My mother, Chariss Carlton, swanned into the Proust Salon looking nothing like a dragon. She looked like an advertisement for luxury sleepwear. From the tips of her marabou puffed slippers to the top of her artistically tousled head, she was perfect. She leveled a deceptively wide-eyed gaze in my direction. “What happened? What’s going on?”
“Someone shot at me.”
Chariss sank gracefully into the nearest chair and covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers as if I’d given her shock.
The cynical part of me—the part of me that had spent years watching my mother effortlessly suck up all the oxygen in every room she ever entered—saw through her act. The freshly minted give-Chariss-a-chance part of me saw the hint of real concern in her eyes.
She perched on the edge of her chair, its cinnabar velvet setting off the soft pink of her peignoir. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I scraped my knees.” I glanced at my hands. “And my palms.”
Across from me, Inspector Forget was doing an impression of a goldfish deprived of water. It was as if he’d never seen a woman who combined Brigitte Bardot’s sex appeal, actress Cleménce Poésy’s waif-like innocence, and style icon Charlotte Gainsbourg’s offhand chic (it’s not every woman whose mother has a Hermès bag named after her).
Maybe he hadn’t. Chariss really was one of a kind. She stared at me—an accusing look that managed a you’ve-broken-my-heart quality—then looked down at her lap. “I got a call from California.” She raised her eyes and her face was a mask of confusion. “Why didn’t you wake me?” She was laying on the concerned-mother act a bit thick.
Then again, I was her toughest critic. “I didn’t want to bother you.” Truth was, Chariss was the last person I’d go to with a problem.
She shook her head as if I’d disappointed her—somehow hurt her by not calling her in a panic. “When did this happen?”
The manager glanced at his watch. “Less than an hour ago.”
She pursed her lips, crossed her arms under her breasts, and shivered. Was she upset I hadn’t come to her right away or that I’d nearly died?
“Casper called.” Casper, otherwise known (to me) as the most annoying man on the planet, was Chariss’s manager. The man never failed to inform her when I trended. Especially when I’d just as soon she not be informed. “I can’t believe I had to hear about this from an employee.” I had the answer to my question—she was annoyed because she’d heard about my little adventure from someone else.
“Someone took a photo of me in the lobby.” I jerked my chin toward the hotel’s entrance. “The pics are on TMZ already.”
“I’ve asked Casper to arrange a bodyguard for you.”
I stared at her, momentarily struck dumb.
Inspector Forget nodded as if Chariss were a genius.
I found my voice. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Of course I did.” Her voice had a sharp edge. Maybe she did care about someone shooting at me. At least a little.
But having a bodyguard provided by Chariss and Casper might make my job difficult. I opened my mouth, a second objection on my lips—
“I can’t worry about you getting killed and shoot a movie. That’s simply too much stress for me to handle.”
There was the Chariss I knew. “Maybe they weren’t trying to kill me. Maybe the shooting was random.” I wasn’t near the actress my mother was. I convinced no one.
Chariss didn’t even bother dignifying my suggestion with a response. She merely shook her head and stood. “I insist that you have some protection. Now, I have an early call.” She yawned in case I’d missed the unspoken message—she needed her beauty sleep and I’d disturbed her slumber.
Casper was the one who’d disturbed her slumber. I’d just been shot at.
Chariss stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me…”
Of course they would.
She floated over to my chair and dropped a delicate kiss on the top of my head—a gesture totally for the benefit of the inspector and the manager. Chariss Carlton, doting mother. “Promise me you won’t leave the hotel again tonight.”
I looked down at my skinned knees. “I promise.” Poppy Fields, obedient daughter.
We were both full of it.
Chariss disappeared in a swirl of satin. Only the lingering smell of her Fleurissimo remained.
The men watched her go. Then they watched the last place they’d seen her as if staring would make her come back.
I cleared my throat. Twice. “Do you have any more questions for me, Inspector Forget?”
He was still slack-jawed, wide-eyed, and sniffing the Chariss-scented air.
I hauled myself out of the chair. “If there’s nothing further, I’d like to clean up.”
The man merely nodded.
“Consuela, come.”
Consuela hopped off her chair and trotted over to me.
“You’ll let me know if you discover who shot at me?”
He didn’t reply. He just sat there. Struck dumb.
I looked at the manager.
He was accustomed to dealing with Chariss and was less fazed be her marabou and satin and hypnotic charisma. “Goodnight, Mademoiselle Fields.”
I gathered my dog into my arms and limped up the stairs to the Coco Chanel suite, where the door to Chariss’s bedroom was firmly shut.
Just as well.
Consuela and I lingered at the window, looking down into Place Vendôme.
She twisted in my arms and licked my chin.
I kissed the top of her head (a sincere kiss—nothing delicate about it) and felt the phone in my pocket vibrate.
Consuela squirmed out of my arms and trotted into my bedroom.
I followed her.
She hopped up onto to her bed, circled three times, and curled into a small fluffy ball.
I closed the door, pulled the phone out of my pocket, and looked at the screen. I’d been expecting this call. “Hello.”
“Someone tried to kill you.” John Brown sounded only mildly interested.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
I chose not to understand his question. “I didn’t see the shooter.”
On the other end of the line, he was shaking his head—I was sure of it. But, rather than remind me of all the reasons that Javier Diaz might want me dead, he said, “Jake couldn’t catch the gunman.”
“So he told me.”
“Jake would have caught a sicario.”
I didn’t argue. Mainly because his point was so good. While Mexican hitmen were undeniably brutal and deadly, I couldn’t imagine one who knew Paris streets well enough to escape Jake.
“That could mean only two things,” he continued.
“Two?”
“Either Javier Diaz paid for a hit on you, or someone else wants you dead.”
My bedroom was suddenly too cold. I sank onto the upholstered bench at the end of the bed and pulled a cashmere throw around my shoulders. “My mother’s manager is arranging for a bodyguard.”
John Brown laughed. At least that’s what I thought the donkey-in-distress sound coming through the phone was.
“What’s so funny?”
“Anyone your mother’s people send will be ready to protect you from overzealous fans. This is a different kind of threat.” He was right. Hollywood bodyguards were prepared for crazed stalkers, not hitmen.
“I don’t think that’s funny at all.” So not-funny that the blood coursing through my veins had ice chips in it.
“I’ll have someone there in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
“Spin this as a crazed stalker.”
“Spin this?”
“We don’t want anyone wondering why someone might want to kill you.”
We didn’t? Why not? “Spin this?”
“At some point in the next day, someone will shove a microphone in your face. Spin it.”
I didn’t care how the shooting was spun as long as the gunman was caught. “Fine.”
“You met Ghislain Lambert tonight.” Mr. Brown sounded pleased.
“That’s what you sent me to do.”
“Others have tried.”
“He sent Champagne.”
“Good.”
“Expensive Champagne.” I wasn’t telling him anything he probably didn’t already know.
“Better.”
“He invited me to a party tomorrow night.” I looked at the clock and corrected myself. “Tonight.”
“Best.”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“You what?” Mr. Brown’s voice boomed through the phone, loud enough for Consuela to raise her little face from her paws and growl softly.
“I told him I’d think about it.” I spoke slowly and pictured Mr. Brown making Inspector Forget’s gasping-goldfish face.
“Why?”
“Because if it’s easy to catch my attention, he’ll lose interest.”
A moment of silence followed. “You are going to the party?”
That had been my plan, but now—I thought before I answered. Someone had tried to kill me. They’d shot at me, and if Jake hadn’t come along, I’d probably be dead. I held out my free hand and watched it tremble.
He sighed. “No one would blame you if you decide to go back to California.”
He was offering me an out. But he was wrong about the blame thing.
If I tucked tail and ran back home, I’d blame me.
John Brown and his shadowy agency had offered me a chance to make a difference—a chance I’d desperately wanted. Until, I’d run afoul of a Mexican drug lord, I’d floated through my life. After I’d helped take down said drug lord, I knew my life could have meaning. If I ran away the first time things got dangerous, I’d never be able to live with myself. “I’m definitely going to that party. I’ll take André and my new bodyguard.” I watched my hand tremble for a few more seconds, then tightened my fingers into a fist. “Make sure he’s handsome.”
“What?”
“The bodyguard. Make sure he’s handsome.”
“Why?”
“Because I want Lambert to wonder if I’m sleeping with him.”
“Very well. I’ll send you Stone.” With that cryptic comment he hung up.
Knock, knock.
I rolled over, grabbed for my phone, and looked at the time.
“Ugh.”
Knock, knock.
I rolled out of bed, jammed my arms into one of the Ritz’s fluffy robes, and staggered out of my bedroom and to the suite’s door.
Consuela followed me, yawning all the way.
Knock, knock.
“Coming.” I yanked open the door.
“Miss Fields—” the man in the hallway extended his right hand “—I’m Mark Stone.”
Mark Stone looked more like Chris Hemsworth than Chris Hemsworth. John Brown hadn’t sent me a bodyguard; he’d sent me Thor.
Dumbstruck, I extended my fingers.
His hand swallowed mine.
“Nice to meet you,” I murmured. “Come in.”
He followed me into the suite Chariss and I shared. “Nice digs.”
Coco Chanel had lived in the hotel. For thirty years. When the Ritz remodeled, they’d quietly moved the elegant furnishings which retained her spirit to another floor. The new Coco Chanel suite was decorated in shades of ecru and white accented with black lacquer screens and gilded mirrors. It was costing the production company a small fortune (more than twenty thousand dollars a night) to keep Chariss sleeping in Coco-inspired quarters.
Chariss much preferred the over-the-top luxury of the Imperial Suite, but I didn’t complain.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“I had a rough night.” I’d spent long hours staring at the ceiling wondering if Javier Diaz really wanted me dead. And if he didn’t, who did? “I need some breakfast. Would you like anything?”
“Coffee. Please.”
I picked up the phone. “Bonjour, je voudrais une corbeille du boulanger, un café latte et un—un moment, s’il vous plait.” I turned to Thor. “Regular coffee? Espresso? Cappuccino?”
“Just coffee.”
I spoke into the phone. “—et un café American. Merci.”
I put the receiver back in its cradle.
“Who’s the pooch?”
“This is Consuela.”
Thor held out his hand and Consuela sniffed.
She didn’t growl or snap. She merely turned up her nose.
“She likes you.”
He raised a single brow. “Could have fooled me.”
“Trust me. That’s as warm as Consuela ever gets with strangers.” I settled onto the velvet couch. “I’ve never had a bodyguard. How does this work?”
“Where you go, I go.”
“And that’s it?”
“I don’t let anyone hurt you.”
“I don’t have to change my schedule?”
“I’d prefer it if you avoided large crowds.”
“So no trips to the Louvre?”
He looked pained.
“Do you have something against the Mona Lisa?”
“She draws a crowd.”
“I think we can avoid museums.”
He nodded his thanks. “What’s on your schedule today?”
“Let me grab my phone.” I padded into my bedroom, grabbed my cell off the bedside table, and opened the calendar. “This morning, I need to go to Antoine Gabriel’s atelier. In fact—” I stood, tightening the belt of my robe “—I should probably get dressed while we’re waiting on breakfast.”
I left him with Consuela and jumped in the shower.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in boyfriend jeans, a cashmere sweater, and Tod’s loafers I could run in, I paused at the door from my bedroom to the main salon. There were voices on the other side.
And Chariss’s was one of them.
I cracked the door.
Thor was sipping coffee and looking out the window at Place Vendôme.
Chariss was staring at him over the rim of my café latte. “Where exactly did you come from?”
Would he say Asgard?
“Cleveland.”
“How did you get here?” Chariss insisted.
If he said by chariot, I was going to kiss him.
“I work for an agency back in the states. Poppy called someone she knows at the DEA and they suggested me.”
“Poppy called someone?” Chariss sounded surprised.
“She knew you were concerned.”
“Someone shot at her.”
I cleared my throat. “What are you doing here, Chariss?”
She considered my outfit with narrowed eyes. “We filmed at dawn. When the light changed, Franco took a break. I came back to check on you. But—” Chariss’s gaze slid toward Thor and a smile touched her lips “—it seems as if you have things well in hand.”
Chariss might have my latte, but the basket of pastries still waited for me on the table in front of the couch. I sat down and helped myself to a croissant. “When do you have to be back on set?”
Chariss put my cup down and glanced at her watch. “I’ve got about an hour. What are you doing today?”
“I’m due at Antoine Gabriel’s atelier by noon. Tonight I’m going to a party.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“I’ll take care of her, Ms. Carlton.” Of course he would. He was a Norse god.
Chariss did that wide-eyed, fluttery-lash that usually brought men to their knees. “Call me Chariss.”
Thor seemed unaffected. Interesting.
“Also, André is taking me to Hermès.”
“Oh?” Chariss floated over to the couch, settled onto its cushions, and took the croissant from my hands. “Why?”
“He’s buying me a bag.”
“How nice of him.” She pulled one of the points off my croissant and popped it in her mouth.
I eyed the bread basket. They’d only sent one croissant.
“So, a fitting and a trip to Hermès? Not the most exciting day for you, Mark.”
“I prefer days that aren’t exciting.” If the bodyguard thing didn’t work out, Thor could pursue a career in diplomacy. Or modeling.
“Then you’re guarding the wrong woman.” Chariss looked down her perfect nose at the remains of my croissant. “Poppy attracts trouble like carrion attracts vultures.”
Carrion? Had she really just compared me to rotting flesh?
Thor, who was standing next to the window, made a noise in his throat that sounded suspiciously like a swallowed guffaw. “I can handle trouble, Ms. Carlton.”
“I’m sure you can.” Chariss leaned back. “And I asked you to call me Chariss.”
“I can handle trouble, Chariss.” He shifted his gaze to the Place, as if he were scouting for potential threats.
Unaccustomed to men who ignored her, Chariss brushed her fingers across her lips and leaned forward enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. “What do you do when you’re not guarding people?”
With his gaze still on the Place, Thor replied, “My job keeps me busy.”
“No hobbies?”
Now he turned and looked at her. “I like guns.”
Chariss, whose current film project had her waving a Glock around in every other scene, curled her upper lip into a becoming sneer. “Guns? Really?” Movie guns were one thing, but real ones—they were a no-no. “What else?”
“I practice Krav Maga.”
With an oh-so-delicate tilt of her chin, Chariss shifted her attention to me. “Isn’t that what your father made you learn?”
“He didn’t make me.”
The line of her lips hardened—for a fleeting instant—then gave way to her most charming smile. “Mark, would you please bring me my coffee?”
My coffee.
Arguing would get me nowhere. I’d let her drink the whole thing, then tell her it wasn’t made with skim milk.
Thor brought her the cup.
She settled back on the couch and sipped. “If you’re not busy, you could stop by the set this afternoon.” Chariss was up to something.
“I thought you were worried about Th—Mark being bored.”
She wrinkled her nose at me. “Some people find movie-making fascinating.”
I wasn’t one of them. And she knew it. Which meant…
“How old are you, Mark?” My non-sequitur question hung in the air.
Thor looked at me with a bemused expression on his Norse-god face. “Thirty-one. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
He shrugged his enormous shoulders and returned to the window and his careful scan of the Place.
Thor might not understand why I’d asked his age, but Chariss (who had cougar tendencies) did. If she wanted to fool around with a younger man, she could find one who wasn’t tasked with protecting me.
She gave me a look the movie-going public never saw. Her eyes were slits, her teeth were bared, and her cheeks were flushed. As far as I could tell, that look was her first genuine expression of the morning—and it said she’d like to kill me.
She’d have to get in line.