hands cupped out in front of his chest.
Far away from his chest.
"Well, I'm not, so get over it." Jackie flashed him a nasty smile–the nastiest one she could summon. "So use your imagination, Frenchie–you're an artist, aren't you?"
He jerked the paintbrush from between his teeth. " Mon dieu. " Dabbing furiously at his palette, he muttered a string of what Jackie felt certain weren't nice things, even if they were in French. "And that hair." More French. "How did it get such an atrocious shade?"
Jackie winced. Touché. "It's standard equipment," she fibbed, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying what she really thought. "Keep your opinions to yourself and paint. I'd like to get out of these feathers ASAP."
"Asap?"
"As soon as possible." She lifted her eyebrows and sighed. "Like yesterday would be nice."
Actually, yesterday was pure hell, but today is even worse.
More French. Good. As long as he was happy...
"I simply cannot paint without...inspiration." He threw the brush and palette crashing to the floor, splattering paint across the room. "Come back tomorrow at the same time. Wait here until Zeb comes to claim you. Oh, how my head aches. Why did I ever leave Paris?"
Muttering to himself, Henri waddled to the back of the cabin and slammed the door.
"Cool." Keeping the feathers wrapped strategically around her body, Jackie swung her feet to the floor and reached for her jeans. Old Dottie had no idea that Jackie'd worn her own filthy clothes beneath the velvet robe.
With the white boa draped around her neck, Jackie wiggled into her jeans and buttoned the fly, then slipped on her socks and hiking boots. A noise from outside made her adjust the boa to cover herself just before the door burst open.
A man–a tall one–filled the doorway. A white hat was pulled low over his eyes and a bandanna covered his mouth and nose. Only twin blue slits were visible on his face. He held a rifle in his hands, though it wasn't aimed at her. Exactly.
"Oh, no you don't," she said, knowing the script was in force again. "I'm not Lolita. You've got the wrong woman, buster. Be patient–she'll be along in a few weeks."
"You're coming with me." His voice was muffled, but his words were clear. Unmistakable. "Now."
"I don't believe this." Jackie knew she should fear the kidnapper, but her anger took command. "You want Lolita–I'm Jackie. Trust me on this. I'm only a 34 B. You want the 44 D ones. They're worth the wait. I've seen–"
"Hush." His words sounded more confused than angry. "Just hush your mouth and get yourself out the door."
"I'm not dressed."
Henri chose that moment to open the door. "I've changed my mind, mademoiselle," the artist said dramatically. "We will continue the–"
"That's far enough." The rifle shifted toward the artist. "Stay right there."
Henri's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell forward, landing with a loud–and not terribly French–splat when his face hit the wood floor.
Right on top of Jackie's T-shirt and the velvet robe.
"Come on," the kidnapper ordered. "Now."
Jackie looked down at the unconscious painter, and, more importantly, at the edge of her ugly dark green T-shirt. "My clothes." She pointed ineffectively with her left hand, but the kidnapper seemed indifferent to her request.
Henri moaned, and Jackie found the kidnapper's gloved hand around her upper arm, feathers and all. He propelled her out the door and into the bright sunlight, in all her half-naked
Far away from his chest.
"Well, I'm not, so get over it." Jackie flashed him a nasty smile–the nastiest one she could summon. "So use your imagination, Frenchie–you're an artist, aren't you?"
He jerked the paintbrush from between his teeth. " Mon dieu. " Dabbing furiously at his palette, he muttered a string of what Jackie felt certain weren't nice things, even if they were in French. "And that hair." More French. "How did it get such an atrocious shade?"
Jackie winced. Touché. "It's standard equipment," she fibbed, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying what she really thought. "Keep your opinions to yourself and paint. I'd like to get out of these feathers ASAP."
"Asap?"
"As soon as possible." She lifted her eyebrows and sighed. "Like yesterday would be nice."
Actually, yesterday was pure hell, but today is even worse.
More French. Good. As long as he was happy...
"I simply cannot paint without...inspiration." He threw the brush and palette crashing to the floor, splattering paint across the room. "Come back tomorrow at the same time. Wait here until Zeb comes to claim you. Oh, how my head aches. Why did I ever leave Paris?"
Muttering to himself, Henri waddled to the back of the cabin and slammed the door.
"Cool." Keeping the feathers wrapped strategically around her body, Jackie swung her feet to the floor and reached for her jeans. Old Dottie had no idea that Jackie'd worn her own filthy clothes beneath the velvet robe.
With the white boa draped around her neck, Jackie wiggled into her jeans and buttoned the fly, then slipped on her socks and hiking boots. A noise from outside made her adjust the boa to cover herself just before the door burst open.
A man–a tall one–filled the doorway. A white hat was pulled low over his eyes and a bandanna covered his mouth and nose. Only twin blue slits were visible on his face. He held a rifle in his hands, though it wasn't aimed at her. Exactly.
"Oh, no you don't," she said, knowing the script was in force again. "I'm not Lolita. You've got the wrong woman, buster. Be patient–she'll be along in a few weeks."
"You're coming with me." His voice was muffled, but his words were clear. Unmistakable. "Now."
"I don't believe this." Jackie knew she should fear the kidnapper, but her anger took command. "You want Lolita–I'm Jackie. Trust me on this. I'm only a 34 B. You want the 44 D ones. They're worth the wait. I've seen–"
"Hush." His words sounded more confused than angry. "Just hush your mouth and get yourself out the door."
"I'm not dressed."
Henri chose that moment to open the door. "I've changed my mind, mademoiselle," the artist said dramatically. "We will continue the–"
"That's far enough." The rifle shifted toward the artist. "Stay right there."
Henri's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell forward, landing with a loud–and not terribly French–splat when his face hit the wood floor.
Right on top of Jackie's T-shirt and the velvet robe.
"Come on," the kidnapper ordered. "Now."
Jackie looked down at the unconscious painter, and, more importantly, at the edge of her ugly dark green T-shirt. "My clothes." She pointed ineffectively with her left hand, but the kidnapper seemed indifferent to her request.
Henri moaned, and Jackie found the kidnapper's gloved hand around her upper arm, feathers and all. He propelled her out the door and into the bright sunlight, in all her half-naked
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