French Kiss Part 4

"Yep. Population seven thousand-a mill town in northern California that's seen better days. There was always talk of closing down the high school and busing us over the hill to Ukiah."

"So your small-town roots kept you in the Bay area instead of L.A."

"More or less." He didn't say the drug scene in L.A. had almost taken him down when he first started out in the music business. Berkeley gave him the distance he needed to maintain a normal life.

She felt more of a rapport with him from that point, their small-town backgrounds overcoming some of the s...o...b..z dazzle that had been rat tl ing her since she'd boarded the opulent private jet. Although, being alone with Johnny Patrick in this tiny little s.p.a.ce was definitely a factor, too.

But she found herself relaxing as they compared small-town memories and exchanged brief histories of their families-he had a mom and dad who lived in Napa now, a brother in Colorado.

"We get together on the holidays," he said. "At my place or in Napa-in the ski season we're more apt to go to my brother's place in Denver. He has kids; they're younger than Jordi, but they all get along. How about you? Do you go home on the holidays?"

"Pretty much. My folks and brother and sister operate a tree farm, so Christmas is a big deal. Once the trees are shipped in early November, everyone relaxes and starts baking. The whole family cooks, and Thanksgiving and Christmas are one gargantuan feast."

"You cook, too?"

"'Course. I make candy."

His brows rose. "No kidding."

She smiled. "It was a matter of taking what was left on the seasonal menu. Not that making candy is oppressive in any way. But my dad makes the sausage and smokes the bacon, my mom handles the Scandinavian coffee breads and lutefisk, my older sister opted for the Christmas cookies before I was big enough to complain, and my brother makes the best egg rolls and scalloped potatoes in three counties. And actually, it helps to have an engineering degree when it comes to candy making. It's a very precise art. The rest of my family are biologists and wing it more than I do."

"So you're odd man out."

"Like the houses I build," she quipped. "Tell me, are you in step with your family?"

He laughed. "Not really. My dad worked in a mill and listened to baseball on the radio, not music. My mom's a librarian, retired now, and her idea of music is hymns. My brother's a math teacher. But no one ever gave me any grief for taking the route I did. Even when things were sort of rocky." Those days when he was partying so hard he forgot what day it was, for instance.

"How did you get your own label?"

"Probably the way you started your own business. I just went for it." He grinned. "I had a garage band that was pretty d.a.m.ned good, for starters."

"How did you know they were good?"

He slumped back in his chair and gave her that practiced smile-the one he could turn on and off effortlessly. "It's a gut feeling. Believe me, a music degree from Berkeley isn't the key, although I don't discount it. But mos tl y, I learned by trial and error."

"When did bodyguards enter your life?" So maybe it wasn't a good segue, but those guys were intimidating.

His eyes widened for an almost imperceptible moment, and then he smiled. "They bother you?"

"Well, sort of."

"Barry and Cole are just along for backup."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"You're not in any danger."

She frowned. "Then what does backup mean?"

"Just general a.s.sistance," he calmly said, apparently picking up on the bristle in her tone. "Like sometimes they help me out when I go to some red carpet thing; they get me through the crowds. Or if I'm out clubbing, which I rarely do these days, they help keep..." He hesitated.

"The women away?"

His lids lowered fractionally, and for a brief moment he considered lying before he decided against it. "Yeah... sometimes." And then he got back to the subject at hand. "I don't have Barry and Cole around much-occasionally for outside work. Or for times like this. A little extra muscle never hurts."

"They're on your payroll, though." She could tell the men were comfortable with each other.

"I have lots of people on my payroll. Look, I'm sorry they make you nervous, but I'm not exac tl y sure where I'm going to find Jordi, or with whom. I'm playing defense and bringing them along. I hope it's not too much of a problem for you. But you're perfectly safe; you have my word."

This probably wasn't the time to argue about their varying definitions of safety. Bottom line, he had to consider his daughter's safety. "Sorry I brought it up," she murmured. "I'm good with the program." What could she say? Let me out at thirty-five thousand feet?

"With luck, we'll pick up Jordi within a few hours and head right back. I'm figuring on a short trip."

But his expression had changed when Jordi came into the conversation; he was clearly distressed. "Here I am being difficult about your bodyguards and you're worried sick about your daughter," Nicky said, feeling guilty as h.e.l.l. "I'm really sorry."

"Forget it." He tried to smile but didn't quite manage a credible one. "I keep telling myself there should be some crew on board who'll keep an eye on Jordi-that she's okay and not frightened. But I don't know..."

"I'm sure she's fine. Jordi's such a sociable child. She can get along with anyone." Plat.i.tudes all, but gritty reality wasn't an option.

"Here's hoping." His current mood wasn't upbeat, though. Lisa had screwed up so many times he wasn't relying on her to act like a grown-up today. "Look," he said, "I'm going to check our course time with the pilots." He came to his feet. "Thanks for the conversation," he said, both polite and oddly detached.

"You're welcome. I wish I could do more."

"You can do some fast talking for me once we get to Paris and start looking for Jordi." He paused at the door. "You know, be diplomatic and pushy at the same time."

"I'll do my best." This wasn't the time to say she wasn't sure she was adept at either one.

"Sleep if you can." He opened the door. "I'll wake you before we land."

She hadn't realized she was tired, but only moments later, she was in bed and sleeping.

Being on show for so long must have been fatiguing.

Meanwhile, Johnny checked on the pilots, chatted briefly with Barry and Cole, and put in a last call to Lisa's a.s.sistant, grimacing as she gave him the same answer she had the last time he had spoken with her. As far as she knew, Lisa was on her way to Paris. From there, she didn't have a clue.

He and Mandy Ingram had a strained but working relationship. Her loyalty was to Lisa, of course, but she knew as well as he did who took care of Lisa when she needed help. When the drugs took over or a boyfriend was making unreasonable demands, ex-husband he might be, but he was the one who was always called on to do the heavy lifting, should it be required.

But nothing was required right now.

Because everything was in f.u.c.king limbo-including his daughter's whereabouts.

Swearing softly and then not so softly, he began pacing.

Nine.

It was midmorning, bright and sunny, when they landed in Paris. Two black Mercedes sedans were waiting on the tarmac, the uniformed drivers striding toward them as they exited the plane.

Handing their carry-ons to one of the drivers, Johnny said to Nicky, "We'll take the second car. I'll be there in a minute."

After a brief conversation with his bodyguards, Johnny joined Nicky in the backseat. He was a.s.suming-more... hoping- that his ex had booked her usual suite at the Ritz; he'd had his secretary arrange for rooms across the street. "Hotel Castille, Rue de Cambon," he said to the driver and a moment later the car slowly picked up speed.

The low throaty purr of the engine was oddly soothing, Nicky thought. Or maybe it was the silken luxury of the dark interior and the quiet obsequiousness of those in attendance, she decided. Everything was unruffled and frictionless in the world of the ber-rich.

Kidnapped daughters aside, of course.

"Did you sleep?" she asked, as though she had the right, as though the dark circles under his eyes weren't answer enough.

"A little," he lied. "You?"

It was such an obvious effort at politeness, she felt an immediate surge of sympathy. "Have you heard from your daughter?"

"I had a message from her nanny, but the transmission was garbled. It sounded as though they'd landed. Thankfully Vernie's with Jordi; she'll look out for her. Or as much as she can with my twisted ex in charge."

"You like the nanny. That's a plus."

"Yeah-she's a rock. But those men with Lisa"-his jaw clenched-"that's another story." He blew out a breath. "We'll check out the Ritz first. My ex usually stays there."

"Maybe it won't be long then till Jordi is back with you," Nicky said, soothingly, hoping she was right. The man slouched low in the seat beside her didn't in the least resemble the public s.e.x-and-drugs-and-rock-and-roll icon.

He just looked weary and disheartened.

And incredibly worried.

Fifty minutes later, as the car pulled up outside a discreet hotel entrance on a quiet Parisian street, Johnny turned to her, his hand on the door latch. "If Lisa is at the Ritz, we shouldn't have much trouble. The staff there knows how to kiss a.s.s." He nodded at the Castille entrance. "Do you want to go to your room first, or are you okay with going to the Ritz right now?"

He was unbelievably polite, considering the state of his nerves.

"Let's do the Ritz first," she said.

He was out of the car and helping her from the backseat when his bodyguards, who'd jumped from the lead car before it had come to a complete stop, reached them. Then, flanked by muscle, they crossed the street and entered the back door of the Ritz.

The one Princess Diana walked out of that fateful night, Nicky couldn't help but think.

She sent up a small prayer that their excursion would end more fortuitously.

Ten.

T heir initial reception went well.

The staff at the front desk greeted Johnny like the celebrity he was, showering him with smiles and affability like he was a long lost friend. He'd racked up considerable time there during his marriage, and seven thousand bucks a night for the Coco Chanel suite his ex favo red, got you that kind of toady ing.

"Would you tell Miss Jordan I'm on my way up," he said first chance he had in the midst of the effusive hospitality, playing his spurious she's-expecting-me card.

Everyone's expression froze.

He immediately turned to Nicky, knowing a degree of tact and sublety was called for now. "At least Lisa's here," he said in an undertone, feeling a great wave of relief wash over him. "Explain to them-very politely-that I just want to talk to her. She may have told them not to let me up, or maybe they're remembering the screaming matches Lisa and I have had here in the past. Make sure they understand I have no intention of making trouble. They'll understand it better in French."

Feeling like a mediator at the UN, Nicky chose her words carefully, apologizing up front for her antiquated accent. She presented Johnny's case with great tact, promising them that Mr. Patrick would only speak to Miss Jordan if she wished to see him. She suggested they call Miss Jordan to clear the visit.

As she quickly recapped her comments for Johnny, he added a bargaining chip he'd been holding in reserve. "Have them tell Lisa I brought her a present from Uncle Yogi. She'll know what that means."

After Nicky relayed the added message, the manager stepped into a back room to make the call. He was smiling a few moments later when he reappeared. "Miss Jordan will see you, Monsieur Patrick," he said, a collective relief evident on every staff member's face.

"Thank you," Johnny said, pleasan tly. "The Chanel suite ?"

Numerous heads bobbed in reply.

"Merci," Johnny said, employing one of the few French words he knew, and lightly touching Nicky's arm, he guided her away.

As the desk staff watched Johnny walk off, the manager understood a potentially contentious scene had been averted. Fortunately Miss Jordan had greeted the news of her ex-husband's appearance with cordiality. Not that the staff weren't trained to diffuse volatile situations and smooth feathers. But it wasn't always easy with those in the flamboyant world of entertainment.

The last time Mr. and Mrs. Patrick had been in residence, the hot-tempered Miss Jordan had attacked her husband in the lobby.

The tempestuous scene had been impossible to ignore.

Like watching a train wreck.

Lisa Jordan's ethereal slenderness had been barely concealed by a flim sy red chiffon dress so short th e color of her thong wasn't in question. Screaming at the top of her lungs, swearing at her husband for apparently being ill-mannered enough to drag her back to the hotel before she was ready to leave the club, she had pummeled him mercilessly, her long blond hair swirling around her bare shoulders with each wild swinging blow.

Johnny Patrick had kept backing up toward the elevators, warding her off with gentlemanly grace, only grabbing her wrist once when she tried to rake his face with her nails.

On reaching the elevators, he'd dragged her inside and had been heard to say before the doors shut, "You're taking the f.u.c.king fun out of life, babe."

Unaware of the special memories of those at the front desk, Johnny was calculating whether or not to go up alone. Did he need Nicky for any more translation? Would bringing bodyguards send the wrong signal? How stupid would it be to go up alone?

"I'll go first," Barry said, interrupting Johnny's reflections.

"You think so? I'm not sure." They were nearing the elevators.

"I'll be sure for both of us. Cole"-Barry nodded at his companion-"take the lady."

Nicky found herself inches away from a man who represented either protection or danger-with the scales definitely tipping toward danger in her estimation.

Johnny blew out a breath. He'd never quite accepted the idea that he needed bodyguards. "c.r.a.p," he muttered.