Chapter Three

The ride in the descending elevator was silent. Had the elevator been larger, Alyson would have stood as far away from Niko as she could. The man had his arm around her waist. She shot him an angry glare. “Get your paws off me!” she growled through clenched jaws.

“Relax, Aly. You’re practically vibrating with anger. As you said earlier, tomorrow you turn into an old woman. I mean, forty is practically ancient. This…this negative emotion cannot be good for your heart.”

Why, the ass was laughing at her. He pulled her even tighter to his side. She elbowed him and his eyebrows rose.

The nerve of the arrogant jerk. Being her protector didn’t give him permission to talk to her like that. Aly! The jerk called her Aly, as if he had the right to. No one ever shortened her name before. Why he even had the audacity to wink at her. She hadn’t been winked at in…well…had she ever been winked at?

When the elevator stopped, Niko became her protector once more. “Don’t stop for any reason. You take the suitcase should I have to draw my weapon.”

Fear strangled the vitality from her irritation. For a few seconds, she forgot Dembri and the danger she was in. She, a boring, middle-aged woman, drab, worn down by life and wearing black flip flops with pretty bows that were not ugly, thank you very much—and a red thong—was being pursued by a dangerous terrorist. If it weren’t so terrifying, it would be downright laughable.

Alyson grabbed the suitcase handle, her carry-on’s wheels squeaking in the silence of the lobby. She stopped and glared at it. “Wonder why the wheels are squeaking. They never did before.”

Niko stooped to examine the wheels. She nervously glanced around the lobby, looking for anyone suspicious. His muttering brought her attention back to him.

“I will be damned.” He stood, a dime-sized plastic object in his hand. “A tracking device. Whoever attached it put it too close to the wheel, thus the squeaking.”

“A tracking device? So they’d know where I was?” Panic reared its ugly grotesque head and wrapped its cold claws around her heart. Its grasp on her was so forceful, she started to tremble. “They really mean to get me, don’t they?” She turned her gaze to him.

Niko tilted his head and looked intently at her. “Yes, Aly. Any doubts we may have had back at headquarters are expunged now. Your life is in danger. I can’t impress upon you enough to question everything and everyone. If anything strikes you as odd, tell me.” He rubbed his hand up her arm and his touch caused a different kind of trembling deep inside.

Oh, God.

She wondered if he felt something, too, for he quickly pulled back.

“Promise me you’ll stay alert.”

She nodded and ran her hands up her arms, hoping to soothe her overloaded system. “What will you do with that?” She jerked her chin toward his other hand.

“I’ll throw it in one of the trash bins outside. Perhaps I should just carry the suitcase. We’ll be moving quickly to the car.” He lifted the suitcase and pressed his hand into the small of her back as they stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight.

Once Niko deposited the tracking device into one of the many green trash receptacles positioned along the street, they hurried to the Carrera. Alyson fastened her seat belt and leaned her head back against the headrest and exhaled a shaky breath. For some reason the confines of the car signaled shelter. Right at this moment, she’d seize any semblance of safety. A terrorist came into her hotel room, touched her things and replaced her shampoo with God only knows what. Then to make sure he knew her every movement, he concealed a tracking device by the wheel of her carry-on. Dear God, let me get home safely.

As they rode in silence through the streets of Paris, irritation seemed to pulsate from Niko. His jaw tensed, his eyes narrowed and his index finger drummed the steering wheel. Perhaps she should make small talk. He snapped on the radio. An Italian aria filled the confines of the car. Perhaps not. Perhaps it would be best to let him brood.

She wasn’t exactly a happy person right now, either. Her life was in turmoil, and she detested chaos. Plus, this trip cost her a small fortune. Now she’d be heading home early once she had a replacement passport in hand. Frankly, her disappointment at leaving Paris so soon was enormous; she planned on seeing many museums and art galleries. Maybe instead of going home, she could travel somewhere else. The Netherlands, perhaps, or Italy. Yes. Why not Italy? Her great-grandparents emigrated from Florence. Tracing one’s roots was always a thrill. She’d have to do some research first.

“Did you pack my laptop?” She turned in the seat toward him.

“Yes, but before you use it, I’ll need to run a debugging program or two on it.” Niko glanced at her. “Just in case Dembri knew enough to stick software in to hijack your personal information.”

Her stomach sank. “Have all my things been touched and tainted, do you think?”

“A good possibility, yes.” He looked at her again after quickly changing lanes.

“That’s not what I wanted to hear. I feel like everything I own is dirty. I feel…” Great, she was going to cry. She shifted in her seat and looked out the window. What a terrible damn day!

“Aly?” The car slowed. Drivers behind them honked. “You want me to pull over?”

“Leave me alone, please. I just need a minute to get a grip.” She blinked her tears away, digging deep and pulling out a measure of strength. She’d get through this. She was a survivor, after all. Being flexible to changes in her schedule was a trait she was working on; she loved routine. She took a deep, cleansing breath, willing herself to relax and deal. She’d be fine.

The beautiful Parisian architecture they passed snared her attention. Alyson imagined she saw the same streets several times. Niko was changing lanes quickly and making last-minute turns. Imagine, being chased out of Paris by a terrorist. Gwen, in her dramatic way, would love it.

“We’re back on Boulevard Saint Germain now.” Niko somehow eased the Carrera into a miniscule parking spot. “Time to go shopping.”

She needed toiletries and makeup, that was for sure, but when he took her hand and led her to Minelli’s, a shoe store, she balked. “Why are we going in here?”

Niko’s gaze slid to her feet. “To get rid of those flippin’ flops. I want you to blend in with other Parisian women. Believe me, you’ll be safer. Although a French woman would never go out in public with wet hair.” He ran his fingers into her hair and lifted it several times, as if he thought that would help dry it.

She batted at his wrists. “Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Don’t you enjoy a man’s touch?” He opened the door and ushered her inside.

Before Alyson could offer a pithy reply, an elegant French woman breezed over. “Bonjour Madame, Monsieur.” The saleswoman was obviously quite taken with Niko, batting her eyes and touching his arm as they spoke rapid-fire French. Of course it made no difference to her how the woman fawned over her young protector. Still, she resented being ignored like the proverbial bump on a log.

The shoe boutique was no larger than her living room back home. Scanning the artfully displayed leather shoes and purses, she noted there wasn’t a flat shoe in the entire store. She stepped over to the lowest heel she saw and picked it up. Niko ran his hand up her back, causing fluttering in places that hadn’t fluttered in eons. Really, the Frenchman was too touchy-feely. She flashed him her practiced, most potent school teacher scowl.

His lips twitched at the corners, almost as if he were going to laugh at her. Impudent man. “Come, sit so Mademoiselle can measure your foot.”

“I wear a seven and a half.”

“European sizes are different. Come, sit, and I’ll choose some styles for you to try.”

She wasn’t surprised all the shoes Niko chose had four-inch heels. “I think I’d rather pick my own shoes, thank you very much.”

He laughed softly, running his palm up her back before pointing out another pair for the saleswoman to bring him. Irritation boiled beneath the surface; she didn't like being railroaded.

“Tell her I want to try on that pair with the low wedge heel. The ones in the window.” She took a great deal of satisfaction when he rolled his eyes. That reaction alone made her want to buy them.

“They’re for old women.”

“Yes, and right now I feel very old.” Although, in reality, she didn’t. Much to her surprise, youthful feelings and thoughts were flooding in, inundating her parched and barren soul. What’s up with that?

When the saleswoman returned with her arms full of shoe boxes, Niko told her he’d take care of trying the shoes on his friend. The woman’s eyebrows shot up once and a coy smile blossomed. “Whatever Monsieur desires.” Then she winked at Alyson as if there were some kind of relationship going on between the two of them.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. What was it her sister called older women who chased younger men? Cougars? Yes, that was it. For sure, she wasn’t a cougar. The term was degrading. Besides, she most definitely was not interested in this overly confident man with the dark piercing eyes.

Yet wasn’t this very situation what she and Gwen talked and laughed about? She would go to Paris and meet a handsome Frenchman. She would stop being so hesitant, break loose and live a little. Gwen’s words danced in her brain as if they were doing the tango. “Have one hot, torrid affair in your life. Find out how a man can turn you inside out and make you beg for more.” Yeah, right, as if that’ll ever happen.

She’d been taking steps to change; making secret little desires come true. First was the laser surgery to correct her astigmatism, so she could finally ditch the glasses she’d worn for ages. She had her hair lightened a couple shades. Then the butterfly tattoo on the inside of her thigh—she still couldn’t believe she went through with that. Now, her long desired trip to Paris. She glanced at the handsome man sitting in front of her. Never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined anyone like him. Who could?

Well, Gwen, her younger sister, could. She was always good at dreaming up things. “Going for the gusto and grabbing life by the balls,” as her younger sister so often said. Gwen was the daring one of the two—the one who danced in the rain, challenged life and embraced change.

Alyson, on the other hand, was more reticent and regimented. Lifeless. Colorless. She was taupe to Gwen’s tangerine; faded pink to Gwen’s fuchsia. Not today, though. No, for some reason, in the midst of all that happened and all the danger she was in, today she felt alive and vibrant. Today she felt like wearing a purple dress with a lime scarf and red shoes. Today she felt…well…today, she felt.

Niko perched on the stool at Alyson’s feet, opened the first box and deftly flicked back the tissue paper on a pair of black kidskin pumps with skinny gold looking heels. “It’s rumored Da Vinci invented the high heel.” He removed her flip flops and placed her bare foot on his thigh. Warmth from his muscled leg flowed up hers, causing her foot to give an involuntary wiggle.

His gaze lifted to hers and locked. Slowly he slid his warm hand from her heel up her leg to cup her calf. Thank God she shaved her legs that morning.

“Stop.” The rawness of her voice surprised her. His touch made her very aware of her body, and her body was very aware of him. She couldn’t count the years since she was touched in such a manner—if ever.

Still, it was nice to know she could respond to a man’s touch. Thanks to her ex-husband’s avoidance, she thought herself sexually dead, certainly sexually unappealing.

“High heels do wonders for a woman’s figure, Aly. They make the legs look long and shapely, lift the bottom and make the hips sway.” His hands moved in a descriptive manner while he talked. “They make a woman look sexy and confident. Men’s eyes naturally pivot to a woman in stilettos.” Niko shrugged. “We can’t help it. We are men, after all. Weakened by women.”

Alyson stared at him. Men made weak by women? She’d never heard such talk, especially from a male, a very virile male if looks meant anything. He was gorgeous, arrogant as all get out, but gorgeous just the same.

Niko slipped the shoes onto her feet, stood and extended his hand. “Stand. See how you like the feel.” His gaze focused on hers again and for a second or two, when she looked into his eyes, her world stopped.

She vetoed the four-inch stilettos Niko favored in five painful, toe-pinching steps. Good Lord, a girl could get nosebleeds in those things.

Ten minutes later, Alyson wobbled in front of the cashier ready to pay for the black kidskin three-inch Pradas she wore. As soon as she saw the bow at the back of the heel, she fell in love with the shoes. Gwen called her a “bow freak.” When Niko reached for his wallet, she elbowed him. “Look, as long as they take Visa, I’ll pay for my own shoes.”

“Please, allow me.”

“Absolutely not. I planned on having an expensive birthday meal at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant tomorrow. With all that’s happened today, that plan is ruined, too. So I’m rationalizing since I won’t be paying for my birthday meal, I can pay this ungodly amount for the shoes.”

Niko placed his hand over hers. “I don’t mind. Let me treat you since I goaded you into buying them.”

“Really, that’s not necessary. Even my husband…er…ex-husband never bought me things. I’ve always paid my own way.”

He leaned an elbow on the glass counter and looked at her. “You’re kidding me. He never bought you little surprises? Little treats? A woman like you should be spoiled, treasured—” his voice lowered as he slowly trailed a finger up her arm “—loved often and well.” Merciful heavens, he was trying to seduce her in a shoe store. Gwen would squeal in delight when she told her about this.

“Down, buster. American women are different than French women. We’re not so easily seduced by glib words or smooth moves.”

His eyebrow arched and his demeanor turned insolent. “You think I’m trying to seduce you?”

Typical male. He touched her almost nonstop since they stepped into Minelli’s. Now that she called him on it, he wanted to deny everything. “I think you’re toying with me, seeing if you can make an old, lonely American woman quiver at your feet.”

“First of all, you’re not old. Second, if you’re lonely, that’s your fault. Third, if I wanted to make you quiver—” he leaned in, his lips against her ear “—I damn well could.”

A shiver went through her and she cursed her response. She seriously thought of slapping him. “You’re an arrogant fool!”

“I’m a man, Aly. A Frenchman who knows how to take care of a woman. It’s hard for me to believe your husband didn’t treasure you. That’s not a matter of arrogance, it’s a matter of respect. Priorities. He should have adored you, even if his tastes ran in a different direction. Often Frenchmen have mistresses. Even so, they take care of their wives.”

“Are you saying it’s okay for a man to cheat on his wife? My husband cheated on me. Whether it’s a man or another woman, it makes no difference. Cheating is cheating, and it’s wrong. Men have ruled the world with their hormones for too long, always on the prowl for something better. It’s time we women took over.”

She snatched the charge slip from the saleswoman and scribbled her signature. “Kindly keep your nose out of my personal affairs. My ex-husband and I had a disastrous marriage. The pain and humiliation I suffered is my concern. Not yours.” She knew her voice was clipped and prim, but she couldn’t help it.

Actually, she and Charles had a marriage with little tenderness after the first three years. No warmth. No fidelity. Sex became a bi-yearly event. Boom, bam, wish you’d been Sam. To be sure, Charles, or Chaz as he preferred his gay friends call him, only married her to hide his true sexuality. Or so he told her after she caught him having sex in their shower with another man. She blinked several times to will away the pain of betrayal. Don’t even go there.

Niko’s hand slid up her back. “You okay? I didn’t mean to bring back painful memories.”

She slipped her card back into her wallet and shoved it back into her shoulder bag. “I’m fine. Really.” Then she spied them: leopard print, open-toed, sling-back stilettos with hot pink satin lining and a hot pink tiny satin bow. They were high on a glass shelf behind the counter. “S’il vous plait…ah…” She pointed. “May I see those leopard heels, please?”

The saleswoman handed one to Alyson. “Oui, tres chic. Madame has an eye for quality and style. Does Madame wish to try them on? I have them in her size. Oui?”

Alyson ran a finger along the pink satin lining, fighting the unusual urge to drool. Jenny and Tyeesha, teachers at her school, were self-proclaimed shoe whores, spending small fortunes on shoes. She never understood or was enticed by the allure of footwear—until now. A groan escaped. She wanted them in the worst possible way. When the saleswoman gave the price, Alyson closed her eyes in resignation. Too expensive.

“They’re beautiful, but I have no place to wear them back in the States. I’m too—” she shrugged and sighed in resignation, “—conservative.”

The salesgirl waved her hand. “Oh, but Madame, one needs no place to wear them. Madame wears them for the enjoyment. Yes? For the way they make Madame feel. Sexuelle… Sexy. Desirable. Strong.”

Those French women certainly had a way of looking at things. One of the cultural differences, she supposed. Or did most American women feel the same way about shoes, and she was out of the feminine loop there, too. She’d felt lifeless and sexless for so long.

“Do you want the heels? Let me buy them to remind you of Paris. To make up for upsetting you earlier.”

She shook her head and extended the shoe to the salesgirl. “No. I won’t let you buy them, and I’ve spent too much already.” The Pradas caressing her feet would take months to pay off. She turned to Niko. “Get me out of here. Quickly before I succumb.”

“If you insist. Come on, we’ve got toiletries to buy yet. My sister owns a little shop not far from here.” He opened the door and waved her through. “Yes, your hips sway much better in those shoes.”

She glanced over her shoulder to admonish him, but when she saw his expression, she laughed. “You’re terrible. Where did you learn to speak such good English by the way?”

“Three years in America studying computer programming.”

“Oh? Where at?”

“Carnegie-Mellon.”

“Only three?” Carnegie-Mellon, one of the top colleges in the United States for computer programming, had stiff entrance requirements. Niko must be quite intelligent.

“My papa got very sick. Cancer. I came home to help my maman care for him. Eight short months later, he was gone. Going back never seemed important.”

“So are you from Paris? You mentioned your mother was Italian.” That probably accounted for his dark eyes that seemed to notice everything.

“Yes, she is. She came to Paris to study at the Sorbonne and met Papa, who was from here. After her studies were completed, she stayed and married him. She put her artistic skills to use at Hermes, designing scarves, and raised the five of us. She’s phenomenal.” His gaze was scanning pedestrians, as if taking note of everyone. He led her past a Metro entrance and then around a corner. “We’re on Boulevard Saint Michel now. As you can see, it’s equally as busy as Saint Germain. They are the two main streets on the Left Bank and they intersect here.”

“Having my very own personal tour guide of Paris is rather nice. Although I wished I were more relaxed, less scared so I could enjoy your descriptions. Thank you for sharing your city and all the little things that make it unique.”

“Paris is a beautiful woman. Her citizens, her children, cherish her.” They walked up the street, their shoulders touching. On the next block, they entered a glossy little boutique that sold Lancôme, Chanel and Hermes items.

A beautiful woman rushed to Niko, laughing and talking as she bussed kisses on both of his cheeks. He reached out and tugged a strand of her hair. “Speak English, Simone. This is Aly, a new friend from America.”

Friend? Since when had they become friends? Oh, undoubtedly when he had his hands on her legs. Or when he so brazenly claimed he could damn well make her quiver. Sure, all of her friends talked to her like that.

He gazed at Alyson. “Simone is the youngest of my sisters. I told you I have four, all older—Margo, Renee, Allegra and Simone. Believe me, I never stood a chance growing up. They teased me all the time and ordered me about.” Deep affection was evident in his voice and also in the way he regarded his sister. She understood, feeling the same way about Gwen, her only sibling.

Simone bussed kisses on Alyson’s cheeks, too. Bisous, the French called them. “Don’t listen to this rascal. He drove us crazy with his constant teasing. You are from America? Then welcome to Paris. This is my little enterprise.” She gave an expressive wave of a well-manicured hand to indicate her little shop decorated in various hues of aqua with chrome and glass fixtures. Bouquets of fresh orange flowers sat here and there to add a feminine touch. Muted strains of soft jazz floated from hidden speakers. “What delightful things can I show you?”

“Give her whatever she wants and bill my department. We had to throw away all of her makeup and toiletries. Oh, Simone, I want you to smell the perfume she’s wearing.” He stood behind Alyson, his hands on her shoulders, and leaned over to sniff at her neck. “Do you have anything soft and feminine like this fragrance? I adore it.”

Heat rushed to Alyson’s cheeks. Her gaze slid to Simone to watch how she reacted to her brother’s familiarity with her. As expected, Simone’s finely arched eyebrows rose for a second and then her smile broadened. Instantly, the sisterly inquisition began.

Simone opened bottles and waved them under Alyson’s nose. Questions were asked in her Parisian honeyed tones. “Is this your first time in Paris?” She poured a dollop of lotion on Alyson’s arm and rubbed it in. “Smell this.”

Alyson sniffed the area where Simone applied the lotion. It was dreamy, soft and faintly floral. “Oh, I like this. To answer your question, yes. I’ve wanted to come to Paris since I was a teenager. I had no idea I would fall in love with the city.” Or that a terrorist would chase me out of it.

Simone smiled as she opened another bottle. “Citizens of Paris love her. I’m glad you do, too. How long have you known my brother, darling?”

“We only met earlier today.” Yet it seemed like she’d known him forever. That thought troubled and surprised her.

“Mon Dieu! Today?” Simone cast surprised eyes on her brother who was standing at the window, looking outside. “Wait! American. Are you the one in the Louvre with the terrorist? I heard about the incident on the radio earlier. Everyone has been talking about the episode with the terrorist and of your bravery. ” She squeezed Alyson’s hand. “Thank you for that. So, our Niko is protecting you?”

Alyson nodded, hoping she wouldn’t blush again. Niko, this woman’s baby brother, was, by turns, shielding and then seducing her.

Simone tilted her head, the same mannerism her brother used. “He never brings anyone around the family. Not since Hae-Won.” She leaned in and whispered. “He’s attracted to you, isn’t he?”

Who in the world was Hae-Won?

“What are you whispering about, Mademoiselle Nosey?” Niko turned from the window.

“The rascal always did have hawk hearing. It comes from his having such big ugly ears.” Simone squealed when he wrapped her in a bear hug and spun her around.

Alyson and Niko were laughing when they exited Simone’s boutique a half hour later with an aqua canvas bag of items. “I like your sister. She knows how to keep you in line.”

“She’s impossible.” Niko’s eyes scanned their surroundings, and he tensed.

“What is it?” Alyson peered up and down the street.

“Don’t look. Smile at me. Talk and act normal.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and nudged her up the street.

“But…” Did he see someone? Did he see Dembri?

“I’m going to kiss you so I have an excuse to look behind us.”

“Oh no. No, I don’t think so. Look, I’ve put up with your constant touching, but I’ll not be kissed on a public street.”

“Don’t be self-conscious. In Paris, we kiss in public. It’s the Parisian way.”

“For heaven’s sake! Make it quick then.” She shook her arms to relax them because she was anything but relaxed. She was about to be kissed for the first time in years. Did she remember how? Stop being silly. Kissing is simple. Two pair of lips touch. Kiss done. With her head tilted back, she whispered, “Okay, I’m ready.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Niko’s lips. He encircled her in his arms and stepped in so their thighs touched. Her stomach fluttered. Her breathing hitched. He lowered his head. “Hang on, Aly.” With his dark brown eyes open, he placed his lips on hers and pulled her body against his. She kept her eyes open, too, figuring it would lessen the kiss’ effects.

Niko kissed her, gentle sips at first, soft and sensual. Someone made a moaning noise, and she feared it might have been her. My God what a pair of lips! Her toes curled in her new Pradas. Her hands curled around the lapels of his jacket. Then his lips locked on hers and with his tongue invading her mouth, he turned her to look over her shoulder, all the while wreaking havoc on her system.

This was the first time she’d been in a man’s arms in years. The first time she had tongue from a guy since college and said guy was more interested in looking behind her for some hoodlum than in the kiss. Just her damn luck.