The Barbarian (20 page)

"You look
angry," he observed, sounding surprised.

"Do I, wise ass? You bet I'm angry. How dare you—"

"You are all
bristles, wench. Like a wild hog."

She had no time
even to formulate an insult in retaliation. Apparently he'd just seen a hotel
customer pull up and leave his car. He laid his hand to the warm bonnet of the
recently parked vehicle.

"Heat,"
he muttered. "Fine horses."

Maybe he was an
actor. One of the amateurs from tomorrow's production. Oh, no. Not another
actor! "Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Excuse?"
He caught her wrist. "You keep saying this word. What means it?"

"Sorry."
She didn't know why she bothered explaining, but she did. "It is an
apology."

"But to me
you have done naught, wench."

True.

"Yet,"
he added, smiling suddenly. "It is in your thoughts, I think, to do much
to me."

"You
bet!" One of her heels gave way, snapping with a loud click. "Well,
I'll leave you to it then."

Still holding her
wrist, he looked away, his hard gaze quickly assessing the other cars, until
they alighted upon the sports car she'd watched her ex-husband pull up in a few
hours ago. He dropped her wrist and made a bee line toward the parked vehicle.
Despite her former intent to leave and return to the hotel bar, she limped
after him on her broken heel. Couldn't leave him wandering out here, could she?
He seemed lost and alone. Might have suffered a head injury of some sort.

"This must be
mine," he said.

"A man of
expensive tastes," she muttered, amused.

He walked around
the vehicle, running his hands over it, grinning. "Fine mount."

"Yes, you
might say that."

"Then 'tis
mine."

"If only life
was that simple." She laughed, feeling stupid in her broken heel.

He looked over his
shoulder, scanning the hotel. "Get in," he said. "You
come."

"What? Don't be—"

"Get
in." He leapt in through the open window on the driver's side, with all
the agility of a panther. She'd only ever seen stuntmen do that in movies.
"Come with me, wench," he shouted.

What else did she
have to do? Why not?

Before she knew
what was happening, her ass was on the cool leather of the passenger seat. She
blamed it on the dizziness that still hadn't worn off. Four days ago someone
hit her in the head with a heavy duffle bag. Is that why all this was
happening? Perhaps none of this was real. She might still be in her narrow seat
on the plane, dreaming. She could be dead.

The man behind the
wheel was studying the console of gauges, frowning. How the hell would Remy de
Robynet—a character of her own creation—know how to drive a car?

"You don't
know how to start this thing," she muttered, reassuring herself.

He looked at her
and winked. Then he turned on the ignition and the engine purred to life.

"Excuse?"
he said.

Ok, who the hell
was he?

"Fast
learner," she exclaimed.

"You
bet."

She barely had
time to grab the seat belt and they were roaring out of the hotel car park.

****

The detective
scribbled in small notepad. "You don't think, sir, that the disappearance
of your car might have something to do with the disappearance of your
ex-wife?"

"No!" He
sighed, getting tired of this. "I told you. I saw her walk into the fog at
the end of the cliff. She must have jumped." Just like her, he thought, to
ruin his holiday.

"But we
haven't found any body below the cliff, sir."

"Couldn't she
be swept out to sea?"

"We'll have
divers looking, sir, as soon as the sea calms down." The officious
detective glanced at his notepad again. "But if you would just remind me,
sir—the description of your missing wife?"

"Ex-wife."

"A writer, so
I understand."

"Yes. Of
erotic romance."

The detective
frowned. "Pornography, sir?"

"Oh no. She
insists it's quite different." He laughed coldly, flicking cigarette ash
onto the wet patio. "She always did have a vivid imagination and the sex
drive of a teenage boy. I couldn't keep up with her. Ironic, isn't it—she
stabbed me in the ass, because she thought I was having an affair. As if I had
the energy after her."

"I see,
sir." Plainly he didn't see at all.

"And she
doesn't have a valid driver's license, so she couldn't possibly have gone off
in my car."

The detective
smirked. "In my experience, sir, people don't usually care about the
legalities of a valid license, when they take off in a stolen vehicle."

"Very funny.
She wouldn't drive off on her own like that, I'm telling you. I know her.
Besides, she left her phone." He held it up to show the detective.
"They found it in her room. I very much doubt she would go anywhere
without it."

"Why not,
sir?"

"Well, I
wouldn't."

"Yes, but
that's
you
, sir." The detective
gave him a swift up and down glance, a faintly bemused smile passing briefly
over his lips. "You're an actor, are you, sir?"

"Yes, that is
my profession," he snapped.

"Isn't it
nice, sir, that people can play make-believe for a profession?"

Exhaling a deep
sigh, he straightened his shoulders. "Look, Detective, I know what I saw.
She went over that cliff." He pointed with his cigarette. "And I know
that woman. She would not go off with a stranger and she was here alone."

"But she does
have impulsive tendencies, sir."

"Impulsive?"
He drew on his cigarette and squinted. "How do you mean?"

"She stabbed
you in the posterior, sir. Seems impulsive to me."

"Yes,
well—" He stared out at the fog that was already gathering again.
"She was alone. I saw her walk out there."

"But the
description—if you would, sir, just one more time while I write it down."

Just like an
Agatha Christie murder mystery, he mused, reminded of his ex-wife's obsession
with those detective stories. Oh, she'd love this.

He glanced down at
her phone as a text popped up.
Readers
want to know how the story ends.

Suddenly he
laughed, head back, letting it shake through his body. She was gone; he knew
it. They would never find anything.

And he missed her.
There'd never be another like her. Or would there? She always used to say she'd
lived many lives.

But then,
Georgia
was a
crackpot. Writers were like that.

He stared again at
the text on the phone.

Readers want to know how the story ends.

How did the story
end? Maybe it never did.

The End

Other Books by Georgia Fox:

www.evernightpublishing.com/pages/Georgia-Fox.html

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Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com