“There’s one other option,” Maddie said as the waitress set down the fresh round of drinks. She lifted her glass to his. “Bottoms up.”
If it took getting plastered to seal this deal with her, then he would do it. David raised his whisky. “Cheers.”
They toasted and swallowed their drinks in unison.
He had trouble getting it down. His gut was asking him what in hell he was doing as his brain went wee-hee! He was dizzy and hot. He needed to go to the bathroom but he was afraid to stand up.
Maddie sat across from him, a calm smile on her face. His vision blurred. He wanted to tell her how pretty she was but it came out like, “Youm a berry bootipul wooman.”
“One more.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his ear and whispered. “You drink one more double shot with me and I’ll go along with your plan to impersonate Cassie and rob the Louvre with Shriver.”
“Okey-dokey.” He felt sloppy happy. Maybe she was planning on taking him back to their hotel and having her way with him. He certainly wasn’t opposed.
Maddie motioned for the waitress to bring them another set of drinks and a few minutes later, she brought over the double shots.
“Down the hatch,” Maddie murmured.
Hell, he didn’t know if he could even get the glass to his lips. Where were his lips by the way? They were tingly numb.
He watched the column of Maddie’s throat move as she dispatched the final shot.
Are you a man or a mouse?
That irritating devil voice that got him in so much trouble whispered.
With considerable effort, David raised the glass to his lips, closed his eyes and knocked the whisky back. “Ahh.”
Maddie’s mouth twitched and he realized she was trying not to laugh.
“Whassso funny?” he slurred.
“Remember I said there was one more option?”
He nodded. Or at least he thought he nodded. “Whazzat?”
“Drink you under the table, go to Madrid, retrieve my sister and head home to the States.”
“You can’t drink me unner the table.” He wobbled in his chair.
“I think I already have.”
“Uh-huh.” He pushed back his chair and staggered to his feet. “See. I perrrfetly fine.”
“Yeah, you’re fine.” She got up and picked up her shoulder bag.
“Hey,” he said, trying to point a finger at her but his frickin’ finger wouldn’t hold still. “Where ya goin’?”
She waved and headed for the door.
“Wait.” He charged after her, only to have the floor rise up to meet his face.
He hit the wood with a resounding thunk. If he hadn’t stuck out a hand to break his fall he probably would have fractured his skull. He ended up staring at a French fry squashed on the floor next to his nose.
Maddie squatted down beside him.
“Oh,” she said. “Maybe I forgot to tell you. The reason I don’t often drink alcohol is because I have a mutant metabolic disorder of the liver enzymes. I can drink all the liquor I want and I never even get buzzed, so what’s the point? Well, unless you’re trying to drink some smart-assed guy under the table.”
He groaned.
“And remember what you told me at the airport? Payback really
is
a bitch.”
She rose to her feet and swished away before David could reach out and grab her ankle.
And just before he passed out he heard her tell the waitress, “He’ll be paying the bill.”
If David hadn’t lied to her, Maddie would have felt bad about drinking him under the table. He wasn’t the first man she’d bested in a tippling contest, but he was the only one she hadn’t told about her metabolic condition beforehand.
Of course, if he hadn’t lied to her, she would have had no reason to drink him under the table.
She’d discovered her dubious gift quite by accident. In college, Cassie got buzzed on one shot of tequila, but Maddie could down the whole bottle, including the worm and not get the least bit soused. The handy talent had earned her a few dare bucks when she was twenty-one, but since then, she’d never exploited her talent.
Until now.
Maddie marched to their hotel, head held high. Once in her room, she checked the transportation schedule and ended up booking the next supersonic train to Madrid. She had a little less than an hour to pack and get to the station. By the time David roused himself from his Crown Royal stupor, Maddie would already be in Spain.
For the sake of time, she eschewed the elevator and hurried down the stairs. She had a map of Paris in one hand, her carry-on in the other.
Imagine! David Marshall actually thinking she’d go along with his crazy scheme to nail Shriver by pretending to be her sister.
At least he has a lot of confidence in you.
Bullshit. The man had just been desperate.
She hurried through the cobblestone square, past a gorgeous fountain. It was already dark and the lights had come on, bathing the city in a festive glow.
On the steps of the Louvre, a group of sightseers in mittens and parkas stood in a semicircle, observing something. Maddie cut around them and discovered they were watching a mime.
She shuddered. She hated mimes. She found their silent gesturing menacing.
This mime wore a top hat with red wig springing out from underneath. His face was made-up with the traditional white grease paint and he wore black trousers with wide suspenders. His black shirt was slashed with white horizontal stripes. A CD player spinning Parisian cabaret torch songs sat at his feet. He had a blanket spread out to collect the coins people tossed.
Pathetic way to make a living. To avoid walking in front of him, Maddie veered to the left.
And the mime shuffled in front of her, blocking her path.
Maddie gave him a quick, tolerant smile that said,
Hey, dude. Even though I have no respect for what you do, that doesn’t mean we can’t both coexist. Now get the hell out of my way.
She sidestepped.
He followed. The serious expression on his face never changed.
Maddie ducked her head, feinted left but zipped right.
He wasn’t faked out.
She cleared her throat and spoke one of the few phrases in French that she knew.
“Excusez moi.”
He didn’t budge. In fact, he cocked his head as if she was from another planet and he was an anthropologist studying her alien behavior.
She stepped to the left again.
And damn if he didn’t match her movements exactly.
Why was the freak mocking her? Maddie planted a hand against his sternum and shoved.
He pushed back with his chest.
The stupid crowd loved it. They were clapping and cheering him on.
“Get out of my way,” she insisted.
Silently, he aped her words, all the while creating dramatic sweeping gestures with his arms.
She jumped right and darted forward but he ran backward, staying directly in front of her. Somewhere, a clock chimed the hour. Six elongated chimes. The train left at six-twenty and the station was over a mile away. She’d have to hail a taxi in order to make it.
Hurry, hurry, you don’t have time for this.
The mime sank his hands on his hips and flounced prissily, wagging his head back and forth and shaking his behind.
Angered, she dropped her suitcase and took a kickboxing stance. “Come on dude, I’ve taken down one arrogant man today, I have no trouble making it two.”
He mimed her. Fisting his hands and raising them in mirror image of hers. He gave a taunting smile.
The crowd roared with laughter.
Maddie’s cheeks flamed with shame. Oh this was too much. Being humiliated by an annoying mime.
Maybe there was a policeman nearby. She glanced around but didn’t see one. Typical.
The mime stared at her chest and narrowed his eyes. Pervert.
And then he made the grandest
faux pas
of all. He reached out, ran his hand over Maddie’s half-a-heart necklace and tugged on it.
The delicate chain snapped.
Now his behavior made sense. It was just a ploy to steal her necklace.
Rage suffused her. Nobody messed with her necklace. Growling, hands in attack position, Maddie launched herself at the mime.
She tackled him like a defensive end sacking a quarterback. They fell to the ground together. She sat on his chest and wrapped her hands around his neck. With each word, she pounded his head against the stone steps.
“Give.” Pound.
“Me.” Pound.
“Back.” Pound.
“My.” Pound.
“Necklace.” Pound.
The crowd gasped.
Maddie felt a fist at the nape of her neck. Someone grasped her by her collar and yanked her off the dazed mime. “Stop it right now, before you murder Marcel Marceau.”
“He stole my necklace,” she howled, arms flailing. She was prepared to fight anyone and everyone for that necklace.
“Maddie,” David’s voice broke through her bloodlust and she realized he was the someone who’d pulled her off the mime. “Is this what you’re battling for?”
She spun around to look at him. His knees were wobbling like a top, his eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of whisky, but in his hand he was clutching her necklace.
“Yeah. He ripped it off my neck,” she said breathlessly and turned back to point an accusing finger at the mime.
But the guy was already gone. All they could see was the top hat and red wig dashing away through street traffic.
TEN
S
OMETHING ABOUT THE
mime niggled at him, but David was too drunk to recognize what it was and too late to confront the guy head on. He was long gone.
But Maddie was right here. In his grasp. He wasn’t about to let her escape again.
David pulled handcuffs from his pocket. Before his intent had time to register, he quickly clamped one end around Maddie’s right wrist and the other end around his left. He had to manacle her to him. If she decided to bolt and run, he was in no condition to pursue her.
“Hey!” Maddie protested, alarm in her eyes. “Hey!”
The crowd applauded.
She stuck out her tongue at them.
They jeered.
“Come on.” David jerked her in the direction of the hotel where Henri had reserved rooms for them. “Before you start an international incident.”
She dug her heels in.
“Don’t give me a hard time,” he growled, “or I’ll let the crowd at you. You’d be mincemeat in a matter of minutes. The French take their mimes very seriously.”
“I’m not going with you.”
“Yes you are.” It required every bit of strength he could muster to bend down, scoop up her carry-on and drag her in the direction he wanted her to go.
“Nazi.”
“Let’s not get into the name calling.” He was slurring his words, his gut roiled precariously and his head was pounding like a bass drum, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. He still couldn’t get over the way she’d outsmarted him.
Again.
“Where are you taking me?”
He grit his teeth. “Thanks to your ruthless cunning, I’m not in any shape to plot a
coup
against Shriver tonight. We’re going to the hotel so I can sleep off the whisky. But here’s how it’s gonna go down. In the morning, you’re going to Shriver’s room, impersonating Cassie, and convincing him to let you help him rob the Louvre. Got it?”
“You think I’m cunning?” She cast him a sideways glance.
“Yes I do,” he said and damned if she didn’t look inordinately pleased.
He noticed she was no longer resisting him as they walked wrist in wrist up the Champs-Elysées. People were staring at them curiously. He paused a moment to slip his raincoat off his shoulders and slide it down his left arm to hide the handcuffs.
“But,” he reminded her, “I also said you were ruthless.”
“I’m not ruthless.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you call taking advantage of your peculiar metabolism in order to drink a man under the table and then leaving him passed out in a bar? That’s not a particularly nice thing to do.”
“Neither is lying.” She glared.
He might have enjoyed their verbal sparring if he hadn’t felt so utterly wretched. As it was, with each word he spoke it seemed as if someone was driving a pickaxe clean through the base of his skull. Each step was a slog through half-set cement. And when he tried to think, his brain shrieked.
All he wanted was to get to the hotel, flop down on the bed and sink into oblivion. He’d worry about Shriver when his drunken toot subsided.
Maddie, however, had totally opposite goals.
“I think we should go to Madrid and get Cassie,” she wheedled.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re damned lucky I’m even standing and it’s all your fault. You owe me. Big time.”
By the grace of God, they arrived at the hotel. David hurried for the door and stumbled over the curb. He would have taken a header for the second time that day if Maddie hadn’t tugged him back with the handcuff.
“I see your point,” she said.
The trip upstairs was a blur. They reached his room and David set her bag down in the corridor and weaved as he tried to insert the card key.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Trying to get into my damned room.”
“Aren’t you going to uncuff me so I can go to my own room?”
“Hell no.” His knees buckled and he fell against the door. He was sinking fast. Only sheer effort of will had carried him this far from the floor of the pub. “You’re spending the night with me.”
“Alone? In your bed?”
“Don’t sound so panicky. Even if I was inclined to molest you, which I’m not, Herman is in a whisky induced coma.”
“Herman?”
He glanced at his crotch, then looked at her and arched an eyebrow. Or at least he thought he arched an eyebrow. He really didn’t know for sure. He couldn’t feel his facial muscles.
“Oh. You named your penis Herman? Wait, don’t confirm that, I really don’t want to know.”
He grinned. “Are you charmed?”
“Hardly.”
Again, he reached out to swipe it through the sensor pad but damned if there weren’t two of them blending and blurring together. He closed one eye.
Ah, that was better. He leaned forward and almost toppled over again.