“De rien, ma chère.”
Chapter 8
Marc woke and found himself on his side, Sera’s back pressed against his chest. His hand lay flat against her stomach where the shirt had ridden up and her hair was strewn over the pillow under his cheek. Her thighs shifted over his as she moved in her sleep and he closed his eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t help. He shouldn’t have given in to his need last night. It would have been better if he’d stayed on the sofa.
As he withdrew his hand and slowly shifted away from her, he heard her murmur something unintelligible. He managed to extricate himself without waking her and carefully tucked the covers in around her. She looked younger in her sleep, very much like she had been when they had first met, but there were shadows under her eyes that hadn’t always been there. If only she would tell him who she owed money to. It was unlike her to be in such financial straits; she had always been so cautious with her money after her difficult childhood. He wanted to force her to tell him, but it might break whatever trust they had left.
With a frown, he left her to sleep. He stripped off the pyjama pants as soon as he reached the bathroom, dropping them in a heap on the tile. He left the door unlocked, though he knew it was unlikely Sera would join him. He turned the water as hot as he could stand and stepped under the spray, splashing his face and washing away the last vestiges of sleep. He lingered longer than usual after he’d finished washing, thinking of Sera in his bed, untouchable. He wondered what she would have done if he’d woken her with light, teasing touches. He imagined that she would have turned in his arms with a sleepy smile and slid her hand down under the waistband of his pants, wrapping her hand around him as he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off her. He’d push her underwear down her legs and find out how wet she was. At least, that’s what she would have done when they were together. But now? He waited for her to throw him a hint, a crumb from her plate.
Sera had shifted in her sleep when he returned to the bedroom and though he was fully dressed, he wanted to slide back into bed with her. She sprawled on her back with the covers half off and he could just see the soft weight of her breasts against his shirt. He watched her for several minutes as she began to stir, affixing his usual half-smile in place as she opened her eyes.
“Sleep well, ma chère?”
She nodded slowly and he could see that she was still coming to herself. She’d always been one to sleep late, and it was nearing noon. He had to be at Gare du Nord in several hours to catch the Eurostar to London. If he could have put it off another day, he would have, just to have a few more hours in bed with her.
“You slept in the bed last night,” she challenged, though there was no anger in her tone. She sat up and pulled the fabric of his shirt back to some semblance of order, pushing her hair back from her eyes. It was a glorious mess of uneven waves and she was beautifully disheveled.
“I did. And you didn’t seem to mind.” He paused. “If you can be ready shortly I can drop you at home on my way to Gare du Nord.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“You’re leaving?”
“Business awaits.” They looked at each other and he thought about asking her to stay, and not just for another few hours. But instead, he turned to leave. “I’ll let you get dressed.”
He placed his bags by the front door—a mid-sized rolling suitcase and a messenger bag that held his laptop and several art prints sandwiched between stiff boards. The Degas was among the prints, but he expected it to slip by security unnoticed. They were usually more concerned about his laptop than about art catalogue samples.
He made two cups of espresso as he waited for Sera, setting one aside for her while he downed the other. He smoked a cigarette, cracking open the kitchen window. She slipped into the kitchen on quiet bare feet, her hair damp and pulled back into a braid, wearing last night’s rumpled clothes.
“Is this for me?” She reached for the espresso, taking a sip after he’d nodded, closing her eyes and making a sound much like she had when he’d given her pleasure. He wanted to take her right here, and damn the consequences. Instead, he finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
“Where are you going?” Sera asked after she’d finished the espresso. He took the cup from her and turned to the machine to make another round.
“London, this time. I’ll be there a few days, maybe over the weekend.”
“Should I call you when you’ve lost our wager?”
“I still maintain that Edouard wouldn’t move that fast, but if by some miracle he manages it, you are more than welcome to call me.”
“Expect a call then. Sophie wouldn’t have turned him down.”
“Will you be calling to talk dirty to me? That would be a pleasant way to spend the hours in my lonely hotel room.”
“I’ll be working, but I’m sure you can manage to entertain yourself.”
He was disappointed when she didn’t rise to his suggestion, as she would have done when they were together. She took the fresh cup of espresso from him instead, looking contemplative, her gaze moving past him.
“I’ll manage somehow,” he agreed. “I’m used to being alone.”
“When you return, we can drink to your business success and my newfound windfall.”
“I’ll have to know who to give the money to in order to pay off your debts,” he reminded her.
“When the time comes,” she said finally. She set down her cup. “Shall we go?”
Marc nodded. Sera went to gather her things and he waited by the door with his suitcase in hand and his messenger bag over his shoulder. They descended the stairs in silence and she didn’t speak again until they were in the taxi. She tucked herself in next to him and he laid his arm over her shoulders, lightly caressing her arm.
“Thank you for playing for me last night,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“My playing hasn’t made anyone cry since I first started.”
“Who used to cry?” She was trying to hold back a smile.
“My teacher, when I used to screech my way through the music. And my father. He was unimpressed from the start. He didn’t want either of his sons following in their mother’s footsteps. We were both to be businessmen, like him.”
“But did he actually cry?”
“No, probably not. If he did, I never saw it. With frustration perhaps, in his study, drowning his sorrows in whisky.” Yet his mother had managed to convince his father to let him continue. He’d loved her for it.
Their conversation stilled until the taxi drew up outside Sera’s apartment block. He opened the door and helped her out, keeping hold of her hand. She glanced from him to the building and back again.
“When will you be back?”
“A couple of days. No later than Saturday evening, I expect.” Marc bent to kiss her, expecting her to turn her head so he could kiss her cheeks. Instead, she met him halfway. Her lips were soft and she tasted of the espresso they’d drunk. He wanted to take her back to his apartment, or upstairs to hers. He drew her closer, but she pushed back gently.
“You have a train to catch,” she reminded him. She stepped back, towards her front door. “Bon voyage, Marc.”
“À bientôt, ma chère,” he replied. He stood and watched until she’d let herself into the building and the taxi driver tapped his horn. She didn’t turn to look at him, and he wished she had.
The Eurostar train was sparsely populated in first class, as Marc preferred. Aurore hadn’t understood when he’d asked her to book him a ticket in the mid-afternoon, thinking that he would prefer to get an early start. Today he’d reach London with an hour or two to spare before his meeting.
He tapped his fingers idly on the armrest as he watched the countryside fly by. This trip wasn’t going to be much fun if he spent his evenings alone in the Fumoir at Claridge’s. He drew out his mobile phone and scrolled down until he reached Madelaine’s number. He debated calling her, but decided that he’d rather
surprise her. He loved that look she gave him when he showed up; her eyes widening, her lips parting in surprise and her tongue darting out to dampen them. He replaced his phone and took out his laptop.
Marc emerged into the bustle of the taxi rank near Euston Street and wasted no time in hiring a black cab.
“Where to, sir?” the cabbie inquired in a nearly incomprehensible accent.
“Claridge’s, s’il vous plaît.”
The cabbie nodded and grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Marc barely spared a glance to the elegant Art Deco architecture on his way to the front desk. The hotel felt like a second home. The young woman at the desk smiled at him and he recognized her from his previous visit.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Perron,” she said in perfectly accented French. “Did you have a good journey?”
“I did, thank you, Ruby,” he replied. “It’s a shame that I don’t have time to sit and have a cup of tea, but work never waits. Could someone take my bag up to my room?”
“Of course, monsieur.” Ruby handed him the key card and slid an invoice across the desk. “We have you in your usual suite. I’ll have Edwards take your bag up. Do you wish it to be unpacked for you?” She gestured to a butler while he signed the bottom of the invoice.
“Yes, that would be appreciated. À bientôt.” He turned to hand his suitcase to Edwards, who tipped his cap. He gave the man a folded bill.
“Nice to see you again, sir,” Edwards said. “Everything will be ready on your return.” He turned and headed across the lobby to the elevators. Marc tucked the key card into his pocket. With a final nod to Ruby, he departed. One of the doormen flagged down a cab for him and he directed the driver to the antiques shop just off Sebastian Street. The shoulder bag with his laptop and the artwork rested on the seat beside him and he kept a hand over it until he had reached his destination.
He paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the shop, pushing open the door. The bell jangled as he entered, glancing around for Bates. A pair of older women were engaged in conversation with the man, whose thin and weasely face looked like a joyous caricature as they debated the worth of a graceful marble nymph. He waited until Bates had managed to convince the old dowagers that the nymph would go perfectly in their sitting room. After Bates escorted them to the door, with a promise of delivery the next day, he turned the sign to read ‘Closed’ and pulled the shutters. He motioned for Marc to follow him.
They made their way through the oak tables and chairs, refinished armoires and shelves that held entire collections of old porcelain dinner sets, to the back office. A half-drunk cup of tea sat on a pile of papers and an empty plate speckled with crumbs rested nearby. Marc’s nose wrinkled at the stale smell, but he stepped inside behind Bates.
“Let’s see them.” Bates rubbed his hands together eagerly, like a child awaiting a box of chocolates.
“And a good evening to you as well, Bates,” Marc replied. He watched the man pace, seeming like a wound spring. The slick wheeler-dealer was gone.
Bates snorted. “It will be. My missus is keeping my supper warm, so let’s get this over with.” He watched as Marc pulled the stiff board from his bag and undid the parcel. He lifted the surrounding prints to show Bates the Degas.
“And the other?” Bates asked.
“It was unfortunately lost.” He replaced the prints and left the parcel resting on the desk.
Bates let out a bark of surprise. “Fuck. The earl won’t like this at all,” he muttered. “Not at all.” He glared at Marc. “What am I supposed to do with just one?”
Marc shrugged. “The other sketch is completely unrecoverable and likely so badly damaged as to be worthless. You knew the risks going in.”
“You’re not getting any more money.”
“I didn’t expect any.” Marc turned to leave.
“How am I supposed to explain this to the earl?” Bates snapped.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Marc smiled. “Tell him that one is better than none.”
“Oh, very fucking helpful.”
Marc stepped over to the desk and began securing the parcel. Bates grabbed his arm but Marc shook him off easily.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“If the earl doesn’t want just one, I’m sure I can find another buyer. I’ll have the money wired back to you first thing tomorrow morning.” Marc lifted the board and opened his bag. He was no errand boy and Bates continued to try his patience.
“Not without the money now.” Bates closed a hand over the board.
“Make up your mind.”
“He’ll take the one.”
“Are you sure?”
Bates glowered at him. “Of course I’m sure, you fucking French poof.”
Marc set down the parcel, coolly appraising his contact. The man’s fists were clenched and his entire body was stiff with anger. “If your earl still wants the other, he could always make an offer to the museum. They might even be willing to sell it now, but I wouldn’t recommend it, for obvious reasons.”
Marc saw the punch coming. He moved aside and Bates missed, but he didn’t expect Bates to move into the swing and use his shoulder to pin him against the wall. He grunted at the impact. Bates drew back for another punch, but Marc took advantage of his space to lay Bates low with a strike to the kidney. He had no desire to waste his time fighting. As he expected, the man collapsed to his knees.
“Feel better now?” Marc inquired, giving Bates a nudge with his knee that sent him toppling to the floor. His only answer was a pained groan. “I’m afraid our association is at an end. If I hear that you’ve been maligning me, I’ll be back to finish this.”
Bates nodded weakly as he lay curled on the floor, his complexion alternating between pale and flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. “Bastard.”
“Goodnight, Bates. Enjoy your meal.”
He left Bates lying on the floor, closing the office door behind him and let himself out. He had expected a bigger scene, but the man was ever a coward. He’d had Bates thoroughly vetted before he’d agreed to the commission and he’d known that the man would be easy to intimidate. He also knew that Bates’ “Earl” was really a nouveau riche upstart that fancied himself an art connoisseur. From tracking the man’s purchases at auction, Marc knew that his tastes were pedestrian at best, his choices made to impress in expense. How the man had managed to have enough taste to fall for the Degas sketches was the only mystery. Marc walked briskly up the road and caught another cab. The adrenaline made him eager for his next destination. Time to see Madelaine.
The cashier gave Marc a cheerful greeting as he passed through the doors, dimples showing in her plump cheeks. He smiled but his gaze was beyond her, scanning for a glimpse of red hair. The aisles on the main floor were busy with customers, but Madelaine was nowhere to be seen. At the back of the shop, the information desk was empty and its computer terminal dark. He turned and ascended to the second floor. He paused as he reached the top, hearing a feminine laugh and a familiar giggle. As he made his way towards the sounds, he could hear the murmur of their conversation. He came around a corner and saw the pair of women stocking shelves.
The tall blonde he hadn’t seen before, but the other, smaller woman was Madelaine. Her fiery hair had been pulled back away from her face in a tight braid and the style flattered her, highlighting her high cheekbones and slim nose with their dusting of freckles. He noticed that her skirt had ridden up slightly where she knelt to open a box, and he remembered those slim legs spread wantonly over the polished blond wood of the desk in his suite.
“Can I help you, sir?” The tall blonde had noticed him first. Madelaine glanced up and he saw her eyes widen with surprise.
“I think I can help him, Leigh,” she said, getting to her feet and tugging her skirt back into place. Her co-worker looked disappointed. Madelaine came towards him, a smile playing on her lips. “How can I be of assistance, sir?”
“I’ve been looking for
a particular book,” he began as he and Madelaine strolled away, out of earshot. He let her lead him to an isolated corner. He glanced at the books. “I’m not sure that Gender Studies is quite what I’m looking for.”
Madelaine laughed. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“It was unexpected.”
She took his hand and pulled him against her. “It’s always unexpected, but I don’t care. You’re here now.”
“I’ve always wanted to have sex in a book shop,” he told her, pressing her against the shelf. His fingers tugged at the hem of her skirt, pulling it up her thighs so he could slide his hand between her legs. She made a little mewling sound as he pressed into her damp underwear. He kissed her, swallowing those little sounds as she rocked her hips against his hand. Finally she pushed him away.
“We’ll get caught,” she murmured.
“Will we?”
“Leigh will coming looking for me soon. I need to finish my work.” She rested her head on his shoulder as he withdrew his hand and pulled her skirt back into place.
“Are you off work soon?”
“Another hour. Will you wait for me?” Madelaine lifted her head, smoothing down her hair with one hand.
“I’ll be at Claridge’s.” He took a moment to straighten his jacket. She caught at his hand again before he could step away.
“The same suite?”
“Always. I’ll expect you soon.”
She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him again. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
He gave her cheek a caress. “I’ll see you soon.”
He left her leaning against the bookshelves. She wasn’t Sera, but she would be delightful company this evening. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Sera she’d been exquisite. She’d been willing and eager for everything, and in his experience it was rare for a woman to take such pleasure. He’d lost count of all the things they’d done. He wished he didn’t have to wait.
He decided to walk back to the hotel instead of taking a cab. It wasn’t far and he wanted to walk off the soreness in his shoulders from where Bates had knocked him against the wall. It had been unexpected, but Bates had been easy to subdue. Marc smiled to himself. His brother Henri would have been proud to see that his younger sibling had not forgotten the lessons he’d learned as a young man, something to carry of Henri for all time.
The Paris Game Page 11
