Page 42 of At the Ready

The phone is on the bedside table because my hand trembles too much to hold it steady. I don’t want them to win, but I realize I’m at the endgame and my throw of the dice was craps. But I’m not ready to give in yet. Maybe, with luck on my side, Hayden will make a major misstep. It’s happened before.

“By the way, there’s something fishy going on with the case.”

“Oh?” Her comment piques my curiosity.

“Fred and Tyler have some financial ties with Greenberg. They deny its anything important, and he’s not saying anything at all. Could you flag anything suspicious that comes through on the emails? Maybe from those anonymous accounts.”

“I’ll dig through and see what I can find. Do you think they are involved in the insider trading? We’d have to look at their financial records and investments, and somehow I don’t think they’ll be cooperative.”

“Not sure. But something doesn’t add up.” She sighs. “See you tomorrow on the video call.”

I choke out thanks and end the call, throwing myself against the pillows, engulfed in a stew of rage and despair, finally slipping into a restless nap.

When the phone alarm goes off, I groan, turn it off, and burrow back under the covers. Ten minutes later, it goes off again. My eyes are so puffy they open into slits, and I can barely read the numbers on the screen. After a little effort, they unscramble six thirty. What’s so important about that? “Siri,” I croak, “what’s on my calendar?”

The robotic voice tells me I have an appointment in less than an hour. Fuzzy, I have to focus on this unremembered obligation. Finally, I give up and look at the calendar through my swollen orbs,

Shit, I have a ticket for a pricey bateau-mouche dinner cruise at seven thirty. I really just want to hibernate. Be your own cheerleader, my mom’s voice says. Go. Take your mind off the firm for an hour or two.

I need to change out of my travel clothes and find the boarding quay. Groaning, I roll off the bed and totter into the bathroom to bathe my eyes. Maybe that will take out the redness. Then I remember Kurt, but I only booked one ticket.

I’m sure Sam isn’t around. I’ll try to ditch Kurt. Henri was right. He is handsy, something I really don’t need.

I pull on my dress, slip into my shoes, and take a cursory look at my face and hair, putting on lipstick and pulling my hair into a messy bun. Then I grab my coat and purse and wrench open the door. Kurt lounges against the wall near the door to the room opposite.

He looks at my outfit. “Going somewhere?”

“Reservation for a dinner cruise and show.” I dodge past him and rush downstairs.

Racing after me, he yells, loud enough for the whole hotel to hear. “You can’t go alone.”

Other room doors open, guests peering out at the disturbance. One man clumsily buttons a dress shirt. Stocky, with a fringe of gray hair that stands up around his head like an aureole, gives a contemptuous sniff. “Foreigners. Don’t know how to behave.”

I can’t answer, at least not right away. My face red with exertion and embarrassment, I skid to a halt at the concierge station. Kurt catches me there and puts a hand on my arm. I jerk and move away. “I’m secure in Paris. You can stand down or whatever it’s called.”

He huffs, “JL would fire me.”

My eyes dart around the room, looking for someone who works here. “Pardon,” I yell into the empty space. My small store of French inaccessible to my brain, I continue bellowing. “Is anyone around?”

From some back room, the concierge and the desk clerk appear. Their faces look questioning, then morph into pleasant smiles rather than the ‘damn American’ look I’m sure they’re suppressing. “Pardon, Madame. How may I help you?” The concierge’s English is excellent, of course.

“I have a ticket for a dinner cruise and show.”

I begin to ask for directions, but Kurt smoothly interrupts, “But Madame’s reservation is for one person and there are two of us. Can you help?”

“Of course. Do you have your voucher?” He holds out a well-manicured hand to me.

Swallowing my chagrin at being outmaneuvered, I hand over the folded piece of grubby paper. He glances at it and picks up the black phone sitting on the desk. Once he has the connection, his rapid French leaves me completely in the dark. Finally, after listening to the person on the other end, he says, “What is the name of your guest?”

Kurt’s triumphant expression tells it all. “Meisner, Kurt Meisner.”

The concierge repeats the name. “Bon.” Then he turns back to me. “Do you want this put on the card you used for the initial reservation?”

Another unexpected expense. Damn you, Sam. “That will be perfect,” Kurt responds. Now everyone will think he’s my toy boy. When he gets off the phone, I say, “We’ll need an Uber to be at the quay on time.”

“Fait accompli,” my German companion murmurs. “Your carriage awaits.” Kurt gives a bow toward the front entrance.

Why did I book this excursion?Oh yeah, it’s a way to use up the evening and not have to deal with dinner separately. Seemed like a good idea. Now not so much. I’m ready to kick myself. Somehow, among all the couples taking this romantic evening adventure, going with my bodyguard is going to be a letdown.

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