“Please what?”
“I didn’t know that’s how you felt. No one else has ever wanted me to stay past the time we’d finished.” She made herself seem cowed; it wasn’t hard. “Let’s just go back to bed. I’ll stay with you. I promise.” She held out her hand, praying that he’d accept. She watched him carefully as his body relaxed, the anger left his eyes, and he took her hand.
“I want to wake up next to you in the morning,” he told her, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek in a tender gesture. “You’ll be beautiful, naked in the sunlight, laying there in my bed.” She gave him a tremulous smile and let him lead her back to the bed. He stripped off her clothes with ease and she let him tuck her in, under the covers. He slid in behind her and she curled up on her side and closed her eyes, resting her hand over his where he’d placed it on her thigh. She felt his breath stir her hair and she forced herself to relax and breathe evenly.
It seemed like hours before she could be sure that he was finally asleep, and she waited hours more before exhaustion claimed her, just as the light was beginning to filter in through the cracks in the hastily drawn drapes.
Chapter 12
Marc’s phone vibrated against the antique bureau as he picked up a cufflink. He pressed the button for the speakerphone as he slipped the cufflink through his crisply pressed white cuff. “Oui?”
“Good morning, Monsieur Perron.” It was Royale’s secretary.
“Good morning, Françoise. What can I do for you?”
“I have a call for you, monsieur.” He heard a click.
“Good morning, monsieur,” came an unfamiliar voice.
“And who might this be?” Marc inquired, affixing the second cufflink. He began to button his shirt.
“Jeremy Gordon.”
Sera’s lover. The fury rose quickly, and if he wasn’t relying on Jeremy to complete the job, he would have called the man out. Instead, he let his voice stay neutral. “Is it done?”
“I’d like to speak with you about that,” Jeremy replied.
“Then do.” Marc straightened his collar and went to the wardrobe to don the matching jacket to his black trousers with faint blue pinstripes. He heard a faint sound from the phone, a feminine voice. Jeremy had company.
“Not over the phone.”
“Then where?”
“Are you close to Montparnasse? There’s a café on the corner of the rue Gaites and the boulevard Edgar Quinet. That should suffice.”
“Close enough.” Marc glanced at his watch. “Shall we say an hour?”
Marc reached the café earlier than he planned, so he sat on the terrace in the mid-morning sun with his back to the wall. There was an ashtray on the small glass table and he lit a cigarette while he waited. A uniformed waiter came to take his order and he relaxed into the wicker chair, hearing it creak under his weight. The café was close to the Montparnasse cemetery and most of the terrace was taken up when a tour group gathered for a break prior to their lengthy cemetery excursion. He watched as the harried waiter took their orders, addressing the group in heavily accented English. The table nearest to his ordered two plates of pommes frites and he listened to their conversation as he sipped his espresso.
“I don’t know why the guide couldn’t have just stopped at a McDonald’s instead of here,” one of the older women complained in a sharp, nasal voice. “There’s absolutely nothing to eat here.”
A stressed-looking younger woman seemed to be suppressing an urge to scream. Her curly blonde hair was pulled back off her face and was long down her back. He thought she would be prettier with a good night’s rest and some time away from the others in her group. There were shadows under her eyes and a tenseness to her jaw.
“Mother, we’re in Paris. I don’t want to eat what I would in Atlanta.” The young woman’s light Southern drawl was far more attractive than her mother’s sharp tones. The girl’s white blouse and slightly wrinkled khaki skirt were demure, but she was still slim under the shapeless fabric. He was tempted to introduce himself if her harridan of a mother would leave for a few moments. He’d show her the sights, take her for an intimate dinner, and seduce her over a glass of port. Girls like her weren’t usually much of a challenge, but she’d be a pleasant distraction. He contented himself with eavesdropping on their conversation; they hadn’t considered that he could understand them.
“Next time, Daisy, we’re taking that all-inclusive in Cancun instead of going to some crazy country where they hardly even speak English.” The older woman crossed her arms and pouted. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”
“It hasn’t been all bad,” Daisy told her mother. “You liked the Louvre.”
“And I would have liked that other museum if it hadn’t been closed. Now, is this the cemetery that has Jim Morrison’s grave? I told your aunt that I would take a photo for her.”
Marc heard Daisy sigh and he permitted himself a small smile. She rose abruptly from her seat and went into the café. He allowed a minute to pass before he rose and followed her. A flash of blonde hair caught his eye and he turned and continued back to the toilets. She’d already entered a cubicle when he arrived, but he leaned on the sink and waited. When he heard the door knob squeak, he turned towards the sink, letting the water run as if he’d just been washing his hands. He glanced into the mirror. She stood waiting, though her stance shifted impatiently.
“Good morning, mademoiselle,” he said in English. Her eyes widened and she gave him a small, delighted smile.
“Good morning, monsieur,” she replied in accented French, before switching to English. “I suppose I should apologize for my mother.”
Marc chuckled, stepping away from the sink and drying his hands on a paper towel. “Only if you feel you must.”
She took his place at the sink and he indulged in the opportunity to study her up close. The line of her neck descended into the rumpled collar of her blouse and he wanted to pull it away from her skin, taste the vanilla scent wafting under his nose.
“It’s her first trip overseas,” she explained. “I sometimes wish she hadn’t come.”
“You’d be able to have more fun,” he agreed. She finished drying her hands and tossed the towel into the small bin. “I’m Marc.”
She took his hand. “I’m Daisy, but you already heard that, I’m sure.”
“I did. You’re as lovely as your namesake.” He smiled in satisfaction as she blushed and gave a slight, nervous giggle. “If you weren’t with your mother, I’d invite you to have a coffee with me.” He didn’t let go of her hand and she didn’t seem to mind.
“I’d love to,” she said, moving closer. “We’re in Paris till Wednesday; maybe we’ll see each other again.”
He let go of her hand to pull out his wallet and hand her a business card. “Do call.” He bent to kiss her cheeks, pausing to inhale the warm vanilla fragrance once more. When he straightened, she looked at him expectantly, her lips parted. She met him halfway, her lips soft against his, letting him press against her. He slid his hand down to her lower back and held her there, warm and willing. When they broke apart, she was breathless. He released her. Her enthusiasm was charming, but now that he’d kissed her, his desire had waned.
“I’ll call you,” she said, her voice faint. He caressed her cheek.
“I’ll be waiting.” He wouldn’t, but it was unlikely that she’d get up the courage to call him. He left her sagging against the sink, his card clutched in her hand.
He strode out onto the terrace and left a few coins in the saucer for the waiter. Daisy’s mother complained loudly as her daughter came back to the table.
“You took ages—your food’s gone cold!”
The tall figure of Jeremy Gordon appeared at the end of the street just as Marc lit another cigarette, so he edged between the chairs of two of the tour group, including the harridan.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said in English as he stepped around them. “Excuse me.” Daisy laughed and he gave her an appreciativ
e glance as he passed. Her mother started up again, but he was on the sidewalk and away before he could hear her complaint.
Jeremy came up beside him, giving him a nod. “Perron.” He glanced at the café. “Aren’t we going to stay?”
“Too crowded.” He didn’t want to have to listen to that old harpy, or have their conversation overheard. “Let’s take a walk.” They strolled along the boulevard, along the outer stone and hedge wall of the cemetery, shaded from the sun by the row of trees and their thick foliage. At the imposing entrance, he paused.
“I’m not a tourist,” Jeremy remarked.
“It’ll be sufficient,” Marc replied. “Unless you think we’ll need long.”
“I doubt it’ll be too long,” Jeremy replied as they walked through the gates, turning right to follow a path parallel to the outer wall.
Marc took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out under his shoe. “I am surprised that I hadn’t heard anything from you, monsieur, though you’ve had over a week to complete your work.”
“These things take time.” Marc ignored the veiled irritation in Jeremy’s reply. Jeremy meandered along, looking at the graves and mausoleums. “They’ve been hard to find.”
“I thought you’d be more efficient,” Marc replied. The pair should have been easy to find; this was not what he had expected. The last thing he needed was Michel spilling all to the police. Claude wouldn’t be so stupid, but his brother was cowardly. In his experience, cowards were unpredictable.
“Says the man who has probably never had to get rid of someone himself.” Jeremy’s tone was cynical. “You’d rather just pay to keep your hands clean.”
“What is money for, if not that?” Marc refused to get angry. He pivoted to face Jeremy, staring him down. “You have a job to finish, and soon.”
“Your little request isn’t the only thing I’m dealing with, but a bit more cash would smooth the way.”
“I’ve already paid Royale.”
“Keep it in mind. Money can get you everything.” Jeremy lit a cigarette. “A little more information to help me find these two and it’ll be done. And then I can get back to my luscious petite femme.” He emphasized the last words with a lascivious grin.
“I don’t know what she sees in you.”
“I could say the same about you, monsieur.” Jeremy drew out the last word like it tasted foul.
“I’d give you a bit extra if you left her alone.”
“Not a chance.”
“You should be doing your job instead of fucking her.”
Jeremy stopped, catching Marc by the shoulder. “I’ll do what I damn well please. You just wish you were fucking her.”
Marc tamped down his rising fury. Jeremy smirked and kept walking.
“Monsieur Royale is quite demanding, from what I’ve heard,” Marc said, raising his voice so it carried to Jeremy. He wasn’t without his own leverage. “I understand he has a great deal of connections, lots on the go. If you cross me, we’ll have to find out exactly how connected he is.”
“I’m hardly scared.” Jeremy retraced his steps, sneering. “He’s a lowlife compared to Mayson, not even fit to clean his boots.” When Marc looked at him questioningly, Jeremy added, “my boss back home. Royale’s a fly, easy to swat.”
A muffled ringing sound interrupted Marc’s reply. Jeremy pulled his phone from an inner pocket and glanced at the screen. He walked a short distance away, just out of earshot and answered the call. Marc lit another cigarette as he waited. He could hear Jeremy’s voice getting louder, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. It was too tempting not to try, so he stepped unobtrusively closer, just enough to make out Jeremy’s half of the conversation. Jeremy spoke in English, snapping out the words.
“I have this job to do, but it should be over soon. You’ll be able to move in afterwards; I doubt he has any real bodyguards. His club is practically empty most of the day. Yes, really. I don’t know why he doesn’t have bodyguards, but maybe he’s just overconfident.” Jeremy paced back and forth, listening. “No, if you came now it wouldn’t look right.” His accent got thicker as he argued. “For fuck’s sake, you’d give the game away, all right? I can do well enough on my own, thank you.” He shook his head. “Look, I’ve gotta go.”
Marc had very carefully positioned himself near Baudelaire’s tomb, making it look as though he was reading the inscription. He waited several moments before turning, as if he was impatiently waiting for Jeremy to finish his conversation. Jeremy strode over.
“My apologies,” he said abruptly. “Sometimes these things just can’t wait.”
“You’ve taken so long already, what’s another few minutes?”
“I didn’t need to take this job. I have a woman to get back to.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Marc pulled out his phone. Jeremy held out a hand, forestalling him.
“Let’s not get Royale into it just yet.”
Marc put his phone away. “What do you need from me about the Girards?” Once they were taken care of, then he could threaten Jeremy as he needed to.
“They’ve been difficult to locate,” Jeremy said. They continued along the path, circling around the centre of the cemetery to return nearer the gate. “They haven’t been using any credit cards, nothing traceable. Where else might they be staying?”
“Claude likes to bet on the races. They might be spending time at the track in Vincennes, or one of the others.” Marc shrugged. “I’m not a betting man.”
“I’ll give those a try. Nothing else? They don’t seem to have any family in the area; are there any friends I should know about?”
“I have no idea. Claude doesn’t seem the type to have a lot of friends, and Michel is just too timid.”
“You should know more about your associates, monsieur.”
“I wasn’t expecting failure of this sort.” Marc tried to keep the irritation from his voice.
“And that’s when it always happens, but luckily you can afford to have someone else sort it out for you.”
“You’re quite certain I’m pure and virginal, aren’t you?”
Jeremy laughed. “Where it counts, I’m sure you are.”
“La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure pour vous, n’est pas?”
Jeremy gave him a blank look.
“You think that might makes right, do you not?” Marc said in English.
“It does in my world,” Jeremy retorted. He paused by the gate. “I’ll be in touch in a few days, monsieur.”
“À bientôt.” Marc watched Jeremy walk back the way they had come. It would be satisfying to take him down, hit him between the shoulder blades and leave him lying on the pavement for even having the gall to touch Sera, but he’d left the gun in his apartment. He’d give Jeremy two days.
Marc entered Perron et fils, pausing to pick up a small bundle of mail Aurore had left for him on Friday evening. He continued back to his office, passing Fournier’s closed door. He could hear the faint sound of the radio and knew Fournier was inside, but he didn’t bother to stop. He didn’t care to see Fournier today. He tossed the mail onto his desk, noting the small stack of files that Aurore had set to one side, with a printout of the current accounts and invoices paid lying on top. He left them lying there, drifting over to the floor-length window to look down into the quiet, narrow street. The green cross of the pharmacy on the corner flickered erratically, but otherwise the view was dull. Marc slid his hands into his pockets as he considered what he had overheard.
Not being a part of Royale’s organization, he felt no loyalty for the man, only a vague disquiet. His uncle had dealt with gangsters on occasion, but he had liked their style: large, luxurious houses, begging to be filled with art that could be admired at parties, along with the good taste of their owners. It had led to an increase in their client list, as the firm’s name was dropped among the gatherings and the politicians and glitterati had come calling, bringing their greedy demands and open wallets. He
doubted that anyone would miss Royale if he were suddenly deposed, but if Le Chat Rouge was taken over—
Fournier bustled in with only a perfunctory knock. Marc turned. Fournier held a thick sheaf of papers.
“Ah, monsieur, you’re finally here. Dawson sent the information from the baroness’s estate yesterday,” he indicated the papers with a small shake, “and I knew you’d want to inspect them personally.”
“That looks like more than what the baroness owns,” Marc replied as he took the pages from Fournier and flipped through them.
“Dawson says that Cyril reminded her of the storage at her country estate, so he went and catalogued all that as well. I had a look—depending on what she wants to part with, she might make enough to refurbish her London house.”
“The lowest estimate, assuming everything in here sells?”
“Seven hundred thousand,” Fournier replied. “Dawson’s high estimate was just over a million, but she’s indecisive about several pieces. He said she’d like you to call her personally.”
“Did Dawson tell her his estimates?”
“He didn’t give her specifics; he wanted everything verified before he’d commit. For his usual cut he said he’d be happy to arrange everything with Sotheby’s to save you the trip.”
“That’s kind of him.” Marc’s tone was dry. “His fee is probably more than the cost of my stay. I’ll consider it.” He expected Fournier to make his usual excuses and return to his own office, but the man lingered. Marc settled behind his desk. “Was that all?”
Fournier grinned sheepishly. “Did you speak with the young mademoiselle?”
“Miss Harper? She wasn’t at home when I called, but if I get some time today I may try her again.”
“She has a lot of potential, monsieur. Quite an impressive knowledge of history, and artists.”
“Yes, I thought so as well.”
Fournier seemed satisfied with his answer and turned to go. “Let me know your thoughts on the file.”
The Paris Game Page 16
