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

  Sports. Weather. Festivities.

  I flip another page. Ah, international affairs.

  I open that one and scan its text.

  And twenty seconds later, there it is.

  The story of Amelie’s “unsmiling” American senator.

  I bring it closer, reading it in French.

  Allegations rock U.S. Senatorial elections in the state of New York as current popular senator of N.Y., Robert Fletcher, faces a firing squad of the press for his alleged connections to the Gafanelli family—a crime organization with ties that lead all the way back to infamous mob bosses, Al Capone and John Gotti.

  Fletcher denies those allegations as well as others that state his eldest daughter, Audriana Fletcher, is missing because of suspected foul play. Fletcher has declined to give comment or speculate about the rumors surrounding his daughter, prompting many sources to suspect that her “disappearing act” can be contributed to her wild partying and her frequent spontaneous escapades.

  In the wake of the Fletcher rumors, new front runner, New York Attorney General, Derek Stark is expected to win the Senate seat in New York. More details to come.

  Upon finishing, I roll the newspaper up, tucking it under my arm before walking numbly to the front of the store. Feeling inexplicably panicked, I pay Geoffrey at the counter without our usual niceties.

  I leave the bookshop in search of an Internet café.

  I don’t even have the time to thank Gi on my way out.

  With the afternoon summer sun breaking out, I have neither the patience nor the deodorant to handle a long quest for cafes. When I finally find a library in the center of a lonely street, I stop.

  I head inside.

  Doesn’t take me long before I find an abandoned desktop computer amongst a row of many that are older than Geoffrey.

  Still… it’s the best thing I’ve got access to. And soon it is like a magic genie lamp with the answers to all my questions.

  It pulls up the Gafanelli family as soon as I type in the search box.

  Gafanelli family: lead currently by John Gafanelli and his son, Don Gafanelli. American mafia family with Sicilian roots and long-time rumored connections to industrial giants and state and federal politicians.

  Longevity: 140 years – USA, 250 years – Italy

  Hierarchy: (current) John Gafanelli, Donovan Gafanelli, lower-level Dons…

  I read about John Gafanelli’s right-hand man and enforcer—a person regularly referred to as “the Crow.”

  I read about John’s father and John’s father’s father until I abandon the search and type in the real reason I’m here.

  I punch in “Robert Fletcher Senator United States.” I wait a few minutes and then I open another tab.

  On this tab, I replace “Robert” with Audriana.

  I read even more closely.

  The pictures are old. The last picture that the Internet seems to have of Audriana Fletcher is a picture dating back fifteen years ago, when the little girl was nine.

  She hides halfway behind a sheet of golden blonde hair. Her smile is toothy. Her arms are crossed. She has the sass of a little girl who’s been pampered all her life.

  And then I see why.

  Robert Fletcher is a criminal in a suit with banking-rich roots. The son of a prominent banking conglomerate’s President and CEO, he’d been suffering from “Affluenza” getting into all sorts of legal troubles all of his young years/life.

  He graduated law school, straightened up and has been riding his father’s connections all the way to the top.

  He started out as mayor then advanced quickly to congressman and senator.

  By the time he was forty, his good looks and winning smile had put him on the main stage of American politics. At fifty-two, he is one of the most handsome and well-liked politicians in the country.

  But his smile is not so winning these days.

  I delve further into his allegations of corruption and find myself gasping.

  Fletcher might go to jail.

  The people with ties to him have already abandoned ship. His rumored drinking and drug-addicted kids have managed to stay mostly out of the limelight for ten years, and his children’s mother divorced him and took half of his corrupted haul long ago.

  His new wife is a young dimwit who can’t even spell her homeland of “Czechoslovakia.”

  Fletcher’s frown is making more and more sense.

  Eyes hurting, exhausted after a long day in the sun, I abandon the search finally, wondering… why it all feels so damn familiar.

  I leave the library without a backward glance.

  A long walk puts me back in front of the loft. Bishop’s reaction last night makes me not want to go in, but I have no choice. I have no one else.

  Geoffrey is too old to impose on, Gi probably wants to fuck me, and if I go to visit Amelie any more than I already have, I’ll have a liver that will shrivel up like a prune.

  Bishop is… well, Bishop.

  I’d like to say that his rejection last night was the only thing that bothers me, but a large part of me knows that it isn’t.

  Just when I think I can trust Bishop, he always does something that throws me off. And to make matters worse, I still didn’t get the answers I needed last night…

  I tap a hand on the familiar windowsill outside our loft, wondering if I ever will.

  My escape window is tightly shut, of course, but as I move over to knock at the door, the great wooden slab does something that surprises me.

  It opens… and reveals to me Bishop’s clothes, which are scattered just inside.

  Curiosity pulls me further in, and I tiptoe amidst Bishop’s pants, Bishop’s shirt, Bishop’s… boxer briefs.

  I hear the faint sound of running water just over my head and as I pass the kitchen counter, I take a look up at the stairs.

  I think about stopping. I almost do.

  I could wait downstairs while Bishop obviously showers, but I don’t. I cross the room slowly, debating whether or not to interrupt him.

  The second I pass the couch, I can feel the warmth of his body coming up right behind me. Instinctively, I freeze, and the next thing I feel are Bishop’s insistent hands.

  His touch is like a trickle.

  It eases up around my throat, tickling—testing. The second it reaches my lips, it prods at the center of them, forcing them to acknowledge him.

  One push, one tiny step forward, and I am pressed wholly against the line of Bishop’s abs and groin, my body fitting his, my open pores soaking him in.

  I can feel his growing length against my ass.

  Breathless, I try to inhale his aroma. The tainted scent, however, prevents me from breathing him in any further.

  Earthy and distinct before, his smell is now nearly rancid. Tartness underlines the overtones of his cologne, and I wrinkle my nose at the unfamiliar stench.

  His palm is fleshy, his body feels soft, and in that instant of sensing the acridity of his odor, I know that I just made a huge fucking mistake.

  The man behind me cannot be Bishop.

  And as the realization comes crashing over me, so does the man’s other hand.

  It pushes against my navel, trapping me. The second I hear his voice, I begin to understand the enormity of the danger.

  His words are like a slither in my reddened ears.

  Ne baise bougez.

  Translation…

  Don’t. Fucking. Move.

  DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL

  DANI

  “Where is he?” the stranger asks, spreading his fingers against my mouth.

  “He who?”

  “You know who I’m talking about. Your boyfriend.”

  The instinct to call Bishop my husband is overwhelming, but I tamper it down. I answer the question back in French, not knowing what the strange man will do next.

  I decide to bluff.

  “He’s…”

  “He’s what?”

  “Out… He just changed clothes and
left.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” The foul-smelling bastard’s cologne is obscene. His breath is even worse.

  “Is that why the water is running upstairs?” I can feel his smirk on the back of my neck.

  “Seems to me that he’s in the shower. And if he is, then I’m going to go upstairs and cut his throat. Then you and I can have all the time alone that we need.”

  He rubs his grubby little erection against the crevice of my ass. I can feel my neck turn hot from the rising anger.

  His hand clamps forcefully around my parted mouth, and he shoves me into the recesses of his thick body. He isn’t much taller than me. If I can just reach my hand down to grip his balls…

  I’d crush the little nuggets in my fucking fist.

  “Don’t try to get loud on me, blondie. You say anything, you move your lips past a whisper, and I swear… I’ll snap your fucking neck before we even make it up the stairs.”

  My swollen lips begin to shake. I rein them under control, trying to keep my words from chattering.

  “He isn’t upstairs. I told you.”

  “What? You expect me to believe that he left a pretty little piece of pussy like you just laying around? Man’s a bigger fool than I expected, if that were the case… but I’m sure it’s not. Let’s go take a look, shall we?”

  One hand gripping my face, the other crushing my ribs, the putrid man half-drags me up the stairs to the second floor.

  The second we reach it, the sound of cascading water fills the hallway and then the room as we make our way inside.

  A quick glance around the space reveals nothing.

  As we inch our way into the bathroom, the building steam muddies our vision. By the time the man sets foot in front of the shower curtain, I can barely find enough oxygen to keep myself from fainting.

  He pulls back the curtain with a violent ZIP!

  No Bishop. No cigar.

  The bathtub is empty. Reaching over to the handle, the man flings his fatty fingers at the handle, turning off the water stream.

  He snatches the hand back, using it to cup at one breast, and as he leans in, the wet air in the bathroom grows warmer.

  “Careless with his women and his water,” he comments loudly. “Fucking waste, if you ask me.” He rubs his nose in the crook of my neck and I want to vomit. “A delightful little waste, I’d also say.”

  Smelly Fat Bastard’s hand on my face begins to lower slowly to my other breast, and I prepare to bite his hand in two.

  The other voice in the bathroom stops me, though.

  “One man’s waste is another man’s distraction, I’d say.”

  The sound comes from the door. Smelly Fat Bastard pivots to face it, and as he does, he is hammered, clobbered against the side of his face and ear by something that shatters into pieces like glass.

  White pieces of faux marble fly in the air as Smelly Man’s head goes sailing sideways. I duck… just as Bishop’s other fist is sent soaring at the stranger’s other ear.

  Real glass shatters this time as the stranger hits the bathroom mirror. Shards drop at his feet while Bishop, adorned in a familiar white towel, takes another swing at the man, missing.

  A yell becomes a grunt as the stranger tackles him head-first, slamming his greasy head into Bishop’s midsection as both fighters soar outside of the bathroom door.

  Stunned, I follow, hoping to help as Bishop’s brings one elbow down on the man’s back, making contact, as they both hit the hardwood floor with a deadened thud.

  My gasps become groans. The groans turn to screams as Bishop battles with the foreign French man. A man who outweighs Bishop by more than thirty pounds of solid flesh.

  Enraged and quick for a man his size, he throws every bit of his extra pounds at Bishop. He swings his weighty hands and fingers wildly as Bishop dodges them with calculated moves.

  Though uncontrollable, the man’s moves are passionate.

  Bishop barely sidesteps them before the man hits the air where Bishop’s face just was.

  But the man is losing.

  He tires as Bishop—long, lean and built—thrusts a fist into his gut. He is practically on his knees as Bishop stands at last, reaching for the man’s fallen wallet.

  Bishop’s eyes narrow when he looks inside the leather flaps.

  He grabs the man’s collar.

  “Who sent you?” he rasps in the stricken man’s face.

  He lets the pudgy, pungent man go, and part of me takes pleasure in watching the stinking bastard cower on his thickset knees.

  Within seconds, the man loosens his collar… and he finds the words he seemed to be looking for.

  “You can’t run forever,” he gasps. “We’re everywhere. Just… give up the girl now, and you might get out of this alive.”

  Sweaty, bloodied, and beaten, he looks defiantly upwards at Bishop, who freezes.

  But he doesn’t stay still for long.

  A tense second of silence feels like an eternity while I watch a rising rage creep into Bishop’s beautiful face.

  He reaches towards the nightstand, retrieving a black pistol. He points the dark, matte weapon right between the man’s eyes.

  “No!” I cry.

  And then he looks up at me, maybe for the first time since the fighting began and the man scrambles to his feet and runs.

  He points the gun at him once more, but when he does, the man is gone.

  The sound of his jumbled steps rumble throughout the suite. The man fumbles his way down the short hallway, through the living area, and out of the open front door.

  I wait for the sound of a shot that never comes.

  Bishop calls my name and from the way he says it, I know it is a threat.

  “Dani…”

  He walks towards me… and in that moment, I realize everything.

  That piece of shit is the cop from the street, Bishop’s my kidnapper… and I’m the girl that bastard cop is talking about…

  LEARNING THE CURVE

  BISHOP

  The phone rings, picking up after the third repetition.

  “Reed here.”

  “Jackson… shit, you’re up.”

  “Christ, Bishop.”

  I hear Jackson shift through sheets on the other end of the line.

  “God Almighty. Stop fucking calling me at three in the morning. I thought you were my little French hottie.”

  “The waitress from the little cafe?”

  He laughs. “Yup. My little croissant. Her name’s Amelie. You haven’t lived until you’ve loved a French girl, Bish. I should know… I’ve fallen for at least three.”

  “And by ‘fallen,’ I’m sure you mean ‘fucked’.” I bring the phone closer. “I’ll pass… Right now, I’ve got too many women to think about.”

  “Too many? Got something you want to tell me, Bishop…?”

  I hear Jackson perk up. I take a long inhale off my cigarette.

  “Other than the fact that I’m following your advice about Barcelona? Not really. I just need a pit-stop in Paris to see P.”

  Jackson snorts.

  “See? That’s your problem right there. One of those ‘p-words’ doesn’t belong…”

  He groans, sighing.

  “What do you need with ‘Pain-in-the-ass’ anyhow?”

  “Some saving of my own ass.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Not this time, Jax. I need a reprieve in Paris before going to Barcelona. I need someone to help me check-in my luggage.”

  “They’ve got baggage handlers for that at the trains and airports.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I drop my cigarette, stomping on the half-snuffed spark. “Who the hell helps you when the cargo is human, Jax?”

  ***

  DANI

  When I daydreamed just a day ago about being tied to Bishop’s bedposts, it wasn’t exactly like this…

  It turns out… this is what happens when an argument with Bishop goes awry. He imprisons you.

  This is the m
ost dysfunctional marriage I have ever fucking heard of. If he wasn’t so goddamned good-looking, I’d swear what we had was some sort of shotgun marriage.

  Maybe it was…

  He stalks the room like a panther, his outfit blacker than the hair on his head and jaw. He watches me as I struggle in his handcuffs. He tries to make me feel comfortable.

  And I try to kick at his fucking balls.

  I miss for the third time.

  “This is how you resolve arguments?” I say, sitting on the huge king mattress in our new Parisian loft. “You tie me to a bed? Cuff me there until I shut up?”

  “This wasn’t how I resolved them before,” Bishop answers, taking off his sunglasses. He stares me down with heated eyes. “But this is the way I’ll resolve them now if you can’t stay still.”

  “Stay still? I’m not a dog.”

  “No, you’re worse. At least a dog sits when you tell it to.”

  Another foot swings in Bishop’s direction, missing.

  “You’ve had your fun,” I spit at him. “Now let me go. You heard what that fat bastard of a cop from the street said.”

  “I will uncuff you…” Bishop answers. “As soon as you stop trying to run away.”

  My voice lowers. My teeth clench. “I didn’t try to run away…”

  “No, ‘try’ wouldn’t be the right word. You succeeded.” Bishop stands on the far end of the room, leaning against the wall. “I had to practically drag you back here half an hour ago.”

  “I have every right to run,” I say, my voice dripping with disdain. “I’ve just been attacked. And the man who saved me isn’t exactly what I wouldn’t call anybody’s hero.”

  His exhale is loud, his leather jacket rising and falling on his wide shoulders as he sighs.

  I regard him closely, wanting to knock his nuts into next week.

  I cross my legs under my long, pleated black skirt, and I give him a sharp look that I wish could slice him into two.

  “I didn’t escape one psychopath to end up in the hands of another.”

  I make my implication crystal clear.

  But of course, Bishop doesn’t back down.

  He walks a straight line towards me, keeping his stare steady. When he reaches the edge of the bed, he crouches at the knee, placing his forearm on the mattress three feet away.