Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [34]
And then they cut to a commercial.
I looked around the bar to see how many other people had caught it. A dozen, maybe more. What else do people sitting around an airport bar do but stare at the TV? Hopefully they wouldn’t look up at me.
I tucked my chin down, put one hand over my eyes, and studied the floor tiles as I walked back to the table where Katherine was sitting.
“Where’s your beer?” she said.
“I changed my mind,” I said. “You know what I really need?”
“No.”
“A hat.”
I lifted the somewhat faded, definitely broken-in Yankees cap off her head. I put it on mine. It didn’t fit.
“It’s way too small for your big head,” she said.
“Well, let’s buy one that fits,” I said.
“As soon as I finish,” she said, picking up her muffin and biting it.
So we sat and talked. And then it happened again. My picture flashed on the TV screen.
I didn’t try to read the closed captioning. I just kept my head down until Katherine polished off her cappuccino. Then we walked over to Hudson News. Katherine checked out the magazines, and I went to the gift shop.
I was about to buy a Yankees baseball cap when I saw the berets. Absolument, I thought. Très français and a much better disguise. They had two colors—brown or red. I settled on brown.
I moved over to the sunglasses rack and picked out a pair of mirror-lens wraparounds.
Then I found Katherine. “What do you think?”
She laughed out loud. “What happened to the baseball hat?”
“I’m an artist. We’re going to France. I definitely need a beret. And sunglasses,” I said, putting on my shades. “Is this perfect or what?”
“Or what,” said Katherine. But she was grinning.
Chapter 39
DINNER WAS SERVED about an hour into the flight to Paris.
“At long last,” I said. “Fine French cooking. Maybe we should eat and critique our dinners.”
I had the beef goulash; Katherine opted for the herbed chicken.
“Bland, dry, overcooked,” she said after a few bites. “One star, and that’s only because I’m an easy marker. How about you?”
“Four stars,” I said.
Katherine threw me a look.
“I think it’s the ambience,” I said, kissing the back of her neck. “And the company, of course.”
As soon as the trays were cleared, we turned out the overhead lights and raised the armrest between our seats, and Katherine curled up against me, wrapped in a blanket and my arms.
She zonked out in minutes. I couldn’t sleep.
I loved this woman. What was I dragging her into?
If that toothpaste incident had escalated one more notch, Katherine’s behavior might have branded us as troublemakers, but my carry-on bag would absolutely have landed us both in jail.
What was I thinking? What had I gotten her involved in? Was I crazy? The questions were bouncing around in my brain like a beach ball at a rock concert.
Somewhere along the way I fell asleep, and I didn’t wake up till we were on our final approach to Orly airport. Looking out the window, we could see the lush vineyards and tiny red-roofed farmhouses that dotted the French countryside.
“I can’t believe you’re actually taking me to Paris,” Katherine said, still snuggled up against me.
“Believe it,” I said. Then I kissed her.
She pulled away fast. “Matt, no. I have horrible morning breath.”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “Your breath smells Wicked Fresh.”
She punched me in the shoulder. “Matthew! You are so totally lying.” God, I loved this woman.
The plane parked on the tarmac, and one of those big mobile lounges off-loaded the passengers and drove us to the terminal. All around me people were speaking French. The signs, the sounds, even the music piping through the PA, were French.
I took off my sunglasses and my beret. I was thousands of miles away from New York, where my picture was being flashed on a TV screen every ten minutes. I felt safe. Nobody would be looking for me here.
Chapter 40
THE ARTIST KNOWN as Leonard Karns had a nearly pathological crush on Katherine Sanborne, and that was just one of