I'd Rather be in Paris Page 6

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

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  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 Amfreakingbassador 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 h
er 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.

  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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  Chapter Eight

  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 sta
rving 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."