On The Rocks (5 page)

He kept his eyes peeled for threats,
checking to be sure no one followed him. Thankfully, he didn’t find
anyone who looked like they needed or wanted a beat down. He wasn’t
in the mood.

At the corner, he headed inside an apartment
building and climbed the steps to the second floor. The phone was
still in his hand, and as he came to number 21 he stared down at
the device. He really wanted to hear Kizzie’s voice right now. Make
sure she was okay.

Instead, Xander slipped the phone into his
pants pocket, trading it out for a house key.

Time for that long-overdue honeymoon with
the wife.

He opened the door to the flat and paused.
Luggage was everywhere, at least ten pieces with clothes spilling
out of the unzipped cases. Shoes littered the floor like a sales
day at Nordie’s.

Jesus, it was a run down the coast, not a
one-way trip to Mars.

“Nai?” he called.

No response came back. He stilled, straining
to hear the tiniest sound.

Absolute silence for too long and then a…
moan? No… a cough— nope, like a moan and a cough but with a lot
more struggle involved. What the hell was—

Ah, right.

Retching.

Toeing the door shut, he dropped his bag and
keys. Shrugged out of his coat as he stepped around the many pieces
of matching luggage, and tossed the jacket over the back of the
couch on his way to the bedroom.

The room itself was dark, but the light in
the bathroom was on. Naima was on the floor bent over the porcelain
god and speaking in tongues. She lurched forward, body locked in a
curl. When nothing came, she panted, spit, and then an
uninterrupted moan scratched out of her throat. Forearms crossed
over the bowl, she dropped her forehead and focused on breathing,
nice and slow. In and out. The heaving under control, she angled to
look up at him.

“Welcome home, luv.”

Damn.

Her face was a shade of red reserved for
fire engines and stoplights. Her nose was runny, and tear tracks
streaked down her pale cheeks. Her short black hair, usually in
chic waves, stood straight out like she hadn’t touched it since
he’d seen her almost two weeks before.

This wasn’t good.

Xander ran a hand towel under cold water and
wrung it out. Wiped her forehead and cheeks. Went back for fresh
water.

Her eyes closed and she hummed as the cool
cloth passed over her skin.

“Do stop looking at me like that,” she said
without lifting her lids.

He wiped over the nape of her neck. “Like
what?”

Like you’re going to die any minute? ‘Cause
you really look like you’re gonna die any minute…

A grimace crossed over his face. He was
hoping to knock this whole honeymoon thing out and maybe get back
to Kizzie. But they’d have to do this another time. Naima couldn’t
travel, and if she couldn’t travel, she damn sure couldn’t do
anything else.

Naima pushed herself back and flushed the
toilet. He helped her to her feet and she went to the sink to wash
her hands.

“Like you’re going to cancel this and make
me stay home,” she finally answered. “I’m fine.”

“Fine…” he echoed. She slid him a sideways
glance and he raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, you say you’re
fine, you’re fine. But we’re canceling.”

She gargled with mouthwash and spit it out
into the sink. Marched out of the bathroom. Back in the living room
she snatched up two hangers and compared the outfits with
thoughtful hums.

“Boat neck,” she flashed one white frock,
then presented the other, “or cowl neck?”

A deep exhale. Xander took both dresses and
tossed them aside. Eased her down onto the couch. “Nai…”

“I’ve got a present for you,” she said,
staving off the inevitable conversation. “Just heard from
Matt.”

She pointed to the coffee table. The corner
of a yellow legal pad peeked out from beneath the skirt of a blue
satin gown with an open box of shoes atop it.

Xander freed the pad from its shimmery
prison and read the notes in Naima’s elegant hand:
Mexico City.
7 August
.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He
glanced at her, and then down at the notepad again.

If Lennox Tate was in Mexico City only two
days ago, then Mexico trumped Monaco as the next destination. The
exhaustion fell away and he pulled out his phone to call Phil.

“Is he still there?”

She shook her head. “Killed a brothel owner
and skipped town.” She shifted, curling her feet beneath her and
leaning back into the couch. Slow swallow. Slow inhale. “Missed him
by thirty…forty minutes.”

Always by minutes.

Xander muttered a curse and tossed the phone
and notebook onto the mess covering the coffee table. Scrubbed his
hands over his face. He was tired of chasing a ghost.

In more ways than one.

Tate was personal. Had it been anyone else
he’d have told them to stay on task, and so he’d better take his
own advice. With effort, he forced his attention back to the matter
at hand. To the pregnant woman willing to put herself at risk for a
reason he couldn’t comprehend.

“Nai—”

“I’ll go without you if I have to, luv,” she
cut in, “but I
will
get my honeymoon.”

“It can wait.”

It couldn’t.

“You’re lying. We both know these things
move fast once the ball gets rolling.” Her eyes were too bright and
watery, and she looked away.

Shit.

Just like he’d thought, this wasn’t about
the trip at all. This was much deeper.

“And even if it can,
I
can’t.” She
sniffed. Whispered, “I’m so very sick of Paris.”

“Who gets sick of Paris? City of lights.
Amazing food. Adventure around every turn. All the reasons you told
me you wanted to stay here.”

“It’s still all those things. But it’s a
dreadful place when you’re lonely.” Her gaze held his. “And bored.
Christ, am I bored…

“The other day I’m waitin’ in the queue to
see the Mona Lisa for, what, the fiftieth time, right? And it hits
me: Who the fuck
cares
why she’s smilin’? And why the fuck
am I spendin’ another pence on the sneaky tart? Ain’t like she’s
gonna whisper her secrets in my ear is it?”

Xander chuckled.

“You blokes are off ‘avin’ all the fun,
trav’lin the world and I’m here like… Cinderella. Scrubbin’ the
floors and darnin’ socks.” She sighed heavily. “Point is, I worked
hard on this, so
I
deserve to go to the ball. Dance with the
prince— wait, there was prince in that one, wasn't there?”

Xander nodded. “You’ve never seen
Cinderella?”

Naima shook her head. “Seen a bit. Heard
enough about it to get the gist. I grew up on slasher flicks and
horror films. That’s why I don’t like dead bodies. Always expect
them to come back to life… Where was I?”

“Dance with the prince.”

“Right. I want to dance with the prince an’
wear the glass slipp’ah.” She leaned forward and snagged a strappy
heel from the open box on the coffee table. “Or at least this one.
Cute, inn’it?”

Motioning to her belly she said, “Cause
unless it’s a boy, there’ll be no more balls for me after this. Not
for a long, long while.”

Naima held the pointy heel in her fist and
twirled the shoe around and around the slim axis. “But it’s your
show now, luv. If you say it’s off, it’s off.” She snorted. “Bet
Phil’ll be happy. He wasn’t thrilled about you and I in the first
place, was he?”

She pushed off the couch and returned the
shoe to the box it had come from. With great care, she folded the
lining paper in on both sides and replaced the lid.

Then it was on to the clothes. She plucked
up a hanger and shook it so the dress it held fell properly.
Another hanger and she repeated the process, then stacked them side
by side in her dainty hand.

Xander sighed and shook his head. Phil was
going to give him so much shit for this.

“Go take a nap,” Xander said, his voice
gruff. He unfolded from the couch and pointed toward the bedroom.
“Go. Phil will be here in thirty.”

Damn, he didn’t like this, but they really
didn’t have a choice. Well, the choice he wanted had stayed in
Virginia… He’d have to trust Naima wouldn’t overdo it. Wouldn’t put
herself or the baby at risk. Or further risk.

Naima paused with the hangers in hand, her
brows bunched together. She blinked. Once. Twice. Again, quickly,
until her dark eyes went glassy and tears rolled down her
cheeks.

“Ah, hell—”

“No no no!” One hand waved maniacally while
she awkwardly lifted the hangers to dab at her cheeks with the
other. “These are just pregnancy tears. Happens when I burn toast,
too. Or when I get the lid off a sauce jar all by myself.”

Chuckling, Xander pulled the clothes from
her hand. “I’m gonna ride you about taking care of yourself,
okay?”

She nodded quickly.

“Phil, too,” he warned. “And you know how
prickly he is.”

More nodding, this time with a brilliant
smile that made those tears sparkle. She threw her arms wide and
slammed her small frame against his much larger body. “Thank
you.”

Too early for the gratitude. They had to get
on the other side of this thing first.

“This baby girl’s gonna have you wrapped
‘round her little finger some day,” she mumbled against his
chest.

“A girl?” He stroked his palm down her
back.

She nodded. “Found out last week. Just
couldn’t take not knowing any longer.”

A baby girl. Who would look and sound just
like the little woman he held in his arms.

“You'll finally have to watch Cinderella.”
Her body shook with laughter and he smiled. “Where’s your
ring?”

“At the computer.”

“All right. Nap. Now.”

Arms still around his waist, Naima angled
away. Her head craned left then right. “But I’m not pa—”

“Go, before I change my mind.”

She snapped off a formal salute. “Yes, sir.”
Tossed him a wink. Then she sobered. “Luv?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Moments later, he heard her climbing onto
the bed and he let out a sigh. This trip had to go well, and she
had to stay safe. If anything happened to her, to
them
, he’d
lose his mind.

Against his better judgment, Xander picked
up both white dresses and helped his wife overpack.

Harlem, New York

“MAKE A HOLE!” Kizzie screamed, darting in
and out of the wall of people coming at her on the street. Instead
of moving aside the bodies froze, awaiting her approach like pins
for a bowling ball. “Hole!”

What was this, Target on Black Friday with
laptops going for a penny?

Four strides and a million gawkers ahead,
the sidewalk ran out, concrete melding into blacktop. The light
changed in her favor, and that little green dude did the running
man in his square cage. Kizzie pumped her arms, digging deep to put
some distance between her and the guy on her tail. Her boot landed
in the street at the same time an old Corolla screeched to a halt
at the curb, wheels angled hard to bend the corner.

“Shit.”

Too late to course correct, she tucked her
shoulder and head as her thigh slammed into the front panel.
Momentum sent her hopscotching at mach 1 across the battered hood;
shoulder smacked first, then the rucksack dug into her spine, then
her low back hit the fender’s unforgiving edge. She melted off the
other side, stumbled forward a few paces in her Timberlands. Risked
a glance behind her.

The driver leaned out of his window,
red-faced and spitting, calling her a few names that were fighting
words no matter which ‘hood she found herself in. But she didn’t
have the time. She had to get moving.

Then her gaze flew to the ground and she
cursed.

The black ball cap lay in the street near
the hoopty’s front tire. She hadn’t even felt it come off with the
crash.

Leave it.

“Stop! Stop that woman!”

Kizzie’s head snapped up. Her pursuer neared
the corner, pointing and yelling.

Go! It’s just a stupid
hat
!

She planted hard, thick sole crunching
gravel.

Fine damned time to get sentimental,
Baldwin…

Eyes on the guy chasing her, Kizzie hustled
back and swiped up the cap. Her knuckles scraped the asphalt just
as her stalker landed on the far side of the car.

Brim crushed in her fist, it was off to the
races again. She bolted across the blacktop, legs driving hard,
heart going harder.

“Hole!” she screamed at a group of onlookers
loaded down with shopping bags. Again with the statues, and her
attempt at civility fled. “Goddammit, move!”

Maybe she should scream fire. Or shark.
People moved for shark. ‘Hole,’ not so much…

“Stop! Thief!”

Note to self: In post-9/11 New York, “thief”
trumps “fire” and “shark” tenfold.

The effect was immediate. Hands snagged her
rucksack and jerked her to a halt. She spun and let her elbow fly.
It crunched into the chin those hands belonged to and the scuffle
was over before it had begun.

Kizzie never saw the person she’d assaulted,
but the tangle slowed her down. Her thigh throbbed. A sharp ache
raced up into her hip and lanced like lightning back down to her
knee. And her ankle had a bit of a twinge.

The footsteps behind her were closer.
Louder.

Another risky peek. The man was gaining
fast.

Sheesh, he shouldn’t be involved in whatever
nefarious scheme had him chasing her through downtown Harlem. Usain
Bolt here should be off training for the friggin’ Olympics!

Grunting through the pain, Kizzie got her
boots going top speed again.

Another cross street loomed half a block
ahead, much larger than the one she’d just catapulted over. She
approached it fast, but unless she was up for a game of Frogger,
staying straight wasn’t an option.