“Yes, but Quinton Toulouse isn’t.” He rested his hands on his desk and met my gaze. “It’s an alias I created many years ago, before you were a part of the Valois.”
“For what purpose?” My patience was fraying.
“I couldn’t support you, Quinton. I couldn’t be a part of your life.” I felt myself drift back slowly into the chair, his words rising up like a tidal wave in front of me—one I never saw coming. “I couldn’t change that. Wouldn’t change that. This life is too dangerous for accessories.”
They were words I’d heard before, but this time they sounded different.
“But I kept my eye on you, and when you decided to go to university for architecture, I created this alias to donate to the Ministry of Culture.” His fingers strummed on his desk, counting down the minutes before this momentary lapse of his character would self-destruct. “I figured at some point, you might want a job or their support or maybe just a favor, so I’ve been donating money every year since.”
He cleared his throat and nodded to the invitation that felt so much heavier in my hand now than it had moments ago. “Now, it seems like the time has come to collect.”
I thought I’d been stunned by the revelation of Hubert and Méchant’s connection.
That was nothing compared to this.
It was nothing compared to learning that the man who lacked any trace of fatherly affection as though it had been physically amputated from him had not only watched me, but endeavored to aid in a future he thought he’d never be a part of.
Tensing, I set the envelope back on the desk.
Over half a decade with the Valois had taught me that once you’ve fallen into a rabbit hole, it was best to make sure you’d reached rock bottom before trying to climb your way back out.
“What else?”
His eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“What else have you put in my name?”
There was a pause followed by a flicker of pride in his eyes, realizing he’d taught me well. Perhaps too well, he realized.
The clearing of his throat this time was accompanied by a thick, heavy cough that took several moments to clear before he was able to speak again.
“Several investment accounts, a few properties in Europe and the States, donations to a few other funds and universities here and there. Though those gifts grew much larger when you began going after his empire…” he trailed off with a wave of his hand as though it were just a piggy bank full of spare change he’d written my name on.
But I didn’t miss the meaning behind his words. “You mean the money I stole from him?” I couldn’t hide the edge in my voice or the surprise which accompanied it.
“You retrieved the money,” he snapped. “He was the one to steal it in the first place.”
Semantics.
“Let me understand… you donated the monetary assets I recovered to charities in my name?”
For years, I’d worked tirelessly to destroy Méchant. But the game of covert chess was about more than taking down the king. It was always more than taking down the king…
After the injury to my face and during my recovery and initiation into the Valois, I’d played lots of chess with my father and a few of the senior members. Board games were not a part of the job, but anticipating moves, being able to react with the correct instinct given the advance of the opposing player, thinking several steps ahead in order to succeed in the mission… they were all things critical to the Valois curriculum. And while I’d picked them all up easily, there was a part of my play strategy that took my father weeks to pick up on.
And the strategy was I never moved my pieces to ensure the quickest victory. Whether it was the anger which burned like a hot ball in my stomach or the well of revenge that was refueled every time I looked in the mirror, I played every game of chess to win but, more importantly, to maximize the damage.
It wasn’t enough to take down the king.
I had to take down every pawn. Every rook. Every knight and bishop. And especially the queen. I didn’t care what it cost me or how much longer the match took. I wanted each and every piece to pay before I came for the king.
Now—like then—it wasn’t enough to find and kill Méchant for what he’d done to my mother and to me, to the people of this city, and to the city itself. I wanted to make it hurt. I wanted him to watch the things he’d brutalized and killed for to be taken from his hands.
So, for years, I stole from his riches. I took down, piece by piece, the fringes of his empire, wanting him to know I was coming for him—wanting him to know some day it would be him who fell.
“Some things were taken by the state. Some things the state would have no use for.” He shrugged as though he were the man who made these decisions when it couldn’t be further from the truth. “Most of the money was given to charities supported by the government, so I can’t imagine they would complain.”
I stared at the man in disbelief.
Not only had he been doing this since before I’d agreed to work for him—since before I’d even met him for the very first time, but then he’d transformed my revenge into a strangely twisted version of Robin Hood.
Only, I didn’t steal from the rich. I stole from the cruel. The heartless. The soulless bastard who would do anything and sacrifice anyone if it meant getting him the power he craved.
And in the almost decade I’d come to know the singular depth which made up my father—a love for his country and his duty to it—I found myself staring at levels of the man I never in my wildest dreams imagined existed.
Levels that glimmered with the barest glint of what a father would do for a son.
“I can certainly pull out the full list, however, I think that would be a waste of our time considering the work you have yet to do.”
And just like that, the Henri Lautrec I’d come to know returned.
“You’ll have one shot with that,” he referred to the masquerade fundraiser—the invitation glaring with its gold foil on the desk. “One shot with Hubert because once Méchant knows that you know, once he knows you’re onto him, he won’t give you a chance to breathe or blink before his plan gets launched into motion. And before he comes for you again.”
My head dipped as I tucked the invitation into my pocket.
“I know.”
He coughed violently again. “Well, it seems like you have your work cut out for you, Quinton.”
I stood from the chair, tensing in the unfamiliar energy his confession had just infused into the room.
“Keep me updated.” The same instructions were given every time I left.
Whether I’d wanted to or not, my father had taught me how to play his game—the chess match of spies and lies, puppets vying for money and power.
And with nothing more to expect from my life, I’d learned to play it well—but for a different reason than to win.
I’d spent years taking down pawns of his empire.
And though there was no queen, it looked like there was a prince. And now, it was time to eliminate him too before I went for Méchant.
I went for them all, not out of only anger and revenge.
I went for them all because, without the game, what else was there to my life?
The answer to that question stared at me in my mind with her bright green gaze.
Esme
I stayed against the wall until it felt like there were permanent depressions where my shoulder blades pressed and the warm heat of sweat and desire melted me into the rock. It was an impossibility, yet it seemed I’d sooner break through the stone than the impenetrable wall of Quinton’s restraint.
My limbs moved in jerky motions as though my joints weren’t lubricated as I set to collect all my things. I was frustrated.
Emotionally and sexually. Both coiled together and strung taut through my body.
I reached for my notebook, but instead of grabbing it, the back of my hand knocked it to the floor with paper spilling everywhere.
This
was ridiculous.
I looked back at the laser, still flashing green as in ‘go’ when the only thing I seemed to encounter in this cathedral—with Quinton—was red as in ‘rage.’ As in ‘stop.’
As in passion.
Foolishly, I’d started a third scan about fifteen minutes ago. I’d never done more than two in an afternoon, but, as I ascended to the quasi-second floor of Notre Dame that lined the length of the nave to the altar, it seemed like an appropriate show of defiance.
The small corridors accessed by narrow stairs on either side of the sanctuary weren’t filled with much at the moment, most of the artifacts removed for the restoration of the spire that the Ministry of Culture was financing.
I told myself the open space opportunity was the reason I’d climbed the steps and set up my equipment to capture the empty space that had nothing to promote itself except archways that overlooked the central passage to the altar.
But each step made my blood buzz with excitement, knowing I was ascending farther into his domain—closer to where Quinton resided and determined to find it.
I began pacing behind the laser, my skirt whipping angrily around my legs.
Maybe I should just turn it off and leave for the night.
But that would be a retreat.
Ever since he’d touched me, my body felt like a pilot light—unable to be extinguished and yet not set aflame.
I rested my shoulder against one of the archway columns and stared down at the sight of the dimly lit space below.
I’d started another scan with the hope he’d come back and find me. With the hope he’d come back and finish what he’d started.
I’d never hoped on a person before.
And I didn’t like it.
Dragging my eyes along the far wall and up to the wooden roof, I squeezed my eyes shut and sent up my apology.
Then I allowed the tips of my fingers to slide through one of the cuts in my skirt and up to the part of me that felt like it might cause the rest of me to explode if it wasn’t satisfied.
Pushing my panties to the side, I slid two fingers between my folds just like he’d done, and without opening my eyes, I could still pretend it was him.
My mouth fell open as my hand began to work over my clit, readily swollen and eager for the attention it had been denied.
I clutched the stone for support as my finger moved slick and frantic over my body, distantly hearing the moans that began to leak into the space but not realizing they were my own.
Instead of the murmured creaks and the whispered winds of the old fortification, I heard his rasped voice against my ear, telling me just how wet he’d find me. Instead of the ancient air laden with dust, I felt the fine warmth of his breath against my cheek. Instead of the cold column, I was gripping the hard steel of his bicep.
Instead, it was no longer my fingers swirling and tugging on my clit but his delving deep inside my body and pressing into the spot that would end the torture he created.
But nowhere in those ‘insteads’ did the sound of the latch of a door opening make sense. Nor the heavy footfalls that stopped suddenly.
“Esme.”
My eyes swung open, my body once again halted at the edge of the cliff it wanted nothing more than to be flung over.
“Look at me.”
I choked in a breath, sticky and clinging to my throat.
“Look. At. Me.”
I rubbed my fingers along my thigh as my hand retreated, praying he’d only seen me from the back and not where my hand or my thoughts were from the front.
I abided his directions and faced him.
Every dark and devastating inch.
Quinton stood with one hand holding the wall for support like I was. Even though I’d seen him only a few hours earlier, there was something different in the way he looked at me now.
There was a pained softness.
Not in how he wanted me—but in how he punished himself for it.
“What do you think you are doing?”
I met his gaze and ran my tongue over my lips. “Haunting you for leaving earlier,” I retorted, my voice only a little strangled by the pleasure brewing inside me.
“You shouldn’t be here. Why are you here so late?” he clipped.
“You know, I should just record that and automatically play it every time I come to the cathedral—‘You shouldn’t be here,” I gently mocked him, ignoring the part where he was expecting an answer from me . “Where did you go?” I turned the interrogation to him. And what changed?
“I had business to handle.” His gaze drifted as he took another step farther into the small second-floor corridor.
“Spy business?”
“Something like that.” His expression became hooded, doused with a weight I hadn’t seen before.
My scanner clicked as it shifted angles and drew both our attentions for a split second.
“I think something more than that.”
Black irises connected the dots to mine and the shadows flashed with the clenching of his jaw.
“Tell me, Madame St. Claire, why do people do things that have no benefit for themselves?”
I shifted back, startled by the philosophical question.
“Why would someone do something knowing he would never see the benefit it brought?”
I took a deep breath, knowing I could give him an answer, but I’d rather give him his answer.
“Tell me what you mean, and I’ll tell you the answer,” I promised boldly, but we were well past the point where I was going to meekly accept his cryptic replies.
His hand dropped from the column to spear through the wild-sprung curls on his head, whipped into disorder by both the wind and whatever plagued him.
“My father… the man who has never looked at me as more than anyone else who works for him… he’s done something that fits with no side of his character. Not even in a corner or a crack.” His statement was utterly factual yet founded in complete disbelief. “And it feels like the man who has never shown me anything except that the world is flat, just casually informed me that it might actually be round.”
I gulped. My desire was easily coaxed back down into its cage with the promise of a taste of more of his sweet secrets, and the need to soothe the worry from his brow.
“What did he do?”
Quinton shook his head, and I prepared for yet another masked response.
“He made donations in my name, money given to organizations he felt I… in my previous life… would support.” My eyes widened, trying to confirm with every sense what I was hearing. These moments when he revealed truths about himself were the most sacred things I’d found inside this church. “He told me there were properties and other things that… belong to me… because of him.”
His black eyes that were always so hard and defined, like the darkest granite, now appeared bottomless like a black hole, empty and searching for answers to fill them.
“For years he’s been doing this…” Here, his voice became ruffled with the kind of irritation that can only come when a person acts in a way the brain can’t rationalize. “Why? For what purpose?”
I forced myself to think over the unsteady hammer of my heart, trying not to get lost in the way the stone of my gorgeous gargoyle’s face had begun to crumble with the weight of emotion he tried to lock behind it.
I padded over to him, my sandals almost silent on the floor.
There was always, in my experience, a weight felt when entering any kind of sanctuary whether one believed in a god or not. There was the sense of something greater, and we all believe in something greater—whether it’s fate or family, God or generosity, loyalty or love. And I’d noticed for a long time now… probably from the moment when he’d first arguably threatened me and pinned me to the familiar stone column… when I was around Quinton, the greater thing I felt wasn’t the idea of God. It wasn’t him or me. His scars or my secrets.
It was whatever flowed between us, a strength that existed individual
ly, but together, became greater. Became more.
“Two centuries,” I murmured, now close enough that I could reach up a hand and lay it on his chest, feeling the steady thump inside its cage.
He flinched but didn’t move away. Dragging my gaze to his, I repeated, “Two hundred years is what you are standing on.”
The confusion that muddled his brow began to clear.
“For what purpose would a person work to build something, in some cases without compensation, knowing that even the smallest benefit of seeing it complete was out of their reach?”
I saw the way his jaw flexed even the muscles of his neck, and I slid my hand up toward the beat of the artery running along it.
“Devotion.”
“Perhaps.” I nodded even though I knew that wasn’t quite it.
The thing was, I knew from personal experience exactly why. It was the same reason my parents had died.
Because someone believed the end result was more important than living to see it.
It seemed wrong to compare the devout Catholics who’d labored to create something so beautiful to the terrorists who plotted to instigate something so devastating. But in a twisted way, it was for the same reason.
Love.
Even though the rest of the world could see it for what it was—hate—I knew the man who’d killed my parents believed he was doing it out of love. And that was why I hated him—for turning love into something so ugly and destructive.
That was why I worked my entire life on the other end of the spectrum, studying the very height of what love could create and let flourish, creating something that, I hoped, would provide benefits I may never see. Because I knew what it would mean.
“I think the generations who built Notre Dame, knowing it would never be for them, could only make such a sacrifice out of love.” I watched my fingers trail higher, over the angle of his jaw until my palm cupped his cheek, pleading to let me hold his worries. “I think your father built something for you, knowing he may never see you receive it, to see you benefit from it, because he loves you, Quinton.”
I sucked in a breath as his grip claimed around my wrist and he let out a low growl.
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 20
