I'd Rather Be In Paris (8 page)

Zara pushed her plate back. She had a few things to do before she tailed him. “Okay,” she said in her most complacent voice as she slid off her own barstool. “I'll put this outside for maid service."

"Don't let me chase you off. Finish your breakfast."

She stacked Lawson's plate on top of hers. “I'm done."

"You should get some sleep too.” He took the plates out of her hands, set them on the cart and turned back to her. “This time use the bed though, okay?"

She gave him a
ha-ha
smile and picked up the coffee cups. “You've got no sense of adventure, Clint."

His smile held a hint of warmth. “I love adventure. The only thing sleeping in the tub gets you is a sore neck. That's not adventure.” Moving toward the bathroom, he stripped off his shirt and threw it on the nearby loveseat. Zara's pulse jumped. “Go get some rest, spook."

Rest, right. Setting the cups on the cart, she let her eyes move over his back as he walked away from her. Wide shoulders, defined muscles, and the indent of his back where his gun was still secured, all perfect. She watched until he disappeared behind the bathroom door, and then she stared at the door for another minute. When the sound of the shower slipped under the crack in the door, she pulled out her cell phone and started typing a text message.

The bathroom door cracked open and Lawson's head popped out. “Be sure to lock your side of the door."

Zara jumped, dropping the phone into the cups and plates. She shuffled them in a futile attempt to look busy. Then she checked herself. “You mean the door between our rooms?"

Lawson nodded, and she said, “Why?"

"For a security consultant, you suck.” Humor flashed in his eyes.

"
Security,
right.” Zara gave him a thumbs up. “But what if you want to visit and I have the door locked?"

"It won't stop me."

Zara called up the dumb-blonde persona again. “It won't?"

"No. In fact, it won't really stop anyone, but it will slow them down long enough for you to reach your gun."

"I don't have a gun yet. Flynn made me leave mine behind. I'll need to secure a new one here in Paris."

"I'll get you one."

How nice of him to offer. “I'll do it myself, thanks. I prefer small ones. Subcompact so they'll fit in my handbag. I'm thinking a SIG Sauer would be good."

"You could fit a machine gun in your bag.” He laughed as he pulled his head in and closed the door.

Zara smiled to herself and fished out her phone. She'd fed Lawson, let him think he was in charge and got him to relax and tell her a little about his family. She'd even made him laugh. She just hadn't gotten him to change his mind about staying at the Ambassador or to relent and take her with him to meet the source.

She rubbed the back of her neck and shot a glance at the bathroom door again. No big deal. Her fingers flew over the keys of her phone. She'd just revise her op plan.

Because no one could stop her from enjoying at least one night at the Ambassador, and no one could stop her from doing the job Director Flynn had sent her to do.

No one. Not even the skilled rescue hero Lawson Vaughn.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Café Toulouse, Rue Marbeuf

"
Darling,
” the woman said, gliding toward Lawson with her arms extended. She had waist-length black hair, dark skin and perfect red lips. He had no choice but to accept her embrace which included her lips skimming each of his cheeks. Yvette LeMans took his arm, her ample bust pressing into it, and led him through the busy pub to a small table in the back. If anyone was watching, they would think he was a lover she was trying to keep secret.

"What of the security business, Isaac?” she asked as if interested. “Quite profitable these days, no? Americans scared of their own shadows?” She laughed low in her throat and smiled up at him. Her accent was European, but indistinguishable as to country. She could have been French or Italian or Swiss.

Lawson played the part of the gentleman and pulled a chair out for her while his attention swept the room and the customers. “Business is good,” he said, taking a chair for himself. The position gave him a panoramic view of the restaurant and the doors. “And yours?"

Yvette looked him over with her almond-shaped brown eyes and produced two cigarettes and a lighter. She handed the lighter and one of the cigarettes to him and placed the second stick in her own mouth. “I have more than enough business these days.” She thrust her face forward for him to light her cigarette. Continuing to play his part, he obliged. She drew a deep breath and held the smoke in her lungs. “Your friends keep me busy."

A waitress appeared and Yvette ordered a beer and a glass of wine. Lawson laid his cigarette on the table, unlit. As the waitress left, Yvette's sloe eyes again scanned his face and body. She braced her elbows on the table and leaned forward, the cigarette held between two slender fingers. “The one you come for is not in Paris."

Lawson purposely smiled at her as though he was enjoying this secret meeting and the fact she was tantalizing him with her double D's. “Where is he?"

"That is your job, no? To find where he is?"

When he frowned at her, she took another pull on the cigarette and waved it through the smoke as she exhaled. “Honestly, darling, if I knew I would tell you. What I do know is he is not here in Paris."

"How do you know?"

She laid her left hand across the table, running her fingernails down his forearm. “I have the information you want back at my flat. We will go there and I will show you everything."

If he'd been a different man, he might have toyed with the idea of taking what she was offering. The petulant mouth, the sexy accent, the ripe body. Yvette's looks no doubt made sane men trip over their own feet. He should have been flattered at her invitation to hook up, instead he felt annoyed. Sean Connery had said it best in his movie,
Entrapment
. “Rule Number Two, never trust a naked woman.” Only idiots and fools mixed business with pleasure—no matter how tempting the pleasure might be—and Lawson didn't place himself in either category.

The waitress deposited their drinks on the table, and Yvette made small talk with her for a minute. When the woman walked away, Lawson said, “I asked you to bring the information to this meeting."

Yvette widened her eyes. “Your friends asked for so much, Isaac. Newspaper clippings, pictures, blueprints of the jail. I would need a briefcase to carry it all in. It would have been conspicuous.” She sipped her wine and stubbed out her cigarette. Lit the one he'd left on the table. “We will go back to my place and I will give you what I have. Then we can discuss what happened with the prison break. I can translate the news pieces for you and explain anything you do not understand."

Damn. Lawson twirled his beer bottle in circles. There was nothing that annoyed him more than a woman with her own agenda, especially when it interfered with his. “You were to put the information on a flash drive for me, Yvette. Next time, follow orders."

"You don't want to go back to my place?” The petulant lips popped out even further. “
Ça va.
I will pick up the information and bring it to your hotel.
Où est l'hotel?
You would like that better, no?"

No, he would not like that better. Not with Zara there. The hotel offered him better cover for his backside, but bringing the risk of trouble to Zara was out of the question. “We'll go to your place, but I won't be staying. You'll give me the information and then I'll leave. I don't need a translator and I don't need your advice about the situation."

She sat back in her chair and raised one beautifully arched eyebrow at him. He wondered how many times she had practiced that in the mirror. “
Excusez-moi
.” Her gaze flickered over the bar. “I was trying to be of assistance."

Lawson twirled the longneck again. Why was he suddenly so blessed with female help? Tapping his thumb on the bottle, he gave Yvette a charming smile. “Finish your smoke. Then we'll go back to your flat."

Zara glanced down the alley at the BMW motorcycle and its rider hidden in the shadows. Lawson had been inside the Café Toulouse for ten minutes for his meeting with his informant. She couldn't go in without showing herself to him, even if she snuck in the back door. The place was too small and too open.

She had what she wanted anyway. She'd seen his source through the window as Yvette greeted him like a lover. No wonder he hadn't wanted Zara with him. Yvette was a welcome rendezvous. How had he met her? What had the two of them worked on together before? It was obvious they shared a past.

Leaving the café's shadow, she made her way to the adjacent alley and the motorcycle rider. There were few people she trusted more than Lucie. Still, she was trying to be discreet. “I need another favor, sis."

Straight blonde hair fell in a cascade to the woman's shoulders. “
Mais oui!
Avenue Montaigne?"

"How did you know?"

Lucie laughed. “Always there is the shopping with you."

"It's not for fun. It's for work. I need dress pants and a jacket."

Lucie ran a hand through her hair and slid a helmet over it. “You know I will do anything for you, little sister."

Eight months was all that separated them. Zara climbed on the back of the bike and embraced Lucie in a strong hug. Love for the half-sister her parents chose to ignore rose in her heart.

"You are here to look for Dmitri, yes?” Lucie glanced at Zara in her small round rearview mirror. “You are okay with that? Not scared?"

Dmitri's release had made international headlines, so Zara wasn't surprised her sister knew the monster was out. Yet Lucie's question caught Zara off guard. Of the few people who knew what had happened with Dmitri, most, like her mother and father, chose to act like nothing had happened. Zara knew it was because they loved her that they couldn't stand to think about the dangers she encountered in her job, especially specific confrontations like the farmhouse.

With Lucie it was different. Lucie understood betrayal and its effects as well as Zara did. As young girls, they had secretly shared their fears, their loves, their mutual need to embrace all of life in long, handwritten letters. In her teens when Zara had fought with her parents over being a ballet star, Lucie had supported her with endless emails. As an adult, she had never shied away from talking about the dangers of Zara's job. She was the only person Zara had discussed the fear she'd felt when Dmitri had forced the gun to point at Tim. The fear when he'd turned the gun on her. Lucie was the only person to see her cry after it was over.

Registering the concern in her sister's eyes, Zara felt the sharp sting of tears behind her own. She forced a smile and threw her arms around her sister again. “I'm okay,” she said into Lucie's hair. “And I'll be even better with a new pair of shoes on my feet."

Lucie laughed and handed her a helmet. “
Entendu!
Avenue Montaigne, here we come."

Lawson walked beside Yvette as they headed south on
Rue Marbeuf
. His eyes shifted constantly behind his sunglasses, taking in the parked cars along the street, the bicycles zinging by and the other pedestrians sharing the sidewalk. Appearing to listen to Yvette's nonstop chatter as they crossed the street, he checked second-story windows and rooftops and picked out landmarks to help him remember his way back. What he'd told Zara at the hotel was true. He never got lost. Like a human version of a Global Positioning System, he had the natural ability to figure out the lay of the land and know his position in relationship to it at all times. His military training had honed the skill, giving him a definite advantage tracking and retrieving people in the field.

Yvette laughed at some joke she had made and leaned into him, putting her arm around his waist as a lover would do. Lawson rested his arm around her shoulders. He hated playing stupid games, pretending to be someone he wasn't, but it was necessary all the same in case someone was watching.

Yvette was more at ease playing the game than he was, and since she was his blue-chip asset at the moment, he would take her lead. Once he had the information on Dmitri and Vos Loo, he and Zara could sort through it and put the next stage of the op plan into play. Yvette could go back to spying for the CIA or French Intelligence or whoever the hell was paying her, and Lawson could wash the smell of her oppressive perfume from his clothes.

Halfway down the next block, Lawson heard the rumble of a bike coming up behind them.
BMW Sport
. Another skill of his, deciphering the sounds of different cycles. This one more personally satisfying. Tuning into the hum of a bike was like tuning into the hum of a woman's body when it was rocking against his own. Pure heaven on earth.

He couldn't stop his head from turning to find the bike. The black and grey machine shot past him on the street, two riders weaving around a Renault. Laughter drifted back to him. The passenger turned her head and looked over her shoulder in his direction, the ends of her blonde hair lifting and falling under her helmet.

All of Lawson's senses went on high alert. She was familiar, and even though he couldn't see her eyes because of her helmet's visor, he was sure she was staring straight at him.

Two seconds later, she and the bike were out of sight, and Yvette tugged on his arm like a child. “
Ici
, Isaac.” She motioned for him to follow her down an alley.

Lawson stared at the street where the bike had disappeared and let his mind replay the bike and passenger. The sound of her laughter ... the easy grace with which she turned and looked at him...

"Holy hell,” he muttered.

His partner was on the loose again.

[Back to Table of Contents]