Raiders of the Lost Corset (22 page)

“I don’t know any woman who’d do that.”

“Who’s Kepelov’s girlfriend? ‘Long and Leggy,’ you called her. Or ‘Short and Chubby’?”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

“Tell me her name.”

“Sorry. It’s always a different one. I haven’t met the new one. I don’t even know how he pulls them, either. It’s not his charm and beauty.” He coughed again and shook his head. He reached into the pocket of his trench coat for a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“Got a light?”

“Don’t you dare light that here,” she growled. “That’s the Eiffel Tower!”

He looked at the cigarettes, considered a moment, then put the pack away. He sighed. “You’re a little cranky today.”

“Maybe I just get that way when I’m attacked and people

search my rooms and invade my privacy. Did you ever think about that? And maybe I get cranky when I’m followed by lying thugs and jackasses. Like you.” Her one moment of freedom in Paris had been taken away by this jerk. And she vowed she would see that he suffered for it.

“This no-smoking business,” he wheezed, “is this a Yank thing?”

“No, it’s a don’t-mess-with-Lacey-Smithsonian thing. You’re not very smart, are you?”

“Don’t get personal, please. It’s not very nice.”

“Her name, Griffin. I want her name.” Lacey advanced on him and he backed up.

“He didn’t tell me. Besides, I’ve never seen this one. I’ve only heard tales.”

“What kind of tales?”

“The usual, kinky sex, that kind of thing. You know, boy stuff.

But as far as anything else goes, believe me, Smithsonian, Kepelov’s cut me right out of the loop.”

“Bull. First you say you don’t even know him, you’ve only heard of him, you’re
fwightened
of the big bad Kepelov. Then suddenly you’re buddies, partners, chums. Now you whine that your pal doesn’t
tell
you anything. Every time I see you, you have a new story. Just pick one, Griffin. And tell it to someone else.” She turned and stormed on ahead, determined to get to the top of the biggest tourist trap in town alone. If Griffin persisted in following her to the Eiffel tower, she could call security. Perhaps he’d fall off; it could happen. Perhaps she would take the stairs.
That would
kill him for sure.

He caught up with her again, breathing hard. “Wait! Please!”

“Leave me alone.”

Griffin grabbed her arm. She tried to shake him off. “Get your big fat hands off me!”

“You don’t understand,” he pleaded, gasping for breath.

Griffin ought to be in better shape,
Lacey thought. He wasn’t that old, maybe mid-thirties. He was puffing like a steam engine, but he was hanging on for dear life, she couldn’t shake off his grip.

Suddenly, the air was charged with something she couldn’t quite define and she was aware of another presence looming over them.

Griffin was suddenly wrenched away from her and Lacey found herself briefly thrown off balance.

“She said leave her alone,” a familiar deep voice said.

Oh yes. Testosterone.
That’s what Lacey had been missing. She didn’t trust her ears and she was almost afraid to look at the speaker for fear she had only imagined he was there. Her eyes glanced at the shadow of him, long and tall, with a stance that was instantly familiar. He was wearing cowboy boots and lean faded jeans, a beat-up black leather jacket, and a black turtleneck. Then she looked at his face and her heart caught in her throat.

They shared a long look that was solace to her soul, right before he hauled off and punched Griffin in his soft gut, sending the Brit sprawling on the ground beneath the Eiffel Tower.

Lacey took out her camera again and shot a handful of photographs of Griffin rolling on the pavement, clutching his guts and gasping for air. She allowed herself to savor the moment.

Then she turned to face the man in the cowboy boots.

Chapter 21

Lacey drank in the sight of Victor Donovan. From his curly dark brown hair to his well-worn boots, Donovan looked as broodingly handsome as any French movie star, but he was one-hundred-percent American. And he looked good to Lacey. Maybe too good.

She didn’t know what to say. Finally she breathed his name.

“Vic? What are you doing here?”

“Taking out the trash.” He gestured toward Griffin without taking his eyes off Lacey. The Brit was now sitting on the ground, holding his midsection. “And I do mean trash.”

“Very efficiently too.” She glanced briefly at Griffin. “Thank you.” How on earth was it possible that Vic was standing here right in front of her?

“Donovan? Bloody hell.” Griffin looked nauseous. “What the devil are you doing in Paris?”

“You never learn, Nigel,” Vic said. “You have to block that punch. Or roll with it. You can’t do either one. And you can’t run worth a damn either. You’re hopeless.”

Lacey’s eyes went wide in amazement. “You know this guy?”

she asked Vic.

Donovan just rolled his eyes, so Griffin filled the silence. “Prep school, wasn’t it, Donovan? Dear old St. Albans, back in the District. Back in the day.” Griffin seemed slightly recovered as he staggered to his feet. “You look well, old man. I’ve felt better actually.”

“Put a sock in it,” Donovan said without turning around.

“Vic! You went to prep school? With this twit?” Lacey asked.

Prep school, bastion of rich boys everywhere? And Vic?
This wasn’t possible.

“A proud wearer of the jacket and tie,” Griffin interjected.

“Both of us. I have the photographs to prove it. Somewhere. No need to show the lady the secret handshake, old man, I’ll vouch for you.”

Lacey was absorbing too much information at once. “Military school, Vic, I could believe that. But prep school? I thought you went to high school in Alexandria. A normal high school.”

Vic Donovan, the man she knew as a country boy from Northern Virginia, a military brat, a University of Colorado graduate, a former chief of police of both Sagebrush and Steamboat Springs, Colorado, and now running his father’s security consulting firm, was right at home in a trout stream, a tent, a cabin, a Jeep, a police cruiser, or on a stakeout. A regular guy, with the soul of a cop.

Lacey couldn’t picture him as a teenage preppie, wearing Top-Siders without socks, with friends named Muffy, Buffy, and Biff, not to mention Nigel Griffin. But then judging from the way Vic greeted him, they were possibly not the best of old friends. Vic wasn’t answering the prep school question. And Lacey had more pressing questions.

“How did you get here?”

“I had a ticket to Paris, Lacey. Be a shame to waste it.”

“But you didn’t want to come to Paris.” He smiled and shrugged.

“A wasted ticket? That can’t be the whole reason, can it?”

“No, that isn’t all, sweetheart.” He put his hands on his hips.

When is he ever going to put them around me
, she wondered.

“You said you hated Paris! You said everybody smokes in restaurants here! You said they let dogs smoke in restaurants here!”

“It’s true, you know,” Griffin cut in. “I believe they do. I bummed a ciggie off Fifi the poodle just yesterday at the Café les Deux Magots.” He fished his pack of smokes out of his pocket again. “Anybody got a light?”

“Put those away or I’ll hit you myself this time,” Lacey said.

“Sit, Nigel,” Vic commanded. Griffin sighed. He moved out of range of Donovan’s fists and sat down on the ground. They ignored him.

Lacey looked at Vic. “You have to tell me why. Right here. Right now.”

He took a deep breath and faced her, his green eyes alight with something she couldn’t put a name to. “You’re going to make this hard, aren’t you?”

Lacey stood her ground. This was a moment of decision and it had better be good, because her heart was in danger of breaking.

She couldn’t speak for fear she would burst into tears.

“It’s like this.” He paused, then he rushed on. “I love you, Lacey Smithsonian.”

“You do? You love me? Say that again, cowboy. Please.”

“I love you, Lacey. Because of you I came to the last place on earth I ever wanted to see again. Paris.”

“Paris is lovely,” she said, feeling a little tongue-tied. “And I — I would love to — to see Paris. With you. Now that you’re here —”

He said he loves me. Then why wouldn’t he come to Paris with me?

“Wait a minute, you’ve been here before?”

“Long time ago. Not a fond memory. And you know they let just anybody in? Like him.” Vic gestured at Griffin, slumped miserably on the ground.

“Watch the insults, mate.” Griffin struggled to his feet and poked his head in between them. “I have to say I didn’t expect to see you either, Donovan. Didn’t exactly make my day.”

Lacey shoved him and he toppled back to the ground. “Will you stop interrupting people!” She focused her attention on Vic. Her nerves were on edge, her stomach in a jumble, her heart pumping furiously. She remembered a day in the spring when Vic arrived at her apartment before dawn just so he could take her to see the cherry blossoms at sunrise at the Tidal Basin.
What happened in
Paris? Did a woman break his heart in Paris?
“And you, I thought we broke up. Didn’t we?”

“I didn’t break up with you. I said I needed to step back and take a breath.” Vic sighed heavily. “That’s all. You’re the one who got all carried away about breaking up.”

“Carried away?” Her cheeks started to burn. “I did not!” Vic stepped in, held her in his arms and kissed her, leaving her dizzy.

“You take my breath away, Lacey,” he murmured. “You always have. To tell you the truth, you scare the hell out of me.”

“Oh, you’re not supposed to tell her that, Donovan!” Griffin interjected. “You’re giving away the bloody game, mate, the Holy Grail. Women have already got the upper hand — don’t give away the whole bloody store. Men afraid of women?” Griffin smacked himself in the forehead. “Of
course
men are afraid of women!

Some little vixen’s got the great Kepelov wrapped around her finger, and now
you
, you turncoat.”

“Shut up, Nigel.” Vic glared at him.

“We were mates once,” Griffin protested. “Well, sort of mates, anyway.” Donovan held up his hand and Griffin shut up.

“You said you loved me?” Lacey said wonderingly.

“That’s right. I love you.” He said it with a trace of resignation in his voice, as if he’d been fighting it, but now he was resolved and not too unhappy about it. He smiled that slow, lazy smile that made his green eyes crinkle. She stood, momentarily mute. “And I came all the way to Paris to tell you that. I just have one problem.

I need a place to stay. Got any ideas?” She couldn’t find any words for a moment. “That’s okay, maybe a park bench. They’re nice in Paris, three stars. There’s one.”

He started to walk toward it. Lacey stopped him with a blush and took his hand. She shook her head, and Vic smiled. His smile could melt an ice cap, she thought, even the one that had chilled her heart. She almost forgot to breathe and she was trying hard to erase the irritating presence of Nigel Griffin. Here they were, she and Vic and her shadow, in the most romantic city on earth, at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. It was a scene she had never imagined, and yet now she imagined it could be even more perfect. A moment they would remember forever. A moment without Nigel Griffin.

“Vic, would you mind telling me that thing about love again at the top of the Eiffel Tower? Just the two of us?”

“Oh, good God, Donovan,” Griffin moaned, “are you going to let her lead you around by your nose like that? The great Vic Donovan? Cock of the walk, captain of the guard, and all that rot. Get to the good stuff, will you? This sentimental prologue is making me sick. If you’re talking sex, then let’s talk sex.”

“He babbles like this,” Vic said. “Always has. Shall I run him off? Or punch him again? That shuts him up for awhile.” He looked like a cat seeking permission to pounce on the rat.

She glanced at Griffin, then back to Vic. She raised an eyebrow.

“You’d do that for me?”

“Hell, yeah, darlin’,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”

Griffin retreated a few steps out of punching distance, as if he’d had years of practice at it. He dusted off his trench coat. “No more punching, mate, I can take a hint. See, I’m shutting up.” The cigarette pack came out again and he shook it and took one.

“Good, I was beginning to think you were just in this for the beatings,” Vic said.

“He’s always had a twisted sense of humor,” Griffin confided, leaning in toward Lacey. “Someday I’ll tell you all about this rogue. But for now, Smithsonian, I’m leaving the option open for our partnership. And what I wanted to tell you was —”

“Don’t hold your breath, I’d have an idiot for a partner,” she said. Vic laughed.

“Sticks and stones,” Griffin said.

“What about your buddy Gregor Kepelov?” Lacey asked.

“Oh, we were never serious about each other. Just exploring our options.” He fished a lighter out of another pocket, but it was empty. “Damn, out of fluid. It’s over between me and Kepelov, and that’s why —”

“You must have other people to bother,” Lacey said.

“No, not really. You’re my favorite this week.”

She leaned against Vic. “Can you make him stop? Without hit-ting him again?” Vic shook his head sadly.

“Go away, Nigel,” he said. “I’ll find you and beat you up properly later. Promise.”

Griffin perked up at having permission to flee. “Later, you say?

Well, my little news can wait. Wrong time, wrong place, it seems.

And you two probably deserve each other anyway. This isn’t the last of me, you know.” He took a step back. “Donovan, old man, we’ll have to catch up, old times and all that. Call on me anytime, I’m never in.” They ignored him. “Right. Later, then.”

Vic took a step toward him with his fist raised, and Griffin sprinted away. “I’ll be in touch, Smithsonian,” he shouted from a safe distance. “I’ll tell her everything, Donovan!”

Vic laughed as Griffin retreated in the distance. “Thank God he left. I thought I’d have to keep punching him.” He put his arms around Lacey, kissed her gently, and then harder. “This Paris trip is not just another fashion story, is it? Are you in some kind of trouble again?”