Milo...Beautiful

        By Pattie Lawler

         

            Milo looked up from the screen, scrubbed sleep from his eyes and smiled at Albany as she slept on the bunk. He was tempted to smooth the chestnut curls off her cheek, but was loath to disturb her. Even he could tell she had a cold coming on, and while he blamed himself for her recent exposure, he couldn’t feel bad about it. He was too happy in her company to feel bad about anything.

            “You’re beautiful, Milo.”

            No one had ever even hinted at such a thing before. He slipped from the chair to kneel beside her and checked to make sure she was completely covered. It was probably the twentieth time he had checked that hour. The desire to be near her was dominating the flight, and he sighed. There was work to be done and being besotted wasn’t a legitimate excuse for ‘calling in sick.’

            Returning to the chair, he touched the mouse and the screen came back to life. The several open browsers reminded him that time was short, expectations were high, and Fanny was wild to see Albany.      

            The barrage of emails from his niece described, in excruciating detail, the contents of the two suitcases in the boot of the sedan waiting at Heathrow. An entire wardrobe, all for Albany. Fanny said she had shopped with him in mind, and Milo promised to be dazzled.

            His gaze drifted to the left at the sound of Albany’s constricted breathing. A worse fate for a singer he couldn’t imagine.

            Work.

            He emailed Fanny and told her chicken soup was needed.

            Work!

            He twisted, reaching for his coat and fingered one of the gold buttons, feeling the indentation where the key was hidden. The tiny key opened an attaché in the airport hotel, which had a hidden compartment that held the key to a safe deposit box in a Paris hotel. In the box was a letter. The letter. Well, not the letter but there was no reason to tell anyone that. They would know soon enough, and then the real negotiations would begin.

            The soft knock on the door wasn’t soft enough. Albany, he noticed, could fall asleep in an instant, but the tiniest noise would wake her.

            “We’re beginning our descent in London, Heathrow. We’ll be on the ground in 15 minutes.”

            “Thank you,” Milo murmured in reply before kneeling beside Albany, who looked up enough to blink at him. “Good morning.”

            She grinned, then dropped face first onto the pillow.

Milo chuckled as he made for the bathroom, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll be continuing to France. There’s a car waiting to take you home. Well...my home anyway. Fanny is desperate to get her claws in you to go shopping again. Seems she had a field day with my credit cards, and you have a new wardrobe in the trunk.”

            “She sure works fast. Thank you and Fanny,” Albany murmured as she pulled the box of tissues from the wall dispenser and tucked them under her arm.

           

<0>

           

            Milo slept on the two hour flight across the channel.

            Accepting a coffee from the flight attendant as he left the plane, he met his driver and was taken to the Sheraton at Paris Charles de Gaulle International Airport. There, he collected his attaché before continuing into Paris to le Meurice. He was mere moments at both hotels, and as the concierge handed him the keys to the waiting car, while confirming that there were no messages, he was keenly aware of the fact that things were moving far too smoothly. He had detected no lampreys between hotels. Where was Raul? Had the overnight to New York put his rival in a tailspin? And where was du Montefort? The Frenchman and he enjoyed a friendly rivalry over shared acquisition. Milo would have put money on there being a taunting message about abandoning the field...

            Handing the trailing concierge the room key, Milo slipped into the Mercedes, programmed the GPS and moved into traffic.

 <0>

            He had decided to stop in Meaux for lunch when, entering the town, he saw a familiar figure in a Yankee’s cap standing on a corner as if waiting to be noticed. Milo put the window down as he pulled up next to the lanky collector. du Montefort belatedly raised his hand.

            “I was just thinking of finding food,” Milo greeted the older man.

            “We’ll eat in Reims,” du Montefort said, opening the door and climbing in, a paper bag in hand. Settling himself, he opened the bag and flooded the car with the scents of coffee and fresh bread. Milo accepted the hot cup with a grateful smile.

            “How American.”

            “I did it for you, mon amie. I hope you appreciate my effort.”

             “I do, I do. And your skills at deduction—finding me so easily—are second to me alone, as always.”

            “Not this time, my friend. I was told by your beautiful Josephine where to find you. You have not called home since your return, have you?”

            Milo set the coffee down and reached for his phone.

            “It’s been disabled.”

            “Disabled?” Milo snapped, sliding the top open and glancing at the dead screen.

            “You should not have left. I know there is a woman involved, but now is not the time. There is too much going on.”

            Milo raised an eyebrow. “You’re lecturing me?”

            du Montefort chuckled and bit into his roll. “You have the letter?”

            “I have a letter.”

            “Now is not the time for jokes, Milo. They have taken your mademoiselle...your Miss Wendel.”

            Milo jerked the car out of traffic and rounded on his companion. “Say that again.”

            du Montefort’s gray eyes sank closed as he nodded, speaking around his food. “The British authorities are working with my government for her recovery, but surly Señor Jimenez has taken the bit in his teeth. The belief is that Miss Wendel was abducted from the jetway, the only place in the airport with no surveillance cameras. Several private jets left shortly after you arrived, bound for France, but to private airstrips. Please rest assured that all air-traffic is being minutely examined.”

            The desire to grind his teeth kept Milo from a verbal answer.

“My liaison to the Prime Minster called this morning, frantic,” du Montefort continued. “The PM has had an email from Raul. It came to his private address. Raul says you are to deliver the letter, recover the sword, and turn it over to him in exchange for Miss Wendel. I am commanded to stop the exchange at any cost.”

            Milo looked at the phone in his hand. The only one that could disable it was his secretary, Joe.

            And she had to keep him from learning the truth.

            Doubtless she had gotten the same call from the PM’s secretary. And she was right. He had a job to do, and flying into a passion wasn’t going to get Albany back. Get the job done, then focus on Albany. Raul wouldn’t risk hurting her, of that he was certain. Once she was safe, he would pound the troublesome collector.

            Looking up at the eyes that were intent upon his face, Milo grinned. “Do you plan on shooting me, George?”

            du Montefort’s smile was as warm. “Never, my friend. I plan on helping you. And beating you.”

            “You can’t, ya know. They would have hired you if they thought you could do the job.”

            “But they did hire me,” he gently corrected Milo. “And you must pray that I fail.”

            “Allow me to assure you, you’re a reservist; along for the ride. You’re services will not be needed.”

            “Brat,” du Montefort said before taking another bite.

            Milo winked at his companion, took a roll from the bag and moved back into traffic.

            They rode in silence for a while before du Montefort asked, “Will you tell me, please, where the sword was found?”

            “At the Porte de Mars. Seems someone had a sense of humor. You may remember there was a small mishap with a car early last year? It led to the discovery.”

            “Yes, but why were you informed?”

            “I wasn’t. I was hired just like you.”

            “And you’re after?”

            “A copy of the letter.”

The deathbed confession of a man desperately in love.

            Life is just like that sometimes.

            “Where is the letter?”

            “Safe.”

            “Yes, but whose?” du Montefort chuckled. “Have you read it?”

            Milo nodded. “I’ve had several copies made. You’re welcome to one.”

            “You are too kind.”

            “Not at all. I plan on wagering and want to set the stakes.”

            “The letter for...what?”

            “The banner.”

            “Ah! You think it didn’t burn?”

            “I’m betting it’s with the sword. As callous as the world can be, it rarely turns its back on its heroes.”

            “Or heroines?”

            Milo grinned as he joined the traffic before Notre-Dame de Reims.

 

            As Milo parked the car, du Montefort took the attaché off the back seat, unlocked it and began inspecting the two guns within.

            “Remind me to change the combination,” Milo muttered, watching as du Montefort attached a silencer to each gun barrel.

            “I’ll only learn it as well.”

            “Reprobate,” Milo chuckled, taking the guns and slipping them in his coat pockets. He would move one into his belt as soon as they were out of the car. du Montefort handed him two extra magazines.

            “I will wait by the pulpit,” du Montefort said, checking his own guns.

            Milo leaned over, placed the disabled phone in the glove compartment and locked it. Together they left the car.

 

 <0>

 

            Milo was to meet his contact—the man currently in possession of an ancient sword—in the chapel directly behind the high altar. He went empty-handed, knowing that the man would be likewise.

            But the man turned out to be a rather pretty young woman. She approached him right away, addressed him by name and told him that she was the daughter of the man he was to meet. As she offered not a hint of the prearranged greeting, Milo didn’t believe her for a second.     Amused by this turn of events, he agreed to accompany her into the mews. As they exited the chapel, the woman smiled at the lanky man in a Yankee’s cap who appeared engrossed by the description of the chapel.

            du Montefort smiled in reply and slowly trailed the couple.

           

            In the small Lady Chapel, across the mews and behind several decayed walls, the woman was joined by two large men. As the trio turned to face Milo, his guns were drawn.

            “Don’t,” the woman purred, taking a step closer. “If anything happens to us, your singer is dead.”

            “Seriously?” Milo asked, his lips curling as he drew the hammer back on his .45.

            She frowned and looked as if she wanted to stamp her foot. “And you don’t care?”

            His two shots to the thugs’ thighs dropped them both. Their howling almost covered the woman’s screaming. It was du Montefort’s gun, pressed to the back of her head, that silenced her. The older man caught her arm, marching her away from the writhing men as Milo leapt forward and checked both men for weapons.

            A glance at du Montefort was enough to know he was in control of the woman, so Milo squatted down beside one of the men.

            “So, are you going to tell me what you know or am I going to shoot you again?”

            “I don’t know nothing!” the man spat, clutching his leg.

            “Same side?” Milo asked du Montefort.

            “Why be kind?”

            Milo placed the end of the silencer again the man’s foot on the unwounded leg and cocked the hammer.

            “I told you!”

            “What were you going to do to me?”

            “We were supposed to take you to Laon!” the woman screamed.

            “She has wet herself,” du Montefort groused, taking a step away from her.

            Milo didn’t acknowledge the speaker but directed his next question at her. “Why?”

            “I don’t know! That was all we were told! Take you to the Café Marie. I swear!”

            “George,” Milo said, releasing the hammer of the pistol and pulling a pair of handcuffs from his breast pocket. du Montefort nodded, phone in hand. “You’re going for a ride,” Milo said to the men as he handcuffed them together. He rose and made for the woman. “What did you tell my contact?”

            Panic made her voice strident, and her eyes locked on his gun. “That the time had been changed. I told him to come back at four...you had been delayed.”

            “And what was to happen at four?”

            “I don’t know. I would have been in Laon by then.”

            “And who gave you these orders?”

            “I don’t know. I receive emails. The only time I ever see people is like this.” She gestured to the two men. “I’ve never seen them before today.”

            “You know I don’t believe you,” Milo said with a grin.

            She whimpered, biting her lip. Taking her arm, he walked her to the men while removing another pair of handcuffs from his coat. He told her to sit, and then handcuffed her ankle to the man on the left’s wrist. Rising, he and du Montefort moved further away.

            “You’ll go to Laon,” Milo murmured, handing him the keys to the cuffs. “I’ll wait for the contact.”

            “I must insist on more men.”

            Milo’s grin returned as he looked down the chapel. “You think I can’t handle them?”

            “You shot first...this time.”

            “Well, I won’t say no to you, George. Just tell them to keep out of sight.”

 

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