The Perils of Paulie (A Matchmaker in Wonderland) Read online

  “You don’t like me?” He looked offended now. “There is something else you like? Ladyboys?”

  “No! Look, I’m just not interested. OK? It’s nothing personal—I’m sure you’re a charming lover, but I’m just not looking for a man.” Not while Dixon was around, anyway.

  “I am a charming lover,” he said complacently. “Very good. I give womens much pleasure, you know? With my mouth and hands. The womens, they like that very much. My jaw is quite strong.”

  “OK, one, ew. And two, I have no doubt you’re the king of oral sex, but that doesn’t change anything.”

  Movement at the corner of my eye had me turning to glance at the doorway. A man stood there, holding a sheaf of papers.

  It was the man from the hallway.

  “Right. Twice is odd; three times says my father hasn’t learned that he can’t run my life,” I said, ignoring Luca’s questions when I jumped to my feet and began to wend my way through the packed room to the door. The man stared at me for the count of four, then turned on his heel and left. “That’s right—you’d better run,” I growled to myself, and gave chase.

  “Stop!” I yelled when I whipped around a corner and saw the man standing at an elevator. He gave me an odd look as I puffed my way over to him. (Note to self: Really have to get back to Pilates class.) “OK, that was extraneous since you were stopped when I yelled that, but still, stop! As in, stop running from me!”

  “Madam,” he said in a deep voice with an edge to it that I recognized instantly. “I do not know you.”

  “Aha!” I pointed a finger and shook it at him. A woman with a housekeeping cart wheeled past us, giving us both a suspicious look. “I knew it! You’re Russian!”

  “I do not know you,” he repeated.

  “No? I bet you know my father, and you can just tell him for me that this is not going to work. I’m onto you, buckaroo, and I have no qualms in telling the production people you’re following me any more than I’d have qualms about doing the same to Boris. So just put that in your samovar and smoke it!”

  “A samovar is not a pipe,” he said with maddening calm.

  “And you can just stop that, too,” I said, shaking a finger again.

  “Stop what?”

  “Acting like I’m the deranged one here, when it’s you who is trailing me at my father’s behest.” I straightened up my shoulders and tipped my head back so I could look down my nose at him. “If I so much as see you again, I’ll report you.”

  “You will be doing quite a bit of reporting, then, since I have been recruited to join one of the racing teams,” he said mildly.

  “You have not,” I said on a horrified gasp. How the hell had Dad managed that?

  He indicated his paperwork. “I have my contract here, as a matter of fact. Now, if you don’t mind, I have left my phone in my room and want to get it before I attend the evening’s events.”

  The elevator opened. He entered and turned around to face me.

  I glared at him. He let one eyebrow rise slightly before the doors closed.

  “Bastard,” I growled, and immediately sent a text to my father.

  July 24

  To: Daddy

  You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well, I’m onto you. I don’t know who you had to pay off, but it won’t work.

  July 24

  From: Daddy

  What is wrong? You are OK? You have fingers?

  July 24

  To: Daddy

  Yes, I have all my fingers. Dammit, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! I know you sent the mysterious bald man!

  July 24

  From: Daddy

  What bald man? Who is bald man? You are sleeping with bald man?

  July 24

  To: Daddy

  Nice attempt to Disraeli me.

  July 24

  From: Daddy

  Is Disraeli bald boyfriend? What happened to English? Take picture of driver license. Text to me. I take care of bald Disraeli.

  July 24

  To: Daddy

  Autocorrect, dammit. Why does it always autocorrect me? There is no Disraeli. Well, there was, but he’s dead.

  July 24

  From: Daddy

  You kill Disraeli? Is fine. I call peoples. They make body disappear. You wait twenty, maybe thirty minutes, then go to lobby and stay there for half hour. When you go back to room, Disraeli will be no more.

  July 24

  To: Angela

  Please tell Dad that I did not just kill a bald man named Disraeli, and stop him from sending whatever sort of illegal cleanup crew he’s about to fire into action.

  July 24

  From: Angela

  Very well. Did you kill someone not named Disraeli?

  July 24

  To: Angela

  No! There is no Disraeli! It was an autocorrect, and you know Dad, he instantly saw a man spear.

  July 24

  To: Angela

  Dammit! Cold spire not man spear!

  July 24

  From: Angela

  What?

  July 24

  To: Angela

  CONS piracy. That’s what I was trying to say.

  July 24

  To: Angela

  I give up. I’m throwing away my phone.

  —

  After my experience with the man who I just knew my father had sent to watch me, I tried to find Roger to complain about letting the man in the race, but couldn’t find him. Then I texted Dixon to see what he was up to (and hope he’d invite me to his room), but he didn’t answer.

  In the end, I went to bed. Alone. My formerly tingly parts were glum and cheerless, and threatened to start writing emo poetry if I didn’t bring Dixon around to visit them again. It was very sad.

  Today I was up early because we had the first takeoff time. I wandered into the hotel’s tiny dining area, where they had laid out a breakfast spread. Melody was already at a small round table, but I knew from the previous morning’s experience not to try to talk to her until she’d had at least two cups of coffee, so I grabbed a bowl of granola and a cup of yogurt and was about to sit down at an empty table when I saw Dixon.

  “Hello, stranger,” I said, setting down my food.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, glancing around to make sure we weren’t overheard. Fortunately, Sam and Tabby were chowing down and both busy with their tablets, no doubt catching up on the latest news and such.

  “For what?”

  “Missing your text last night. I fell asleep writing in my journal. I must have been more tired than I thought.”

  I glanced at the mark on his head. “You don’t still have a headache, do you?”

  “No, my head is fine.” He grimaced. “Well, as fine as it ever is. But I do regret not being awake to . . . er . . . talk to you.”

  “I had a lot more than talking in mind,” I said, giving him a flirtatious look that should have steamed his shorts. “I suppose, given your experience in the car, it was better that you get the rest. But tonight . . .”

  “Tonight I definitely will not fall asleep early,” he said, his voice rumbling in a way that made me feel very warm.

  “I’m delighted to hear it.” I sat down and, with an eye on the clock, hurriedly ate my breakfast. Dixon returned from the buffet with a plate of eggs and toast and a small bowl of fruit. “We’re going first today, so I can’t stay to chat long. Looks like we have a nice straight run today.”

  “Hopefully without encountering any bandits,” Dixon said, touching his forehead gingerly.

  “Sometimes I feel like we’re in a movie rather than filming a reality show,” I said, dabbing my lips and removing the four napkins I’d used to cover as much of my dress as was likely to get food on it. “Robbers, in-car dramas, dashing men and women in stylish costum
es—I like yours today, by the way.”

  Dixon looked down at his gold vest and forest green suit. “Thank you. I’m told this is what was called a one-button suit, and all the stylish gents wore it in 1907. You look nice as well. The plaid suits you.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? Let me see if I can remember what the wardrobe ladies said about my outfit.” I got up and did a little twirl for him. “The skirt has six groups of four pleats each, and a bolero jacket. There is a blue silk belt, and my hat for today is a straw boater decorated with heather and yards and yards of this white net stuff that—let me tell you—sucks in all the bugs within a five-mile radius. The last part wasn’t the official description, by the way.”

  “It’s very charming,” he said gravely, although I noticed a certain amount of approving heat in his eyes.

  “I like it, but not as much as your pretty vest.”

  “Waistcoat,” he corrected gently.

  “You’re in America now. Here it’s a vest. And a dapper one, too. All you need is one of those wax-tipped mustaches, and you’d be at home in any Edwardian drama.”

  “We have enough drama already, thank you.” He looked mildly unhappy. “I heard that Kell did not go easily.”

  “Go?” I swallowed the last of my granola, glancing again at the clock. I had ten minutes before we were due at the start. “Go where?”

  “You didn’t hear? Roger mentioned it at the dinner last night.”

  “I had to . . . er . . . duck out for a bit. It was over by the time I was done. What did I miss?”

  “Kell being formally removed from competition. He claimed he had done nothing wrong and wasn’t in the least to blame for yesterday’s incident, but luckily the dash cam evidence was enough to prove he violated the terms of participating by putting Rupert, me, and the car in danger.”

  “Wow. So it’s just you and your brother now?” I had a horrible suspicion what he was going to say next.

  “And a new man, Anton Serik. I haven’t met him, but Roger said he had been originally on the list to race but had been bumped in favor of Kell.”

  “Is he about five foot eight and bald, and has suspicious little eyes?” I asked, nodding when Melody tapped her watch at me and left the room.

  “I don’t know. Why?” He gave me an odd look.

  “I think my dad sent him. Although he wouldn’t have been on the original list if that was the case. Damn. Maybe I was wrong about him, in which case he probably thinks I’m certifiable. Crapstones! I have to go. Good luck today!”

  “And to you,” he said, half rising when I leaped up to dash away. I wondered for a minute if he had been about to kiss me, and turned back to him. He had sat down, but noticed me clearly standing there, waiting for a good-bye smooch. He rose just as I figured he wasn’t going to kiss me and turned to go to the door. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye and, having taken three steps, stopped to look back at him. He was sitting again, but at my look back to him, he started to rise, freezing halfway as if he was not sure what I was going to do.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is worse than a slapstick movie!” I said loudly, and ran back to him where he was lowering himself back into the chair, grabbed his ears, and laid my lips on his in a fast-and-furious kiss.

  I was out the door before I remembered that we weren’t going to give anyone an idea of what we were doing in private, cursing to myself all the way to the car.

  I’m happy to report the day’s drive passed without any untoward events, although Louise was increasingly unhappy.

  “I don’t know why the film crew is spending all its time on other people when we are the ones who are interesting.”

  “Wow. Self-centered much?” I murmured in the backseat.

  She slapped her hands on the wheel, causing the car to jerk dangerously to the side. “It’s just not like what Mom said it would be. Look at me, sitting here doing nothing but driving all day long. How am I ever going to get the Instagram followers I need by doing nothing but driving a moldy old car?”

  Melody cast a glance over her shoulder to me. I shrugged.

  “Mom said it was going to be like The Amazing Race, only with costumes. This is nothing like it, nothing at all. There are no challenges, no excitement, and not nearly enough cameras. I’m the producer’s daughter, for god’s sake! I should have a dedicated camera of my own. I was almost on Housewives of Catalina, except I’m not married.” She slapped her hands again.

  “I don’t quite know—” Melody started to say, but it would take a stronger woman than she to stop Louise once she was in one of her soliloquys.

  “I’m going to tell Dad that things have to change, or else. I’m not going to waste a whole four weeks just driving.”

  I wanted to ask her what she thought a round-the-world car race would entail, but decided I really didn’t want the answer. Instead, I tuned out her continued complaints and spent my time making character sketches of everyone I’d met, talking to Melody, and taking copious amounts of photos.

  Since we’d made good time—too good, as a matter of fact, which would have left us arriving before the allowed time (and thus earned another infraction)—we stopped at a coffee shop outside the city and enjoyed an hour of Wi-Fi, lattes, and the attention of everyone present. Louise posed for pictures with patrons, while Melody and I showed off the Thomas Flyer. Louise was miffed that the camera crews were not there to catch her doing her thing, and drove the rest of the way ranting about it being a conspiracy to keep her off the screen.

  We rolled into our hotel checkpoint during the time allowed, and after a bit of mechanical talk from Graham (who wanted me to check oil, water, and gas levels, since there were no modern-day gauges), I toddled off to remove the corset and pretty outfit.

  I stopped by the minuscule desk and picked up a key. Evidently this hotel—more of a motel than anything else—was built around the turn of the twentieth century and hadn’t upgraded its doors to modern standards. I climbed the stairs to the first floor, turned down a long hallway, and toward the middle of it saw Dixon talking to his brother at the door of a room. Judging by the numbers on the doors, my own room was a few beyond the two men.

  “Hello,” I said politely as I scooted past them.

  “Hullo,” Rupert said. He’d already peeled off his high collar and necktie and opened his vest and shirt. He didn’t look anything like his brother, and although he was handsome enough, he couldn’t hold a candle to Dixon. “How was your drive?”

  “Fine. I think the probability is quite high that Melody might murder Louise if she continues to narrate her every thought all day long into the dash cam, but I’m OK with that. How was your guys’ trip? No problems with the new guy? Speaking of him, where is he?” I looked around, but it was only the two brothers and at the other end of the hall the German ladies all going into their rooms.

  “Anton? He’s around somewhere.” Rupert gave Dixon an odd look. “I’m off to take a shower and then commiserate with the French team before they fly home.”

  “What? They’re leaving?”

  “Didn’t you hear? Their car was flattened by a lorry.”

  “A what now?”

  “‘Semitruck’ is, I believe, the term used here,” Dixon added.

  “Oh my god. Are they all right?” I was shocked to my core. For some reason, I didn’t think anything serious would happen to the racers. Flat tires, yes. Chases through fields, sure. But not cars smashed to bits by huge behemoths of the road.

  “They’re fine. They were out of the car. They were off taking what Roger calls a nature break and a lorry passing too close smashed the car into the guardrail.”

  “Holy crap. What a lucky escape.”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes dipping to where my breasts were mounded high inside my tight-fitting white lace blouse.

  Casually, I peeled off the bolero jacket.


  Dixon sucked in his breath. Rupert headed to his room, leaving Dixon and me standing in the hallway.

  “Erm.” He cleared his throat. “Which room is yours?”

  “That way,” I said, pointing past him with my key. “You’re here?”

  “Yes.” An awkward, sexually charged silence fell. My whole body seemed to hold its breath.

  “Perhaps you would like to come by my room later,” Dixon said at the same time I asked, “Wanna do a sheet tango?”

  We stared at each other; then I burst into laughter.

  “Your way sounds so much more sophisticated,” I said, twirling the bolero and moving off toward my room. “Think I’ll see if my corset buddy is around. I’m so anxious to get out of it . . .”

  Dixon was in front of me before I even realized he’d moved, snatching the key from my hand and jamming it into the lock on the door. “Allow me,” he said, his eyes a stormy bluish green.

  “Don’t tell me—you’re a corset devotee and you can’t wait to see which one I have on today?” I asked, entering my room. My suitcase was sitting on the rack where the crew had placed it, but I didn’t get to it before Dixon was at my back unhooking the blouse.

  “I’m more a devotee of what’s inside the corset. Arms up.”

  I lifted my arms and allowed him to whip the blouse off over my head. While he was laying it neatly on the dresser, I undid the silk belt and started on the skirt buttons. In no time I was scratching my ribs through my camisole, heaving big sighs of relief as I did so.

  “You have no idea how good it is to take that beastly thing off,” I said after I’d had a good scratch. I turned to face Dixon. “What on earth is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said, squinting at my lower half.

  I glanced down, suddenly worried that something was amiss. I was still in my knee-length bloomers, but since they had a couple of rows of lace ruffles and were tied with pretty blue ribbons, I didn’t see what there was to frown at. “Then why are you looking at me like you’re suddenly horrified at my pubic zone? Surely you must have seen it the other night. I don’t wax, but I do trim it so that I don’t have a bird’s nest down there.”