically existed on MREs, meal-ready-to-eat hash, and slept more often than not on the ground. Which was pretty much the way he liked it. None of this pansy-assed
stuff
for him. He was a soldier through and through. The tougher the conditions, the more uncomfortable the surroundings, the better he liked it. Got him in touch with his inner self in a way nothing else could, and he was proud of that. Jimmy and the rest of Pegasus would piss their pants laughing if they saw him drinking Evian water and lounging in any hotel, much less the Am
freaking
bassador in Paris.

Lawson finished the water and threw the empty bottle in the sink. Enough with Zara's silly tests and hotshot attitude. He had to get her straightened out. Even with their cover identities, they had to leave this place and find something more suitable. He had to make her understand their success depended on her following his instructions, not going off on her own.

First he needed to arm himself. In his line of work, walking around without his gun was like walking around with an arm missing.

He grabbed his bag and retrieved a Nintendo DS, a hairdryer and an electric razor. Within a minute, he had recovered all the parts to his Beretta from their secret hiding places. Another minute and the gun was reassembled and loaded.

A man in his position couldn't be too careful. He never traveled commercial flights armed. It called too much attention to him and wasn't worth the effort. But he always had his gun's components in his carryon, within easy reach and at his immediate disposal. The stricter airport security measures now in place didn't faze him in the least. One of the best things about the Agency was its techno geeks. Those guys spent thousands of hours figuring out ways to hide weapons in plain view—the closest thing to James Bond Lawson had witnessed during the past year of contracting with the CIA.

Under normal circumstances, he would have assembled the gun in the car when he and Zara left the airport. He hated riding through Paris unarmed, but the chauffeur deal had thrown him a curve ball. He wasn't about to sit in the backseat and put a gun together with Albert as witness.

Lawson stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans at his back. Then he reassembled the dryer and DS and threw both back in his bag. He passed the super-sized bed and knocked on the suite's connecting door. His side was unlocked, the security chain dangling.

"Za—” He checked himself. She was Sara now. Setting his hand on the doorknob, he called her by her cover name. “Sara?"

When she didn't answer, he knocked again, sharper this time. “Sara?"

Still no answer. The spot between his shoulder blades twitched. Not a lot, but a definite twinge.

Probably she was just in the shower and couldn't hear his knock or his call. Still, he removed the gun from its hiding place at the small of his back and angled his body against the door, listening for any sounds on the other side. Paranoia was entrenched in his system and Lawson swore by it. So far it had never failed to keep him alive.

Turning the doorknob with slow precision, he was both relieved and annoyed to find it unlocked from the other side. Besides setting Zara straight about her role in the op, he needed to give her a lesson in security procedures. He moved with natural stealth and a moment later was standing next to her bed. The whole suite was a mirror image of his room.

The contents of Zara's carryon, with the exception of the red dress, were sitting in a haphazard pile on the end of the bed. Lawson's brain automatically logged everything. Wallet and passport, three lipsticks, travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner, cell phone. Several pairs of lacy underwear and a slip of a nightgown. Other miscellanea including breath mints, antiseptic hand cleaner, two paperbacks, a hairbrush and a nightlight.

The red dress was neatly pressed out on the other side of the bed. The matching shoes stood side by side in the closet, while the black shoes had been discarded nearby on the floor, one lying on its side.

Lawson checked the door to the hallway and found it locked, the security chain in place.
Good girl.
At least she got that part right. Next he checked the windows. They were locked and intact. He let out the breath he'd unknowingly been holding.

As some of the tension left his body, he crossed the living room area and pulled up short at the bathroom door. It was partially open and he listened for sounds. No shower, flushing toilet or running hair dryer. No noise at all. Zara had to be in there, but why the hell wasn't she answering him?

Leaning closer to the door, he tried to pick up the sound of movement. After listening for a full minute, he still didn't hear a thing. As the faint smell of something citrusy filtered to his nose, he called to her again and tapped his knuckles on the bathroom door. “Sara?"

Silence.

Damn, he had to make sure she was all right. Holding his gun up and ready, he pushed the door open in a slow arc.

Like a magnet, the bathtub drew his eyes. A sheer shower curtain fell from a gold-plated oval rod and partially obscured his view. The tub was a large cast iron claw-foot, deep and flared around the edges, much like the one he and his brothers and sisters had bathed in as children, sometimes all five fitting in the big tub at once.

Light from the wall sconces bounced off the gold-plated fixtures and Lawson noted Zara's pants and a pair of red lacy panties hanging from the shower curtain rod. Red. His brain stuttered for a split second before he catalogued the panties for further thought later. As he took another step into the room, he tilted his head to peek into the tub, an odd mixture of concern and fear driving him. Had she indeed fallen and knocked herself unconscious?

The first thing he saw was her left foot propped at the end near the faucets. His eyes traveled from her pink toenails up the length of her shin and to her bent knee. Her skin looked tan against the bright white of the bathtub porcelain. “Sara, are you okay?"

She didn't move, didn't respond. He took a step closer and followed the line of her thigh to the point where it broke the surface of the water. Her other leg and stomach were under the two feet of water in the tub and his eyes automatically jumped to the point where her chest rose back out of the water.

His attention paused, but only for a second, adding another element to his catalogue to review later. He forced his gaze up to Zara's face.

Her head was on a satin bath pillow, her chin tilted down into her collarbone, her eyes closed and her lips parted. An iPod lay on a stack of towels behind her head, ear buds disappearing under her hair. One of her hands rested on her chest, the other was in the water on her stomach. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest made the twitch in his shoulders relax. She was asleep.

Jet lag was a bitch for most people. Zara had logged less than an hour of sleep on the plane. She was now dead to the world with music playing in her ears. No wonder she hadn't heard him call her name or knock on her door. He replaced the Beretta in his waistband and crossed his arms over his chest.

The steam from the water had relaxed her curls and several hung over her forehead. Her face in sleep looked years younger, almost girlish. If it wasn't for the curves and muscles below that face...

As his eyes fell to her breasts, his brain yelled at him like a drill sergeant.
Get out!

He pulled himself up short but not before his groin tightened.

The iPod's screen lit up for a second and then blacked out as it shut off. Lawson turned to escape and the floor creaked under his foot.

A sigh escaped from Zara's open lips and he froze. The hand on her chest slid down past her breast and into the water. She shifted her body, raising her chin and bunching up her shoulders.

And then she opened her eyes and looked straight at him.

"Oh, my God.” She sucked in her breath. Instinct made her cover her breasts as she sat straight up. One ear bud fell out.

Averting his eyes, he mentally cursed himself. “You fell asleep in the bathtub. I knocked and called your name but you didn't answer."

Why did that sound so lame? He chanced a quick glance at her face and saw her eyes were huge. The look she gave him set off a warning in his brain. It wasn't modesty or even disgust. She looked at him as though he were some asshole about to do her harm.

She pulled the other ear bud out, and he backed toward the door, damning himself again for entering the room in the first place. “Must be serious jet lag that had you sleeping so hard. That and the music."

The look of fear vanished with the blink of her eyes. She snugged her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, clearing her throat. “Jet lag. Yep. Knocks me for a loop every time."

"It does a lot of people."

"Yes, well, I appreciate your concern, but as you can see, I'm all right. Naked and embarrassed, but all right. Could we dispense with further conversation until after I get some clothes on?"

He jerked his gaze away from hers and again pinned it to a spot on the far wall. Back to business seemed like the course to take. “We need to discuss my op plan for the next twenty-four hours. When you're dressed, come to my room."

Without waiting for any reply, he walked out.

Well, wasn't that too weird for words?
Zara shook her head and tried not to laugh from nervous embarrassment.

Dread, shadowy but keen, had quivered in her veins for long seconds before she'd snapped out of her sleep-induced confusion and realized Lawson was standing over the tub and not the terrorist from her nightmares. Still, waking up to Lawson's presence in her bathroom wasn't exactly pleasant either. Startling, yes. Pleasant, no.

Being a dancer, she'd grown up with her body on display, and, like all athletes, understood how important her body structure was to her success. In ballet, the lithe, agile body of a ballerina was the focus. From the top of her head, literally, to the tip of her toes and fingers, a ballerina's every movement was observed with a critical eye.

Lawson had obviously gotten an eyeful, but his intense attention had shown none of the desire she'd seen in the airport bar, more like a touch of concern and a boatload of irritation.

Angry, just like he'd been at the farmhouse, the airport and on the drive there.

A cold chill shook her body, and she massaged her stiff neck. She didn't doubt his reasoning for being in there. The jet lag had definitely zonked her out and she could well imagine his concern when she didn't answer his calls. She only wished she could have fallen into that wonderful sleep in bed instead of in the tub, avoiding her stiff neck and keeping her modesty intact.

As she pushed herself out of the bathtub, she reached for a plush Egyptian cotton towel from the towel warmer and dried herself with brisk strokes. Grabbing another, she wrapped that one around her and drained the tub. He could be angry all he wanted, but he'd soon find it didn't help their mission. If he wanted to wrap up this assignment quickly, he'd need to focus on something besides staying aggravated at her.

A new thought made her straighten up. Maybe she'd make him so mad, he'd quit as soon as he located Dmitri. Then she'd finish the op all by herself.

A grin tugged at her mouth, even as her stomach did a nervous hop. Stopping Dmitri alone could bring her the glory she craved. It could also bring her face-to-face with her own mortality again.

In the adjacent room, she slipped off the towel and smoothed expensive collagen cream over every inch of her body, including her face. For now, she had to string Lawson along. Once he located Dmitri, however, all bets were off. She'd play it by ear and when the time was right decide if she should continue on alone.

And when the job was over, she'd have to find time to stop by Dr. Messine's shop and pick up another bottle or two of the expensive cream.

BOOK: I'd Rather Be In Paris
13.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

You are a Badass by Jen Sincero
Gymnastics Mystery by Gertrude Chandler Warner
Give Death A Chance by Alan Goldsher
The Year We Fell Down by Sarina Bowen
Curtains by Scott Nicholson
Mine by Georgia Beers
CallingCaralisa by Virginia Nelson
WIREMAN by Mosiman, Billie Sue
Bones to Pick by Carolyn Haines