French Kiss Part 10

Maybe she should just lie back-literally and figuratively- and give in to the prevailing culture.

Eighteen.

He didn't say, wow, when he came to pick her up for dinner, but she saw it in his eyes and decided the much-too-expensive dress she'd bought was worth every euro.

But he did say, "You look good in green," which she already knew, because she had green eyes, and this dress matched them exactly.

"Thanks, you look good in"-she was going to say anything, but censored herself-"that shade of blue." His s.h.i.+rt made the gray of his eyes look less cool. Or maybe it was his smile that did that.

"I'm told the color's called gentian."

Nicky flicked a hand over the front of her short, flirty dress. "Pistachio."

"Definitely good enough to eat," he murmured, holding her gaze.

Jordi came racing up, defusing the rising heat that seemed to have reached flash point in mere seconds. "Daddy! Daddy! Look at me! Vernie says I look like a princess!"

Johnny spun around and did a dramatic double take that evoked a giggle from his daughter. "At your service, princess," he said, sweeping her a bow. "And is this the queen?" he asked, smiling at Vernie who had dressed for the occasion.

"I prefer empress."

Nicky wasn't sure she didn't mean it. Vernie looked serious, and she was wearing real jewelry along with an evening purse that hung from one of those distinctive Chanel chains.

Johnny grinned. "Empress sounds fine to me, Vernie. You run the show better than anyone I know."

"Years of practice, young man," Vernie replied with a wink. "Just remember to remind me of my two-martini limit. You forgot last time."

"With good reason," Johnny drolly noted. "No way I'm going to cross you after two martinis."

"I'll do it," Jordi piped up. "I'm not scared."

Vernie smiled. "I'm counting on you, then, sweetie. Especially if we're going to get up early and go to that cafe that serves those strawberry crepes you like. I need my rest." She tapped her wrist-watch and glanced at Johnny. "We'd better go. You know how long it takes to eat in France. Come along, Jordi, we'll lead the way."

"Vernie keeps everyone in line," Johnny murmured with a smile, as he and Nicky fell in behind. "She's good for Jordi. I'm a little too lax about rules."

On the few occasions Nicky had seen Jordi with her dad, there had been no rules in evidence. Johnny was the archetype of doting dads. "Rules or not, Jordi seems to like Vernie."

"Oh, yeah. They're buds. Vernie comes to stay with us from time to time, so Jordi doesn't just see her at Lisa's."

"You're a lucky guy."

He shot her a look.

"What? I meant finding a nanny you like. Don't look at me like that. It was a perfectly innocuous remark." Her gaze narrowed. "You're superst.i.tious."

"Let's just say I don't like to tempt fate. When it comes to luck, I've had more than my share."

"And you don't want me to hex you."

He shrugged. "I suppose. Life's too unpredictable."

She wanted to say, the kind of life he'd led was more unpredictable than most, what with traveling around the world constan tl y, and paparazzi going through your garbage on a regular basis, not to mention your love life being splashed across the pages of every tabloid on the planet. "It can be, can't it?" she politely said instead, because he was taking her out to a real nice place for dinner and their heated kiss a short time ago was likely to lead to maybe another kiss or two la ter tonight. And she was currentl y feeling as though Jordi wasn't the only princess in the crowd. Right now, she was empathizing with Cinderella big-time.

Nineteen.

Dinner was everything it should be at a Michelin three-star restaurant that catered to presidents and rock stars and moguls. The chef was one of the famous super-chefs who had said a short time ago, "I have nothing more to prove. I no longer want to be bothered by restaurant guide books. I just want to please myself and my customers," and he'd opened a restaurant without the glamorous trappings, but with the same perfectly executed meals. He knew Johnny personally, their rapport when he came over to their table was that of two men who moved in the same celebrity circles.

For Nicky, the culture shock of such a sophisticated menu was mitigated by Vernie's down-to-earth conversation and Jordi's comments about icky foie gras that she was no way going to eat, and when could she have some of that chocolate cake she'd had last time they were here. For those who could afford it, the homey little bistro was just another neighborhood cafe, with the exception of the limos and bodyguards outside.

Nicky had to admit, the people-watching practically gave her whiplash. There was a table of generals from some South American country, the glitter of their medals blinding, their consumption of champagne prodigious. A discreet corner table held an older married movie star of considerable fame and a young-enough-to-be-his-granddaughter ingenue playing kissy-face over their coffee and port. Get a room, Nicky was thinking. Then there was the table of Brits, most of whom had been in the news lately as diplomats trying to deal with the Iranians and their nuclear ambitions. Cable news was really a remarkable font of information. It seemed as though she knew them personally. The Parisians who had come to dine were quiet and refined, taking their time over each course, discussing wines with a nuanced expertise (she could hear the ones behind her) and in general trying to ignore the tourists.

She ate too much, but how could one refuse such beautiful food? The fact that the menu didn't have any prices made her a little nervous, but Jordi was ordering one of everything, and Johnny didn't seem to mind, so she figured she could order a couple extra things, too. Like two desserts because it was impossible to narrow the list down to any less.

Jordi forgot to stop Vernie from having a third martini, although Johnny and Nicky exchanged a look as she ordered it.

He mouthed, no way, and grinned.

Nicky smiled back and then kept her eyes on her dessert. She sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to make any waves.

They ate faster than most, thanks to Vernie, who didn't brook leisurely meals, and after coffee and some excellent port, they returned to their limo, which was waiting outside. Johnny's bodyguards had been dispensed with, now that his crisis with Lisa was over. Ensconced in the luxurious backseat, Nicky listened as Jordi, seated on her father's lap, pointed out all the monuments of note on their return to the hotel.

The only monument from her childhood in Black Duck was the twenty-foot-long fibergla.s.s Muskie wearing a saddle at the Conoco station. Not that it wasn't impressive to anyone under the age of twelve. She must have ridden it a million times. It just didn't ring with the same cultural resonance as the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe or Cleopatra's Needle, which had been stolen from Egypt by Napoleon. (Jordi even knew that. Such were the hands-on history lessons of children of wealth.) As Nicky was musing about the vast gulf that separated her childhood from Jordi's, and not entirely sure whether she was envious or not, the car came to a stop in front of the hotel. No time for a therapist now. Not that they ever told you anything anyway. They just took your money and nodded their heads at appropriate times. And she knew of what she spoke, since she'd paid for four sessions-with borrowed money from her sister-in the aftermath of Theo's flight.

Johnny leaned over and murmured, "Let me get these two to sleep"-he nodded at Vernie, who was dozing across from them-"and we can go somewhere for a nightcap."

"Vernie said I can watch a movie before I go to sleep," Jordi proclaimed, tugging on her father's s.h.i.+rt collar.

"Not a problem, baby." Meeting Nicky's gaze above his daughter's head, he mouthed, Wait for me.

She smiled and nodded. Maybe she should have played hard to get. Maybe if she'd not been utterly infatuated, she might have.

He gave her a dazzling smile that warmed her clear down to her toes in their new, peony pink stilettos. And as he helped her out of the limo and escorted them through the hotel lobby, the phrase walking on air would have been an apt and fitting description for Nicky's mood.

They parted at the door to her room, everyone waving at everyone else, and she surrept.i.tiously watched them through her half-closed door as they traveled the several yards farther to their suite at the end of the corridor.

CAN YOU BELIEVE IT????? a little voice inside her head was screaming.

JOHNNY PATRICK-THE ONE AND ONLY s.e.xIEST MAN ALIVE!!!

COMING TO SEE ME!!!!!.

As the trio disappeared from sight, she shut her door, leaned back against it, and trembled. Which would never do.

She had to remain calm, or she'd embarra.s.s herself completely.

"He's just another man, for G.o.d's sake," she told herself, speaking out loud and slowly in an effort to compose herself.

ARE YOU KIDDING? that little voice hysterically exclaimed.

He's just another man, like the Pope is just another German, or Lincoln was just another lawyer, or Bill Clinton was just another devotee of Krispy Kremes, or-you get the picture.

And what was really freaking her out, besides Johnny's celebrity, was the fact that she'd forgotten to buy some really s.e.xy lingerie. She'd been in such a rush to find a dress and shoes and get back to the hotel in time that she'd totally forgotten she only had unbelievably plain cotton underwear! f.u.c.k.

Maybe she could pretend she never wore underwear.

Maybe she'd just go without.

Ee-eew. If they went for a nightcap like he'd said, she'd probably end up getting all hot and bothered, and she'd leave a stain on the back of her skirt. That would be f.u.c.king embarra.s.sing. She'd have to walk out of the bar backwards. Even in a nice hotel like this, she didn't suppose the concierge could find her some s.e.xy silk undies at this time of night. Such a request might be outside the realm of their duties.

So she'd apologize for her cotton underwear, or maybe she'd act like a mature adult and say nothing at all.

In the end, she decided to do nothing. It was just easier.

Let him figure it out for himself.

And knowing his record with women, he'd probably seen it all, from thongs to chast.i.ty belts. There actually had been that story that everyone had denied about him and that nun in Italy. Even the Vatican had weighed in.

Now, that was notoriety.

After something like that, how could she possibly do anything wrong? So screw it. She was going to see what the minibar had in the way of drinks. She could use one.

Twenty.

She opened one of those teeny, tiny bottles of champagne that probably cost a fortune and drank it in two gulps. Luckily she wasn't paying for the minibar. And on that note, she took out the other teeny, tiny bottle and sipped it more leisurely. In three gulps.

She needed them for tranquilizers. Okay?

Although she supposed that was the oldest excuse in the book-like I need a drink to calm myself down or make my very bad day better, or some other lame reason for over-imbibing.

But in her case, it was true. A tranquilizer was crucial.

Because she didn't get a chance to be with Johnny Patrick or a Johnny Patrick type every day of the week-or, honestly... ever.

Champagne or not, though, she was still wired. Needing distraction, she flicked on the TV and ended up watching Sky News because it was the only channel besides CNN in English. Even better, they were airing a program on Scottish architecture. Was this her lucky night-in more ways than one-or what? She loved Scottish architecture.

After raiding the minifridge a couple more times-chocolate was her comfort food when sh e was stressed-she was eating th e last truffle from the pretty box tied with a blue ribbon when she practically leaped from her chair at the knock.

Could it be that she needed a really heavy-duty pharmaceutical-grade tranquilizer to calm her?

Better planning would be her mantra in the future. Bereft of that pharmaceutical option at the moment, however, her only choice was to at least give an appearance of calm. She smiled pleasantly but not effusively as she opened the door, holding her hands behind her back to hide their tremor. "Jordi must be sleeping." Oh, Christ, was that a vacuous remark, or what?

He seemed not to notice. "Yep. Fast asleep. Vernie, too." He smiled. "I'm free for the night."

He shouldn't have said that "free for the night" line in that soft, husky tone. It was an instant trigger for a flood of highly creative, salacious images to inundate her mind. All of which she resolutely tried to ignore. But a couple of the better ones wouldn't disappear-like the one with Johnny's powerful, nude body poised over hers just before- STOP! GET A GRIP!

Oh, s.h.i.+t-he must have said something. He was looking at her expectantly.

"Sorry, I was thinking about the great dinner we had," she lied, the bedroom scene in her head resisting her best efforts to dismiss it.

"I was just asking if you wanted to go somewhere for a drink?"

He was leaning against the doorjamb looking s.e.xy as h.e.l.l, and his cool, wolfish eyes were asking something else entirely. That look suddenly brought her to one of those forks in the road- you know... where one made moral choices (the increasingly compelling nature of the bedroom scene in her head putting her at a disadvantage).

Where questions of virtue had to be addressed. (Ditto, above.) On the other hand this wasn't the nineteenth century, women were liberated what with birth control and credible professions and salaries. Thank G.o.d for a voice of reason. Although, liberated or not, she still wasn't completely off the hook-morality wise.

What the h.e.l.l, she decided, if she had to worry about vi rtu e, he might as well, too. "It's up to you," she said, throwing the ball back into his court.

"Then I'll come in."

The man had no trouble making decisions. "Be my guest," she said, waving him in, giving herself points for handling things with her usual evasion. So it was a bad habit. She'd deal with it tomorrow.

As he eased past, he leaned over and lightly brushed her lips with his.

Was that one of those casual European h.e.l.los, or was that an actual kiss? she wondered. Her body apparen tl y preferred the kiss option, because it instan tl y began revving up-every lit tl e cell sending out heated, pa.s.sionate messages of antic.i.p.ation.

"Mind if I order a cognac?" he asked, moving toward the phone on the desk in the sitting room.

It was a question that obviously didn't require an answer. It also suggested he wasn't in a big hurry, which meant she would be wise to discipline her s.e.xual synapses to show a tad more restraint. "I'll have one, too," she said, like she drank cognac every day, like she drank it at all. Like she might actually have s.e.xual restraint.

Tossing her a smile over his shoulder, he punched the room service b.u.t.ton and ordered a bottle.

While she was debating where to sit and what to say, as well as seriously trying to curb her restive desires with his kiss still tingling on her lips, he sat down on the couch, leaned back, and spread his arms along the top in a relaxed pose. "This is the first time I've been able to kick back since we took off from San Francisco. Come on over." He patted the back of the seat. "Sit down. Talk to me."

He'd been here before, she was guessing. That was definitely not the hard sell.

She didn't have to worry about resisting a s.e.x fiend from the looks of it. In her current mood, she wasn't sure that was entirely good. Although, a man like Johnny probably didn't have to come on too strong. All he had to do was sit back and wait.

She should probably attempt an equal maturity and not fling herself at him like some groupie. Which meant stanching her baser impulses.

"What movie did Jordi watch?" she asked, sitting down, leaving a comfortable s.p.a.ce between them, pleased to hear herself sound calm as a cuc.u.mber. Maybe she could play hard to get, too.