Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
John blinked against the blinding lights.
He’d smelled Vivian’s perfume when they shoved her into a chair next to him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He winked. “Never better.”
From the other side of the Louis XIV desk, Jean-Michel slow-clapped. “I must applaud you, Vivian Flint. Frankly, I’m flattered to be your target.”
Goddamn, this guy had a punchable face. Lola stood behind him, placid as a frozen lake.
“All this time, Jane Davis was an American spy. Unbelievable, but that’s the point, no? I never would’ve suspected had my inside connection not tipped me off.”
Jean-Michel set three wineglasses on the table.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He poured crimson wine. “All I want are the drives, and then I shall disappear.”
Vivian said nothing, so John followed her lead.
Jean-Michel swirled a glass, then buried his nose in it. “Luscious notes of black cherry balanced by hints of chocolate and baking spices. I’m sure you’ll love it.”
He withdrew an eyedropper bottle from the desk.
“You’re quiet tonight, ma petite.” He squeezed clear drops into the glasses set before Vivian and John. “This will help. Drink up.”
“Not much of a drinker,” John said as Vivian muttered, “No thank you.”
“That was a direction, not a suggestion. It’s perfectly safe. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” He gestured to the goons standing behind him and Vivian. “Pétain and Laval are quite capable. But perhaps they should encourage you?”
One goon—Laval?—took a step toward them.
John tensed, ready to fight.
“Stop.” Vivian lifted her glass. “We’ll drink.”
Goddamn, that was delicious wine, which only made John resent him more. Vivian finished her wine first, then set the glass on the desk.
“Now what?” Vivian demanded.
“I have questions,” he said. “Where and when did we first meet?”
“The one you remember is the MOMA’s Rocksy exhibit in New York five years ago.
Our actual first meeting was at your grandmother’s funeral a year earlier.
You’d learned she’d disinherited you and were drowning your sorrows in cognac.
I attempted to seduce you, and we got as far as talking about the weather before you passed out.
My initial failed honeypot attempt is the stuff of legend at work.
” Vivian widened her eyes. “What did you put in that wine?”
“A sort of truth serum.” Jean-Michel tilted his head. “What’s your middle name?”
She sighed. “Bernardita.”
“Not Marie?” he asked.
“Nope. Bernardita. She was my great-grandmother, and she was named for her father.”
Jean-Michel glanced over his shoulder at Lola, who nodded.
“That is an unfortunate name. One more question to confirm the serum is working. Where did we have sex for the last time?”
Vivian wrinkled her forehead. “You’re awful.”
“Agreed.” Jean-Michel trailed his fingers on the desk. “Answer, please?”
“Stop.” John clutched his armrest to keep from launching himself at Jean-Michel. “This has nothing to do with the drives.”
The bastard smiled. “Speak again without my prompting and Laval will break her knees.”
“On that desk.” Vivian glared at Jean-Michel. “Can you ask about the drives already?”
He wagged his finger. “Patience. Lola, do you have questions?”
“Do you love Jean-Michel?” Lola asked.
“No,” shot from Vivian like a cannon.
Lola gestured to John. “Do you love him?”
John felt like canvas being stretched on a too-big frame.
“Yes.” She turned to lock gazes with him. “I love him. Adore him, actually. He’s the best person I know. But I worry I’ll break his heart eventually.”
His heart shifted. “You won’t.”
Jean-Michel rolled his eyes. “I may vomit. What’s your real name?”
“John Seymour.” That was a strange sensation. He usually ran what he was about to say through a filter, but the truth slipped from his lips like a pleasant burp.
Lola checked her notes and nodded.
“What annoys you about Vivian?” Jean-Michel asked.
“Her interpretation of her employer’s policy about sharing her identity was overzealous, but I get it. So, there’s nothing.”
“Truly?” Jean-Michel asked. “Not her loud laughter, appreciation for food, or the way she constantly craves physical affection?”
“Dude.” John leaned back in his chair. “Way to tell on yourself.”
“Why are we talking about this?” Vivian asked.
“Because it amuses me.” Jean-Michel rose from behind the desk, then parked his ass against its front. “When my client went to the gift shop to purchase that ridiculous doll, someone had tampered with the case. The salesgirl identified you as the last customers.”
“Is she okay?” Vivian asked. “You didn’t hurt her?”
“I’m not an animal. Where’s the drive?”
“In a secret pocket in the top flap of my purse.”
The goon behind Vivian rifled through her bag. “Got it.”
“Parfait.” Jean-Michel smirked. “And the others?”
“My boss has them,” she answered.
Jean-Michel pushed off the desk. “I’ll hold on to your boyfriend while you retrieve them. Before you go, though, a final question. Who is Rocksy?”
John’s heart quickened. Did she know?
“John, I’m sorry.” Vivian locked gazes with him. “I’m Rocksy.”
Another lie of omission. But to his surprise, he didn’t fucking care.
* * *
Vivian’s head pounded. What had she done?
“You?” Jean-Michel shook his head and smiled. “Another secret identity? My God, how do you keep track?”
Yes, her. But not just her.
Thank God the serum was wearing off. Had he asked that question first, she might not have been able to keep Torrey’s name to herself.
“Ah, but this is a genius arrangement. Produce the paintings, designate Jane Davis as the artist’s authorized authenticator, then charge obscene rates for authentication and the art itself?
Brilliant. I’m certain you’ll be happy to allow me to exclusively broker Rocksy’s sales going forward, eh, ma petite? ”
Lola cleared her throat. “If we exclusively broker, correct?”
She should watch herself. Jean-Michel never let anyone get between him and his wallet.
He patted the hand she’d draped on his shoulder. “Of course. But first, we must resolve this issue with the drives. My buyer is unhappy. If my buyer remains unhappy, people will die. Pétain, Laval, escort Ms. Flint out to recover our property. Her boyfriend stays with us.”
Vivian’s stomach squeezed.
She was outnumbered, without weapons and without friends. Her wits had been enough to save her skin before, and they’d come through for her again.
For now, all she could do was comply.
“Fiancé,” she said.
“Pardon?” Jean-Michel asked.
“John’s my fiancé.” Vivian rose from the chair. “There’ll be hell to pay if he’s harmed.”
Jean-Michel nodded. “I have no doubt. And congratulations on settling for someone.”
Christ, what an asshole. “I need my bag. It has my room key.”
“Laval, find the key, but keep the bag.” Jean-Michel steepled his fingers. “I’m sure our spy friend has weapons within it.”
Joke’s on him. Vandenberg had already stripped her of them.
The beefy goon dipped his sausage fingers into her bag. “Here.”
She took the key card, then bent to kiss John. “I’ll be back for you.”
“Take your time,” John said. “Any wine left, J.M.?”
God, she loved him. He was the best in a crisis. Inconveniences received outsized reactions from him, but any time something terrible happened—hot water heater dying, walking pneumonia, Ruckus eating a Levain chocolate chip cookie the size of his head—John was a rock.
“Tick-tock,” Jean-Michel said. “I prefer not to be in your fiancé’s company any longer than necessary.”
“Back atcha, J.M.”
Her insides chilled as the goons marched her down the stairs, through the back, past frenzied caterers, and into Jean-Michel’s limo. Its tinted windows shielded her from Hall and Rodriguez, who were sipping wine on the café’s sidewalk.
Vivian’s stomach churned like it did when she was a kid and she couldn’t force the letters to make sense.
The more she focused, the more of a jumble her brain created.
So instead of thinking, she’d breathe like those long-ago teachers had taught her.
Slow, in-two-three, then out-two-three. A fear-clouded mind wouldn’t help her or John.
At H?tel Chevalier, they flanked her as they entered, one at each elbow with their hands obviously on their guns in their pockets. After a tense elevator ride, they arrived at the penthouse.
At the door, she said, “Wait here.”
Laval snorted. “Non.”
“Armed American agents are in the penthouse.” Technically, that was true. Between her and Vandenberg, there’d be more than one agent. “Stay here. It’ll turn into a firefight if you enter. Just let me go in and get the drives. It’ll take ten minutes, tops.”
The three of them contemplated each other.
Finally Pétain nodded. “Ten minutes, then we’re coming in. And don’t close the door.”
Great. Like she needed more constraints.
She slipped into the penthouse suite, then flipped the steel mortise latch to prevent the door from fully shutting. Quietly she kicked off her shoes.
Fucking Jimmy Choos.
The spy gear they’d sorted through earlier still lay on the coffee table, along with her bag from Monte Carlo. She swept most of it into the bag but pocketed her chloroform atomizer and handkerchief. The door was open to the room they’d converted into their command center.
She knocked. “Ma’am?”
Vandenberg swiveled from the monitors that received a feed from Hall’s brooch. “Where’s John? And why didn’t you signal Hall and Rodriguez?”
Vivian closed the door. “The action went sideways. Dilettante has John. I need to borrow them to rescue him.”
“Borrow?” Vandenberg crossed her arms. “What are you thinking? You’ll run back to the party, rescue John, then fight for the drives?”
Adrenaline pounded in Vivian’s ears.
“You say that like it’s a bad plan. Wanna come with?”
“Flint.” Vandenberg shook her head. “I can’t let you endanger the world to rescue your boyfriend.”
“Fiancé,” she corrected her. “We don’t have a choice. We can’t leave an American civilian in criminals’ hands.”
Vandenberg shrugged. “Yes, we can. Sometimes there’s no good decision. Just the least bad one. And in this case, that means sacrificing one American for many.”
For an embarrassing moment, Vivian’s mouth gaped like a fish out of water.
Then she remembered who she fucking was and closed it.
“Was the mission successful?” Vandenberg asked. “Did you locate the third drive?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.” Vandenberg held out her hand.
“Jean-Michel took it from me.” In her pocket, she sprayed the handkerchief generously with the atomizer. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Vandenberg frowned. “Not good enough, Flint. I’ll alert—”
Vivian leaped at Vandenberg and clamped her chloroform-soaked handkerchief to her nose and mouth.
Ugh, of course Vandenberg was feisty. Vivian slithered behind the older woman, then tugged her down on the bed.
She pretzeled her free arm and legs around Vandenberg, tightening, tightening, until the older woman went slack.
She didn’t trust it.
Vivian kept the handkerchief pressed to her nose until Vandenberg’s body slumped into unmistakable unconscious weight. Gasping for her own breath, she rolled the woman to the side, then slipped out from under her. She left the sodden handkerchief on the woman’s face.
If Vandenberg wasn’t actually on the wrong side of things, Vivian would be fired.
Possibly charged with treason, actually.
But she needed to save John.
“Sorry for the chloroform, I mean. Not the third drive.” Vivian rifled through Vandenberg’s pockets. “He might be one American, but he’s my American, and I’m not sacrificing him for anything.”
The drives were in her front pants pocket.
Terrible hiding spot.
Vivian dipped them into the laptop on Vandenberg’s desk to verify them, and the code screen popped up. Yep, these were the real deal.
After pocketing them and Vandenberg’s phone, she eyed Vandenberg’s feet.
Business casual sneakers with arch support. Looked like size sevens, too.