Table Of Contents
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Author's Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Nigel Blackwell
Paris Love Match
Paris Love Match
Copyright © 2013 Nigel Blackwell
All rights reserved.
Please respect artists’ rights.
Don't steal books, music, or videos.
Edited by:
Beth Suit and Rebecca Peters-Golden
Cover by:
Sarah Hansen at OkayCreations.net
Thanks dpgroup forum.
This book is for my wife and daughter,
my favorite world travelers.
It's a big, wide world.
And so much better with you in it.
Love you.
Chapter 1
Boucher Brunwald stepped onto the balcony of his penthouse suite. The October air chilled the dictator’s lungs and washed the last of a good night’s sleep from his face. He buttoned his coat and stared down the Champs-Élysées. It was six-thirty in the morning and already Maître d’s were fussing over white tablecloths and packing patrons knee-to-knee in tiny cafés. Between the rows of bare trees, crepe stands did a brisk trade. It was business as usual in Paris.
The day was dawning in his country too. The country that, even though he technically still ruled, he wouldn’t be going back to. He’d enjoyed the luxurious lifestyle of a dictator and the power of ruling with an iron fist. But the country was nearly broke and its citizens ready to revolt.
The door behind him opened, and his bodyguard stepped onto the balcony. He was a giant of a man dressed in a black suit that barely concealed his holstered Glock. The man cracked his knuckles. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
Brunwald grunted. Kuznik never relaxed. Even now, he could see the man’s eyes scanning the building opposite, looking for faces at windows or chinks in the glass that might conceal a rifle. But Kuznik wasn’t the boss and they were hours from success. Brunwald cleared his throat. “I needed the air.”
Kuznik kept his eyes scanning. “It’s always dangerous in a city.”
Brunwald gave a short laugh. “Paris is not a city.”
Kuznik sneered, his eyes examining a dark patch in a window to their right.
Brunwald brought his fingers to a point. “It’s an idea, a dream, a hope.”
Kuznik surveyed the street below. “If you say so.”
“There is no doubt about it. The French don’t love Paris.” Brunwald spread his arms. “They love the idea of Paris. They love the idea of the architecture, of the people, of the glamour and fame. That’s what makes this place special. That’s what makes the people here special.”
“The fame?”
“No! The love of an idea.”
Kuznik grimaced.
Brunwald laughed then raised his eyebrows. “Which is why it is better to sell the painting here.”
“We should have sold it yesterday in Copenhagen.”
Brunwald shook his head. “They offered twice as much here. And it’s a simple business transaction. We meet the mob, we trade the painting for diamonds, and we’re on our way to South America to live out the rest of our days on a beach surrounded by luxury. What could go wrong?”
“If we had sold it yesterday with the other national treasures, we would already be in South America. Now we have to deal with another set of idiots. And when you’re dealing with idiots, lots of things can go wrong.”
Brunwald waved his hand. “You worry too much. You have more men and more firepower, and, as you say, they’re idiots.”
“Even idiots can get lucky.”
Brunwald stared straight at Kuznik, and dropped his voice an octave. “Then don’t give them the chance.” He straightened his back. “You’ve briefed the men?”
“To the letter.”
“I won’t tolerate failure. Warn them.”
“They know, sir.”
Brunwald looked back out at the view down the Champs-Élysées. “That man, the one who failed us in Copenhagen …”
“With the speeding ticket?”
Brunwald grunted his agreement. “It was an unnecessary risk to the operation. Details like that leave tracks. We don’t want to leave tracks.”
“I took care of it. I sent him home.”
Brunwald whipped around and glowered. “Home! How?”
“Second class, sir.”
Brunwald eyes remained locked on Kuznik’s.
Kuznik smiled. “Face down in a box.”
Brunwald’s glower melted and he gave a single slow nod. “And the men?”
Kuznik shrugged. “Believe I sent him home.”
Brunwald took a deep breath. “Excellent. One more day and we will be done. Then you and I can leave this miserable cold continent once and for all.”
“And the men?”
“They will have to go home, too.” Brunwald turned and stared Kuznik in the eye. “Second class. No tracks.”
Chapter 2
Piers Chapman gazed across the river to Notre Dame cathedral and cursed to himself. In his rush to catch his train, he’d left his Nikon in the kitchen of his London apartment. On the opposite bank, the morning light mixed with a faint mist and wrapped the centuries-old Gothic masterpiece in a heartbreakingly beautiful bleakness. The French and the tourists, on the other hand, wrapped the place in trash and graffiti. Nothing, he grinned, that Photoshop couldn’t fix.
His phone buzzed. Despite having the latest in mobiles, he couldn’t bear its stupid musical ring tones. He’d hacked into it the night he had bought it and replaced the lot.
A French number glowed on the display. He pressed talk. “Bonjour.”
“Monsieur Chapman?”
“Oui.”
“You are ready to update the software in our cranes, yes?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Bon. Shall we say tomorrow at ten?”
“But I’m supposed to do it today.”
“Non. This is not possible. I have a schedule.”
Piers looked up at the vista of Notre Dame. “So do I. I have a ticket home tonight. I didn’t even bring a toothbrush.”
“Monsieur, if Waterloo Large Construction had brought the correct equipment, no software update would be required.”
Piers sighed. “I can’t change my plans, and the update will only take a minute.”
“Then I shall talk to your superiors, and see you tomorrow. Good day, monsieur.” There was a click and the phone went dead.
He sighed. Waterloo Large didn’t like upsetting the people who paid for their services. He made a bet with himself that the project office would call within two minutes. But two minutes was two minutes, so he crossed the river and joined the line for Notr
e Dame tours.
On the far bank, he could see the pair of cranes he was to update was stationary. As he debated sneaking onto the building site and updating them without permission, his phone rang. It wasn’t the office number he expected but, then again, it was the number he always expected. He took a deep breath and pressed talk. “Hi, mum.”
“Piers, you didn’t answer.”
“Didn’t answer when?”
“Three hours ago, when I called.”
“I must have been in the Chunnel. Out of range.”
“Well you need to keep in touch, dear. You know how your father worries about you when you travel.”
Piers gave a wry smile. “If he’s that worried, get him to send a text next time.”
“Oh, no, dear. Your father and I aren’t teenagers.”
“Mum, it’s just a way to communicate.”
“I don’t want to communicate. I want to talk to you.”
“Right. Look, I’ve got to go. Work and all that.”
“Of course. But you will keep in touch, won’t you? You’re not staying long, are you? Over there, I mean. Course you aren’t. I’m sure you don’t like it over there any more than your father did when he had to go there. 1986. He didn’t like it one bit. All olive oil and raw meat. Really, it’s no way to enjoy yourself, is it now?”
“Mum, I have to go.”
“Yes, you said. Work. Well, hurry home. And stay in well-lit areas with lots of people around. You always hear such terrible stories of people who travel to these foreign places.”
“It’s France. It’s closer than Scotland.”
“And that’s supposed to recommend the place?”
Piers sighed. “I’ve got to go. Bye, mum.”
Piers held the phone away from his ear until his mother’s goodbyes trailed off. When he ended the call, he saw an envelope icon glowing on the display. He clicked it and a message opened up.
French want software update delayed to Saturday. Travel office rescheduling tickets. Hotel Lafayette booked under company name. Get a taxi. Per Diem is 107 euros but don’t spend it all. I’ll tell the guys Xbox is off tonight.
Piers sighed. Changing his plans was a bummer, but an extra day in Paris would be good. If only he’d brought his camera.
He stepped out of line. He needed to check into his hotel before taking in the sights. Stuffing his phone in his pocket, he crossed the square outside Notre Dame and waved at a passing taxi.
Chapter 3
For the first time in weeks, Sidney Roux felt hopeful as she threaded her way through the early morning crowd and crossed the Seine. Her stomach growled at the scent of freshly baked bread drifting from a corner café, and she wanted to stop, but she didn’t dare be late for her interview.
An interview. Her muscles tingled with adrenaline at the thought. She’d finally done it, landed an interview at a fashion house.
She tucked her portfolio tightly under her arm. She had no shortage of designs to show off. Paris had proved to be a fire hose of inspiration. She had searched every alleyway for handmade clothes in hole-in-the-wall shops. She’d studied the vintage pieces she’d discovered at flea markets. She toured department stores so often she could name every single designer they stocked. It had done wonders for her creativity, and now was her chance to shine.
The polished black and white facade of the fashion house loomed. She adjusted her jacket and smoothed the wrinkles out of a skirt of her own design. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to her future.
A fashionably dressed girl raised her eyebrows expectantly at her.
“Sidney Roux. I have an interview. Monsieur Charbonneau, the Creative Director.”
The girl consulted a calendar. “Roux. Yes, right. I’ll page him. You can wait over there.”
Sidney took a seat but her adrenaline kept her sat bolt upright and smiling. It was so hard to take everything in. It was only five weeks since she’d run away from her crumbling country, but it seemed like forever. She missed her friends and family, of course, but not the secret police. She didn’t miss her miserable rat of a boyfriend—who’d turned out to be very married—either.
The receptionist led her to a conference room and the Creative Director arrived. Sidney had to force herself not to wrinkle her nose at the man’s exuberantly applied cologne. After a moment’s small talk, he asked for her portfolio. Her heart thumped in her throat as she handed it over.
He flipped through the pages and smiled, actually smiled.
He tapped a drawing with his fingers. “This tightly-structured suit jacket is very cutting edge.” He flipped another page. “And these fabrics. Very eclectic mix. Very nice.”
She dared to relax a fraction and images of Fashion Week tumbled into her mind. She saw herself on the runway, being named the next big thing by Vogue, and her collections gracing the covers of magazines all over the world. She felt her skin tingle with excitement.
The man flipped another page to what she was most proud of, her boudoir collection. The lingerie was in the most pastel colors, the designs would flatter any woman’s body type, and she had spent every penny she could afford on the finest silks. They were gorgeous to look at, and made her feel like a goddess when they slid across her skin. When a photographer friend of hers had offered to photograph her in them, she had jumped at the chance.
The man stopped flipping and started studying. She held her breath. Surely he would like them?
He looked up at her and back to the pictures. What was wrong? He looked back up at her, and his eyes wandered down her suit.
Her skin prickled and she flushed hot. Modeling them herself had been a mistake.
The man closed the portfolio. “Perfectly delightful. Exquisite. In fact, just what I was looking for.”
Sidney nodded, her heart pounding so hard she didn’t dare speak.
The man smiled. “I think you may have a great career ahead of you, mademoiselle, if you are prepared to work for it. Perhaps we should discuss this in a more … agreeable setting. If you are available this evening?”
Sidney swallowed. “Can’t we discuss it now?”
He gave a broad, benign smile, and placed one hand delicately on her knee. “I was thinking over a glass of Bordeaux, in private, at my place, seven-thirty? This fabric looks sensational. I would love to feel it … on you.”
She moved her knee away from his hand. “I can’t. I could bring samples tomorrow and—”
He leaned forward and placed both hands on her knees. “I can launch your career. You do want that, don’t you?”
She stood up and he followed, slipping his arms around her waist. She rammed her knee into his groin and he folded over. He was still groaning on the floor as she slammed the door and stormed out of the building.
She stepped out into the early morning air, wrapped her jacket around herself, and ground her teeth. The bastard. What was it with men that made them think they had the right to drag her to their beds? Smarmy, blackmailing jerk. And that had been her big chance. Her only chance. Bastard.
She blew out a long breath and walked toward the Seine. The morning air took the edge from the emotions that fizzed in her blood.
Raindrops splashed on the sidewalk as she rounded a corner and faced Notre Dame cathedral. The square in front was the usual heaving mass of tourists and trinket sellers. She spotted a taxi cruising for passengers. She had nine euros left in her pocket, maybe enough for a ride, and to keep her outfit dry. She worked her way through the crowd as she waved at the driver.
On the opposite side of the road she noticed a tall, angular guy with tightly cropped dark hair. His clothes had the square, shapeless fit that only discount chains could achieve and, without looking, she already knew the hem of his jeans would be a half-inch too short.
He placed his hand on the taxi’s door handle.
Damn it, another man was going to ruin her day. “No!” she shouted as she dived for the taxi.
Chapter 4
Piers slammed the taxi d
oor and sank into a seat that had long since given up any effort to support its occupants. “Hotel Lafayette, si vous—”
The opposite rear door whipped open. Piers’ mouth froze half-open with his tongue poking out. His forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows inched closer together. The face of an angel stared at him and he glimpsed the mesmerizing curve of a tight-fitting skirt and long legs as she bounded into the taxi. The angel leaned back in the seat and undid the top button of a business suit. His thoughts danced uncomfortably between modesty and wanting to look at her cleavage.
She ran a hand through her long, jet-black hair, flipped one side over her ear, and turned to look at him with deep mocha eyes. She smiled, big and broad, intense and confident, a full thousand watts. Her high cheekbones and soft lips underlined her angelic presence. Tiny dimples rippled as she opened her mouth to speak.
Piers held his breath as the sight of her paralyzed his voice.
“Get out,” she said.
Piers blinked in shock. “What?”
“Get the fuck out.”
“What?” The wattage had gone from her smile, but Piers still feared his heart might stop as he looked at her. “But I—”
She leaned across him and yanked at the door handle on his side. “Go on, get out.”
The sounds of Paris wafted in through the open door, a hundred languages, all spoken at once.
“I beg your pardon, but I was here first.”
“And?”
“Well, doesn’t that mean it’s my taxi?”
The voices outside turned to shouts.
She shook her head.
Piers sighed. “I hate to be rude, but I was seated before you arrived, and I was giving the driver the address when you got in.”
She huffed. “You are being rude. In Paris there is a certain etiquette regarding taxis.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Etiquette?”
She gave a patronizing smile. “I started for the taxi before you. That means it’s my taxi.”
Paris Love Match Page 1
