Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

Detective Gonzales took his time asking questions. He wanted every single detail, down to the designer of my shirt (he didn’t want that; but I gave it to him anyway—Rosetta Getty).

Then he turned to André, whose usually perfect hair was mussed and spikey as if he’d forgotten about his hair gel and run his fingers through the strands. “So, if I understand correctly, Miss Fields disabled the man with the knife and you ran. Anything to add?”

André flushed a dull red. “That about covers it.” Then he sat straighter. “Given the attempt on Poppy’s life, when will you be returning her passport?”

The detective’s answering sneer suggested there’d be snowmen lined up on the beach in Acapulco before I’d see my passport again.

When he ran out of questions, Detective Gonzales stood and supervised the police wheeling away the body.

I speared Silva with a look.

Like André, the manager’s hair was a mess, and deep circles had formed under his eyes. He’d been looking forward to a triumphant opening. He got murders. The man looked stressed.

He should walk a mile in my Louboutins—no passport, being a suspect in a suspicious death in a foreign country, and Javier Diaz’s pursuit weren’t exactly soothing.

Silva regarded me with tight, tired eyes. “I guess you want another villa.”

“Not tonight. But I do want the locks reprogrammed and a guard posted outside the door.”

He merely nodded—a single, exhausted bob of his chin. “Of course.”

The villa emptied until just Mia and Mike pressed against each other on the couch, André slumped in an oversize club chair, and I perched on a stool at the counter.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.” Mia scraped the hair away from her drawn face.

Mike stood. “What can I get you?”

“Scotch. Neat.”

“Two,” said André.

“What about you, Poppy? Want one?” Mike crossed the room to the fully stocked bar.

“No.” My nerve endings sizzled. I was too wired to drink.

Mike shrugged and poured.

André turned toward me. The poor man looked positively haggard. “Poppy, I’m so sorry about tonight.”

“For what?”

“I wasn’t exactly heroic.”

I shook my head. “Everything turned out fine.”

“I should have run toward the hotel.”

True. “Think about this way—a man with a knife attacked us and we both walked away alive. Count it as a win.”

“Still, I should have…” He looked down at his hands. “You were like the old Poppy tonight.”

“The old Poppy?”

André nodded. “The girl who rolled off the hay wagon from Bozeman.”

Mia tittered.

I shot her a look. “You weren’t any better with your shiny boots and sparkly buckles.”

Mia preened. “I was Nashville royalty.”

André smiled wistfully—as if he was seeing us as we’d been years ago. Freshman in high school overwhelmed by being new. “Nashville meant nothing at Beverly.”

That was true. Too many famous people sent their kids to Beverly Hills High School; having a star parent wasn’t the status symbol one would have thought.

“What I meant—” Mia gave André a look that would have killed a lesser man “—was that I wasn’t a hayseed.”

“And I was?” Trading barbs was infinitely better than thinking about, or talking about, the man who’d died on the other side of the front door.

“If the Louboutin fits.”

My life before California had been about horses and guns and self-reliance. My father knelt in front of me when I was five years old and said, “I’ve seen what the world does to pretty girls. You need to be able to protect yourself.” And because I’d adored him, I’d learned to fight and shoot and suppress any inclination toward pink or frills.

None of those skills had been remotely helpful at Beverly. My ability to take down the defensive tackle who made fun of Mia’s accent wasn’t prized. Nor was my ability to shoot a target at 100 paces. My faded Wranglers and Justin Ropers with worn heels became a source of embarrassment.

So I changed.

I told myself adapting was a new form of protecting myself.

I wasn’t wrong.

Between my freshman year and graduation, the girl who’d arrived from Montana (the old Poppy) transformed into the woman I was now.

“So—” Mike handed Mia her drink then delivered one to André “—why did that guy attack you?”

“He thought Marta gave me something and he wanted it.”

Mike returned to the bar and claimed his own drink. “Did she?”

“No.” My voice was sharper than was strictly necessary but I’d answered that question a gazillion times.

Mike held up his free hand in surrender—as if my decking him with a heavy lamp was a possibility. “Chill.”

“Give her a break, Mike,” said André. “She’s had a rough day.”

“I was just asking.”

“Man, she’s dealt with three bodies and a guy who wanted to kill her.”

They were talking about me as if I wasn’t there—and I didn’t care.

André held out his stretched palm. “Marta.” He ticked off one finger. “Then Irene.” A second finger joined the first. “Now the dude at the front door.” There was the third finger.

Three lives ended. Four, if one counted Irene’s husband. With that realization, the well of energy or grit or adrenalin or whatever it was keeping me going ran dry. Bone dry. I slumped on my stool. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s ten o’clock.” Mia, whose head never hit a pillow before two, frowned at me.

I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms “I’m done.” Emotionally and physically and mentally and any other way there was to be done.

Mia’s expression softened. “Of course you are. Do you need anything to help you sleep?”

“No. Thanks.” I slid off the stool and shuffled into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

I tossed my clothes on a chair, considered a nightgown, and decided the closet was too far away. Same with a toothbrush and the bathroom. My jewelry I put on the dresser.

Then I collapsed into bed.

The cool sateen sheets felt heavenly and the pillows were clouds.

I closed my eyes and slept.

In my dream, I stretched into the scents of lime, basil and mandarin like a cat in a patch of sunshine. Except my sunshine was Jake’s cologne.

Click.

The sound pulled me from my dream of lime, basil and mandarin. Of Jake.

My eyes flew open.

For a moment, I didn’t know where I was, then everything and everyone came rushing back. I inhaled.

Click.

I wasn’t alone.

I clutched the sheet to my chest with my left hand and made a fist with my right (those old Poppy skills would be really helpful right about now).

“Poppy.”

I knew that voice—that whisper.

My right hand tightened. “You’re dead.”

“I’m not.” He wasn’t. He was alive and feet away from me, standing next to the dresser. He walked toward me, stopping at the edge of the bed.

It was him. It was Jake.

The grief that had dogged my steps burned away in an instant, consumed by rage.

The old Poppy took over.

She sat.

She swung.

She smiled when her fist connected with a jawbone.

She shimmered with pride when Jake fell to the floor.

“Oomph.”

The current Poppy scurried across the bed, leapt to the floor, and grabbed the discarded T-shirt.

“Ow.” Jake stood, rubbing his jaw. “I guess I deserved that.”

That and so much more.

“How could you?” He’d lied to me. He’d made me believe he was dead. I’d cried myself sick.