LISA
—Junior Schwarzenegger—
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The great thing about showing up at a hotel at three in the morning is the staff-what little of them are on duty-are usually half asleep. Makes conning a helluva lot easier.
"Which room again?" the woman asks, stifling a yawn.
"Three-eleven." I have no fucking idea, but it's the first number to pop into my head.
She coughs and I'm assaulted by the scent of stale cigarette smoke. This motel is shitty as fuck, but those are usually easier to get into. The woman taps something on the computer and squints.
"Mr. Harrison?"
Shit.
"I meant three-twelve. Fuck, I'm tired."
"You and me both, buddy," she grumbles. Then, her brows scrunch. "That one's not assigned to anyone. You must have meant another room."
Perfect.
"No, I'm positive it's three-twelve. I misspoke earlier." I flash her my winning smile. "I promise to go right back to bed and not bug you anymore tonight, ma'am."
She shakes her head. "These computers always glitch out." She enters in some info and then swipes a card before handing it to me. "Enjoy your stay, miss."
"Thanks, ma'am."
I loiter around the corner until she goes in the back room and then slip back out the front to fetch my captive and her fussy fucking dog. The night air is warm and sticky. After the hellish night I've had, I'm looking forward to a long, hot shower. Showers in a roach motel aren't ideal, but it's better than the alternative...no shower. Fuck that.
As I reach the big ass burgundy boat, I hear Mr. Bingaling or whatever the hell she calls him yapping his head off. He better not get our asses kicked out of this hotel. I need a good night's sleep so I can regroup and figure out this whole Mr. Death situation.
He wants Jennie.
Fine, he can have her.
But why does he want her?
Not my problem.
Chaeng and Cala are my problem.
My thoughts are stopped short when I realize the dog is alone. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I whip around, looking for Jennie. She can't have gone far because she wouldn't leave her little dog. No way.
When I look up, a nice building with neat landscaping and white awnings beckons at me. The Dempsey Hotel. Oh Jesus. That woman better not have...
I take off in a sprint across the street and nearly get run over by a Mercedes as it pulls away. A doorman nods at me but doesn't stop me from entering the building. He looks as worn out as the lady I just dealt with.
"The penthouse, dahling," a woman purrs in a foreign accent, her voice echoing down the corridor as I enter. "Chop-chop!"
"But, ma'am—"
"Ma'am? Ma'am? Boy, I'll have you know I'm twenty-two years old. Do I look like an old woman to you?" Her voice is shrill...and familiar. "Hmm?"
A woman in a black mink coat and red heels stands at the counter with her back to me. Long, dark brown hair hangs in waves and her designer purse is held delicately in one hand while her other hand waves furiously in the air.
I dart my gaze all around, hunting for Jennie. My attention is whipped back to the conversation when the well-dressed woman speaks again. I know that voice.
Oh, fuck me, here we go again with this nut.
"Don't make me call my father," she warns. "He's a French spy. He knows people."
"Um, miss," the flustered hotel clerk says. "I'm just trying to tell you that it's been booked."
"By moi!" she screeches. "Moi! Me for you dumb Americans who can't speak French. I booked it!"
His face burns bright red as he nervously taps at the computer. I smirk and stay back, watching Jennie in action. I'll never admit it to her, but she's kind of a natural at this shit.
"We have a presidential suite that's just been vacated..." he says, "but that's going to take at least an hour to clean." He frowns, a worried look in his eyes.
Jennie slaps her hand down on the marble countertop, making him jump. "I need my eye cream, boy. Not an hour from now. Right now. Because apparently, I look old," she says dramatically.
"I didn't mean—"
"Whatever," she snaps. "Make it happen before my gp wife gets here or you'll be in for a world of hurt."
"Of course, er, mademoiselle."
"I beg your pardon, Poindexter," she growls. "What did you just call me? If my gp wife finds out you're calling me filthy French names, boy, you're gonna get it!"
The young man's face pales. When his eyes dart to a man standing nearby wearing a security shirt, I know it's time to step in. I nod at the security guy and make a circular motion with my finger at my head to indicate the woman is crazy.
Crazy but mine.
My captive, that is.
"There's my little French tart," I croon, swooping in behind her and curling an arm around her waist. "Always such a naughty little minx. Please tell me you put something on under this fur coat. You know what it does to me when you go nude, my flaky croissant."
She snaps her head my way and gapes at me in surprise. With her dark hair down and her brown eyes wide as she acts the part of startled French bitch, I can't help but notice how pretty she is. Her pink lips are full and pouty. Dark brown lashes bat against her apple cheeks as a rosy blush colors them. Is this part of the act or is she suddenly shy? After that performance, she has nothing to be shy about. Hell, for a second there, even I was convinced.
"You're so beautiful," I tell my fake European wife, cradling her cheek with my palm. "Sometimes it hurts to have to share you with others." I lean in, inhaling the perfume that's coming off her stolen clothes. "You smell like a fantasy."
She gasps when I brush my lips delicately against hers.
"I might have to kiss you in front of your admirers," I murmur loud enough for the security guy and the hotel clerk to hear. "To claim what's mine."
"Oh," she says breathily. "I mean...oui, monsieur."
I smile at her as though she's my whole world because the performance is key in any successful con. Then, I go in for the kiss. She parts her lips, a tiny mewl escaping her, as I press mine to hers. She tastes like lunacy and corn nuts, but hell, I like it. My tongue swipes across hers in a teasing way. I slide my hand into her hair, tightening my hold so I can kiss her harder. Like a possessive wife would. With just my mouth, I own her. She soon gets out of her stupor as she gingerly presses her palm to my chest, caressing me as well. Her fingers may as well be on fire because I practically burn at her touch.
Act.
This is an act.
And an annoying reminder that I haven't gotten laid in fuck knows how long.
Just thinking about carrying this act upstairs and peeling off the mink coat has my dick thickening in my jeans. Not the time or the place, man. With a groan, I pull away-but not before nipping at her bottom lip-and flash the clerk my laziest grin.
"All we need is a bed, a bottle of champagne, and a few hours." I wink at him, my gaze heavy with insinuation. The insinuation that I'll fuck her the moment I get her alone.
"Here," the clerk says, pushing a keycard my way. "It's our best available room."
"Thank you," I say as I take the keycard. "I must say, this is the best service we've ever received. What's your manager's name? I'd love to call in the morning and give you the glowing review you deserve."
"Joey," he says bashfully.
"Like Joey Tribbiani from Friends?" Jennie asks, her French accent thick. "The best American show ever made."
He smiles. "How you doin'?"
Jennie cackles-real and not an act. "Oh my French fries! You sound just like him!"
The guy beams even wider. Amazing how far praise will get you in a con.
"I just need a credit card and you two can be on your way," Joey says, his smile faltering.
Shit. I knew this was coming.
I slap at my pockets. "I must have left my wallet in the car. Surely you can let us settle in and I'll bring it by in the morning when I tell them about what a great job Joey from The Dempsey Hotel is doing. Do you think they have any management positions open, Joey, because I think you'd be stellar in a position like that? I mean, it takes a certain kind of guy to handle my wife and you handled her beautifully." I hug her to my side and kiss the top of her head. She smells sweet. Of course she'd smell like fruit considering she's a fruitcake.
"I, uh, don't know, Ms—"
"Schwarzenegger."
His eyes grow wide and his mouth parts.
"You caught me," I say in a fake bashful tone. "Arnold is my father. My agent doesn't like me telling people that, though. Our secret. It's better if I make my own way in Hollywood, you know, man? Otherwise, I'll always be compared to my father. Who can compare to The Terminator? Tough shoes to fill."
The boy is dumbstruck.
"That's how we met," my fake wife purrs. "I was on set for a movie myself and she thought I was just a fan." She snorts. "She offered to sign my breasts. Scandalous!"
I smirk at her and squeeze her ass, making her squeak in surprise. "And one thing led to another. And another. And another. You feel me, kid?"
His face burns bright red. "Y-Yes, Ms. Schwarzenegger."
"Call me Junior Schwarzenegger." I wink at him.
"Right," he says, flustered. "I'll get your information in the morning. My boss will be here then too. It means a lot you'd be willing to put in a good word."
"A great word," I assure him. "Don't worry." I nod at him and lay on the accent. "I'll be back."
He beams at us and gives us a wave goodbye. I guide my wife out of the hotel lobby, kissing on her neck and holding her close. The moment we step outside, I release her and glower at her, the act dropped at our feet.
"What the fuck, Jennie?"
"Me? Me what the fudge? Are you serious? You...you..." Her face blazes with heat.
"I what?" I demand, stepping closer.
She chews on her bottom lip that's red and swollen from our kiss. "Nothing."
I stare at her pouty mouth for a beat longer before pointing at her. "Stay while I go get the damn dog and then we're going to bed."
Like a dutiful wife, she stays put while I fetch the yappy-ass beast. It's happy to see me and crawls into my arms. I set him down so he can go to the bathroom while I grab his dog food. After he's done his business, he jumps at my legs, eager to be held. I groan but pick up the beastly critter. When I return to the fancier hotel across the street, I find Jennie with a suitcase that doesn't belong to her waiting patiently.
"Where the hell did that come from?"
"The bushes."
"The bushes gifted you a designer suitcase?"
"Yes."
I arch a brow at her. She lifts her chin in challenge, her brown eyes gleaming with mischief. This girl is bad news for me. Distracting as hell. I need to focus on my goal.
Save my sister and niece.
Kill Mr. Death.
Yeah, kill him because he sure as hell doesn't get to keep Jennie.
When she doesn't say anything else, I break our intense stare to saunter back inside. No one says anything about the fact I just strolled in with a little rat dog tucked under my arm like a cotton ball. Nope, they all mind their fucking business because I'm Junior Schwarzenegger and my wife's a psycho French bitch. Once in the elevator, she lets out an exaggerated sigh.
One.
Two.
Three.
Oh, fuck me.
"What's wrong?" I demand after the fourth sigh.
"Nothing."
No one in their right mind believes a woman when she says "nothing." I grew up with a little sister and nothing usually means war.
"It's just..."
"Just?"
"You can't go around kissing random women like that. It's not right."
I frown. "Okay..."
"In the historical romance novels," she says in a breathy voice, "if you kissed a woman like that, you'd have to marry her."
Marry her?
"What?"
"What?"
Her eyes are wide and innocent, dark lashes beating against her cheeks.
I make the mistake of glancing at her lips once more. Thankfully the elevator opens and I walk us to our room. Once inside, I am pleased to find a giant comfy bed in the center of the room. Sure as hell beats the roach motel. Jennie wins this round. As she prances around the room, looking at every single thing there is to look at, I set the dog down and head for the shower.
"Don't leave," I grind out over my shoulder. I peel off my shirt and toss it along the way. I close the door behind me and I can hear her bitching about me to her damn dog. A smile tugs at my lips. Real as hell, which is scary considering the predicament I'm in with this girl and my family and Mr. Death. I shouldn't be smiling at all.
The shower ends up being long enough that I almost fall asleep standing up. I'm too tired for a hand job, though my unsettled dick kind of hates me for neglecting him. I throw on my jeans and sports bra but leave the rest of my clothes in the bathroom. Once inside the room, I find a mountain of pillows dividing the bed and the two nut jobs sound asleep.
Thank fuck.
I hit the lights and then pass out.
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Licking. Licking. Licking.
Jesus, who needs a morning wakeup call when you have a fucking dog to do it for you? A dog that climbed over Pillow Mountain and slept on my face most of the night might I add, irritating the fuck out of me. I hear Jennie chattering about early birds and worms and pancakes and broody outlaws. But frankly, I'm too tired to care. Pulling off the peak of Pillow Mountain, I smash it against my face and fall back asleep.
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I wake with a start. Awareness slicks through me, coating every inch of my body. It's quiet. Too quiet. Oh shit. What time is it?
Locating my phone on the bedside table, I curse to discover I have thirty minutes until I need to call Mr. Death. And my captive and her freak dog are nowhere to be found. I storm through the hotel room, tripping over the trail of discarded clothing this woman somehow managed to explode all over the place. Quickly, I use one of the complimentary toothbrushes and scrub the film off my teeth before splashing water on my face.
In ten minutes flat, I'm dressed and on my hunt for Jennie...and her little dog, too.
My nose takes me to the dining room. A grumble in my stomach distracts me. I'll just hit a McDonald's after my call to Mr. Death.
I'm inwardly bitching at myself for sleeping in so late that I'd miss out on what smells heavenly when I see her. When I see them both. Fucking King and Queen of The Dempsey Hotel.
Wearing a silky pink dress that dips low down her front and shows off her nice tits that were otherwise smashed behind baby blue spandex last night, Jennie sits at the head of a table with her dog in her lap looking like royalty. She's holding a champagne flute filled with orange juice as Bing Bong is eating tiny squares of what looks like pancakes from his own little plate.
And they have admirers.
Three or four older men just hanging on her every word while she preens.
Oh, fuck me, here we go again with this nut.
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