One Stolen Kiss (5 page)

“Hello?” she answered.

“
Hello,” he echoed, as if from earlier. There was a pause. “Are you all right?”

“
No,” she grumbled. “My legs are cold.” She sighed heavily, glancing at the garbage sack on the floor of the limo. “And I didn’t have any gloves with me either.”

He chuckled.

“I don’t recall that stopping you before.”

“
Slightly different scenario this time.”

“
Want to talk about it?”

“
Not really.”

“
How about just breakfast, then?” he asked.

“
Depends on where.” Christie closed her eyes, ready to fall asleep from exhaustion.

“
JFK,” he replied, and there was another brief pause. “I’m flying back to London later.”

“
Right. Sure,” she agreed. “Things to discuss. Italy. I know.”

“
Yes. That too,” he replied. “Christie – I want you to come with me.”

CHAPTER FOUR.

Adrik permitted himself a smile as he spotted the black limo crawling down Cross Bay Boulevard towards him, stopping at the lights about a hundred yards up. He’d spent the last few hours after leaving the club wisely, ensuring that for at least two of them he was asleep, then showering and freshening up for his return journey. Keeping Christie out of his thoughts had not been a simple task, but he rationalised that her decision whether to meet him or not was unlikely to be affected by any unnecessary obsessing.

Besides – this was an arrangement to repay a debt she owed him. Not a date. Arrangements that could always be changed without notice.

But what was he feeling now? The car traversed the lights and slunk effortlessly into the outside lane, slowing to a silent halt in front of him. Relief and exhilaration seemed to be a better description than obsession.

The driver alighted first and acknowledged Adrik as he stepped out and around onto the kerb, opening the rear passenger door. Christie emerged unhurriedly, her appearance tired, unchanged, blinking against the seven-thirty a.m. sunshine.

Adrik opened his arms and beckoned, his face serious. She hesitated in a way that tugged on his heart-strings, before stepping into them warily, and accepting the unfamiliarity of a hug.

Very New Yorker
, he thought.
Not good.

Her evident nervousness made him want to lighten the mood, ease the tension. Find the original Christie, who had flirted with him eleven years ago.

“What time do you call this, dirty stop-out?” he joked as they parted, and grinned at her exhausted glare.

“
What look do you call that – lumberjack?” she retorted sorely, gesturing at his plaid shirt over the grey ‘No Fear’ tee, Levi’s jeans and Caterpillar boots. A rucksack was on the pavement beside him, containing all he had brought for his one-night stay at the Central Park West apartment. “I couldn’t get into my place, the Press were already outside. Doug’s driver had to go in to fetch my passport for me.”

“
British passport?”

“
Of course. I haven’t given that up.”

“
Good.”

“
What are we doing here? I thought you said JFK.”

“
It’s right over there.” He pointed east, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the roadside deli. “We’re getting breakfast first. Somewhere nice and anonymous. Or, if you prefer, we can sit beside a news-stand in an international airport, with you still in the same outfit you were photographed in last night.”

“
Sorry boss,” Doug’s driver apologised, in his Louisiana drawl. “Didn’t have time to grab anything else. And women’s closets scare the hell outta me.”

“
Not your fault.” Adrik waved dismissively.

“
Oh – I think I do have another jacket…” Christie glanced back at the car, almost ashamedly. “Umm. He was throwing a couple of my things out of his house in East Hampton when I got there.”

The driver snatched up the garbage sack from the floor of the car, as Adrik stared.

“Do you have something else we can put those in?” he asked quietly.

“
On it, boss.” The driver was already around at the trunk of the car, and the shameful trash bag vanished to be replaced by a Bloomingdale’s paper carry-all.

“
Thank you.” Christie and Adrik spoke in unison, as the replacement holdall was handed over.

“
If you want driving to the airport, I’ll wait,” the driver nodded at them, returning quickly to check the trunk was secure again.

“
Pick us up here in an hour,” Adrik agreed, and passed him some notes. “Feed yourself first. No hurry.”

“
What time is your flight?” Christie asked, as Adrik picked up his own bag. The limo pulled away from the kerb again, leaving them outside the deli.

“
When I’m ready,” he replied.

* * * *

She was grateful for Derek Goldman’s pernickety girlfriend-dumping house-clearing habits, as she brushed her teeth vigorously with her old toothbrush in the deli’s spick-and-span tiled bathroom. Under the embroidered denim jacket, the Victoria’s Secret nightshirt made a passable shirt-waister dress cinched in with her skirt’s belt from yesterday, and there were even a few sets of spare underwear in amongst the odds and ends. No spare shoes, sadly. Christie would have happily settled for a pair of sneakers or even flip-flops, but there was nothing to replace the killer YSL heels.

And no make-up remover. She blotted with damp tissue, repairing any smudges around her eyes, and dabbed Carmex onto her lips, the tingle refreshing her a little. A spray of Chanel perfume was what finally woke her up properly as the powerful, confident scent surrounded her, and concentrating a little better, she unpinned her chignon and restyled it into a French pleat for the day.

Yesterday’s black suit went into the Bloomingdale’s holdall, on top of the stocking-less garter belt, which sent her stomach into knots just looking at it. Her hands had shaken so much taking it off that she’d had to run them under the hot tap.

Adrik
, she thought – the shape of his name in her mind sending her emotions into another spiral. The hug he’d given her still wasn’t registering either. It was in some holding pattern just outside her comprehension, awaiting permission for analysis under the scrutiny of ‘Public Displays of Affection.’

Finally transferring her phone, wallet and passport into the crochet purse slung over her shoulder, she gave her reflection one last critical gaze. She looked all right. A bit Boho for her liking, and the heels with this outfit were just ridiculous – like channelling a 1985 Madonna retrospective – thank goodness there had been a pair of Ray-Bans left forgotten in the purse. She stuck them on top of her head.

“We’ll look like a right pair of Hillbillies,” she muttered, thinking of the band that had performed at
Harding’s
last night. “They’ll take one look at us at JFK security, and reach for the batons and pepper-spray… if ever there was a running-away-from-my-crumbling-life outfit, this is most definitely it…”

The bathroom door swung inward to admit a young mother in a supermarket cashier’s tabard and her very small baseball-hatted son, warning him not to pee standing on the lavatory seat. Christie hoisted the Bloomingdale’s carrier and exited in turn.

* * * *

Adrik arose from his chair by the window as she emerged uncertainly, and was gratified that she appeared relieved to see he was still here.

“Seemed like you thought I had run off and abandoned you for a moment there,” he observed, and waited for her to sit down opposite before reseating himself in turn. “You look cute. We almost match. Is that underwear?”

“
Nightwear,” she corrected him in a muffled voice, burying her nose in the cup of coffee that the server had just finished pouring as she approached. Her brow creased with concern, and she glanced up. “Oh no. Does it look like underwear?”

Adrik grinned.

“You look fine. Like Madonna when she was young.”

“
That’s exactly what was worrying me.” She took the menu as he passed it over, staring at it in an unseeing fashion. “This was never intended to be an ensemble before it was unceremoniously dumped on me this morning, let me tell you. What’s your excuse?”

“
I spent nine out of the last eleven years working as a welder in various shipyards around the world,” he told her. “So I’m extremely comfortable, thank you.”

She caught his eye and looked immediately embarrassed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“
You were being a New Yorker,” he remarked. “I know.”

“
You know I’m not really a New Yorker,” she sighed, scanning the menu again.

“
It’s rubbed off on you, for sure.”

“
Yes,” she admitted. “Up until about ten hours ago, I was almost certain of finally fitting in.”

“
When I first saw you in Switzerland, I thought you might be – not Swiss – Swedish, perhaps French,” he confided, leaning back and sipping his coffee. “Something about the way you carried yourself. Very elegant. Mesmerising.”

Her eyes flashed up at him again.

“Adrik…” she warned, a flush running over her cheeks. “People… don’t say those things.”

“
Well, they should,” he shrugged. “It’s true.”

“
My mother is French.” She disappeared behind the menu once more.

“
Ahh.
Parlez-vous Français?
”

“
Mais oui.
”

“
Bien sûr
.” He smirked a little, enjoying the fact that he was getting under her skin. The confident Manhattan gallery owner and party hostess he encountered only hours before had already melted like an ice sculpture overnight. “Maybe you meant to say, he
doesn’t say those things. To you.”

“
I don’t think I can eat anything.” She dropped the menu.

“
Sure you can.” Adrik knew she was avoiding the subject now, and smiled at the server, who came back over to their table. “We’ll have the waffles, please.”

“
Sausage, bacon?” the waiter queried. “Eggs?”

“
I don’t know.” Adrik cast a mischievous eye in Christie’s direction. “How long do you keep your chickens alive for?”

“
Just maple syrup and butter, thank you,” Christie intervened, trying to dig a YSL heel ineffectually into his steel-lined toecap under the table. He felt merely an irritated nudging against his foot.

“
We also have fresh blueberry syrup, or whipped cream?” the waiter added helpfully. He glanced at Adrik. “Although I’m afraid I cannot vouch for the life expectancy of the dairy herd, sir.”

“
That would be lovely…” Adrik found himself speaking in unison with Christie for a second time, and the waiter nodded and moved on, evidently keen to leave them to their weirdness.

“
So, any loose ends to tie up before we run away together?” he continued, rather enjoying her affronted glare across the table. “Any unfinished business? Or unfinished paintings lying around, to be precise?”

She shook her head.

“They’re all in the gallery. I hadn’t started any new ones. And yes, I cleaned up after myself too. Nobody’s going to pin those on me. In fact, I was wondering, while I originally planned on owning up, whether anyone would even believe me.”

“
My cousin Roksana told me you were quite the artist at your school,” he said. “Graffiti artist.”

“
I think the term they used was
vandale
,” Christie replied. “And no – the staff never found out that was me, either. How is Roksana? They certainly suspected her. But to her credit, she couldn’t draw a curtain, let alone a picture. I liked her. She was fun.”

“
She is still having very much fun, by all accounts. My aunt and uncle despair of her. You know Zory Tamarkin has an adopted son? Paolo. He has been trying to tame her. I think they would make a good match, but he says it is like trying to catch the wind. I think it was you who made the impression on her at finishing school.”

“
Doubtful.” Christie took another slug of coffee, and gazed reminiscently out of the window. “I wasn’t in her – er – league. Not at all.”

The waiter braved their table again to offer free coffee refills, and as they were poured, Adrik studied Christie thoughtfully. She was most definitely a private person, but for no reason that could be defined as it was not open for scrutiny. Not even rumours circulated. Even people who knew her felt that they did not, in fact,
know
her. Which to him, was exactly how a criminal would operate in public view – whether they were a graffiti vandal… or a diamond thief.

It would be interesting to see what the glare of the celebrity spotlight would do to that impenetrable shell of hers. She had already come very close to courting it herself. But Adrik wondered if she would have gone through with the confession of being ‘Paparazzka’ had he not arrived on the scene for her to turn it around on so neatly.

“You found it hard to get his attention, I think,” he suggested, watching her twist a napkin around her fingers absently, in ways that reminded him of something else he wasn’t about to forget in a hurry. “To get him to notice you. Maybe that was your plan last night. But he was not there for you. Without his acknowledgement and approval, it would have been an empty victory.”

“
Are you analysing me now, Mr Russian Recluse?” Christie seemed to prickle all over, and Adrik knew he had hit on something. “Good luck with that.”

“
Where did that phrase come from – good luck with that?” Adrik wondered aloud. “Should we really wish others good fortune in undermining us? It sounds like it might be something the Chinese would say.”