I'd Rather Be In Paris (7 page)

After brushing her hair, she donned a pair of underwear, a T-shirt and one of the hotel's lush robes. She finished up with a layer of lip gloss and slipped her cell phone into the pocket of the robe.

With nothing left to do but go see Lawson, she snugged the robe's belt a little tighter. It was too late to be embarrassed about him seeing her naked in the tub. She just hoped she hadn't been snoring.

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Geneva, Switzerland

"They landed in Paris two hours ago."

Dmitri took the cell phone away from his ear, folded his royal flush and left his men to their pot of bullets. On his way down the hall, he passed the office where Jon Vos Loo bent over a small black notebook. The little weasel of a scientist was taciturn, but at least he was quiet.

Continuing down the hallway, Dmitri turned into the spacious and well-equipped private gym, empty at this hour. He closed the heavy door behind him and sat on one of the weight benches. “Where are they?"

The woman's voice was edged with impatience. “The Ambassador. The man is meeting Yvette Lemans to start the investigation."

Dmitri's mind raced with all the possibilities before him and stopped at the most tantalizing. “I have been waiting for this."

"I'll update you as much as possible. Things are a close hold here."

Dmitri grunted, ended the call and placed another. “I have a job for you,” he said to the woman on the other end.

Varina Scalfaro released an exaggerated sigh. “You're beginning to annoy me."

Dmitri tsked at her as he stood and crossed to the gym's mirrored wall. He examined his image in it, enjoying the way the muscles in his naked chest flexed with his movements. “You'll like this job."

There was a long pause. “It will cost you."

He ran a hand through his hair and saw the 18 karat gold chain wrapped around his wrist catch the light. He twisted his wrist back and forth, watching the reflection. “Name your price."

Lawson was bent over a map spread out on his bed and talking to someone on his cell phone when Zara entered the room. He raised his head, looked her over from head to toe, and then went back to his map.

Feeling dismissed, she wandered to the desk in the corner of the suite and picked up the room-service menu. She was hungry and she bet he was too. Scanning the menu, she made a simple list. Toast, some eggs, a couple of pastries, juice and coffee. Using the hotel phone, she dialed the front desk.

A minute later, she hung up and turned to find him glaring at her. “What are you doing?"

She tucked the room-service menu into the top desk drawer and ignored the demanding tone of his voice. “I ordered food. I'm starving and figured it would be safer to eat here at the hotel than go out."

His hands went to either side of his waist and he took several steps toward her. Then he pulled the chair out from the desk and motioned her into it.

She knew what was coming from the look in his eye. She stayed standing.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “We need to get a couple of things straight. First, we can't stay in this hotel. It's not Agency-approved and it's goddamned expensive to boot. Flynn will cut my balls off if I turn in an expense report with a freakin’ four-star hotel on it.” His hands went back to his waist as he paced to the bed. “Secondly, you have to quit going off on your own and doing shit like this—making hotel reservations, hiring chauffeured cars—hell, you might as well put that red dress back on, climb the Eiffel Tower and shout, ‘Here I am, Alexandrov. Look at me.’ You're advertising yourself and our mission. Not smart."

Zara's spine stiffened. She was growing increasingly tired of his attitude. “Put your ego on chill mode for a minute,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I'm paying for the room and Albert is one of my father's Paris employees who are well compensated for their discretion."

Facing her, Lawson planted his feet. “Yeah, well, in case they didn't teach you this in Spying 101, this"—he motioned around the room—"is not how you run a successful undercover operation."

She bit the inside of her cheek to curb the tart reply on the end of her tongue. It came out anyway. “The name of the class is Introduction to Covert Ops, not Spying 101."

"Smartass."

"Comes with the territory."

She saw the flicker of something in his eyes, just like she'd seen at the airport. Amusement again? She had to keep the upper hand, but how?

So far, he'd been a logical guy, so she'd give him logic. “As owners of a successful security consulting business, I hardly think Isaac and Sara Lerner would stay in the equivalent of a Motel 6 and hire a taxi to tool around town in."

"That's not the point.” He paced forward and towered over her. “One undercover assignment does not make you an expert in this kind of operation. Your inexperience could get us killed. From this moment on, I call the shots. With everything. No exceptions. You don't so much as take a piss without my okay. Got it?"

Oh she got it all right. Staring up into his eyes, she got his meaning—he wanted her to feel intimidated. Well, to hell with that. She'd grown up with Charles Morgan for a father. She'd trained under Conrad Flynn. She knew how to handle overbearing men. Pushing herself up to her toes, she glared back at him, doing her darnedest to look intimidating right back.

Which of course was hard to do since Lawson stood almost a foot taller than her, and she had to crane her neck even on tiptoe just to look him in the eye.

Planting her fists on her hips in a mocking gesture, she stood her ground. “Newsflash. You may be the expert at undercover ops, but I'm the expert on Paris and Alexandrov Dmitri. You said it yourself at the airport. Your French sucks. I'm the one who can read the street signs, the menus and the newspapers, and I'm staying here at the Ambassador for the next twenty-four hours
at least
so I can recoup from the plane ride, eat a decent meal and shop for some appropriate clothes for Sara Lerner. If you don't like that, you can get yourself another partner. And if Director Flynn doesn't like it, he can fire me and then he can kiss my pampered, rich girl derriere all the way back to the United States."

She took a breath, dropped back down to her flat feet. “At which time I will personally call in a favor from my friends in Washington and stop Flynn's forward career path in its tracks before he can say ‘I Spy'."

Lawson looked down his nose at her for a long moment and then dismissed her show of bravado with a soft chuckle. “You could do that? Wreck Flynn's career with a phone call?"

Of course not. Flynn was the King of Operations. He was the
God
of Operations. Titus Allen, the DCI and her father's closest friend, was Conrad Flynn's biggest fan.

"Of course,” she lied.

Lawson now looked at her with curiosity. “I like the good Director. I respect him."

"I do too.” She gave him a pert nod. “So let's not go there."

A knock came from the door and Lawson went into business mode again, removing a gun from his waistband. She watched bemused as he crossed the room like a SWAT officer moving in for the kill. A bellman in the hall called out “room service” in French and Lawson checked the peephole before moving off to the side of the door.

She reached for the door knob, sending him an annoying look. “It's just our food."

He grabbed her wrist, his fingers a band of steel. “Tell them to leave it in the hallway."

This constant paranoia was too much. She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “What about his tip?"

"You can add it to the bill when we check out."

"
Mon Dieu
,” she murmured. Shaking her head, she called out Lawson's instructions to the waiter. Through the peephole, she saw the man walk off, mumbling and cursing about
les américains stupide
. Zara didn't blame him.

She slipped the deadbolt off the door. “He's gone. You can quit with the Mel Gibson thing."

Lawson lowered the gun to this side. “What?"

Rolling the cart into the room, Zara inhaled the smell of steaming espresso and freshly baked croissants.
Ahhh
...

"You know.” She lifted the lid off one of the blue and white china plates. Her mouth salivated at the sight of the fluffy yellow eggs underneath it. She glanced at Lawson's gun. “
Lethal Weapon?
"

He slid the gun into the waistband of his jeans and relocked the door. “I was going for Clint Eastwood."

Surprised he might actually have a sense of humor, she snorted and handed him a cup of coffee. “You are so
not
Clint Eastwood."

Lawson took the cup from her and sipped. “I think you're trying to bruise my ego."

Rolling her eyes, Zara began shifting the room-service plates, napkins and silverware to the breakfast bar. “Let's eat before the eggs get cold. You can fill me in on the ... what did you call it? The op plan?"

"Operational plan.” He followed her to the bar and straddled a stool. “It's a blueprint for our mission."

Sometimes playing the dumb blonde came in handy. It made people relax and she knew if she was actually going to get out of the hotel room and do some terrorist hunting, she had to get her
partner
to do some serious relaxing. Fast. She had her own op plan. Feed him, make him laugh, and play up to his alpha ego.

"Dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun,” she started humming as she slid up on a barstool next to him.

He quizzed her with a look.

"What?” she said. “Isn't this where I start humming the
Mission: Impossible
theme song?"

"James Bond,
Lethal Weapon, Mission: Impossible
. What are you, the spook of pop culture?” A faint smile moved the line of his lips before he scooped up a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “I've already been in contact with our source here in Paris. I'm meeting with her in a couple hours to see what she's got on the prison break and the French investigation."

"Her?” Zara chewed a bite of toast. “Okay. I've got some questions for
her
."

Lawson swallowed. “You stay here and work on getting us a couple of rooms at a cheaper hotel. I'll handle the source."

Yeah, she'd get right on that. Checking herself before she lipped off again, she set her toast down and wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “You're not taking me to meet this source? I thought we established
I'm
the expert in this area."

Lawson continued to shovel eggs into his mouth. “The source doesn't know you're here and that's the way I plan to keep it. She can give me what she's got and I'll bring it back to you."

Exasperated, Zara picked up her coffee cup and cradled it near her chest. She turned her barstool an inch and watched Lawson finish his eggs. There was no way she was getting left behind. “Your French obviously stinks. What if you can't read the street signs and get lost?"

"I don't get lost."

"Never?"

Lawson shifted to face her and their knees touched. “No. Never."

Zara felt a flutter low in her stomach. He was so sure of himself. It was annoying and yet sexy at the same time.
Play up to his ego
. “That's impressive."

"One of my many skills.” His gaze dropped to her lips for a split second before looking away. A slow smile spread across his face as he picked up a piece of toast.

Lawson Vaughn flirting with her? No way. Yet, she knew it for what it was and immediately suspected he might be trying to play her as much as she was trying to play him.

What exactly made him tick under his well-developed tough-guy exterior? He had a core made up of honor and responsibility, strength and courage. She'd seen all that in person. But what about the rest?

Dropping her gaze, she eased the barstool so she was again facing her plate. She set the coffee down and picked up the piece of toast. “Your family must be very proud of you."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shrug. “I don't see them much. My brother David died in the towers on nine-eleven. My dad lost his fight with cancer about five years ago and since then, my siblings and I have drifted apart. We all love our mother, but it seems like Dad was the glue holding the family together after David was killed."

Zara's throat tightened around the toast she tried to swallow. A sick feeling settled in her stomach. “I'm so sorry. That must have been terrible for all of you to lose them both so tragically."

Lawson was silent for several seconds and she stole a glance at him. A muscle danced in his jaw.

"Mom took it hardest. Both David and Dad.” He cleared his throat and sipped his coffee. “When Dad was diagnosed with the Big C, she quit her job to be with him and help him fight it. She put all her energy into keeping him alive and then, later, into keeping him comfortable."

"She must have loved your dad very much."

"After he died, she didn't know what to do with herself, and she was thousands of dollars in debt from his medical bills the insurance company wouldn't pay. We kids had to pitch in and help her out. I'm the oldest so I took over getting the bills paid off. My youngest sister got her an apartment and a job working part-time at a local grocery store. The others do what they can, helping with her living expenses and getting her to the doctor to keep her diabetes in check. She's only sixty-three years old, but you'd think she was eighty."

Lawson tossed the last of his coffee into his mouth and swallowed it. “'Two peas in a pod', she used to say."

He left his stool to grab the plate of croissants and the coffeepot. After bringing both back to the bar, he set the plate down and refilled Zara's cup along with his own before straddling his barstool again. “You're right about the coffee. It's pretty damned good."

The seriousness of the moment was gone. Zara took one of the sweet pastries drizzled with glaze and bit into it, letting him change the direction of the conversation at his own pace. She knew it wasn't always an easy thing to talk about your family. Wiping her lips with her napkin, she said, “How many siblings do you have?"

"Two sisters, another brother besides David."

"Four siblings. What was that like growing up?"

Lawson grinned. “Tiring. Being the oldest I had to run after the younger ones all the time. They were always getting into something they shouldn't have been and fighting with each other. Drove me crazy."

"Good experience for raising your own kids."

Lawson shook his head. “Nah. I've done my parenting gig for this lifetime."

"You don't want to have kids?"

"No."

"Never?"

He shook his head and took a bite out of a croissant. “Never."

At the height of her parents’ fighting, she'd vowed never to have kids either. She'd been eight. In later years, however, when she saw her mother and father holding hands at a fundraiser or drinking coffee on the veranda of their condo, she reconsidered her decision. But only briefly in those moments when her parents appeared at peace with each other after so many years. Deep inside her, she'd always believed it was her fault they'd fought the way they had. Even as an adult, she still believed it.

Lawson drained his cup again and stood. “I'm going to jump in the shower and try to catch some sleep before I meet with our source."