The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  “Can never be,” I finished for him. “Not while Méchant is out there. Not while there is a target on my back. Accuracy isn’t a skill his men care about. When she is with me, she is in danger.”

  “Is that who you’re here for?” His voice dropped until it was only by sheer will that I heard him over the thrum of surrounding conversations. “Is Méchant here?”

  “No.” My head shook ever so slightly. “But his son is.” I felt Léo’s gaze bore through the mask on the side of my face in shock. “I have to find her. The last thing I need is for her to end up in his sights.” Or in his destructive plan, whatever it was.

  Blonde, brown, brown, red… I gave up on Hubert for a moment, sifting only through the women in front of me. None of them Esme. I needed to move. I needed to go back through the crowd and find her. Make her leave. And then I could deal with Hubert.

  “Quinton,” Léo rasped, grabbing my arm just as I began to fade into the crowd. I looked down at his hand before glaring at him to set me free or else. “I think it’s too late.”

  I had to turn in order to follow his eyes to the far corner of the room, immediately catching on the shimmering emerald silk that wrapped around curves I knew by heart because they’d been wrapped around me.

  I followed the green up until the dress turned backless, revealing a single gold chain which draped down her spine and disappeared low, underneath the silk. There was only one woman who’d come to an event like this and, rather than layered and baked in diamonds, would wear fine gold chains like the most daring and exquisite armor. My eyes crawled higher, following the chain up to a gold choker around her neck, on display because her onyx hair was piled up onto her head and held in place with a matching green silk scarf.

  My brow furrowed.

  She was talking to a man—a man I recognized. It took only a moment to attach the face to the head of the art department, Mathieu Lavigne; the man responsible for her presence here—and in Paris.

  It was only when the waiter who was delivering her another glass of champagne moved that I caught sight of the other man in their conversation.

  The other man who Léo had seen.

  Gustav Hubert.

  I pulled away from Léo before he could stop me, crossing the sea of bodies as easily as Moses, though the only thing red was the rage pumping through my veins.

  Rage at myself.

  It was my fault she was here. It was my fault she was talking to him.

  I hadn’t fucking told her about Hubert because I thought he’d been my secret to keep—my secret to destroy. But now, whatever plans I’d had for the evening went out the window seeing Esme within his grasp.

  What if he knew?

  What if he knew about her and me? What if the secrets I’d kept in order to keep her concealed had turned her into another casualty in my war?

  I caught the way her spine tensed for a split second, hearing my footsteps and feeling me, as I approached behind her.

  Placing my fingers gently at the bare base of her spine, teasing over the fine filament of gold, I stepped into her view—and into their conversation.

  “Madame St. Claire,” I drawled with a low familiar voice, my stare pinning her with severity.

  I’d kept away from her for weeks—kept away from the cathedral where she knew where and how to seek me out—to keep her safe.

  I’d kept myself broken in order to keep her whole.

  I hoped she realized the implication of me approaching her now. I hope she realized the danger.

  The emerald orbs of her eyes widened when I raised the back of her hand to my lips, tasting the goose bumps on her flesh. “Monsieur…”

  “Quinton Toulouse,” I said by way of introducing myself to the two other men, making clear both to Esme and Léo’s friend, Lavigne, the persona I was assuming.

  Reluctantly releasing Esme’s warm fingers, I reached out and shook Lavigne’s hand before extending mine to Hubert.

  Curiosity and benevolence mingled underneath the slim mask that covered just around his eyes. A perfectly normal mixture of meeting a friend of a friend for the very first time.

  But only from the darkness did I see how blinding his false façade was.

  And like recognized like.

  To know he was hiding something meant to reveal that I was, too.

  “Monsieur Toulouse. Gustav Hubert, benefactor to the Ministry of Culture.” he greeted me pleasantly, looking between Esme and me. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  I nodded with complete false agreement.

  “You as well.” Lie.

  “So, how do you know the lovely Madame St. Claire?” He grinned at her, and I wanted to tear his jaw from his skull. “Aside from the fact that she is simply the most stunning woman in the room tonight… and I’m not just speaking of her intellect.”

  As if sensing my immediate and utterly animalistic urge to murder this man on sight and be done with it, Esme half turned to me, placing a steadying hand on my arm and smiled brilliantly.

  “I met Quinton through Mathieu’s wife, Giselle, the last time I was in Paris,” she replied smoothly, sensing something wasn’t right.

  I could’ve come up with something on the spot. I’d certainly done it enough times. And I could’ve done it with Hubert in any other circumstance. But the way he looked at her, like she was one more ornament, his to wield and play with, weakened my abilities.

  I’d masked a lot in my lifetime, but masking my hatred for a man who worked for pure evil as he ogled the woman I loved was beyond my skills. It was beyond what the Valois had trained me for because they didn’t train for love. For this exact reason.

  “He was one of the few people I reached out to when I returned to town, knowing how much of an interest he takes in the arts and how he’d been following my work for years,” she continued, weaving her lie through the conversation with a warmth and demeanor that would’ve impressed even my father.

  But her interjection was a double-edged sword.

  If I had replied, I would’ve revealed my loathing. Her response had avoided that pitfall, but the curiosity of his gaze wedged itself between the two of us, sensing there was more to the story.

  “And what do you do, Monsieur Toulouse?” He regarded me closely.

  I cleared my throat and replied, “I’m a caretaker.”

  Esme choked on her champagne. Dabbing her lips with her napkin, she quickly recovered with a generous smile to him and a very curious gaze to me, saying, “You do so much more than that, Quinton.”

  “Well, I feel like what we all do compared to the work you’re accomplishing seems meager,” I carried forward. “Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

  “Quite sure,” Mathieu said roughly in agreement, though his gaze was already distracted in search of his wife.

  “It truly is,” Hubert agreed, eyeing me over his glass. “It’s her work that has prompted the president to sign off on some preliminary restorations of Notre Dame, and I’m sure once she is finished, it will forever change the course of the cathedral’s future.” His sly smile grew. “The ministry certainly feels very privileged to have her here tonight, and I, myself, feel incredibly fortunate to have worked with l’École to sponsor it.”

  I tipped forward slightly as my heart exploded against the front of my chest, the force of the shock making me sway.

  Hubert had sponsored Esme. Méchant had sponsored Esme.

  Here, I’d come to protect her. I’d risked my mission, I’d risked exposure… I’d risked my life… my fucking heart. All for her.

  Only for her to work for him.

  “I can’t wait to hear her results.” I somehow heard myself speak over the cracking of my heart, and then turn to the woman responsible. “It looks like everything is about to get underway. Perhaps I can introduce you to a few people before it starts?”

  “Of course,” she beamed at me before turning to Hubert and my stomach rolled to watch as she almost looked for his permission—looked for her boss’ approval—to leave.r />
  “I’m sure I’ll see you later, madame,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “Monsieur Toulouse, it’s been a pleasure. Don’t whisk her off for too long into the shadows.” His tone took a slight edge. “Much of the spotlight tonight is on her.”

  Placing a firm hand at Esme’s back, I began to turn her toward the crowd that would conceal our departure.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied with a tight smile.

  Not anymore.

  Esme

  Something was very wrong.

  I didn’t need tarot cards or a crystal ball to know something was wrong when the man I hadn’t seen in two weeks—the gargoyle I’d gone and foolishly fallen in love with—appeared behind me at the very last place I expected to see him, looking like nothing I’d seen before.

  Clean-shaven with his thick black curls tamed back against his head, his tuxedo more like a superhero costume rather than gala garb.

  The first time he touched me, I could feel the worry that radiated from his fingertips.

  The second time…

  Even now I felt the fire of his fury as it leaked from the fingertips at my lower back, steering me with just the slightest pressure into the thick of the crowd before making a sharp turn to exit it.

  “Q,” I said with a low voice, keeping my smile on my face because it felt like the spy thing to do. “What’s going on?”

  My question was met with silence as we neared the fringes of the room. Though most of the attention was focused on the stage where, Quinton was right, it appeared introductions and speeches were about to start, there were still numerous eyes that caught on me as we slipped toward the far door.

  “I’m going to stop walking in a moment and I want you to put your hand on your forehead and grip my shoulder as though you might pass out. Do you understand, Gypsy?”

  I tensed at the harsh growl in his voice but then nodded.

  I wasn’t an actress by any stretch of the imagination, but I felt pretty pleased as I followed his instructions to a T, swaying into him in mock distress.

  He grabbed a glass of water from the corner of one of the numerous bars scattered around the edges of the room. Then his arm snaked around me, almost lifting me with a single hand at my waist—against his injured side—and pulled me through one of the doors, making it appear to any who were still watching that I’d been feeling faint from the heat in the room.

  Through the door was an empty hallway that led straight to an exit at the side of the building. I thought for sure that was where he was taking me—out into the night—when, at the last moment, we turned, and he opened the very last door, releasing me onto my own weight into a sitting room that was just about as gilded as the main gallery.

  I spun to face him, the chimes of all my jewelry decorated the tension and anger in the air like a tiara on a bear.

  “Q, what is going on?” I demanded again as he shut the door. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m doing my job, Gypsy.” His tone was scathing as he turned and approached me. Though my body craved his closeness—pleaded for his presence after being completely cut off from him for far too many days, I knew his proximity would come with a cost.

  His hands gripped my upper arms, hauling me against the stone underneath his tux. Dark, demanding eyes bored into mine, searching for the truth.

  “Tell me, Gypsy,” he said with a low, tight voice, as he trailed his fingers up to the thick gold choker at my neck, his thumb brushing over the smooth metal as he continued, “What do you know about the man you work for?”

  Who I worked for?

  “You mean Lavigne?”

  His fingers tightened. “Hubert,” he snapped. “You didn’t tell me you worked for Hubert.”

  I sucked in a breath.

  Without knowing the details, the events which had just transpired began to make sense.

  Quinton approached me because I was here, and he thought I shouldn’t be. But the way he drew me away, with anger in his touch, was because of who I was with.

  “Who is he?” I returned. “What has he done?”

  He let out a savage growl. “You tell me. You’re the one who works for him!”

  “I don’t work for him,” I snapped. “I was invited here by L’École to do my research. I was told I had a sponsor from the government—someone who was involved with the Ministry of Culture who had a particular affinity for Notre Dame—but that was it. I didn’t know it was Hubert… I didn’t even know who Hubert was… until I got to Paris,” I blurted out, sucking in air for the effort.

  The energy between us cracked with secrets and lies, danger and desire. But underneath it all, the way he held me and the way I pushed against him, there existed only two broken souls, desperate to cling to the love they’d found.

  “I met him only a few times, Quinton, I swear,” I finished softly. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s not safe—you’re not safe.” His hand slid higher, leaving its possessive position at my neck to rest his knuckles under my chin.

  “From what?”

  His expression became pained. “From him.” He paused so painfully, it hurt to breathe. “Hubert works for Méchant, ma Gypsy.” Oh, God. No… “He doesn’t just work for him. He’s Méchant’s bastard son.”

  My mouth parted, feeling like a desert had taken up residence inside the cavern, my tongue fighting to speak through the dryness. “Why?”

  Why did he not tell me?

  Why did I not know?

  Why did Hubert want me?

  “Power.” The most valuable thing in the world for a man like him. “Hubert is his path to legitimate power.”

  My eyes widened, remembering the comments I’d heard about how the man was the peoples’ politician and that he was strongly considering a campaign for the presidency.

  Oh, God.

  “I didn’t know,” I said weakly, my gaze clamoring back up to his. “Did you think I knew?”

  His jaw tightened and hurt bloomed in the pit of my stomach as I drew back, accusing, “You thought I knew… this whole time…” His distrust was a bitter pill forced down my throat. “You thought I saved you… took care of you… fucked you… knowing the man who is paying for my research is related to the man who tried to kill you?”

  “Well, you never mentioned—”

  Crack.

  My hand swung out and connected with the side of his face before he could continue. The force not only turned his face to the side but knocked his mask askew.

  There was anger on both sides of our gazes as the smack echoed into the silence for longer than it could actually be heard.

  “Is that why you’re here?” I demanded raggedly. “Because you suspect me once again? Is that why you brought me here? Because you think I’m your enemy?”

  I hated how my voice wavered at the end.

  I knew what had happened to him. I knew the rage Méchant and his men evoked—rightfully so—in Quinton’s mind. And I knew the betrayal he’d experienced at the hands of his fiancé—a woman who supposedly loved him, too.

  But I wasn’t them.

  And once again, I felt like the woman I’d spent my whole life running from—the one who was punished for the sins of others.

  I gasped as I felt my back pressed against the wall, his pulsing fingertips marking the skin on my upper arms.

  He reached up and ripped the mask from his face, baring more than just his scars to me, before tossing it to the ground and planting his palm on the side of my face.

  “He’s the reason I came here tonight, yes,” he began, capturing my gaze and holding it hostage. “But you, Esme… there was nothing but the thought of protecting you from the moment Léo told me you were here.”

  I pulled my chin up with fortitude. “Then why are you angry—why are you accusing me?”

  The rush of hot air from his growl was more abrasive than the sound itself.

  “Because it’s my fucking fault!” He slammed his fist into the wall. “Is that what you w
ant to hear?” he roared.

  I gulped.

  “Yes, for one stupid second, I wondered if it was all a lie—if you knew and had kept it from me. I thought it because it was easier than accepting the truth—that this is all my fault,” he broke off with a tortured breath. “It’s my fault for not knowing. It’s my fault for getting close to you. It’s your closeness to me which puts you at risk, not your work with him.”

  That was a lie, and he knew it. I was in danger regardless.

  “I searched you out because I wanted to protect you. Learning your work was sponsored by Hubert… it only proved I was the one who’d put you in danger in the first place.”

  I let out a small cry as I reached up and pulled his face down to mine, sealing my mouth over his.

  It wasn’t true. I was in love because of him, not danger.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured against my lips as my tongue dove between his.

  And the kiss which began for so many reasons, quickly turned into the drug that healed the greatest hurt of all: being apart from him.

  His hand which had been on the wall slid into my hair, tipping my head back so his tongue could apologize to every inch of my mouth.

  I’d missed him so much. His touch. His kiss. The dark ferocity of him and the rawness of his emotions. Sometimes, it felt as though he was relearning what it meant to be human—and to feel for another.

  “Why do you always wear these chains?” He nipped my lip as his fingers pinched and dragged down the chain that fell down my spine from the thick choker band around my neck.

  I shuddered and moaned my reply, “To remind me there is no one holding me hostage but myself.”

  He growled and claimed my mouth again, swallowing my gasp at the sharp yank he gave the fine strand of gold links, freeing it from the necklace.

  I moaned into him and wound my arms around his neck, needing him to understand that being apart from me was the danger, not this. That walking away from what we had was the danger, not nourishing it.

  “Why do you like breaking all my chains, ma Gargouille?”

  I felt him curse against my lips as his hand slid down to cup my breast, his fingers immediately searching out the bar through my nipple.