Fool's Gold: A Kisses and Crimes Novel Read online

  “But I’m willing to bet you called P, already, didn’t you?” He cocks a brow. “What’s the ‘P’ stand for again? Pain in my ass?”

  I cut my eyes at him, and Jax leans in.

  “Bishop, come on,” he practically pleads. “You’re out on a limb here. You gotta have faith in something. He can help you, bro. He’ll wanna help.”

  I glower.

  “I do have faith in something, Jackson. You… and P and my nine millimeter. That’s all the fucking faith I need.”

  I lean backwards, sitting my mug down. I can feel the cold gunmetal steel against my lower back.

  “As for him, he’ll help, alright. Like a bullet to the goddamned head, he’ll help.”

  “Aw, give the man credit. He taught you everything you know. He goddamned raised ya.”

  I raise an eyebrow, chuckling. My laugh is humorless.

  “Oh, ‘raising’? Is that what they call it these days? Slapping sense into me every time I don’t follow the fucking ‘rules’?

  “Hey!” Jackson says, pointing a finger at me. “You wouldn’t be who you are today without those rules. And neither would I.”

  “Who am I today, Jax?” I shift in my seat. “Really…? Washed up, a former shell of my self. If I saw myself now, five years ago, I wouldn’t even recognize me.”

  Jax drinks from his own mug, smirking.

  “C’mon, you’re still the same guy, Bish. You’re still the fucking ‘Crow’…” he declares. “Even if the girl’s made ya soft…”

  I take out my wallet, getting ready to pay the tab.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Jax… Nothing makes me soft.”

  Jackson laughs low. “Damn. I wish I had gotten you saying that on tape…”

  I shake my head, resisting the urge to crack a smile.

  “Look,” Jax throws up his hands. “I didn’t come here to fight. I came here to help.”

  He pulls out a file from his briefcase, checking over his shoulder. He points at a page.

  “Now, the guy’s name is Duvall. Isaac Duvall. He’s Senator Fletcher’s ex-campaign manager. Now, if we want to capitalize on that lead, we need to follow the dollar bill-bricked road that leads to Barcelona.”

  He smiles wickedly.

  “He has a mistress in the city. You have a place there. It’s perfect.”

  I look down at the page, shaking my head after a few seconds.

  “Nah. I’m fine here.”

  “Listen, this place is nice and all—Annecy. The French Alps. Really, it is. But what are you going to do? Stick it out here? Is your location secure? Are you…?”

  He taps on the table with a rigid index finger.

  “If the Gafanellis find you here…”

  “They won’t find me here.”

  “Don’t you at least want to have the upper hand? Dig out Dani’s shooter…? Buy yourself some time? Besides, the longer you wait, the more time the hitter/shooter/whoever will have. Wouldn’t you rather be on the offensive?”

  He motions out the window towards the mountains in the distance.

  “Barcelona is perfect. This place is a little pond, man. You’re a big wave. You need an ocean. A place you can get lost in and disappear. Why not start there? You’ve got the properties. You have the means.”

  He closes the folder.

  “How else do you think you can afford me? My services aren’t exactly cheap.”

  Jackson smiles, looking like a million dollars in his new navy suit.

  I put my leather jacket back on my shoulders.

  Some people wear their wealth on their backs. I wear mine at my back… and I check my waistband to make sure that my little friend is still there.

  And I keep my money as tight to me as the body on our little waitress.

  The one that Jackson can’t seem to keep his eyes off.

  Me? My eyes belong to someone else.

  I nod, making sure I don’t lock eyes with the smiling, flirtatious waitress, who takes the check.

  I keep an elbow on the cafe table.

  “Jackson, I told you before… I pay for your services in friendship and teeth. Every time you don’t make a lame ass crack… I let you keep one.”

  I motion to the bar.

  “And you’re going to need all the teeth you can get… if you’re really trying to bag the waitress who’s flashing me ‘fuck-me’ eyes.”

  “I’m biding my time,” Jax responds. “Just trying to figure out a way to get her off of your dick and onto mine.”

  “You can have her,” I say, standing. “I’m already good.”

  I throw a sizeable tip on the table.

  “We’ll talk later.”

  “You’re damn straight we will,” Jackson tells me, still in his seat. “And think about Barcelona. Hey! And Bishop…”

  I turn back, leaning.

  “Yeah?”

  “Really think about calling Delaney, too.”

  A DANCE WITH THE DEVIL

  DANI

  I hang up the phone for the third time.

  The line goes to voicemail again right before I slam the kitchen phone against the wall.

  Three calls. No answer.

  And a bunch of questions for a man I don’t even know.

  Sweating, my bare feet tapping against the hardwood floor, I pace for the fourth time between the living room and kitchen of Bishop’s loft.

  My loft.

  Despite the cool air in the two-story apartment, my neck is sticky, the cami I’m wearing is clinging to my hard nipples, and my ankle-length skirt is blowing in a breeze my pacing has created.

  I can’t stop chewing my thumbnail, and I sweep a wave of reddish-gold strands of hair over my shoulder as I reach for the phone again.

  I press the phone between my shoulder and ear.

  My fingertips hover over the keypad on the phone for the fourth iteration…

  And that’s when Bishop walks in.

  As the clouds roll in with the rising of the afternoon sun, the real Bishop, seemingly re-energized, sweeps in like a tornado.

  Head down, his hazel eyes focused, he begins an endeavor I don’t quite understand.

  He practically “child-proofs” the two-story loft in which we stay, fortifying what he calls its “weaknesses.”

  He calls the add-ons “security measures.” I call them paranoia.

  He refortifies the windows, changes the locks on the door.

  By two o’clock, he basically picks the place apart and puts it back together again. And by four o’clock, I basically pick him apart, desperately trying to put together the pieces of his life… and, subsequently, my own.

  The journey to self-discovery is limited, however—constantly impeded by roadblocks in the form of Bishop’s silence and complete lack of cooperation.

  His frown grows deeper with every question.

  “Daniela Bishop,” I say out loud, throwing my license in the middle of the couch cushion. “Couldn’t have picked a less ‘holier’ name, huh?”

  Bishop hammers an additional nail in the kitchen window’s frame.

  “I didn’t exactly choose my own surname,” he says, speaking around a metal nail clenched between his teeth. “But yeah… I guess Bishop is a pretty religious name.”

  “Origin?”

  He focuses on the window frame. “Well, uh, family’s half-Greek, half-English. Bishop’s an old name. Goes back a while.”

  I stare at Bishop’s immaculate profile.

  Greek and British, eh? Explains the dark features and amazing eyes. A killer combination.

  I watch him.

  “You’re pretty good at this. You’re in construction?”

  He pauses. “Trash detail.”

  “What does that entail?”

  “My good friend Jackson finds a lot of trash in his line of business.” He shrugs. “I take care of that trash.”

  There’s something ominous in his tone. It’s not what he says; it’s the way he says it, but I redirect.

  “How did w
e meet?”

  Steadying his stance on a stepladder, Bishop removes the nail from the side of his mouth and positions it against the wood surrounding the window on the wall.

  Wham!

  He hammers the nail almost all of the way in without a sweat.

  He sighs.

  “At a party.” He snorts. “Of all fucking places,” he says, distracting himself by grabbing another nail off the kitchen countertop.

  “A party?” I try but fail at remembering the first time I met Bishop. I redirect quickly. “What kind of party?”

  “Let’s just say it was a pretty unforgettable one.”

  “Whose party?” I ask.

  But he doesn’t answer. All of a sudden, Bishop’s full attention is back on hammering nails, and he ignores the question outright, making it seem as if home improvement is the most important damn thing in the world.

  Undeterred, I walk upstairs to the bathroom, frustrated, vowing to return for more questions as soon as my shower is over.

  My hair hasn’t touched water in at least the last twenty-four hours. I feel dirty. Not just from the outside, but in.

  I want to wash away the last three days—the feeling of being in another woman’s skin.

  A woman’s skin that I just don’t recognize, but am slowing starting to appreciate.

  I undress, turning the showerhead’s temperature to the highest heat setting, letting the hot water pelt at my foreign body.

  Ten minutes later, and I still feel unsatisfied, still feel unfamiliar to myself.

  I lumber out of the bathtub, feeling slightly sore, barely better than how I was upon entering.

  I squeeze a white towel tightly around my breasts as I saunter into the bedroom. The saunter almost becomes a sprint as I hear the jingle of keys from the floor below.

  I reach a foothold halfway down the stairs before I catch sight of Bishop, no longer pounding nails, heading towards the front doorway that now feels like a jail cell.

  I see nothing but his back underneath his black t-shirt and faded jeans. He doesn’t even glance backwards when he hears my footsteps.

  The son-of-a-bitch is leaving me behind.

  “Where are you going?” I call out, mortified as he tries to exit without a single word.

  “Out,” he responds, never turning.

  “For what?”

  “Business.”

  I descend down a few more steps. “I’m coming with you.”

  He reaches for the door handle. “No… you are not.”

  “Yes, I am.” I land on the bottom floor, hurrying towards Bishop, soaking wet, my strawberry blonde strands dripping onto the hardwood.

  Bishop’s head swivels, and he half-pivots to face me, looking down into my widened green eyes before traveling slowly—very slowly—down to my barely covered breasts and over-exposed, damp thighs.

  I can barely take a breath as his eyes take me in; they return to my face reluctantly.

  He shakes his head, scoffing.

  “Just as stubborn as you ever were… but it’s not going to get you anywhere this time, kitten.”

  He squints at me. “You don’t know where you are, who you are. The person who shot you could walk right past you and you wouldn’t remotely know it.

  “So, no… you’re going to sit here, stay here and get some goddamned rest until your memory returns just like the doctor ordered.

  “And you’re not going to do anything outside of these walls until every one of them does. And I fucking mean that, Dani.”

  And does he ever.

  Bishop pierces me with a gaze that could start wildfires.

  It creates a quiver on my tingling skin, but I won’t back down—can’t back down until I get my way.

  Is this what being a married woman feels like? ‘Cause if it is, then I wasn’t made for this shit.

  Only four days as Dani Bishop, and I can already tell what kind of wife I am—or was.

  I prepare for war.

  “It’s too late, Bishop,” I assert. “We’ve been through this already. Pored through my credit cards and licenses and wallet and purse to come to this conclusion. If I am your wife, like the great Republique Francaise says I am, then I am also your partner… and we need to work together to figure out what happened to me and who did it…”

  I stare at him, eyes unblinking—full of determination and hidden pleading.

  My body is frozen, my lips set in a line of defiance. My eyes are the only things that show any compromise.

  Bishop inhales soundly, and I feel a sliver of hope.

  He blinks. Just once.

  “No,” he states plainly.

  And then he opens the door, slamming it behind him, as he locks the door on the other side, effectually sealing me in.

  I run to it, slapping an open palm against it as I hear the additional locks he’s installed this morning close me off, once again, from the world.

  I place my lips against the darkened wood.

  “You can’t keep me in here, you know? I’ll go to the police…”

  Bishop’s voice, muffled and gruff, responds, sounding slow and low, on the other side, and I know he’s doing exactly what I’m doing at the moment.

  I can feel the vibrations against my cheek as his voice shakes the very doorframe on which I’m leaning. His chuckle is almost wicked.

  “You? The crazy half-naked woman running around in a towel?” He chuckles. “I’d almost like to see you try… but it won’t be worth your time. I’ve reinforced these doors and windows to withhold a tank. No one is getting in and no one is getting out, at least not without my permission.”

  His voice drops even lower.

  “Just… hang tight. It’s not like you could follow me in that towel, anyhow. No man alive—including me, right now—needs to be tempted by the wonders that lie beneath that terry cloth fabric…

  “Focus your energy on getting some food from the fridge and resting. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  At that, the other end of the door grows silent. I place my ear on the solid wood there, and the sound of retreating footsteps matches the tempo of my beating pulse.

  I push away from the door, angrier than I can ever remember being.

  Not that I can really remember anything beyond yesterday, but still…

  This is fucking bullshit.

  If Bishop thinks he can keep me here against my will, well… he’s got another fucking thing coming.

  I head towards the stairs, climbing them two at a time.

  In a frenzy, I tear through the bedroom drawers, searching for any tools, weapons or even clues.

  But there’s nothing.

  The contents are benign.

  A map of France, one passport (mine), and a bunch of useless clothes, jewelry and sandals. Half mine. Half his.

  I almost kick the dresser out of frustration, heading back down the staircase with my towel still wrapped around my chest.

  A quick survey proves that everything Bishop used this morning—the hammer, the nails. They’re gone. Poof—vanished.

  Somewhere tucked out of sight as if they never existed.

  He got rid of everything in the time it took me to take a shower.

  And that was no time at all. It had to have been only ten minutes—fifteen minutes, tops!

  God! Who does that?

  Not a sane person, that’s for damn sure.

  And who would purposely lock themselves inside? Anything could happen. Keys can be lost. Mistakes can be made.

  What if you got separated from your keys? You’d be stuck, and there would be no way to…

  Holy shit. I stop.

  Holy fucking shit.

  I run, skipping every other step, back up to the bedroom, reaching for the dresser’s drawers as soon as I get inside. I dress quickly, slipping into the nearest maxi skirt my fingers can find, throwing a white cami over my breasts as I practically shake with the excitement of discovering newfound knowledge.

  An inherent knowledge that, to m
e, is the only thing that makes sense…

  Because Bishop is no dummy. If there’s anything I’ve gathered from talking to him, it’s that.

  Staying safe is his number one priority, so there’s no way he didn’t account for a “fail-safe”…

  A plan B that kicks in if Plan A ever goes awry. And I am the consequence of an awry Plan A.

  Me, my memory loss—we’re just an extra cog in the wheel that keeps everything from turning right. Wasn’t long before Bishop had instituted plan B—a way to ensure that I, Little Miss No-Memory, would be kept under his control, under his careful watch.

  He’d locked this place up tighter than Fort Knox… but that doesn’t mean he didn’t account for his own special way out.

  And I’m gonna find it.

  I start with the bedroom first.

  Checking for inconsistencies, I run my fingers over the windows’ wooden frames. I pull at the bottom. I push at the sides, and when they don’t budge, I make my way downstairs, inspecting the front door for hidden locks, little slides that will open up and expose me to the street outside.

  I can hear voices—the humming and drumming of the streets beyond these well-built walls, but I won’t dare even attempt to call out to them.

  Contrary to what I’ve told Bishop… I’m not looking to make a scene. I wouldn’t even know what to tell police.

  Would it be like:

  “Hi, officer, my name is Daniela Bishop… I think. And this gorgeous, secretive, semi-psychopath who just might be my husband is trying to lock me inside of our house”?

  Yeah, right. I’d be accused of being crazier than even Bishop is.

  I go through everything, even convincing myself that the cabinets hold secret passageways. I bang on wood panels. I knock on glass panes. My hands are practically raw by the time I sit down, collapsing, in the middle of the living room floor two hours later.

  Twilight is approaching. I am exhausted… and honestly ready to give the fuck up.

  But then I notice something as I sit there, staring at the kitchen walls…

  I notice something shiny. Something different, something… odd.

  The nails in the frame of the window above the kitchen sink.

  I hadn’t noticed them at the time. All I could think about were my questions for Bishop… and Bishop’s hands and Bishop’s forearms and Bishop’s…