Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,72
my chair and waved my hand. “Go,” I silently mouthed. My look said it all: If it wasn’t her, it would be some other woman.
“Come, Matt, I have more people for you to meet.”
A moment later, they were gone. I rose, folded up the article, stuffed it back into my evening clutch, then headed for the exit. In the Pierre’s lobby, I tried to reach Quinn on my cell phone. I got his voicemail, so I left a message, asking him to call me when he got the message—no matter how late or early it was.
I was now more convinced than ever that the designer Fen was in the middle of this mystery, and I wanted to know what Mike had learned during his questioning of the elusive fashion king.
Outside, the early autumn night was cool and crisp. I didn’t see the limousine Matteo and I had arrived in, so I asked the doorman to call me a cab. He’d barely raised his hand when one of the line of black limos with darkly tinted windows that had been waiting across the street veered into traffic and screeched to a halt right in front of me.
Matt was obviously going to be staying at the Trend party for the duration, and I assumed there’d be plenty of time for me to borrow his limo for a quick trip down to the Blend. Once I got there, I’d send it right back to the Pierre—no harm done. So when the doorman opened the car door, I slipped inside.
The lock clicked as I settled back into the comfortable leather seat, but when I looked up, I realized the man in the driver’s seat wasn’t the same chauffeur we’d had on the trip up—and there was a second man up front, in the passenger seat.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m in the wrong car.” I yanked the door handle, but the door was locked and I didn’t see any way to unlock it myself. “Can you unlock the door, please?” I asked.
Instead of letting me out, the driver gunned the engine and pulled away from the hotel, into Fifth Avenue’s downtown flow.
“Hey!” I cried. “I know you heard me. Let me out!”
I leaned forward to grab his arm, but almost lost my hand when a glass partition quickly rolled up between the front seat and the back. My fist hit the window and I yelled something unintelligible. Then I heard an electronic crackle as a speaker sprang to life somewhere in the back seat compartment.
“Just relax and cooperate, Ms. Cosi,” a male voice commanded. “And your ride will be a short one.”
TWENTY-FOUR
GOD almighty, I’m being kidnapped. My heart was racing, and I began to hyperventilate. Stay calm, Clare. Think.
I fumbled in my purse, then brandished my cell phone like a handgun. “Let me out right now or I’ll call 911!” I cried, my thumb already hitting the 9.
The driver’s eyes flashed angrily in the rearview mirror. He braked the vehicle so violently I had to throw out my arm to avoid being slammed up against the back of the driver’s seat. The cell phone flew out of my hand and bounced across the floor.
With a bump and a squeal of tires on pavement, the limo jerked to a halt. The momentum threw me to the carpet. I landed on my knees—convenient, since I wanted to find my cell. But as my fingers closed on my small silver savior, I heard the front passenger door open. A large body slid onto the seat. A strong hand grabbed my wrist and beefy fingers yanked the cell out of my hand.
“Hey, buster! Gimme that,” I hollered, pushing hair out of my face. Note to self. Next time you’re being kidnapped, don’t threaten to dial 911. Just dial it!
I lunged for my phone, but the giant wearing jeans and a black leather coat raised his big hands to fend me of easily. His pinky ring looked large enough for me to wear as a bracelet.
“Sit back and enjoy the ride,” the man warned in a low octave, hoisting me up on the seat beside him.
He stared at me with Basset Hound dark eyes over a smashed nose. His large round head was topped with short-cropped black hair. His ears stuck out and seemed to be askew. I met his intimidating gaze and raised balled fists.
“Give me my phone and let me out of this car!” I demanded.
As if on cue, the vehicle’s abrupt acceleration slammed me back into the