Page 38 of The Devil Wears Orange
–Yes! Here comes the admission that you ruined my life!–
“–that you are at the top of that list. Let me offer you something I won’t offer the others. I’ll be traveling a great deal over the next two weeks. I’d like you to come with me; let me introduce you to a few people, and I can observe what you bring to the magazine.”
“Observe? Will you have time for brainstorming sessions? I’d like to bounce a few ideas off you.”And off your abs, too.“And you’ll be accessible to me?”
“In close proximity.” He never takes his eyes off me, burrowing a hole to my inner core.
Concentrate on spinning that web around the mark, I practically yell at myself. I turn my head slightly, but not enough to break my gaze.
“You will be generously compensated for your time, but make no mistake, this will be a long, arduous interview,” says Rashid. “I can be hard sometimes.”
I bet you can be, I think, failing at all attempts to concentrate on The Plan.
Something catches his eye behind me, and he glances at his watch, breaking the spell.
“Unfortunately, I must depart for Cote D’Azur Airport for an important meeting in Dubai. You must decide now if you’ll join me.”
My back stiffens. “Nownow?” I say as though there are different meanings for the word. I bet he travels by private jet and there’s a chanceMistressis on that plane. If she is, then I have to be as well, but would James Bond get on a plane with his arch-nemesis? I pluck a memory from the time Bond was pushed out a plane without a parachute. “But it’s so sudden,” I blurt.
“Yes.” He pauses, a stern look of contemplation on his face. “As you said, you’ve come a long way to pitch yourself to me which illustrates drive and ambition. I like that. I must leave now, so if you plan to accept my offer, my driver will accompany you to your hotel to pack for Dubai.” With that, Rashid stands and places more than enough Euros on the bar to cover our drinks.
Get in. Make contact. Get out. I’ve accomplished two out of three. The initial plan was for Jack and me to infiltrate Rashid’s world. I can’t go it alone. Besides, Jack is the experienced one – he’s told me more than once – regaling me with stories about his work with Interpol. Rashid’s suggestion that I accompany him moves too quickly for me, and I search the room for Jack.Cue Jack! Cue Jack!
“I could meet you in Dubai?” I propose, fear, and pressure mounting.
In a quiet tone, Rashid says, “Ms. Milton, I demand people who work for me be available at all times, and, as I said, you’ll be well compensated for this enormous strain. If this is too taxing for you, then please let me know, and we can part here.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Jack is nowhere to be seen. What if this is a trap? What if he means to kill me?Oh,that’s idiotic. Give one good reason why he would want you dead?The schizophrenic dialogue in my head should scare me.
“Good evening, Ms. Milton. I wish you well.” Rashid makes the decision for me, probably reading into my hesitation. I can breathe again, my shoulders relax, and I step back from that ledge. Rashid offers his hand, a gentle shake, and his thumb grazes my fingers. I inhale a whiff of his cologne while his eyes hold on mine. Then, I pictureMistressloaded on his plane.
“I’m in,” I blurt. Desperation has me ignore all my instincts, and I walk back out on that ledge.
Chapter 19
It is a truthuniversally acknowledged that a man in possession of stolen art must be in want of a taciturn witness. Following that logic, Rashid’s driver must be a spy. Why else would he be in my room watching me pack? I try to persuade him I don’t need help, but he merely smiles and hefts my luggage off the bed, placing it by the door and waits for the next one. Perhaps he really is there to help. So, I have nothing to worry about, right? I’ll simply board that private plane and fly out to Dubai with an art thief no one suspects. Even Jack, my partner in this madness, regards Rashid as the intended buyer only. No matter how often I shouted, “He has eyes like the thief!” Jack shook his head and muttered something about my excellent detective skills. For me, this isn’t a game or a film or a story in a heist novel. This ismylife, and I’m terrified of going to jail if this plan backfires.
The driver’s phone beeps and he checks it, two fat thumbs typing away. Who am I fooling? He’s obviously there to spy on me.
“Cigarettes,” I shout.
The driver looks at me quizzically.
“I could use a pack of cigarettes. Would you be a doll and get–”
A pack is in his hand before I can finish the sentence. Of course, he’d be prepared. I take the proffered cigarette and lean toward the lighter in his other hand. I can’t remember the last time I smoked. “Thank you,” I say, before a hacking cough follows. “This is stronger than my usual brand.” I inhale another quick puff before placing it on a teacup saucer on the nightstand.
With another suitcase open on the bed, I toss in clothes, rush back and forth between the closet and bed, haphazardly throwing in my bras and panties. I examine the mess. Jack would be the type to carefully fold each piece, perhaps color coordinate them, then organize by fabric. I wouldn’t be surprised if he irons his boxers.
Jack. I have to tell him what’s happened. If I don’t try him now, when can I possibly make that call? Reaching for the cigarette, I inhale again and stare at my belongings. The next pull on the cigarette is longer, and I blow it out through the side of my mouth like I’ve seen actresses do in ‘60s films. The act allows me to press pause, slow things down and give me time to think.
“I’d like to change my clothes, please, if you’d just wait outside.”
The driver is motionless. Finally, he acquiesces and heads out the door.
I’ve bought myself five minutes.
Cell phone in hand, I dial Jack’s number; the European ringtone sounds like an alarm in my ear. I head to the bathroom,closing the door behind me. Surely, the driver won’t be able to hear my conversation through two closed doors.
