I paused for a moment, finding myself surprised by not only her unabashed openness, but also with the intelligence and maturity with which she spoke about the subject. “I completely agree with you.” I offered her a smile. “And I would love to show you the final result once I have it rendered.”
A similar smile bloomed across her cheeks and lit up her face, drawing the adoring and proud eyes of her husband.
And I found myself surprised by wanting that look too.
But not just from any man.
“What’s it like working in the cathedral?” It was her husband, Léo’s, turn to ask about my work, however the intent in his eyes seemed to be far less focused on the work itself.
I hummed, searching for the right word. “Enlightening.”
Plates steaming with croque monsieurs were delivered in front of us and I thought it would be the end of his questions.
I was wrong.
“I take it you work after hours once most of the people have left?”
I noticed how he didn’t say all. Most people would’ve said all, since emptiness is what normally happens when a place closes.
“Yes.” I nodded. “I can’t have anything moving, obviously, as I scan, so that is the best time.”
At that point, Mathieu was pulled away from the table to make his rounds as the head of the department.
“Of course.” He wiped his mouth as he finished his bite. “So, you work alone then?”
I was tempted to lie, but it seemed he was searching to know about Quinton, and I was just as curious to know why.
“Mostly. Sometimes, I butt heads with the grumpy caretaker or whatever he is,” I chuckled.
“Is someone giving you trouble, Esme?” Giselle asked out of pure concern, willing to relay the information to Mathieu at the slightest provocation.
“Oh no. Nothing I can’t handle, anyway.” I waved her off. “He just thinks I’m some sort of spy—a spy for what, I couldn’t tell you.”
My lips pursed in wry amusement as I winked mischievously at my friend.
Her lips curled up into a slow grin, knowing I was a horrible liar. “And did he tell you that before or after you asked his name?”
Before or after you kissed him.
The words went unspoken as I quickly pulled the smile from my face and sent her a sharp glare.
The slow smile that spread confirmed this was the conversation he was aiming for.
Léo hummed. “He can be a real ass, though I think his bark is worse than his bite.”
It was a common phrase, yet the memory of its uncommon use the other night warmed my cheeks red and drew his even more curious stare.
I cleared my throat, surprise settling in that this man knew Quinton—and might have some answers. “Maybe it is. But I’m not afraid to bite back,” I replied lightly, deciding it was time to be on the offensive of this conversation. “So, you know Quinton well, then?”
He nodded and cut into his sandwich. “We went to this school together… a long time ago.”
“I didn’t take him for an artist.”
“Architect,” he corrected, and once again the surprise was on me. “Though not anymore.”
“Really?” My heart slammed against my chest, feeling like I’d just been given the keys to a locked room I’d been banging on the door forever to try to enter. “What happened?”
He sat back in his chair when my eagerness made him realize how much information he was sharing.
Which was not much.
But when it was about a man with a half-scarred face who lived inside a church, even a molehill of information provided mountains of insight.
“Life, madame. Life happened—to the both of us.” He paused, and I vaguely recalled what Giselle had told me about his ex-wife who returned from the dead almost a year ago. “Though we both managed to survive it.”
“Not without scars,” I murmured.
His eyes widened a fraction. Even though I knew Quinton, he was surprised to hear I knew about his scars.
“Some of us fight wars the rest of the world will never see, Madame St. Claire.”
I reached for my glass of tea to hide the way I shuddered, reminded of my own war—the one I’d lost a long time ago… along with my real name.
Léo continued, “Though some of us could also use a good kind of fight to remind us there are things worth fighting for.” My eyes met his blue ones, reading his implication.
“Well, if he gets in my way, he’s definitely going to get a fight,” I quipped with a small laugh, wondering if either of the two women could tell just how serious I was.
The truth wasn’t an ‘if.’ Quinton hadn’t just gotten in my way, he’d gotten into my blood the way a mystery burns to be solved.
Desire had never been a mystery to me, but desperately wanting only one man to satisfy it… that was a new feeling that needed an explanation.
I told myself if I slept with him, maybe it would extinguish the feeling from my system.
But even when I spoke to myself I was a bad liar.
Maybe I was confused by how I could want a man I hardly knew—a man whose coldness should intrigue me more than his caress intoxicated me. Maybe I was confused by how I was going to demand more of his secrets without giving up some of my own.
But I was confident that the only way to eliminate my confusion was to know more. More about his life, more about his touch. More about the way his body would feel held inside of mine.
“Good, because I have a feeling he won’t be able to stay away.”
I could only hope.
We were two sides of the same cast-out coin. Just because I couldn’t yet see all of his intricacies didn’t mean we weren’t forged of the same steel backbone.
Quinton
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Henri rasped and then coughed into his elbow. “Or so… angry.” His head cocked and one eye narrowed on me. “What did he give you?”
My head snapped to the side, waiting for the agent always stationed with my father to leave the room. When Henri nodded, the other man discreetly left the office—and unbarred the lock that sealed my lips.
“Why is Malik in a group of street performers? Who is his target?”
My father’s face remained a blank slate at my abrupt question. “You know I won’t share information about another operation that isn’t critical to yours. It’s against the rules.”
I knew that was going to be his answer, still I was compelled to ask—compelled to know.
My growl echoed my hard steps on the hardwood floor until I was in front of his desk, gripping the edge like it was his neck and I could strangle the information out of him, too.
“Why is he watching Esme St. Claire?”
“Esme… St. Claire.” The name rolled slowly off his tongue before he turned and coughed once more, drawing my attention to the ashen look of his skin.
“Does the Valois suspect her?” I continued. “Is she working with Méchant?”
His bushy eyebrows drew up even higher. “Is she?”
“Dammit.” My fist slammed down on the desk. “For once, can you just tell me the truth.” I pointed a finger at him. “And not a clouded, obscure version of the truth that will only make sense months or years from now.” I pushed back and dug my hands into my hips. “She’s in my cathedral.” My eyes narrowed. “But you knew that. You knew that and you have a man on her and you didn’t tell me.”
Still, he watched me and said nothing.
“Never mind. I will handle this. Alone. Just like—”
“Quinton, wait,” he called when I turned to the door.
I gave him my eyes—and a single second to give me the truth.
“Malik isn’t watching her… not as a suspect,” he said, begrudgingly.
My hand dropped and I slowly turned back toward him, shocked that he was breaking his own rule. The Henri Lautrec that I’d known, or known of, my entire life would sacrifice anything to maintain his rules. To maintain his order
.
“He’s been tasked to observe a possible new… agent,” he revealed slowly.
My brow furrowed, fact and images flitting through my mind with light speed. “The Algerian. Khalil,” I surmised.
It made sense. The man was massive, already worked in government, and carried himself with that crisp look of danger the Valois cherished.
I exhaled deeply, letting the small but settling fact seep into my bones.
Henri cleared his throat. “Satisfied?”
I regarded him suspiciously, feeling like there was still something missing. “But what have you found out about her?”
“Nothing that you need to be concerned with—nothing that has to do with Méchant or your mission,” he replied, daring me to continue to press him, knowing it would be a confession that my interest in her went well beyond my work.
“You should’ve told me,” I grunted.
“Sometimes, the only power the truth has is by being given at the right time.”
My jaw tensed. “Proverbs aren’t a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“It is only the truth that shall make you free,” he quipped and chuckled, causing him to cough once more. “And I’m wondering about your growing concern for this woman.”
“It isn’t growing,” I denied. “But I don’t like being kept in the dark.”
“Funny, I thought that was exactly where you like to… keep.”
I looked away from him, realizing the corner I’d barged my way into—and realizing I needed to get out of it.
“I have a name for you.”
He leaned back in his chair, linking his fingers over his chest. “I had a feeling you did when I saw Moreau was dead.”
Approaching the desk once more, I informed him. “He said he was part of a separate… chain. A messenger. Not directly involved with Hubert.” I shifted my weight, still feeling the bruise from where he’d hit me. “But his messages were delivered to a woman named Estelle.”
“Hubert’s girlfriend?” He looked quizzical since, to our knowledge, Hubert was unattached to any woman.
“A prostitute,” I told him. “One who likes to brag that once Hubert is president, she’ll be whisked from her current life into one of glamour.”
“But not by him.”
I shook my head. “I believe whoever she passes the messages along to works directly with Hubert.”
The corners of his lips turned down and he nodded. “Well, that certainly narrows the pool. Though I didn’t expect any of Hubert’s inner council to be aware of his dealings with Méchant.”
“There’s a good chance he’s not. Or not fully aware,” I said. “That’s not how Méchant works. He gives out bits and pieces of the puzzle to different players, but only those at the very top have a view of the whole picture and how those fit together.”
My father let out a low hum and nodded.
“I’ve sent a message to my contact to see if he knows who this Estelle is—if it’s even her real name.”
“It will probably be easier to follow those close to Hubert and see who strays to hotels rather than returning home. Easier than trying to uncover all the prostitutes in Paris, searching for one who might be named Estelle.”
My lips tightened into a firm line. “I’m assuming you’ll have agents look into that,” I said curtly. “It’s hard for a monster to work unseen during the day.”
Something flashed in his eyes—something I rarely saw or acknowledged: a mix of sympathy and regret.
Sympathy for my appearance. Regret that he hadn’t been able to stop it.
“Quinton—”
“Don’t,” I warned. “It takes a monster to kill a monster.”
He stayed silent though his expression spoke his disagreement loudly. “I will have people look into it and—”
“I will question him,” I broke in, making it clear I would be the one to uncover the connection to Méchant.
His chin clipped down in agreement.
“Until then.” I spun on my heel and let myself out.
Though there were a million thoughts to occupy my mind when I returned to the streets, the only one that reverberated with every step was that Esme wasn’t a threat to this city.
She was just a threat to me.
Esme
“Good Lord,” I huffed, my shoulder burning with relief when the weight of the bag containing my laser disappeared.
Setting the equipment down between my feet, my hands came to rest on my hips as I took a long few breaths. It had been quite a hike to get up to the towers with all of my tools, but necessary since I’d received a call from the ministry saying that they would be doing some minor restoration work on the spire and the collection of sculptures that lined it and scaffolding would be erected starting at the end of the week.
That meant I had to take a break from my interior work in order to get as many scans of the exterior, especially of the neck of the spire as it transitioned into the long shoulders of the roof above the nave before it was encased with metal scaffolds.
And what could be more tempting than data on the twin towers and the famous spire that sat back between them?
I took a long look at the orange and red sangria sunset over the city, letting its sweetness conceal just how intoxicating it was. Every time I breathed in Paris like this, it felt like I was feeding my soul.
As with many things in life, distance provided a different perspective of the world I found myself immersed in.
The streets which bustled with tourists and locals for whom the workday had just ended appeared like streams of the finest dark sand, moving all around me though I remained still. Above it all.
For a moment, I let myself wonder if this was what Quinton experienced every day—the exquisite peacefulness of being above it all.
And the undeniable loneliness.
For a moment, I let myself pretend I was a spy, searching the crowds for some mystery culprit of some fictitious crime.
It certainly provided a perfect vantage point for someone who was clearly in charge of protecting one of the greatest national treasures of France. It also provided the perfect sanctuary for the man who needed to pass through the world with the definitive control of a light bulb—keeping everyone around him in the dark to his presence until he wanted to be seen.
And that was where I’d been in the days since our kiss. In the dark.
Grunting, I flipped my head over, retying my hair on top of my head and readjusting my scarf headband to keep the shorter strands back from my face.
I needed all my focus up here.
I stood on the path between the two towers, lined with chimeras and stone-gargoyles (not the growl-at-me kind), and took stock of the situation; there was a lot of ground I had to cover. Fueling up with another deep breath, I crouched down, my Aztec patterned wide-leg pants billowing around me as I pulled out the tripod and various attachments and anchors.
The front of the walkway that faced out over the entrance was draped with netting and barriers to prevent tourists from leaning too far forward, but the back remained open over the roof of the church and the spire, peaked with the rooster weathervane which housed a piece of Jesus’ crown of thorns, along with two other relics from Saint Denis and Saint Genevieve.
If I could just get at least that view scanned today, I’d be content.
Scanning outdoors required some adjustments to my setup, but it wasn’t too long before I had everything assembled.
With the setting sun, I pulled out my camera, deciding to capture my panoramic shots before scanning while the lighting was still good.
Each time I lifted the lens to my eyes, I told myself I was not zooming in on the shadowed nooks and crannies of the building searching for him.
Especially as I turned to my right and began my image series with captures of the south tower which housed the belfry. Only the largest two bells, named Emmanuel and Maria, were located there—and maybe a twenty-first century hunchback; the rest housed inside the north tower.<
br />
I snapped off several frames in frustration after having spent too much time scanning each opening for any sign of the scarred face.
Without letting the camera drop, I stepped toward the back rail, focusing in on the roof of the church and the teal apostolic statues which stepped up along the base of the spire.
Just as I began to switch my view to the assembly line of flying buttresses that supported the left half of the roof, I caught movement out of the corner of the frame in the center of the spine.
Quinton.
A quick breath, and the rush of anticipation that made me momentarily forget exactly where I was, I shifted forward to get a better look.
Too quickly.
Too forcefully.
My thighs slammed into the top of the railing and pitched the upper half of me forward and over the bannister.
It wasn’t enough to fall, but it was enough to send my hand holding the weighty digital SLR camera out in front of me with a wavering grip.
“No!” I cried out, throwing myself even farther forward in order to catch and save the camera—at the expense of myself.
Both hands locked on the expensive piece of technology that I mistakenly thought was worth my life just as I felt the seesaw of my body tip over the balance point of my hips against the bannister, and all of my weight fell forward.
I’d just passed the split second where I knew this wasn’t going to end well for me, my mouth opened to scream, when my heart slammed against the front of my chest as I was yanked back. Like when you’re in a car and someone slams on the breaks; I was still moving forward even though I knew the car was forcing my body back to a stop.
“What in the name of all that’s holy do you think you are doing, Gypsy?” Quinton panted in my ear, his arm locked like a steel bar around my waist as he held my back to his front.
I couldn’t answer him.
Hell, I could hardly even breathe.
Looking for him had almost killed me.
And almost dying had put me right back in his arms.
Closing my eyes, I sagged against him, grateful for the burning, breathing warmth of him—a solid reminder that I was okay. Both of us panted in sync for a few more seconds, during which he neither released me, nor pressed for an answer.
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 15
