James Patterson: Honeymoon

“God, you’re so beautiful! ” he said, finally lowering her back to the floor.

She gave him a playful punch to the stomach with her left hand. Connor’s four-carat diamond had already been replaced by Jeffrey’s six-carat sapphire set with diamonds in a three-stone arrangement.

“I bet you say that to all your wives,” she said.

“No, just the gorgeous ones like you. God, I missed you, Nora. Who wouldn’t?”

They laughed and kissed again, deeply and passionately.

“So, tell me, how was your flight?” he asked.

“Good. For commercial anyway. How’s the new book coming?”

“It’s no War and Peace. No Da Vinci Code, either.”

“You always say that, Jeffrey.”

“It’s always true.”

At age forty-two, Jeffrey Sage Walker was an international bestselling author of historical fiction. He had fans numbering in the millions, the majority of them women. They liked his writing and strong female characters, but his rough-hewn handsomeness on the dust jacket certainly didn’t hurt. Never had tussled bleached-blond hair and razor stubble looked so good.

Suddenly he swooped Nora up and threw her over his shoulder. She howled as he climbed the stairs.

Jeffrey was headed for the bedroom, but Nora grabbed a doorjamb and made him turn into his library. She had her eye on his favorite chair—the one he did his writing in. “You always say you do your best work in it,” she said. “Let’s see about that.”

He lowered her into the worn brown leather seat cushion and changed the music. Norah Jones, one of their favorites.

As the singer’s strong smoky voice began to build slowly and engulf the room, Nora leaned back and lifted her legs. Jeffrey removed her sandals, her capri pants, her panties. He helped her off with her favorite green cardigan while she reached down into his jeans.

“My handsome, brilliant husband,” she whispered as she pulled down his pants.

Chapter 5

THAT EVENING NORA COOKED, a penne with a vodka sauce she made from scratch. A tossed salad and a bottle of Brunello from Jeffrey’s private cellar. Dinner was served. Everything just so. The way he liked it.

They ate and talked about his new novel, which was set during the French Revolution. Jeffrey had only just returned from Paris days earlier. He was a stickler for authenticity in his writing and insisted on traveling for research. With Nora having her own busy work schedule, they were apart more than they were together. In fact, they had been married on a Saturday, in Cuernavaca, Mexico, and had flown home on Sunday. No mess, no fuss, no records in the States, either. It was a very modern marriage.

“You know, Nora, I was thinking,” he said, digging his fork into the last of his penne. “We should really take a trip together.”

“Maybe you can give me that honeymoon you’ve been promising.”

He put a hand to his heart and smiled. “Darling, every day I spend with you is a honeymoon.”

Nora smiled back. “Nice try, Mr. Famous Writer, but I’m not letting you off with a cute line.”

“Okay. Where do you want to go?”

“How about the south of France?” she offered. “We could shack up at the Hôtel du Cap.”

“Or Italy?” he said, holding up his glass of wine. “Tuscany?”

“Hey, I know—why don’t we do both?”

Jeffrey threw his head back and roared laughter. “There you go again,” he said, his index finger waving in the air. “Always wanting it all. And why not?”

They finished up dinner, talking more possible destinations for the honeymoon. Madrid, Bali, Vienna, Lanai. The only thing settled as they split a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia was to get a travel agent involved.

By eleven they were snuggling in bed. Husband and wife. So very much in love.

Chapter 6

THE NEXT DAY at a few minutes past noon, on the corner of Forty-second and Park in front of Grand Central Station, a woman screamed. A second woman turned her head to look and she screamed, too. The man beside her muttered, “Holy shit.” Then they all ran for cover.

Something very bad was happening. A train wreck, so to speak, just outside one of the most famous train stations in the world.

The chain reaction of fear and confusion quickly cleared everyone from the sidewalk. Everyone, except for three people.

One was a fat man with dense sideburns, thinning hair, and a dark mustache. He was dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit with wide lapels. Wider still was his shiny blue tie. On the ground by his feet was a medium-size suitcase.

Next to the fat man was a young woman, perhaps mid-twenties, attractive. She had red hair that hung straight down to her shoulders, lots of freckles on her face. She wore a short plaid skirt and a white tank top. A beat-up knapsack hung over one shoulder.

The fat man and the young woman couldn’t have looked any more different. However, at that moment they were very much connected.

By a gun.

“If you come any closer, I’ll kill her!” barked the fat man with a thick, Middle Eastern accent. He jammed the cold steel of the barrel hard against her temple. “I swear, I’ll shoot her dead. I’ll do it in a second. No problem for me.”

The threat was directed at the third person remaining on the sidewalk—a guy standing maybe ten feet away, wearing baggy gray khakis and a black T-shirt. He looked like a typical enough tourist. From the Pacific Northwest, perhaps. Oregon? The state of Washington? A runner maybe. Somebody in decent shape anyway.

And then he pulled a gun.

The Tourist took a step closer, his gun pointed at the forehead of the fat man with the mustache. Dead center, actually. The Tourist didn’t seem to care that the young woman was in his line of fire.

“No problem for me, either,” he said.

“I said stop!” said the fat man. “Don’t come any closer. Stay where you are.”

The Tourist ignored him. He took another step.

“I swear, I’ll fucking kill her!”

“No, you won’t,” said the Tourist calmly. “Because if you shoot her, I’ll shoot you.” He took another step forward but then stopped. “Think it through, friend. I know you can’t afford to lose what’s in that suitcase. But is it worth your life?”

The fat man squinted and suddenly looked to be in great pain. He appeared to be thinking about what the Tourist had said. Or maybe not. Then a maniacal smile filled his face. He cocked his gun.

“Pleeeeease,” begged the young woman, trembling. “Pleeeeease.” Tears poured from her eyes. She could barely stand.

“Shut up!” the fat man yelled in her ear. “Shut the hell up! I can’t hear myself think!”

The Tourist stood his ground, his flinty blue eyes locked on one thing: the man’s trigger finger.

He didn’t like what he saw.

Twitching!

The fat bastard was going to shoot the girl, wasn’t he? And that just wasn’t acceptable.

Chapter 7

“WHOA,” the Tourist announced with a raised palm. “Take it easy, my man.” He took a step backward, chuckled to himself. “Who am I kidding, right? I’m not that good of a shot. No way I could be sure to get you and not the girl.”

“That’s right,” said the fat man, hugging the young woman even tighter with his puffy right arm. “So, you tell me now, who’s in charge? ”

“You are,” said the Tourist with a deferential nod. “Just tell me what you want me to do, my friend. Hell, if you want, I’ll lay my gun down on the sidewalk, okay?”

The man stared hard at the Tourist. His squint returned. “Okay, but slowly you do this,” he said.

“Of course. Easy-peasy-Japaneasy. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”