Page 22 of Meet Hate Love
After I’d retrieved my luggage from the carousel, I headed toward the front of the airport. Halfway to the clearly labeled exit, I spotted Blake following a random man through a door that led to the parking deck. “What in the hell is she doing?” With her luck, she would end up getting kidnapped.
The wheels on my suitcase rumbled over the tile as I maneuvered through the crowd of weary travelers and crying children. By the time I’d made it through the door and down the parking deck ramp, Blake was standing behind the popped trunk of a black Mercedes.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice echoing through the enclosed space.
“Getting a taxi.” She rummaged through her purse. “He needs cash, though…”
My gaze went to the man holding a portable card reader, then to the car. Everything about it reeked of shady shit. Shaking my head, I walked straight to the open trunk and grabbed her luggage. “Come on.”
“What are you doing?”
“He’s trying to scam you.”
Her slightly agape mouth snapped shut. A light pink tinged her cheeks. Frustration looked hot on her. Although, most anything looked hot on her.
Huffing, she marched toward me, her sneakers padding over the oil-stained concrete. “How do you know he was trying to scam me?” She took her suitcase from my grasp, then turned back to the man who was slowly making his way in the opposite direction from us. “Hey! Were you trying to scam me?”
The man shrugged. “I do not understand this wordscam?”
Did she really expect honesty from a con artist? Evidently, she had because she dug a fist into her hip and glared at him before asking him again.
I grabbed her arm and pulled her through the enclosed garage. “Like he’s going to admit to trying to scam you.”
“Well, he should.”
“You followed a man into a parking deck.”
“Because he said he had a taxi.”
“In the parking deck?” I opened the door that led back into the busy airport and held it open for her. “What taxi driver parks in a deck, Blake?”
She shrugged before barging past me. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to Paris before. How am I supposed to know how their taxi system works?”
I pointed to the overhead signs directing people, in bold letters, toward the taxis, the arrows pointing in the completely opposite direction of the parking deck. “They have signs, Blake.”
She half-huffed, half-mumbled something. The only two words I could make out were supercilious and jackass.
We passed through the automatic doors into the bright-ass early-morning sunshine. I glanced at Blake and jutted my chin toward the line of black cars waiting at the curb. All with a little whiteTAXIsign affixed to their roofs.
“Okay,” she sighed. “So I was wrong.”
“Admitting it is the first step in recovery.”
She scowled, but when Blake scowled, it looked about as intimidating as a newborn deer. “You’re a dick.”
“You’ve told me at least a thousand times.” I approached a black Peugeot, and the driver popped the trunk.
I took Blake’s luggage from her—because as much as she may not want to believe it, I was a gentleman. Then I placed both our suitcases in the vehicle, slammed the trunk, and climbed into the backseat after her.
“Bonjour monsieur. Pouvez-vous nous prendre à l’Hôtel Le Petit Chat Noir?”
“Oui. Bien sur.” The driver typed the destination into the keypad attached to his dash.
Blake stared at me wide-eyed. “You speak French?”
“I took twelve years of it.” I settled into the seat, smiling as I leaned into her ear. “Don’t expect me to saytittie tittie croissantto you in French, though.” My nose brushed the soft strands of her hair, and I fought the urge I had to run my fingers through it.
She elbowed my ribs so hard I grunted. “Stop eavesdropping, you freaking perv.”
