Flirtinis with Flappers

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FLIRTINIS WITH FLAPPERS

by

MARIANNE MANCUSI

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Copyright © 2016 by Marianne Mancusi

Cover design by Estrella Designs

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Baghdad, Valentine's Day, One Year Ago

I
am perfectly safe. I am absolutely, perfectly safe.

I wondered how many times I'd have to silently repeat that mantra before I could convince my frantic brain that I was telling it the truth.

"Okay, boys, lock and load. We're off like a dress on prom night."

Gulp
. Probably more times than ex-boyfriend Stuart Goldstein had tried to remove said prom dress back in high school—and that was saying something. How had I gotten myself into this mess? Or, perhaps a more pressing question, how would I get out alive?

I followed as the camouflaged American platoon wove through the back alleyways of Baghdad, hidden camera securely placed inside the sleeve of my poncho. Sure, as a foreign correspondent working overseas for a television news network, I'd been in a few hairy situations but nothing like this. This kind of action was more Nick's scene.

Come on, Nick! Where are you?
I thought, not for the first time. He was going to kill me when he found out I'd gone without him. But I couldn't just turn down an opportunity to nab the story of a lifetime just because he was running behind. He was always reminding me how important it was to get the story. Not that I needed reminding.

Colonel Devens and his band had developed quite the reputation in Baghdad for their unconventional methodology. They were rebels, though no one was quite sure their cause. They had flouted the local government's laws and restrictions several times but had also produced results. The network had been begging for their story, salivating over the opportunity to have a member of the media along for one of their legendary raids. Nick had taken me to several of the repeated negotiations, hoping a woman's touch could sway the hard-nosed officer. And he'd been right. Problem was, Colonel Devens had decided to allow the media along on the one day Nick hadn't shown up on time. Today. Valentine's Day. And according to the Colonel, it was now or never.

"You want to go on a raid?" Devens had sneered a half hour before, over our coffee in the hotel bar. He reminded me of the guy in
Apocalypse Now.
The one who loved the smell of napalm in the morning. "Grab your gear, sweetheart. Now's your chance."

I'd tried to argue that he should wait for Nick to show up. That the experienced reporter was the one he wanted along for the ride, not me. But Nick was fifteen minutes late already, and the Colonel ran a tight ship.

"I wait for no one, darling," he'd drawled. "You in or not?"

I was in. After all, I couldn't let the network lose the story, no matter how dangerous the situation was for me personally. I took my job way too seriously, even if no one else took me that way.

In that sense, this was pretty cool. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If I got the story by myself, everyone would finally realize that I wasn't just some "Barbie in Baghdad" as the papers had dubbed me. They'd see that I was a real journalist. A valuable contributor to my station's programming. Maybe they'd give me more undercover missions. More action. Maybe I could be more like Nick. Nick had been doing this kind of thing for years. He lived for the danger. The intrigue. The
could get killed at
any moment
lifestyle. Not to mention the Nick Fitzgerald Tumblr fan sites of the desperate housewife set back home. The women in America loved the sexy, suave, thirty-six-year-old reporter, and he was definitely enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. Not that I minded their crushes. He'd had a storied career as a player, but all that was over. These days, no matter what happened, he always came home to me. Because you see, Nick was not only my mentor, he was also my boyfriend. The love of my life, if you wanted to be technical.

"And we're going in. Ready? One…two…three…" My heart pounded in my chest as the soldiers kicked down the door and ran into an Iraqi apartment building, yelling at the tops of their lungs. They'd received intelligence that some jihad group had been hiding out there, though this entire area was off-limits to American personnel. I wondered if I should fall in behind them or wait outside while they secured the premises. I hadn't been given any instructions by the Colonel except, "Don't get in the way, baby," and thus was completely winging this whole assignment. If Nick were here, he'd know what to do.

I took a deep breath, then pulled the camera out from under my sleeve and switched it on. Just a few shots outside, maybe, then I'd go in. My hands shook as I raised the camera to my eye and I hoped all my shots wouldn't be too jittery.

"You, what are you doing?"

I froze in my tracks, instantly breaking out in a cold sweat. I slid the camera back into my sleeve as heavy footsteps pounded the stone street behind me. Getting closer. Louder. But I willed myself to stay put. To fight instinct and not turn around.
Turn
around and they may shoot,
Colonel Devens had said, and I sure didn't want that.

Of course, they may shoot anyway,
he had added with a chuckle. Just
don't get seen.

I'd laughed along with him at the time. It didn't seem so funny now.

My heart pounded in my chest as I stood tall, silent. Waiting for the voice's owner to approach. I wondered if I should shout for help. Or would that just make the guy shoot me on the spot? I
didn't want to take the chance.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, coming up behind me and circling around. "And where are you going?"

My brain, even in its panic, played observant reporter, cataloguing him quickly. He was a fashionable gent, looked to be Iraqi regular army, with a black mustache, stylish combat fatigues, and most importantly, the very latest in semiautomatic machine guns strapped to his shoulder.

Aimed at my heart.

"Hi, um…my name's, like, Dora? And I think I'm, like, lost?" I said, giving him my best Valley Girl imitation. I didn't binge-watch the entire first season of
The Real Housewives of Orange County
for nothing. "Is this, um, the Red Cross place?" I lowered my head and batted my eyelashes for good measure, channeling the dumb American tree hugger who'd come to help the Iraqis in their time of need. That sometimes worked.

"No. This is not the Red Cross, American," the soldier said in broken, accented English. He spit out the word "American" like he was expelling poison but lowered his gun a few precious inches. I allowed myself a quaky breath. Maybe this was going to work after all. "You must leave here now."

"Okay, no problem," I assured him, backing away slowly.
Forget
the story. Just get
out alive.
That's what Nick would be telling me.
No assignment is worth dying for.

I should have never left without him.
Stupid, Dora. Really, really stupid.

As I backed up, my foot somehow got caught on the hem of my long skirt, and I found myself flying backward, my butt slamming against the hard stone floor. But the initial shock and pain were nothing compared to the horror I felt as the tiny camera I'd hidden flew out from my sleeve. It bounced, once, twice, before landing right at the soldier's feet.

The guard stared at the camera for a minute, then released a stream of angry Arabic. I didn't understand exactly what he was saying, but the outrage in his voice told me all I needed to know. I swallowed hard as he reached down to pick up the camera, adrenaline surging through my veins, fight or flight mechanisms warring for dominance. Where was my platoon? Didn't they notice I was gone?

"You are…reporter?" he asked. His eyes flashed fire. Not such a big fan of the profession, it seemed. Not that I blamed the guy. At this very moment I would have preferred to be an accountant myself. Safe in some nondescript office. Crunching numbers before I went to crunch on some overpriced sushi on the Upper West Side with my bland but safe Wall Street boyfriend.

A little dull, yeah, but it beat running for my life, which was, I assessed, what I was about to have to do.

He'd probably shoot me in the back, but I was willing to take the chance. It was better to die quickly than to be slowly tortured in some Iraqi prison. At least, that was the theory. In actuality, both options seemed pretty sucky. What was the penalty for being in a prohibited area?

Don't
get seen
, Colonel Devens had said.

I scrambled to my feet and began a dash down the alley, weaving from side to side, trying to make for a bad target. Too bad I lacked Keanu Reeves' bullet-dodging
Matrix
powers. They would have so come in handy right about now.

Behind me, the man yelled for me to stop in a mixture of Arabic and English. To freeze. To surrender. To give up and come with him.

No dice. Well, not until I felt the exploding hot pain in the back of my thigh anyway—that was pretty much all the persuasion I needed to obey his "stop" command. In fact, the next thing I knew I was flying forward, my palms slamming and skidding against the pavement, followed by my body and my face. I landed with a sickening thump.

Oh my God. I'd been shot. I'd been SHOT!

I reached down to grab my leg, almost crying. My face was bleeding. The pain flashed white-hot, and my vision was fast turning spotty. Fear and agony fought for control of my brain as I watched the crimson stain on my skirt spread wider and wider.

I thought about trying to crawl away—a last desperate escape attempt. But the guard was already tramping over to check his marksmanship, and I knew any more resistance, in this case, was most definitely futile. Looked like I'd be spending this Valentine's Day in an Iraqi prison, a venue I was pretty sure boycotted all forms of candy hearts and roses.

Thanks a lot, Nick. Worst Valentine's Day ever.

San Diego, CA, One Year Later

"I can't be the only one in this entire city who's too stressed for sex!"

I sucked down the remainder of my chocolate brownie Frappuccino, struggling with a stubborn chunk caught in the straw. Finally, I gave up on the last smidgen of chocolate (a total crime against humanity, I know!) and set the cup down, letting out my most frustrated sigh.

"I'm sure you're not," my photographer, Jenny, replied with a laugh. The pretty twenty-two-year-old brunette reached over and patted my hand. "But who wants to admit it on local TV news?"

"Right." I stared out into the crowd of people milling about the Fashion Valley mall. We'd scoured the area for hours that morning, asking the inane "Man on the Street" question for my six P.M. news story—a fascinating feature on a new scientific study that found eighty percent of Americans feel uninterested in getting it on with their partners because of work pressures. Eighty percent claimed they were "too stressed for sex."

The problem was, zero percent wanted to go on camera and tell me about it.

"Besides, it's not that
you're
too stressed for sex," Jenny added with a twinkle in her sparkling blue eyes. "It's just that you only want to have it with a guy you refuse to talk to."

I groaned. Not this again. It constantly amazed me how even after nearly a year, Jenny still rooted for Nick the Prick and I to get back together. I should have never told her my "We'll always have Baghdad" romance story on that oh-so-boring, eight-hour stakeout we'd been on when I first came back to California. (No, not that kind of stakeout. No lurking criminals or bad guys. Angelina Jolie had been rumored to be staying at the Four Seasons, if you must know.) Ever since that day, Jenny had been like a pit bull with a bone, and no matter how much I protested that I would never, ever speak to that jerk again as long as we both shall live, my words fell on naively deaf ears. In her yet-to-be-scarred mind, our relationship was beautiful, broken, and just dying to be mended. With her help, evidently.

Sigh.
She was as bad as Nick's geeky brother Tom. The dot-com billionaire whom Forbes claimed was busy revolutionizing interactive electronics seemed to have a lot of free time on his hands, trying everything under the sun to get Nick and me back together. He claimed his brother deserved a second chance, and nothing I said or did could dissuade him.

But hey, the two of them could hold out hope till Judgment Day for all I cared. After what Nick had done to me last Valentine's Day halfway around the world, I'd sooner run away and join the circus than speak to him again. And that was coming from someone with a major clown phobia.