Page 27 of The Devil Wears Orange
“No,” I say in a frustrated tone, then reconsider. “Yes? I think so? What’d you say earlier about…about…” I lose my train of thought, and briefly close my eyes. My head feels heavy and a short snort quickly brings me back. “Uhm, about hiding in plain sight.”
He stares at me, and an eyebrow shoots up. “Ah, I understand now.”
“You believe me about the Prince?” I’m thrilled it doesn’t sound far-fetched after all, but perhaps neither of us are thinking straight with all that alcohol we consumed.
Jack shrugs. “Charlotte, my Charlotte.” He leans into me, presses me against my door then taps at his forehead. “You’re trying to get in my head.”
I like the way he’s looking at me right now, as though he’s ready to devour me like in those romance novels I used to read in my 20s. “Are you smitten with me, Professor?” I tug at the front of his pants, slip my fingers into his belt, more to steady myself than anything seductive, but I’m pleased when Jack responds. He presses himself into me, his lips hard on mine, his hands reach under my top until they find skin. I wrap one leg around his waist, and reach behind me in search of the doorknob to fling my bedroom door open. My hand slides up and down before I remember it’s in the middle of the double doors. When I raise my other leg, while simultaneously reaching across for the knob, Jack stumbles with the full weight of me and we crash to the floor. I bang my elbow. “Ow.” What’s wrong with me? I’m usually better at impromptu sex. I once did it under the stage during a rock concert, and it was difficult maneuvering ourselves around with all those cables.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” I say, and roll on top of him. With a smile, I pin him beneath me, legs straddled on either side of him, my hips grinding against him. “What’s happening here?”
“Anything you want,” he says, garbling the words. His hands slide out from under mine, and he grabs my face, lowering me to him until he’s close enough to push his tongue into my mouth.
Moaning, I grind harder against him with three months’ worth of pent-up sexual frustration. Hot sex with a guy I just met isexactly what I need. “When you get the painting back, and that little Bonaparte gets his thieving Prince, then…we’re uhm…what exactly?” Between kisses, I feel Jack withdraw and I pull back to see a smile on his face. “What’s so funny?”
“Is Favreau Bonaparte?”
I nod.
Jack’s smile disappears and, with a serious note in his voice, says, “We’ll keep it casual because I know the truth.”
“The truth?”
Jack places his index finger against his lips.
“What secret are you harboring?” I poke him in a playful manner.
Jack pulls me closer. “Charlotte, you’re drunk.”
I tilt my head towards him, a demure smile on my face. “Professor, so are you.”
“That may be, but in the morning, I will be sober, and you will still be a liar and quite possibly, a thief,” he says in a tone of insufferable smugness. “Prince William. Really.” He follows with a bellowing laugh.
I push myself off Jack just as his lips brush against mine, and I stumble against my door. It is evident by the expression on his face that he seems unaware he has said something that should not have been uttered. An insult is an insult, and no amount of alcohol can soften the blow for me. Besides, I missed my last bikini wax appointment, so who knows what unkempt forest is growing down there.
“I never said Prince William. It’s Prince Rashid Mohammed Salah al-Zayed,” I say sternly and slam the door in his face. “Unbelievable,” I mutter in my room as I struggle with the buttons of my blouse that won’t unclasp. I kick off my Manolo mules one by one, and they manage to land on the floor near one another. As I angrily push the buttons through the eyehole, I catch something in my peripheral. Yes. There it is. The blackest,the biggest, the hairiest spider I have ever seen. I let out a shrill scream and jump on the bed.
The door bursts open. Jack charges through in his bare feet, disheveled and bewildered, eyes wide, then his gaze follows my shaking index finger to the corner of my room. A low whistle blows from Jack’s lips. “That’s the blackest, the biggest, and the hairiest spider I’ve ever seen.” Unsteadily, he glances down at his bare feet in contemplation. Then he turns to the pair of shoes on the floor near him and seizes one, raising it above him.
“No, wait,” I shout. “Manolos don’t kill spiders.”
Jack hesitates for a moment, but when the spider scurries away, he continues with that forward swing and flattens it. “Splat!” He grins in admiration for his handiwork and tosses the shoe to the floor where he found it.
“There you have it,” he announces. Jack sways in his drunken stupor and rambles out with a bit of swagger in his steps as though he just hit a grand slam to bring his team home.
“Idiot,” I shout after him. I pick up my injured Manolo and inspect the smear at the bottom. I hold it at a distance as I would a smelly diaper and drop it into the garbage basket.
Chapter 14
While in France, especiallyin the countryside, Jack drives like all respectable Europeans – like a madman. The little Peugeot races over the dirt road past the yellowed greenery of several farms toward a small village situated along the river in the Loire Valley. An excess amount of wine the previous evening led to a late start into town, and, judging by the number of aspirin they each popped, neither of them, it seems, can hold their liquor.
“Slow down, please,” Charlotte whispers and holds the side of her head.
“Roll down your window. Fresh air will do you some good.” Saying that, Jack fights bile trying to flee and rolls down his own window.
Charlotte lowers hers too, tilts her head out, and leans against the frame.
