“It’s all right,” Sera said, touching his arm. “I’m used to it.” Some of the tension left his body.
“Do all Frenchmen look at you like that?” he asked, picking up his glass of bourbon.
“Not usually.” Sera lifted her champagne flute. “Santé.” They clinked glasses and Jeremy drained the bourbon.
“I can’t blame them,” he remarked, giving her a wink.
“You looked me over too, remember?” she teased.
“But I made up for it,” Jeremy countered. “And I was patient.”
“So, you said you were thinking about me today?” She wanted to hear more. Knowing he couldn’t stop thinking of her gave her a thrill of pleasure. Jeremy grinned.
“I could hardly concentrate,” he admitted. “All I could think about was getting you into my hotel room, and naked.”
“Tonight you can.” Sera traced a finger over the back of his hand while she sipped her champagne. He grasped her hand, his thumb brushing over the smooth skin of her wrist.
“Soon,” he promised.
Edouard set another glass of bourbon on the table. “Sorry for the interruption,” he said as Jeremy flashed him an irritated glance. “There’s a man at the bar wanting to speak to you, monsieur.”
Jeremy sighed and let go of her hand. “His timing is abysmal. I’ll be right back.”
Sera nodded. Edouard gave her a quick smile before he headed to the bar. She turned to watch, seeing Jeremy shake hands with a man in a dark jacket and jeans.
“I thought you said you’d see me again,” a vaguely familiar voice said from behind her. Sera started. “I shouldn’t have had to wait so long.”
“I never said I would,” Sera replied, giving Anton Morel a cool look. If she had seen him, she’d have avoided him. One encounter in the alley was enough. He was unperturbed, taking Jeremy’s seat and leaning over the table.
“You did,” he argued, his hair falling sloppily over his forehead. “So here I am.”
She didn’t need him now and she’d certainly never wanted him. Before she opened her mouth to tell him off, she paused. When Jeremy had gone, and with the wager still in the balance, she might very well need his money.
“I’ve been busy,” she said neutrally. He reached across the table for her hand but she lifted her champagne flute and slid the other into her lap, away from his grasp. He straightened, trying to make it look as if he’d meant to be rebuffed. She sipped her drink, waiting.
“Me too,” Anton replied. She tuned him out as he talked about his work pressures and instead glanced surreptitiously at the bar. Jeremy still stood there, deep in conversation. She stifled a sigh.
“I’m surprised you’re out on a Thursday evening if work’s been so difficult,” she remarked when Anton had paused in his monologue. He gave her a droll smile.
“It’ll be worth it,” he replied. “How about we head back to my place?”
“I’d rather stay here. It’s early yet.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s late. Let’s go.”
“I want another drink first. It’s too early to leave,” Sera replied, losing the sultry tone from her voice.
“As do I.” Jeremy stood over her, a flute of champagne in hand. He set it on the table in front of her and she traded her empty glass for the full. Jeremy turned his attention to Anton.
“You’re in my seat.”
Anton shrugged. “I don’t see your name on it.”
Jeremy clapped a hand on Anton’s shoulder. His earlier affability disappeared in an instant. “Move, or I’ll do it for you.” Any sensible man would have cowered under Jeremy’s cold blue eyes. The hard set of his mouth made Sera edge away from the table as far as her chair would allow.
“You should go,” she told Anton, but he wasn’t listening. He rose to his feet, abruptly pushing Jeremy’s hand from his shoulder.
“I saw her first,” he said, still defiant. Jeremy seized Anton’s lapels and shoved him backward. Anton stumbled away, careening into a wall and knocking a picture frame askew. Jeremy’s tall form blocked her view and Sera shifted in her seat, trying to see around him. Anton got to his feet, giving her and Jeremy a wide berth as he retreated.
“You don’t need him,” Jeremy said abruptly. His gaze followed Anton until the man pushed open the door and left the club.
“But you won’t be here forever,” she reasoned aloud. His eyes narrowed.
“I don’t want to see you with any other men when you’re with me,” he replied, taking the empty chair. “Not that louse, and not that cellist friend of yours either. Or anyone else.”
She stiffened at that, but he cupped her cheek, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, and she relented at his tenderness. “I don’t want anyone but you.” His voice had gone husky and he gazed at her with a deep hunger. She put her hand over his and he smiled. “Finish your drink. There’re other things to do instead of sitting here.”
Sera sipped her champagne but didn’t rush. “Were you a fighter back home in England?” she asked, watching as he frowned. “You have the build of a boxer—that’s why I asked.” His frown faded and he seemed pleased at her comparison.
“I go to a club occasionally, but I don’t have much time for it these days.”
“Too much work? I can’t remember if you told me what you do.”
“Work’s always busy,” he agreed. “I’m a consultant. Investments.”
A vague answer, she thought, but there wasn’t much to say about investing. “Do you follow the boxing? My father used to tell me about how he’d seen Marcel Cerdan. It sounded so exciting.”
“I see a few bouts every year.” He paused. “You don’t seem like a sporting type.”
“Not really.”
“Concerts, then?”
She shook her head. “Too expensive.”
“But you would go, if you could,” he remarked.
“Of course I would. Sometimes I’ll go to the free concerts at St. Germain-des-près.”
“I didn’t think you were religious.” He signaled Jean for another bourbon and Sera was surprised at the speed with which it arrived. Jean never paid this much attention to anyone. Had Jeremy paid him off?
“It’s hard to explain.” It could be a long discussion, but now there was something else on her mind. “How do you know Jean?”
“What do you mean?” He took a drink of his bourbon. She explained her thoughts and he laughed. “I’m a big spender,” he said. That made sense. Jean was nearly as attentive with Marc.
“He’s a bit of a snob,” she confided.
“But useful.”
“I suppose.” She turned her champagne flute around on the table. Jeremy lifted his glass.
“Drink up, Sera,” he urged. “I want to see you in my bed instead of at this table. Preferably within the hour.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. He chuckled.
“Now you’re giving me ideas.”
Chapter 10
Marc woke to the sound of china clinking in the sitting room and it took him a moment to recall that he’d asked Edwards to bring breakfast. He rolled out of bed, leaving Madelaine fast asleep. A pair of jeans lay over a chair and he pulled them on.
“Good morning, sir. Would you like some coffee?” Edwards began to pour him a cup before he’d even had time to nod.
“What time is it, Edwards?” Marc took the cup and saucer, taking a needed gulp of the strong coffee.
“Seven thirty, just past.” Edwards continued in his work, setting out a bowl of fruit, a plate of croissants, and all the proper cutlery and dishes. “There should be enough for two, but if you need anything more, just call.”
“Thank you, Edwards. What would I do without you?”
Edwards chuckled. “Be late for your appointments, I daresay.”
The butler left, taking his cart with him, and Marc settled on the sofa. His phone buzzed and he snagged it from the table, but it was only a text from Aurore, reminding him of his appointment with the barones
s. He deleted her message and then checked his voicemail and missed calls. Nothing. Marc set the phone back on the table and returned to his coffee. He hadn’t expected Sera to call again, but he’d hoped she might. He enjoyed Madelaine’s company, but she didn’t compare to Sera. He finished his coffee and ate a croissant in several bites, trying to distract himself. He didn’t need to be thinking about Sera right now.
Madelaine padded out in bare feet, wrapped in one of the hotel's terrycloth robes. She yawned, covering her mouth, and came to sit by him.
“You’re up so early,” she complained sleepily, leaning against him.
“It’s nearly eight,” he replied. “Are you working today?”
“No. Thankfully.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Can’t you stay?” Her voice had a plaintive tone.
“Will you miss me?” He parted the front of her robe and heard her little gasp as he cupped her breast, pinching and teasing her already sore nipple.
“I always do.” She straddled his lap and undid the tie on her robe. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay?” The robe fell from her shoulders and Marc kissed his way down the column of her neck, following the dusting of freckles over the tops of her breasts.
“I might have some time before I need to leave,” he conceded. Madelaine dug a condom from the pocket of her robe. He grasped her buttocks and pulled her closer, chuckling as she winced. “Still sore, ma petite?”
“A little.”
He loosened his grip on her bruised buttocks and let her undo his fly. She stroked him until he was hard, lifting herself onto her knees so he could pull the denim off.
Madelaine sank onto him with a pleased moan, clutching at his arms. He lifted his hips and thrust into her, ignoring her little whimper of pain as he grasped her buttocks once more. Her forehead rested on his shoulder and he closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of her fiery hair. He could almost imagine her to be someone else, another small, soft figure, with dark hair…
Madelaine’s moan broke into his vision and he nearly groaned with frustration. He reached between them to tease her clit and felt her tighten around him. He closed his eyes again. Sera used to sink her nails into his shoulders when she rode him, her breasts against his chest, like they were one. He could hear her gasping into his ear, that delicate sound she always made. Just before he whispered her name, he caught himself, thrusting hard into Madelaine as if to cover his slip. She spasmed around him and he buried himself deep inside her. He came with a shudder and they sat entangled, breathing hard.
Marc lifted Madelaine from his lap and got to his feet. He wrapped the condom in a tissue and dropped it into the small waste container almost hidden by the arm of the sofa.
“Not yet,” Madelaine pleaded, reaching for his hand. She only caught the tips of his fingers before he pulled away, and he heard her sigh as he scooped up his jeans. He left her on the sofa and went straight into the bathroom, running water for a shower. The hot water hit him as he stepped over the high side of the old Art Deco-style tub, splattering the glass partition. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting the water envelop him completely.
He washed quickly and stepped out, grabbing a towel from the chrome rack. His movements were brisk and efficient. He didn’t have much time to waste. Striding naked through to the bedroom, he took his suit down from its hanger, laying it out on the chair. Within the space of fifteen minutes he had dressed and packed the last few essentials into his bag.
Madelaine had a croissant and some fruit on a plate when he returned to the sitting room. An empty coffee cup sat on the sofa beside her. He set his bags by the door.
“I’ll let Edwards know to give the maids an extra hour before they come to clean,” he said, crossing the room to perch on the arm of the sofa.
“When will you be back next?” Madelaine asked, setting her plate aside.
“In a few weeks, possibly.” Marc shrugged. “Nothing’s set.”
His phone buzzed insistently against the table.
“It’s been ringing since you got in the shower,” Madelaine said. “I didn’t want to answer it, but whomever it is, they’re persistent.” She passed him the phone and he glanced at the number.
It wasn’t Sera. He let out a breath and answered.
“Perron.”
“One’s not enough. You owe me.” Bates nearly shouted the words into the phone.
“We discussed this already,” Marc said calmly. “It’s done.” Bates’ next words were a slew of invective and Marc hung up. Madelaine stared at him.
“Who was that?”
“The rare dissatisfied customer,” he replied, getting to his feet. Madelaine rose and followed him to the door.
“Call me?” she asked, sidling close. He gave her a deep kiss.
“When I find out my schedule,” he allowed. “À bientôt, ma petite. Let Edwards know when you leave.”
One last kiss goodbye and he left. He ran into Edwards in the hall and relayed his instructions.
After he checked out, one of the doormen flagged down a black cab. He had just enough time to drop his luggage at St. Pancras before his appointment. Fournier had made contact with the baroness at an estate sale and he’d mentioned that she had a houseful of antiques and art to sell. Marc knew he could easily convince the elderly dowager to part with her treasures. This was the part of his job he enjoyed. If he didn’t have to worry about the rest, he thought that he actually might be content with the family business.
Marc lifted the delicate china tea cup to his lips to taste the lukewarm and overly sugared tea as the elderly baroness spoke earnestly of the provenance of her father’s antique bed-frame with its beautiful lathed posts and carved headboard. The diamond tennis bracelet gleamed on her wrist as she held her cup and saucer.
“The scene on the headboard was taken from an old Italian tapestry that one of my ancestors—I believe it was my five-times great grandfather—brought back with him after his Tour.” The baroness smiled, obviously nostalgic. Marc set down his cup.
“Do you still have the tapestry? I would love to see it.”
The baroness shook her head sadly. A lock of fine white hair escaped from her hairpins. “I used to love looking at that tapestry, Mr. Perron. It was enchanting, even as it started to crumble with age and ill-use. My grandmother ordered it packed away, and when we found it a few years later in the attic, it had been badly moth-eaten.”
Marc was almost certain that he could see tears forming in the corners of her eyes. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.
“Madame, I think you ought to keep the bed, as it holds such sentimental value for you. It may not make much at auction, and I would hate for you to have to make that sacrifice.” He had carefully examined the frame when he first arrived and he knew that it was unlikely to garner many bids. So far this meeting had hardly been worth his time, but Fournier had assured him of the woman’s excess of antiques and her need for funds to keep up her estate.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Perron.” She gave him a grateful smile and dabbed at her eyes with a soft, lace-edged handkerchief. “Perhaps some of the other furniture or art might interest you more. I’ve had my butler, Cyril, assist me in moving some of the items from the attic, which you have seen, but if you have time, we could go up after tea and look at the rest.”
“I do have some time before I have to be back at St. Pancras,” he agreed, observing that she was finishing the last of her cup of tea. “If you’re ready, Madame?” Marc rose to his feet and extended a hand to the baroness. She blushed like a schoolgirl as she took it and rose from her faded brocade settee, putting her hand through the arm Marc offered her. They walked slowly through the manse as Marc kept his steps in time with hers.
“Your manners are exquisite, Mr. Perron. Such a rarity these days.” She patted his arm. “I remember when all the young men used to have such courtesy.”
Marc smiled and let her ramble on about her memories of debutante balls and midnight su
ppers, where she had dined with aristocrats, diplomats and even the Prime Minister. Her story lasted until they reached the final flight of stairs and she needed the air more for breathing than talking. She stopped and indicated a door under the eaves.
“Through there,” she said between breaths, “is the last of it.”
Marc pushed open the door and led the baroness through to the still-cluttered attic. She found herself a seat on a sheet-covered armchair.
“Look as you please. I’ll stay here and rest up for the downward journey.”
Marc took his time wandering through the attic room, looking carefully under every sheet. His phone buzzed as he was lifting the drop cloth on a rickety old set of wicker chairs with worn arms. It was the number for the firm.
“Oui?”
“Monsieur, you’ll never guess who came to visit today.” Fournier was in a gossipy mood.
“Le président de la République?” Marc asked dryly. He glanced at his watch.
“Non, even better.”
“Fournier, I’m standing in the middle of the baroness’s attic and I have a train to catch, so please just get to the point, if you have one.”
He heard Fournier’s sigh and could picture his dejected look.
“Fine, fine, as you wish, monsieur. There was a lovely young woman who stopped by to visit you, and she was very disappointed that you were not here.”
“Does this young woman have a name, Fournier?” Marc pulled the drop cloth back up over the chairs with one hand.
“Sophie Harper. She’s quite lovely and very polite. Aurore was trying to convince her to apply for an internship in the firm once she found out that Mademoiselle Harper was an art student. Personally I think that Aurore just wants to have another woman around—”
“Did she have a message for me?” Marc interrupted.
“Nothing specific, just that she hoped she’d see you when you returned. She left her number with Aurore.”
“Send the number to my phone and I’ll call her when I have time,” Marc instructed. “And call Dawson at Sotheby’s and give him the information for the baroness. I won’t have time to catalogue everything while I’m here, but there should be a few pieces suitable for auction.”
The Paris Game Page 13
