French Kiss (19 page)

J
ohnny’s plane returned to nice in two days
as
e
xp
e
cted, and reality could no longer be ignored. Their time together had been an idyllic interlude beyond either of their imaginations, but it was over now. They understood how mature adults were expected to deal with romantic interludes and were scrupulously polite and practical.

After all, they both had very busy lives.

In fact, they worked during part of the flight home.

After landing in San Francisco, Johnny said to Nicky, “Joseph took your car to your place, so if it’s okay with you, we’ll go to my house first, and then I’ll
drive you home.”

She wasn’t about to argue, inclined to play out the dream as long as possible. It wasn’t that she was naive enough to have expectations. It was more about savoring every last drop
of pleasure. After Jordi and Vern
ie were set
tl
ed in with Maria and her
mother, after Nicky had said good-bye to all of them, Johnny took her home.

The trip was quiet, neither capable of glib small talk even though they both understood the pertinent rules governing temporary liaisons: Say good-bye politely; don’t make any demands; pretend the future doesn’t exist; never allude to anything even remotely personal.

One or the other would offer some innocuous comment from time to time in an effort to make conversation—like remarks about the weather, the fligh
t, the weather on the flight…
that sort of thing. Fortunately it wasn’t a great distance between houses, for the bouts of silence became increasingly lengthy—and awkward.

When Johnny pulled his car up to the curb in front of Nicky’s bungalow, they exchanged all the required thank yous and conventional phrases of leave-taking, the promises to see each other again. But no one mentioned anything specific. No actual dates were mentioned.

It reminded Nicky of the “We have to have lunch sometime” fiction. She finally said, “I have to go,” because obviously he was too polite to kick her out of his car.

Johnny carried her bag to the curb.

They stood for a moment in another one of those dead silences, then Johnny leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“You’ll be over for the tree house,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

“First thing tomorrow.”

“If I’m not there, Jordi and Vernie will be—should you have any questions.”

That sounded very much as though he would make certain
not
to be there. “Jordi knows what she wants. We’re good. And thanks again.”

“Th
ank
yo
u
. I couldn’t have managed the French without you.”

Then he turned and walked back to his car.

Nicky picked up her carry-on, and as she moved up her path, she heard the low, throaty purr of his car fire up and drive away.

She didn’t look back. What was the point? He was gone. She’d always known the trip to Paris had a finite limit. It was time now to relegate those gratifying memories to that souvenir album in the sky and get on with her life.

Dropping her carry-on in the front hall, she walked to her study and checked her e-mail.

Twenty messages since the plane.

With a sigh, she began dealing with them.

She checked her phone messages next. Aaaagh, there were fifteen new ones even after eliminating a couple dozen on the plane. Maybe she should get an unlisted number. Not very sensible when one ran a business, however. She clicked on the first one and began listening to some long, drawn-out question from Dora, her accountant. As the voice droned on, she hit the “save” button and prayed the next message would be short.

None of them were, of course, including the five from her sister since yesterday asking where the hell she was and why didn’t she return her calls when she had some really good gossip about Jenny Grogin. Since that conversation looked to be lengthy, Nicky put off returning that call. She’d have to be in a better mood to listen to any gossip about Jenny Grogin anyway.

As for her mother’s calls, they could wait, too. Her mom was always wondering if she’d met anyone
nice.
For her mother that meant someone
not
like her ex-
fiancé
, Theo, preferably someone who lived in Black Duck. She supposed she could tell her she’d
met someone really nice in bed, but she didn’t think her mom would care to hear the details. On the rare occasions when her mother even mentioned the word
sex,
she would say
s-e-x,
like everyone was under five and couldn’t spell.

By message ten, she was thinking of suicide by chocolate and had eaten four—okay, maybe i
t was five… at the most six—
truffles she’d brought back from Nice. A few truffles more, though, the last message deleted, her mood was definitely on the upswing; life seemed worth living again.

News flash. Chocolate was not a viable agent for suicide.

She was even feeling good enough by then, to deem her life well lived even if she never had sex with Johnny Patrick again. There were lots of other fish in the dating sea. Tons of them.

Like hell,
the little voice inside her head refuted without a care for pragmatism.

Perish the thought!
her selfish, little voice howled in affront.

“Oh, crap—let’s face it,” Nicky muttered under her breath, “there isn’t enough chocolate in the world.”

Work, work, work—fill your
t
ime with work—that’s what she’d do. It was an excellent plan. She wouldn’t even think about sex, or pleasure or having fun. She’d give Buddy a quick call now, see if he’d survived her absence in good form, plan tomorrow’s schedule, and then go to sleep so she’d be bright and alert and ready to face tomorrow.

I
n
Johnny's world,
he had the advantage of having Jordi and Ve
rn
ie for distractions, and the hours following his return home were busy. He played a game of chess with Jordi and Ve
rn
ie,
spent some time playing video games with Jordi, ate dinner, read his daughter a bedtime story—or she read to him, and as he tucked her in, they discussed what they were going to do the next day.

They’d agreed that Vernie would stay long enough to take Jordi school shopping. A task Johnny preferred not doing.

“And then when Nicky comes over to work on my tree house, maybe she’d like to go with us.”

“We’ll have to see,” Johnny replied, not inclined to add Nicky to their family group. “Her project manager’s going on vacation, now that she’s back. She might be really busy.” Christ, he hadn’t like seriously considered her being around every day. Could he deal with it? Good question. Seeing the hotter than hot Nicky Lesdaux up close and personal every day could turn out to be a real problem.

“Why don’t I call and ask her?” Jordi said.

“Let’s wait. Nicky’s probably as behind in her work as I am.” Avoidance was his current plan, until he could think of something better; his libido wasn’t up to any close personal contact with Nicky. “If you could stay for a few days beyond the school shopping, Ve
rn
ie,” he said, “I’d appreciate it. After losing almost a week, I should probably lock myself in my studio and get this album edited.”

From her chair near the window, Vernie fluttered her hand in a shoo-away gesture. “Go anytime. I’ll hold down the fort with Jordi.”

“I might get started tonight.” He dipped his head. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“How about you, kid. Can you live without me for a day or so?”

Surrounded by a menagerie of stuffed animals in her bed, Jordi
gave her father a long-suffering look. “As though I need you around every minute, Dad. I’ve got a life.”

Johnny laughed. “I’
m not sure I care to hear that I’m disposable.”

“If you gotta work, you gotta work. I know what it’s like when I have tons of homework. And Vernie and me are going shopping anyway.” She looked over at her nanny. “I want those pu
rple boots, okay?” She gave her
dad a mournful look. “Vernie thinks I’m too young, but I’m not. Abby Preston has some.”

“Get the boots, Vern
ie. We can argue about propriety later.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“And I want that pink shirt with sparkles, too.”

“Hey, kid, don’t push it,” Johnny said with a grin. “I can see from Vernie’s scowl that pink sparkles aren’t in the picture.”

T
hat night while
Nicky lay awake a few miles away, Johnny locked himself in his studio and got down to business. He was even able to sustain his focus and motivation through the first four songs on the album, barely thinking of Nicky and sex. But it wasn’t long before memories of Paris and Nice started undermining his defenses, and he began to fuck up. When he almost lost a masterful bridge because he was about to hit the wrong switch, he decided to pack it in. The last thing he needed was a major screw
-
up at this stage of production.

Pouring himself a single malt, he opened the doors to the garden, pulled a chair up to the night air, sat down, slid into a comfortable sprawl, and took a sip of the golden liquor. He was looking to forget and find solace in some prime whiskey, open his mind to the sounds of silence. Funny thing about trying to relax,
though. It only worked if you weren’t wound up tighter than a spring.

He was way too fucking tense.

Too res
tl
ess and agitated.

Although he wasn’t about to admit why.

He’d only left her a few hours ago, for Christ’s sake. This was crazy.

He had a second drink, then a third, but instead of peace and sola
ce, he only ended up hungry at tw
o in the morning.

And unfortunately, it wasn’t just for burgers and fries.

H
e
and Nicky
could have compared appetites at two in the morning.

Nicky was zapping frozen mac and cheese in her microwave. Johnny was ordering take-out at one of the only places open at that hour. So he ate Mexican. And ate and ate.

Maybe it was compensation for what he couldn’t have.

At some level he was even willing to admit it. But not enough to pick up the phone and ask for what he really wanted. Because it wasn’t just about sex with Nicky. That was the problem. And no way did he want to think about moving toward the next step. The thought of permanence made his blood run cold.

There was no
way
Nicky was going to make any calls. Even though she’d already given her vibrator a workout, twice. It was just one of those phone calls you couldn’t make.

Not unless she felt like being shot down at two in the morning.

T
he next day started out semi-normal
.

If you consider two people without sleep capable of functioning in anything resembling a normal fashion.

Nicky was in the office before anyone else. It beat staring at the wall.

Johnny greeted his daughter and Vernie, bleary-eyed and unshaven, nursing an espresso at the breakfast table.

“You must have worked all night,” Vernie remarked, giving him the once-over as she sat down opposite him.

“Sort of.” No way was he going to tell the truth.

“Can I have pancakes, Maria?” Jordi called out.

“Me, too,” Johnny added. He was craving carbs, which he never did. Getting up to run his third espresso, he wondered how he was going to get through the day. All he thought about was fucking—
one
particular woman with the sweetest cunt and the warmest smile
and a body that made a man happy to be a man. He was definitely going off the deep end because nothing deterred him from thinking the same thoughts, seeing the same images in his mind, wanting the same thing. It was as though he was tripping.

And he hadn’t done that for a decade or more.

B
uddy took one
look at Nicky when he walked into the office and said, “Tough trip, hey?”

“Not really. I just couldn’t sleep last night thinking about work.” Lies, lies.

“Go back home and sleep for a while. We don’t have to see the Thompsons until eleven. And for that one, you’d better be on your toes. The wife has a fucking clipboard.”

Nicky grimaced. “Rich wives have too much time on their hands.”

“Tell me about it. That’s all I see. Junior Martha Stewarts, with attitude. But I mean it. You look like hell. I’m not leaving until tomorrow. Go home and sleep.”

“I would if I could, okay? I
t’
s not going to happen.”

“Get a massage at Josie’s. You’ll look more rested.”

“Since when do you care if I looked rested or not?”

“I never had to before.”

“You’re just going to have to put up with what you see,” Nicky muttered, knowing damned well she wouldn’t be able to sleep, no matter what.

“Suit yourself. It’s your company.”

“Thank you,” she tardy said.

“Oooo, bitchy.” Buddy grinned. “Here’s where I could say something chauvinistic, if you know what I mean.”

Nicky snorted. “Men have such a simple way of looking at life.”

“It might help.”

“Could we change the subject? Before I fire you for sexual harassment.”

“Gotcha. Subject closed.” Not that Buddy was worried about being fired, but Nicky looked fretful, and he didn’t want to make her life any more difficult. They got along. They spoke their minds, but they both knew when to pull back. And this was one of those times. “So what’s first on the agenda?”

“The Thompsons and whatever else you have scheduled. And we should check out Jordi Patrick’s, too.” Not that she wanted to, but she couldn’t be a wuss.

“We’re stalled there right now. The lumber we need for the decks is on back order. So that one can wait.”

There was a God! She could feel her entire body relax. “Okay, then,” she said, brightly. “That one’s on hold for the time being.”

P
ancakes didn
’
t help,
a fourth cup of espresso didn’t help, even being left alone after Vernie and Jordi went shopping only made him more restless. Christ, he felt like he’d taken a dose of Spanish fly. His mind was relentlessly one-track, focused on a single thought. He was going crazy.

He even thought of calling some of the women he knew and inviting them over to be his sex surrogates for the woman he really wanted. But he couldn’t even bring himself to call. He didn’t want some other woman. He wanted her.

He was screwed.

But there was no way he was going to enter into a relationship.

No way, no how.

Especially after knowing Nicky for less time than it takes a banana to ripen.

Christ, this craving was lunatic.

Get a grip.

Part of the reason he’d attained his success was due to his practical, hardworking, no illusions attitude. Those traits sustained him now in his hour of need, and forcing himself back into the studio, he sat down and got to work.

Funny how in the best of all possible worlds, work is both a passion and an avocation. With the sun shining into his studio, reminding him of new beginnings and better times, before long, he was lost in the music he loved.

N
i
cky also found
herself thoroughly occupied that day— overseeing the thousand and one details integral to an architectural firm with eight projects under construction. She and Buddy surveyed two partially finished tree houses before meeting the Thompsons at eleven.

The interview didn’t start out well, when Mrs. Thompson said, “I don’t usually like to work with women, but you come highly recommended. I prefer working
with men. They’re more detail-
oriented, and I’m a detail person.”

Detail this.
Nicky felt like saying, “I don’t usually work with jerks.” But she held her tongue and managed to say instead, “Why don’t we see how things go? You don’t have to make up your mind today.”

Luckily, Buddy was smooth as silk during the interview, because short of sleep and already on the defensive, Nicky found it difficult not to snap off the officious Mrs. Thompson’s head on
about ten occasions. The lady with the clipboard felt that she knew more about designing tree houses than Nicky, and she didn’t mind saying so.

“You were good, boss,” Buddy said afterward in the car. “I could see the steam coming out of your ears, but you didn’t blow up.”

“Nerves of steel and the obvious fact that Mr. Thompson is going to be the one maki
ng th
e decisions. If we had to deal exclusively with his wife, I would have turned down the job.”

“That’s just because you’re on edge this morning. You never turn down a job.”

Buddy was right. She’d been too poor too recently to even think about turning away work. “I’d better go home early and take a nap,” she said.

“Good idea.”

Now what would really be a good idea was if she could go and take a nap with the very talented-in-the-sack Johnny Patrick. Since that wasn’t going to happen, she’d have to settle for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and one of the chocolate bars she’d brought back from France.

A completely inadequate compromise.

Really, not even a compromise.

Just a totally inadequate act of sublimation.

A
nd
as
if she wasn’t agitated enough, she’d no more than walked into her house than the phone rang.

Shit, it was her sister.

After not returning her countless calls, Nicky had no choice but to pick up or take the chance of having the local cops show
up at her door. Her mom had done that once when she hadn’t been able to get hold of her for five days. Her family had figured she’d been lying in a pool of her own blood after being murdered by some crazed killer.

The simple fact was that there was no crime in Black Duck, unless egging cars on Halloween counted. So her mom, particularly, viewed any large city as highly dangerous and rife with crime, no matter how many times Nicky had explained to her how her tree-lined neighborhood was safe as can be.

But apparentl
y, she didn’t sound upbeat enough when she answered the phone, because she’d no more than said, “Hello,” and her sister immediately asked, “What’s wrong? We’ve been worried about you. Are you okay?”

Her sister’s voice had taken on a anxious note at the end, and for the briefest of moments Nicky debated telling her the truth: that her life was in no way okay. That she was down in the dumps because she might be in love with a guy who didn’t even know what the word meant. And even worse, if someone explained what it meant to him, he’d fucking die laughing. “I’m just tired,” she said instead, lying through her teeth—not about being tired. About
why
she was tired.

“Just because you’re tired doesn’t explain why you haven’t answered your phone for days,” her sister, Belle, noted, with the cunning of a detective. “
I’l
l have you know Mom almost called out the gendarmes.”

How about that for Freudian, when she’d actually been in gendarme country for the past few days, Nicky nervously observed. Was it a sign that she should tell at least part of the truth? Was God trying to tell her something? “Actually, I’ve been out of the country for a couple days,” she offered, figuring she couldn’t
afford to anger any gods with the shaky state of her nerves. She didn’t need any more bad karma. Particularly from her family.

“Where in the world were you?” A wholly breathless query, each word punctuated with alarm.

“It was strictly business,” Nicky said, lying like a rug. “I’m building a tree house for a family and they wanted me to see some stuff over in France.”

“Who’s building tree houses in France for God’s sake?”

Okay, she should have thought that one through better. Belle knew as well as she did that her architectural speciality was extremely rare. “It wasn’t precisely a tree house, just a site and stuff that they wanted to show me.”

“Where was that?”

Oh, God, she was just digging herself a deeper hole. “Out in the country west of Paris. No place you’d know. How are Mom and Dad? How’re the baby and Ed?”

“They’re fine. Everyone’s fine. So you’re not going to tell me, your only sister, what you did?” Belle challenged. “I know when you’re bullshitting. Spit it out. Where in hell were you?”

“I don’t have to tell you.” Nicky grumbled, resorting to a defense more appropriate to a six-year-old. So she was tired, her brain wasn’t clicking on all ten cylinders.

“Then I’ll tell Mom you won’t tell me where you went, because it was too dangerous and you were almost kidnapped and—”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, and you know it,” Nicky doggedly muttered, figuring she’d stick with her stone-wall approach. “Mom’s not going to do anything now that I’m back home anyway.”

“Then how about you tell me because you sound really, really sad,” her sister coaxed, the sympathy in her tone genuine. “I won’t
tell anyone, Nick. You know I won’t. And if you want,” she added, sweetening the pot, “I’ll give you the gossip on Jenny Grogin. That will cheer you up for sure.”

“Tell me about that first.” The sisters knew each other’s soft spots; they were extremely clo
se, even though they didn’t see
as much of each other as they once had.

“Well, for starters,” Belle declared, “she’s mixed up with some married judge, if you can believe it. And believe it. It’s true—Eva heard about it from a reliable source.”

“No shit. Miss Goody Two-Shoes who does everything by the book is doing it with a married judge?”

“It gets better. The judge’s wife is out for blood, and all the guy’s money, too. So Jenny’s straight-to-the-top career path, that’s been planned and executed down to every last detail, could take a detour or at least be stalled for a while. Although, this is Washington, D.C., we’re talking about, where scandal and corruption are routine, so who knows? But I thought you’d like to know Miss Goody Two-Shoes might have stepped into some shit.”

Nicky laughed. “You were right. That’s damned interesting news. Keep me posted on the gory details.”

“Don’t worry. Eva Monteil has her ear to the ground, and you know she can practically see through buildings, too. So if Jenny tells her mother anything more—however edited it might be—Eva will know about it.”

“And in turn, the world.”

“You got that right. Now spill your guts, sis, and I’ll tell you not to worry, and you can quit being sad.”

She and Belle had always offered each other that blanket assurance of perpetual happiness that solved nothing, but nevertheless made them feel better. “It’s not a problem precisely,” Nicky
began. “I know better than to ask for the moon or expect Cinderella endings to relationships, but I’m sorta bummed out ’cause I’m missing someone. That’s all.”

“Anyone I know?”

“You might know
of
him. If you read the tabloids.”

“You’re kidding! You know some celebrity?”

Nicky went on to explain how she’d been asked to design a tree house for Jordi Patrick and all the events that had unfolded in the last few days. “So even though I know better than to expect anything but a fond farewell from someone like Johnny Patrick,” she finished, “it still leaves me—
unhappy
—I guess would be the right word.”

“You sound unhappy all right,” Belle agreed. “And the guy’s fucking unbelievably gorgeous, of course. Who wouldn’t fall for him. Christ, he was the Sexiest Man Alive for a thousand obvious reasons! It’s not as though you can just ignore a man like that.”