Jennifer Rardin - [Jaz Parks 1] - Once Bitten Twice Shy Read online

  This hall contained a long bench on one side and a bank of windows on the other. The view must've been spectacular during the day as, I supposed, it looked out on several acres of lawn. The wall behind the bench held a rectangular, spotlighted painting of a whole passel of naked Egyptian serving girls bringing gifts of gold, food and wild, caged animals to the Pharaoh, who looked very happy to see them all.

  There were no stairs at the other end of this hall, just a huge oval mirror with a fancy gold frame. I shared a troubled look with myself as I recalled the brownout I'd just experienced. The thought made me nauseous, so I tossed it away, forced myself to concentrate on the job.

  "The job, the job, the job, the job," I whispered, until I realized what I was doing and bit the inside of my cheek. I turned right at the mirror and, as expected, found myself in the men's bathroom hallway. Again I encountered two sets of locked doors. At the men's room I made as if to go in, pretended to realize it wasn't the room I wanted and feigned embarrassment as I hurried past the front sitting area to the women's bathroom.

  This time I went in. The room consisted of a small lounge decorated with diamond patterned wallpaper, a red velvet chaise and a massive potted fern. The commode sat in its own little claustrophobic's nightmare of a closet, and the claw-footed tub and floor-to-ceiling shower shared another room with an entire wall of four sinks.

  Looking to waste the expected amount of time, I washed my hands and fiddled with my hair. Someone else came in, so I turned to leave, a polite smile fixed on my face. It must've fallen right off in my shock at finding I was sharing the bathroom with a man, who looked as shaken as I felt.

  "Sorry," he said, raking his fingers through his thick, blonde mop of hair, "I know the guys are supposed to use the toilet across the way, but I was sure they'd find me there."

  "Well, they'll probably find you here too as soon as the rumor gets around that a guy is hiding in the ladies room." I studied his face as I spoke, and immediately liked what I saw. He had that fresh-out-of-college look that makes you think maybe the world's not such a pit after all. He wore a black tux with a red bow tie, red cummerbund and matching red canvas high tops. And he was chewing bubble gum.

  I'd seen smiles like his a few times before. The message was clear—if you don't love me yet, you will soon. But such honest humor accompanied it that no way could it offend me. "Aw, come on," he said, "I can tell you're not a gossip. Help me out here. I'm not a pervert, just a party crasher." I almost believed him. But his eyes darted away from mine at just the wrong time. He hadn't been lying nearly as long as I'd been catching liars.

  "So what's the deal, do you fill up on olives and cheese cubes and then run?"

  "Something like that."

  "Bullshit." The shock on his face was comical. Apparently he'd never heard a grown woman swear. "Tell me why you're really here before I bypass the guards and call the police."

  He took a moment to ponder the wisdom of telling a total stranger, no less one with a potty-mouth, the truth. "You know, most people buy my schtick."

  "I'm not most people."

  "No doubt." The look he gave me combined equal parts respect and flirtation. Yeah, I was flattered, but I didn't let it show. I was too busy hiding a bemused smile as he blew a perfect purple bubble, popped and retrieved it. He gave me an apologetic grin. "My last girlfriend was a smoker who thought it would be fun to corrupt me. The gum helps kill the nicotine cravings."

  "Good idea. Now quit trying to distract me and fess up."

  "Okay, here's the deal. I'm a private investigator. Mostly I look into insurance fraud. But I know Amanda Assan from way back. We were friends when she still had a gap between her front teeth and permanently scraped knees. That was before her mom decided she'd never be happy until Amanda had won every Little Miss Beautiful pageant from here to Tallahassee." His disgust for Amanda's mother made me see her clearly. A bitter, middle-aged divorcee with more chins than sense. Poor Amanda, she'd probably thought she was breaking free when she married Assan.

  He went on, "Anyway, Amanda called and asked me to investigate the secret doings of her hubby. That is, who he's doing secretly."

  "Isn't this kind of a public forum for a private investigation?" I asked, mostly to cover my disappointment in him for trying to put one by me, and in me for thinking anyone over the age of ten could survive this world with any part of their innocence intact.

  "Yeah, but you can learn a lot about a guy by watching him at an event like this. People who have stuff to hide never think they're giving themselves away, but it's often obvious to anyone who pays attention."

  "And I take it someone's been paying too much attention to you?" I couldn't help but laugh at the face he made. It belonged on a five-year-old who's just been caught drinking Mountain Dew for breakfast.

  "I screwed up royally," he admitted. "Assan noticed me having a conversation with his wife a few minutes ago, and now his goons are chasing me all over the house to find out why."

  "It must've been a pretty intense conversation."

  "She was crying."

  Amateurs. "All right," I said, "let's get you out of the house, shall we?"

  His eyes lit up like I'd just promised to buy him a pony for his birthday. "You're going to help me? That's great! Oh man, I can't thank you enough!" The grin resurfaced. "You like me, don't you?"

  Good Lord, he must have more first-date sex than George Clooney! "Yeah, that's why I'm helping. I find you absolutely irresistible. What's your name?"

  "Cole Bemont." He held out his hand so I shook it. At least his grip was firm.

  "Lucille Robinson," I said. "Now, here's what we do. You and I will find a back way out of this place. If we come across someone else we make like a couple of lovesick teenagers. People generally hurry past heavy breathers. I get you to the parking lot, you get the hell out. Got it?"

  He nodded. "There's just one thing I've got to do before we go," he said. Before I could inquire he grabbed me and planted a kiss square on my mouth. It was short but fiery, despite the grape flavoring, and when he let me go I was panting.

  "Holy crap!"

  He smiled, not at all apologetically, and said, "I've wanted to do that ever since I saw my first Bond movie."

  I nodded. "Well, you have excellent timing. Now, shall we go?" He gave me a courtly bow. "After you, Madame." I opened the door, scanned the area and closed it again. "Goon at the bottom of the stairs making his way up," I told Cole. "Change of plan. You wait here while I divert him. As soon as his back is turned go down this hall, take a left. Go straight down the stairs to the kitchen and outside. Got it?"

  To Cole's credit he stayed nice and calm. "Got it." I hesitated. Aw, what the hell. I took him by the lapels and pulled him in for a second helping. This kiss was even better than the first and I hated to cut it short. But duty called. I wrenched the door open and stepped into the hall. Cole's goon was at the landing. I started toward the stairs, timing it so he'd be two steps below me when I tripped into him. Jerry Lewis couldn't have done it any better. I squealed to get his attention, my hands flew up, though I made sure to keep a tight grip on my bag, and I fell right into his arms, turning him as he caught me so his back was to the bathroom. I gasped and babbled long enough for Cole to sneak out of the bathroom and down the hall.

  "Oh, thank you so much," I told the guard, straightening his jacket and dusting him off as if I'd dumped a bowl of baby powder on his shoulders. Though I kept my focus on the guard, pouring on the charm so thick you'd need a foghorn to navigate it, I still kept a peripheral eye on Cole. He'd nearly made it to his first turn when a door opened beside him. Cole paused, said something, and the door closed immediately. He shrugged, went on his way, and I blessed the guard's heart one last time before heading down the rest of the stairs.

  I found Vayl in the room adjacent to the front hall. It might've been called a parlor in another century. He held my drink with one hand while he nibbled off an appetizer buffet with the other.

  "Darling," h
e said, holding out my drink, "you must try this pate'. I think it is the best I have ever tasted."

  I smiled, took the glass and headed toward the end of the cloth-covered table. Vayl followed closely, too closely. I stopped short and he nearly mowed me over. Turning to face him, I laughed lightly, but under my breath I said, "Are you sniffing me?"

  His expression could've been chipped from granite for all it gave away, but his eyes had gone a stormy grayish-blue. "Who kissed you?" he hissed. "And who else hugged you?"

  "What makes you think I've been making out with two different men?" I turned to get a plate, fork and napkin, then walked to the opposite end of the buffet, forcing Vayl to dodge several couples and a white-coated caterer to keep up with me.

  "Two distinct scents cover your own," Vayl whispered when I finally stopped long enough to spoon some mini-sausages onto my plate. "And what is left of your lipstick is smudged."

  I made my smile icy as January rain as I wiped my lips clean with my napkin. "It's a long story," I said, "and we have a job to do." I spooned more goodies onto my plate while Vayl waited for a couple of B-movie stars to clear out. He added more stuff to my plate as he continued our murmured conversation.

  "Oh yes, we are working tonight, aren't we?" Vayl and sarcasm went too well together. The mix made me want to punch something. I settled for stabbing a bowl of caviar repeatedly with a serving spoon. Vayl watched me beat the fish eggs into submission as he continued, "The security system will be easily compromised. The guards, well, we will have to watch them more, get a sense of their movements even though the party will take them somewhat out of their normal routine. That is, unless you would rather pop out an uzi and mow them all down right here."

  I glared at him. But I was more mad at myself. I did seem to be developing a tendency to jump first and hope for a parachute later.

  "Talk," he demanded.

  I retreated to a corner beside a tall, potted fichus and stuffed sautéed mushrooms down my throat while I tried to figure out how to make what I'd just done sound remotely logical. I shook my head. Once I'd been a sensible person. Now, well, there's just no explaining me. At least not without using words like "insane," "stupid," or "Night-time Nyquil."

  Vayl came in close, towering over me like a grade school principal. I looked up at him and swallowed a grape in one guilty gulp. "Can we have this conversation never?"

  "What. Happened."

  So I told him—everything—start to finish. And damned if it didn't come out sounding like an episode of Nancy Drew.

  "So, do you make a habit of kissing strange men in bathrooms?" Vayl's eyes had darkened to jade with swirling gold flecks that made me slightly dizzy. When I didn't immediately reply he added, "Because it certainly was not mentioned in your file."

  What is it about the people who know you best? You never reveal to them the secret location of your make-me-crazy buttons and yet, like toddlers at preschool, they root them out and push them again and again and again. Mine are directly connected to hand grenades. So as soon as Vayl finished speaking I heard the tell-tale clatter of a pin rattling on the floor. My file? I wish it was in my hands right now. I'd smack you over the head with it so hard your bell would still be ringing for church next Saturday night!

  Then I'd clonk myself, hard, on the frontal lobe. Maybe that would cure me, and I would never again have to be embarrassed by what we in the C.I.A. like to call my PDD (Previous Dumbass Decisions). However I was not done digging my grave.

  "I don't make a habit of kissing anybody thanks to you!" Realizing Freud would have a field day with that statement, I rushed on. "It was a spontaneous action, something I'm sure you have no experience with, and though as my boss I can see how you might be upset that I helped him considering what we're here for, you might also congratulate me for defusing a situation that might've interfered with our plan."

  "Do you think these two men will remember you?"

  "I sure as hell hope so!"

  "So when the police investigate Assan's passing tomorrow morning, and they question everyone whose invitation lies in that lacy little basket and cannot find Lucille Robinson, these men will be able to describe you quite easily?"

  My stomach clenched and all the food I'd just wolfed down spontaneously combusted. "Hey, when you're done lecturing me, could you speak to my ulcers? They seem to be misbehaving as well."

  Vayl took my plate in one hand and my arm in the other, marched us both to the garbage can where he chose to dump the plate (though I'm sure he considered leaving me there instead). Then he escorted me out of the parlor, into the dining room and out an ornate metal-framed screen door to the pool area.

  "Uh, Vayl, I know you haven't lived in America long by your count, so I'd just like to point out that bosses don't generally drown their subordinates when they've screwed up royally."

  He grabbed my right hand and brushed his thumb across my empty ring finger. The corners of his mouth dropped, what in anyone else would be described as a grimace. "You have jeopardized our mission and my high opinion of you." he frowned harder, "What possessed you?"

  More like who, I thought. Lucille Robinson. A girl who looks just like me, but who has never, not once, blacked out or spent entire afternoons trying to get the song B-I-N-G-O out of her head. In those moments with Cole, she'd felt… real. And that was wrong in about fifty different ways.

  "I'm sorry, Vayl." I hung my head. I'd been so careful, but he was finally figuring what a spaz I truly was. I should've known my run with the Agency couldn't last. But the hope of sticking the broken pieces of my career back together had been the only thing that kept me from jumping in front of a train after my, uh, incident. Guess I should've used brand-name glue.

  Vayl pulled me into the shadows between the house and a wrought iron dining set. For a minute I thought he'd snapped and I was going to find out first-hand how much it really hurt to be vampire-bitten. "I can smell your desperation too," he whispered. "It is like burnt metal on my tongue. But above all I sense determination. Courage. The instincts of a predator and the skill of a master. It is a confusing combination, Jasmine. Can I trust it?"

  What? It doesn't take me long to move from any strong emotion to pissed off. Mom used to blame it on the red hair. I guess a shrink would have a different theory. But suddenly I felt like wadding up the last six months of watching his back and shoving it down his throat.

  "I wouldn't be here otherwise," I hissed. "Pete made it clear, and I agreed. My life for yours. If that's how it goes down, that's how I go. No questions asked. I know your value." Just as well as I know my own.

  I glared at Vayl, mostly to give the tears that threatened a big, fat nuh-uh. He responded with his most inscrutable look. I thought of Cole's sparkling eyes and love-me smile and wondered how many times a man would have to smother his own feelings to get to the expression on Vayl's face. "I am not talking about my life," he said.

  Okay, now my brain was going to melt. What the hell else could he possibly trust me with?

  We heard a bell ring and noticed people begin moving into the dining room. Though I felt like I'd been shoved off a train in Siberia during a blizzard, Vayl's short nod signified he'd made up his mind. "Will you join me?" I knew he wasn't just talking about supper.

  I wanted to say No, let's do this another day, when I'm not shaking like a strung-out crackhead. Instead I nodded, tucked my hand into the crook of his bent elbow and allowed him to escort me inside. Lucille's smiling face met those of the guests who'd begun to gather in the dining room, and not one of them guessed that behind the facade lurked a hired killer who sometimes thought it would be a great relief to finally die herself.

  Chapter Three

  I'll say this for me, even when my insides are twisting like a contortionist in the Cirque du Soleil, I do know how to focus. By the time we reached our seats Lucille Robinson had taken charge. She took real pleasure in her surroundings, enjoying the granite-topped table, the gold-rimmed plates, the enormous vases (pronounced vah-zes, m
y dear) bursting with pink and white tulips. My neighbor told me the nurseryman got them to bloom so early by faking them out, making them think they'd spent an entire winter underground when in fact they'd only spent about six weeks in the cooler. The word for the process, she said, was "forced." Those beautiful forced flowers reminded me of Amanda Assan as I watched her negotiate her way through the meal.

  She ate $5,000 worth of French onion soup, Caesar salad, chicken parmesan and coconut cream pie, all the time making pleasant conversation with my tablemates who, after a word with Vayl, would never remember me in the morning. Not long ago she'd been crying on an old friend's shoulder. Now she wore a catalog-model smile.

  When the white-aproned servers cleared the last dessert plate, Assan suggested we all move into the ballroom. Vayl put an arm around my shoulder and murmured, "I saw the room when I was looking around earlier. This is where you get to guess what is behind Door Number Four." A new Jaguar:

  "No. But probably just as pricey."

  We moved out of the dining room, across the hall and to a pair of custom doors decorated with intricate scrollwork and generous amounts of gold leaf. Two muscle-bound doormen let us into a room that made the guests gasp. The ceiling set the theme for the entire space. Half-dressed nymphs danced across fields of flowers while studly young princelings looked on from beds made of silvery white clouds. I suspected the artist to be a direct descendent of Michelangelo.

  The burnished gold walls sported enough detailed trim to keep an army of plasterers busy for six months. The wood floor was so dark it was almost black. Two long tables set with punch bowls and crystal glasses sat along one wall underneath oversized windows dressed in black velvet. Another wall backed a miniature orchestra, its members dressed to match the curtains. As soon as the door opened they began to play, and the song lasted until all the guests had entered. Amidst applause for the musicians, Assan stepped up to a microphone.

  "Notice the dark-haired man in the shadows just to Assan's left," Vayl whispered.