“Exclusive, Svetla,” Aimée said. “I used my connections and wangled you an invite. Special, only for you.”
“You mean like models, designers, Karl Lagerfeld—like that?”
“Bien s?r. Last time, Karl held the party. Maybe tonight too.”
“Where?”
Svetla’s affected disinterest didn’t hide her excitement. Aimée had hooked her. Now to reel her in. And fast, without giving her time to think it through.
“They call with the address twenty minutes before—it’s a flash party. But you need to change. First we’ll stop at the Athénée, then go from there.”
“I don’t understand this.”
“There’s a dress code.” Aimée let out a low laugh. “I want to make sure the bouncer will let us in.” She had to chance it. “Or you’re not interested? Shall I invite someone else instead?”
Svetla slapped down twenty francs. The notes stuck to the wet drink rings on the bar. Cécile blew Aimée a kiss as they left.
DIDN’T BODYGUARDS ROOM on the same floor as their employer—or next door? According to that hotel detective, they did. Round-the-clock protection duty. In the taxi, Svetla had revealed that the diva and the oligarch had stayed in tonight. Perfect.
Aimée glanced down the hotel hallway, deserted except for a thick blue carpet and bronze wall sconces.
“The party goes all night. Sure you’re off duty?”
“On call,” Svetla said.
Even better. Svetla opened the door to a suite with a dressing room the size of a studio apartment, blue velvet floor-length drapes framing the window.
“Nice,” Aimée said, scanning the room for a travel itinerary, Svetla’s agenda—anything that might indicate the diva’s room number or her plans.
“Why don’t we party here first?” Svetla said, tossing her leather jacket on the giant bed.
From behind she felt Svetla’s muscular arms around her. A hot kiss on her neck. Aimée noticed Svetla’s cell phone poking out from her jacket pocket on the bed.
“Think I’m easy?” Aimée arched her back.
“I can hope.” Svetla’s tongue licked her ear.
Aimée twisted away. “First I’ll raid the minibar for champagne. Find you party clothes for later.” She glanced at the marble bathroom with the huge tub. “Why don’t you lather up and I’ll join you.”
“Promise?”
“Seduction’s an art. Don’t rush. Let’s do it à la Fran?aise. We’re good at that.”
“World famous.” Svetla grinned and began peeling off her jeans.
Aimée tried not to avert her eyes. Hoped she didn’t blush to high heaven. An amazingly toned body. Svetla’s muscles rippled.
“You’re shy,” Svetla said. “I never would have thought it.”
If she only knew.
“Make the water hot for me.” Aimée cringed inside, but Svetla bought it. For now. Minutes. She had minutes.
She ran to the minibar, grabbed a bottle of champagne, and then reached into Svetla’s jacket pocket. The cell phone was gone. Only silver-foiled breath mints came back in her hand. She scanned the room again, noting the chair, the desk, the telephone. But fancy hotels often had phones in the bathroom.
“Chilled and perfect,” Aimée said, walking in. She popped the cork and set the champagne on the edge of the tub, beside Svetla’s phone. Apparently it never left her side.
“Get in.”
Aimée grinned. “I still have everything on. Champagne glasses?”
“Grab a tooth mug by the sink.”
She poured, careful to spill on Svetla’s phone. “Zut … desolée. Let me dry it.”
Aimée reached for a towel from over the tub. “Hear that?”
But Svetla grabbed her and stuck Aimée’s hand on her soapy nipple.
“They’re calling me with the party location,” Aimée said, a tremble in her shoulders. “Oops, let me dry this off. I’ll be right back.”
Before Svetla could get out of the marble tub, she’d closed the door, tied the handle with her scarf, and knotted it to the gilt chair and braced it before the door. If Svetla pulled, the pressure would jam the door tighter against it. Then she tugged the small dresser and wedged it in place.
Aimée hoped that Svetla would take a while to figure out how to unscrew the gold-plated door hinge. Figured it would hold her for fifteen minutes. Unless the scarf tore—she doubted Hermès had intended it for this kind of work. She grabbed the belt from Svetla’s jeans and fastened it around the doorknob. Yelling and pounding came from inside.
“Bitch! I’m calling hotel security!” Aimée heard the whacks of what sounded like a hair dryer against the wood. Good thing four-star hotels supplied strong wood doors.
“Do that and you lose your job, Svetla.” Aimée flicked on the ringer switch. Two missed calls from Marina. “What’s Marina’s room number?”
“You’ll die, bitch.”
“Try to act helpful.”
“Marina calls and checks on me,” she yelled. “If I don’t answer—”
“Then I’ll tell her she needs a new bodyguard. What did Tatyana tell Marina about the painting?”
“Painting? I don’t know.”
Liar. Svetla had sat beside them in the bar, in the limo—she’d heard everything. “Forget a bonus from your employer if you don’t warn her. Tatyana’s a fraud. Isn’t your job to anticipate and avoid issues?”
“Tatyana’s a wannabe, an amateur,” Svetla yelled. “Marina’s bored. Laughs behind her back.” More loud banging on the door.
“What about the painting?” Keep her talking.
Aimée scooped up Svetla’s jeans and jacket, unplugged the room phone, and threw it all in the dressing room with the rest of her clothes. She locked the door and put the key in her pocket. That should give her a few more minutes.
Scraping metallic noises came from the bathroom as Svetla worked the hinges. Tweezers from her manicure set? Merde. She should have taken Svetla’s toiletry bag.
“Tell me about the painting,” Aimée said.
“Painting for paper museum?” A laugh. “Good luck.”
She wondered what that meant. “Paper museum? Explain. One more chance to tell me, Svetla,” she said.