Best Laid Plans - Robyn Kelly (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📗

I rush out the door and see the trio. Jackson has gotten pretty far considering there’s a small woman on his shoulder. Maybe he has a lot of experience. I head off as fast as I can, and am grateful I didn’t hesitate. They enter a swank condo complex, and I reach it just before the door locks behind them. The location is too convenient for it to be a coincidence. They must be party crashers.

Jackson is on his cell phone. “Yes, pronto. I want to make sure it’s gone.” He swings around to see me sneak in behind him. “I was wondering where you were.”

The building guard is staring at us. Finally, an ally. “Call the police. These men have stolen my cell phone.”

The guard looks from me to the men. Jackson takes his free hand and twirls a finger around his ear—the international symbol for crazy person.

“She’s with me, John. Oh, and I have my head of technology stopping by. We’ll be in the guest unit.” His gaze turns to me. “Now, if I take you up, will you behave?”

The nerve! Me behave? “I certainly will not. I’ll scream and yell and shout until I get my phone back.”

“Then it’s a good thing I had the place soundproofed.”

The elevator doors open and Jackson steps in, with Lurch following. I know this is the threshold to further madness, but I want to slap the handsome off his smug face and I won’t be able to do it from the lobby. The doors start to close, so I take a breath and step in. He presses the 22 button. I’ll need to remember that for the police report.

I’m standing by the shoulder that holds Ms. It, and I notice her designer underwear is on display again. I reach my hand up to give her dress a quick tug, and Jackson steps back. Is he afraid of me? Good!

“I’m just going to pull her dress down,” I scold as my hand yanks the hem with more force than necessary. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and I can’t believe he thinks I’m the dangerous one on this elevator.

“Who did you plan to sell this to?”

Is he talking to me? “Sell what?”

“The picture. Some Internet gossip site? One of the weekly rags?” He leans in and his eyes have an icy hue. “Or were you thinking I’d like to buy it?”

I was mad before. Now I’m indignant. “I’m not selling that picture!”

“Everything’s for sale, for the right price.” He’s very close and he’s using that voice again. It’s low and threatening and seductive, and it’s coming out of a very attractive mouth. I notice his five o’clock shadow and imagine if he kissed me, my lips would be scratched and bruised and very happy. Except I’m not supposed to be happy. I am supposed to be mad. Focus, Jillian!

“I saw you having drinks with that woman, and then I saw you carry her out of the party. No one leaves my events unconscious without me taking a picture.” It’s never actually happened before, but it sounds reasonable. For good measure I add, “It’s for their protection.”

Now he’s offended. “You think I’m a date rapist?”

“Well, I know you’re a thief, so thinking you’re a pervert is not a great leap in my mind.”

“Oh, I do have my perversions, but why would I need to drug a woman to get her in my bed?”

He’s giving me his bedroom eyes, and he’s doing it on purpose. Knowing that doesn’t make it any less effective. “Maybe you don’t like low-lying fruit.”

His bedroom eyes blink open, and he stares at me for what feels like an eternity. From his expression, I don’t think he’s used to people arguing with him. Then his eyelids descend to half-mast, and he leans farther into me. “When I want something, there isn’t any fruit beyond my reach. Or beyond my plucking.” My cheeks burn, and he almost gloats. “It seems I’ve made you blush,” he drawls as he straightens.

At that moment, Ms. It’s eyes flutter open. “I feel like I’m floating.” Then she projectile vomits all over me, before passing out again.

Jackson tsks. “No good deed goes unpunished.” As if on cue, the elevator doors open. “Let’s get you cleaned up. And try not to drip on the carpet,” he adds, stepping off the elevator.

The unit is 2201. Again, I need to remember that when the police interview me. It’s one of those techno buildings, and the door opens with a key fob, rather than a key.

The first thing I notice is the smell. Stale smoke and booze. If I can smell that over the bile on my dress, it must be really bad. Jackson curses as I enter, and even the size of those two men in front of me can’t block the view of the disaster inside. It looks like a garage sale exploded. The place is littered with bottles, ashtrays, fast-food containers, and dirty clothing. This is the home of someone hitting bottom.

“Bathroom is the first door on the left,” Jackson barks. I make a beeline to get Ms. It’s dinner off me.

For a hall bathroom, it’s a good size and there’s little trace of the mess in the living room, other than the empty half-gallon vodka bottle in the sink. I move it to the floor and wet one of the hand towels. They are seriously plush, which makes them useless for blotting off this mess.

I realize the dress has to come off and be rinsed out in the sink. When I put it back on, it’s going to look like I entered a wet t-shirt contest. It’s a matte black cotton/poly blend so it might hide some of the dampness, if I can get it clean.

I carefully slip out of it to find my bra is equally slimed. Once that’s removed, I’m “tits to the wind,” as Aunt Celia says, in a soundproofed apartment with two men and an unconscious woman. I probably should be afraid but I’m too damn mad. And it’s better to stay mad right now. Especially when I hear someone rattling the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s just me, Jillian.”

Is he psychic? “How do you know my name?”

“Robert called, looking for you. I told him you had an unfortunate accident but you’ll return shortly.”

“Thank you, Jackson.” Two can play the name game. “You aren’t planning to drug me?”

“You sound disappointed. And how do you know my name?”

I lower my voice to my deepest register. “Jackson. Call me Jackson.” It doesn’t sound as appealing when I do it.

“Is that what I sound like to you?”

No, what he sounds like is sex, but I’m not going to tell him that.

He doesn’t wait for a reply. “If you open the latch on the door, you’ll find a compartment with some clean clothes.”

The back of the door is a full-length mirror, with a hinge on one side and a small latch on the other. I drape the hand towel over me and open it cautiously. Inside are three dresses, hanging on a hook. There must be another one of these panels on the outside. What a wonderful invention—a hollow door to hold your clothes.

I pull the dresses out and examine them. Three identical little black dresses. Not like the one I am trying to clean—more like what Audrey Hepburn wore. They are made with the softest wool I’ve ever felt. There’s one in size eight, ten, and twelve. I could love a man who thinks I fit into a size eight. Well, not that man.

I try on the size ten (which is usually wishful thinking). I have to forego the bra since it’s soaking wet. The cut fits me like a glove, though I wish it was two inches longer. His words flash in my brain. Everything’s for sale, for the right