Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1)

by Michelle St. James

  That she’d been alone in that moment.

  He didn’t like the thought of her being alone and afraid.

  The realization left him with a deep sense of disquiet. He didn’t like disquiet. He turned his attention to the catalog in front of him. An important estate was coming up for auction in Berlin. He would have to have his buyer there attend and bid on his behalf.

  He felt better as he turned the pages of the catalog, mentally tracking the pieces that were of interest to him. This was his world. A world of oil paintings and gilded frames, centuries old mahogany and oak, stained glass and the finest gems.

  Here everything made sense, everything was for sale. And if one couldn’t own the object of one’s desire, there was always another of equal beauty around the corner.

  He kept turning the pages long after he was really seeing the items displayed there, his mind turning over the unwelcome suspicion that Charlotte Duval wasn’t like all the other beautiful things in his world.

  That she would not be for sale.

  That she would not be replaceable.

  15

  Charlotte slid into the waiting car, trying not to look impressed. She wasn’t some kind of underprivileged ingenue, but she couldn’t help but note the luxury with which Christophe Marchand surrounded himself. She didn’t know what kind of criminal maintained a private plane, a pilot on retainer, and a personal bodyguard, but the house in Saint Germain had only hinted at Marchand’s wealth.

  She watched as Julien slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. It was easier to look at the bodyguard than the man sitting next to her. She’d spent the entire flight from Paris turning the pages of her book, the words swimming in front of her eyes as she tried to resist glancing at Christophe Marchand across the aisle. Sometimes she had the feeling he was looking at her, but she hadn’t been about to test the theory by finding out.

  She’d focused her eyes on the book instead, her mind swirling with the events of the past forty-eight hours. Her whole world had been turned upside down with the discovery of the ring, and she wondered all over again if she should have handed it over, gone back to L.A. She’d probably be landing right now, taking a taxi to her rented cottage in Malibu.

  She couldn’t think about the cottage without imagining its interior, the mid-century modern architecture further depersonalized with her generic furnishings, expensive and well-designed, but lacking any real indication that a human being resided there. It was depressing to look at one’s life from the outside, to realize it was a hollow shell, one she’d been occupying for a long time.

  Too long probably.

  She watched the historic city of Vienna appear on the other side of the glass. This would be good for her.

  A diversion. A distraction.

  “Have you been to Vienna?” Christophe asked next to her.

  Speaking of distraction.

  She turned to look at him, startled all over again by the bottomless depth of his eyes. “Once,” she said. “It was for an exhibit on Max Kurzweil. I assisted with the curation as part of my Masters program.”

  “I saw that exhibit,” he said. “It was lovely. Perfectly spaced and ordered.”

  “Thank you.” How strange that they’d once been in the same city and hadn’t known it. Then again, how many times had she visited her father in Paris while Christophe Marchand operated his criminal empire only a few miles away? “I don’t actually like Kurzweil, to be honest.”

  He tipped his head. “Why is that?”

  “I find them a bit flat, the colors blurry in a way that makes me want to look away instead of look more closely.”

  She thought she saw appreciation in his gaze. “I’ve always quite liked Kurzweil, but your perspective is one I haven’t considered.”

  “That’s the beauty of art, isn’t it? That we all see something different, and yet none of us is wrong.”

  His nod was slow. “Indeed.”

  They pulled in front of the Ritz-Carlton, and she looked up, admiring the facade of the old palais that now housed the hotel. Like much of Vienna, the building was a mixture of styles — Renaissance, Baroque, and Gothic influences all at play in the old building. The sky was just beginning to darken, the lights on the old building making it the epitome of old world glamour.

  Julien exited the car and came around to open Charlotte’s door. She stepped out of the car and waited as Christophe did the same. He buttoned his jacket, took something from Julien, and started into the lobby where he headed straight for the elevators.

  She didn’t have to ask about their luggage, the room key. She knew how men like Christophe Marchand operated. They moved through the world like it had been made for them, expecting every crowd to part like the Red Sea, refusing to bother with the minutiae of everyday life. Standing in lines, waiting for service, carrying luggage.

  Men like Christophe Marchand did none of those things.

  She usually didn’t like those kind of men. They were pretentious and self-important, more interested in the trappings of their life than actually living it. But as they stepped into the elevator she felt none of these things. Maybe it was his introspection, the feeling that he was always deep in thought. Maybe it was those eyes, the story that seemed to be lurking there like a piece of art covered in layer upon layer of dust.

  They didn’t speak as they were whisked to the top floor, and she was suddenly desperate to escape to her hotel room. His presence was too big, almost oppressive in its silence. Her thoughts were running away with themselves. Her body, too, judging by the race of her pulse when he brushed against her arm holding the elevator door open for her. She needed space and time to gather her thoughts, to remind herself why she was here.

  They emerged into a spacious, marble-floored foyer, an expanse of plum colored carpet stretching to a bank of windows, Vienna glittering in the night sky beyond the glass. The furnishings were Biedermeier in style, although almost certainly reproductions. It had the feel of a plush jewelry box; black floors, dark furnishings in rich textures — velvet and suede, silk and leather. And all of it broken up only by the glitter of an elaborate chandelier overhead and an enormous and elaborate gilded mirror reflecting the light from the city beyond the windows.

  “I hope you didn't book this room for me.” She spoke the words for propriety’s sake, but she already had the feeling this wasn’t her room. “It’s far too luxurious. I can’t possibly afford it.”

  He crossed the room, set the key on a lacquered console. “It’s not for you. It’s for us.” He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “And before you object, let me clarify; you are my responsibility while you’re here, and while I doubt the men who threatened you in Paris have the resources to follow you here, I’m unwilling to take the chance. The expense is nothing.”

  She knew he meant it, and she was surprised to feel a shiver of excitement run up her spine. She wasn’t used to being taken care of. She was the one who took care of things. Who loaned her mother money when she was between jobs. Who held her hand when she’d been dumped by her latest boy toy. She was the one who went to Paris to resolve her father’s affairs, to make arrangements for his funeral.

  There was no parental safety net. No siblings to buffer her from the world. No close friendships to provide solace or guidance.

  “You’ll have your own room, of course,” he continued, gesturing to an open door to one side of the living room. “And a private bath.”

  “Thank you.” What else was there to say? There was no point fighting it. Christophe Marchand was in charge.

  For now.

  The elevator beeped as it arrived at their floor. Christophe strode toward it, and a moment later Julien stepped into the room with their bags. The two men exchanged a few murmured words before Julien ducked back into the waiting elevator car. The doors closed quickly.

  Christophe looked at his watch. “I have business to take care of, but it’s close to dinner time. Your luggage will arrive any minute. Why don’t you
freshen up and we’ll get something to eat. Nine o’ clock?”

  She wondered briefly what would happen if she were to refuse. If she said she would order dinner in and call it an early night. It was almost worth finding out. She doubted Christophe heard the word “no” very often.

  But the thought was a passing one. She already knew she wouldn’t say no to him.

  That was the part that scared her most.

  “All right,” she said.

  He nodded, and picked up his bag. “I’ll see you then.”

  He turned and disappeared into the room on the other side of the living area. She waited for the door to close, then picked up her overnight bag and made her way into the other bedroom.

  16

  The bedroom was different from the living area. Here the floors were a rich oak parquet, the furnishings clean-lined and beautiful. There was a small sitting area with two welcoming chairs, a bed piled high with linens, detailed molding that might have been original if she didn’t know better. Beyond the sleeping space, a pristine bath beckoned.

  She set her back on the bench at the end of the bed. Had it only been this morning that she’d made her way nervously to Saint Germain to ask Christophe Marchand for help? She wondered about the shop. Had the men returned? Had they damaged anything? She relaxed when she remembered that Christophe had said he would install men to keep an eye on it while they were gone.

  She checked her voice mail, listened to a message from Carolyn, her boss at the Getty, then sent off a quick email explaining the timeline for her return. A couple days in Vienna, a couple more days to settle affairs in Paris, and she would be back at work in a week. She would ask Joelle to help with the sale of the shop and offer her a bonus, then coordinate the rest from California as much as possible.

  She threw her phone on the bed and walked to the bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. The tub was tempting — a black marble masterpiece deep enough for a good, long soak. But she had only a little over an hour until dinner. The tub would have to wait.

  She took a shower instead, letting the hot water wash sluice down her body, trying to keep her mind from straying to Christophe in the other room. Was he taking a shower as well? Soaping his naked body? Thinking of her?

  She was surprised to feel the beat of desire between her legs, her sex slippery and wet.

  And not from the shower.

  It had been awhile since she’d had such a physical reaction to a man. Which was exactly the problem, she told herself, hurrying to finish rinsing her hair. She was a young woman. Her body had physical needs, even if she tried to deny them in the name of work or self-protection or whatever else she used as an excuse.

  In other words, she was horny. And it had nothing to do with the icy Monsieur Marchand.

  She toweled off and went to her bag, removing the few articles of clothing she’d brought, glad she’d thought to throw in the midnight blue slip dress. It was small and light — perfect for travel. That’s why she’d packed it. Not because it was sexy. Not because she’d hoped to have an occasion exactly like this one — a candlelit dinner in one of the most romantic cities in the world with a man as mysterious as he was compelling.

  Not that.

  She rubbed almond oil into her skin and let it seep into her pores as she started her makeup. Her hand shook as she did her eyeliner, and she put the pencil down and moved in close to the mirror, staring sternly at her reflection.

  “Get it together, Charlotte,” she murmured.

  She straightened, took a couple deep breaths, and finished her makeup quickly, determined not to think too hard about the end result. She twisted her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head and walked into the bedroom where she slid the slip dress over her head, letting the silky fabric caress her skin on its way down her body.

  She finished the outfit with simple diamond drop earrings and strappy heels, then transferred her ID and money to the one small bag she’d brought. She finished by sliding her perfume roller down her neck, ending at the hollow of her throat. She had a sudden flash of Christophe again, this time his head bent to her throat, inhaling the perfume, slipping the straps of her dress off her shoulders, the fabric pooling at her feet.

  The fates lead the willing.

  She shook her head to clear her mind of the words. She was tired, her mind mixing and matching details about the ring and the man who had entered her life as quietly as a mountain lion on the prowl.

  17

  He found her standing in front of the big windows overlooking the city. The room was dark, her silhouette lit only by the twinkling lights beyond the glass. He leaned against the door frame, watching her, letting his eyes travel unhurried over the hint of her body under the fabric of her dress. It skimmed her shape in all the right places, subtly hinting at the slim back, the narrow waist, the full ass tapering to shapely legs. The urge to go to her was overwhelming.

  He wanted to slip the narrow straps off her arms, let the dress fall to the floor, bend his lips to her beautiful shoulders.

  He wanted to cup her breasts in his hands as he lowered his mouth to hers, lingering against the fullness of her lips in the moment before he explored her with his tongue.

  He wanted to kneel at her feet, taste the sweetness he knew would be found between her legs.

  His cock lurched in his trousers at the images in his mind, and he forced himself to draw in a deep, quiet breath. Forced his body to bend to his will. He was almost there when she turned to face him, as if she sensed him standing in the shadows.

  She didn’t speak for a moment, and he could feel her eyes on him in the darkness.

  “How long have you been waiting?” she asked. The sound of her voice, raw and smoky, threatened to get him hard again.

  “Not long,” he said, keeping his voice crisp. He was a man used to beautiful things. It was something of an embarrassment to be so affected, the way he felt when he became tongue-tied standing in front of a Renoir or a Monet.

  “I forget how beautiful Vienna is,” she said, turning briefly back to the window.

  I forget how beautiful you are.

  He tried to banish the words from his mind, even though they were true. Each time they were apart he managed to convince himself he’d overstated her loveliness, only to be breathless all over again at the sight of her.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  He sensed her smile more than he saw it. “I’m starving actually.”

  “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

  He crossed the room slowly, held out his arm. She took it easily, as if they’d repeated the maneuver a thousand times. As if her arm belonged in his.

  “We should probably make it an early night,” she said as they headed for the elevator. “That way we can pay a visit to Baeder’s house early tomorrow.”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  But he already knew he would keep her with him as long as he could justify it.

  18

  Vienna was bustling despite the fact that it was mid-week. The streets were crowded with people making their way to and from the city’s bars and restaurants, many of them housed in buildings dating before the second world war. Here it was commonplace to have drinks in an old university building, dinner in a palace that might have belonged to a Habsburg. The storied architecture together with the cobblestone streets and crowds moving leisurely through the city gave the night an air of celebration, and Charlotte had to work not to sink against Christophe’s side with a sigh. She wanted to give into the sensation, to let it overtake her. To stop thinking so hard and worrying so much.

  She kept her back straight instead, moving through the city next to Christophe Marchand like they were soldiers with a common mission.

  He didn’t speak as they walked, and she realized it was one of the things she enjoyed most about his company. He didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with mindless chatter. There were no uncomfortable silences, only the kind of peace felt between waves at the
beach or when leaves fell silent between gusts of wind.

  It was natural. Elemental.

  They worked their way past dimly lit eateries and bars and the Karlsplatz and Kettenbrückengasse that was host to the city’s bustling street market. During the day, the boulevard would be crowded with stalls selling local meat and fresh-caught seafood, succulent fruits and earthy vegetables grown outside the city. Now the streets were scattered with nighttime revelers, and Christophe guided her expertly through the crowd until they came to a minimalist storefront crowded with people waiting to get in.

  Christophe put a firm hand on her lower back and guided her through the doors. Her nerves zipped with the electric current of his touch, and she forced herself to focus on the people around her instead, the scent of cooked meat and something spicy and exotic that she couldn’t quite name.

  When they finally reached the maitre d’, she saw that the restaurant was small and dark, hundreds of red lanterns hanging from the ceiling. They might have been next to the harbor in Hong Kong, the diners eating at outdoor tables instead of inside under the dim glow of the lanterns.

  Christophe greeted the maitre d’ with familiarity that didn’t necessarily translate to warmth. She was becoming accustomed to his formal manner — the way he had of being both curious and interested without dropping the wall that was a fortress his inner world.

  Or maybe he was simply a cold-hearted bastard. It was too soon to tell.

  The maitre d’ led them through the crowd, but instead of seating them in the dining room, they descended a set of stairs to a lower level she wouldn’t have known existed. The basement was just as dark as the top floor, but here the dining tables had given way to traditional seating, each booth set back into the wall, sheltered from its neighbors by pagoda-style trim on the top and sides of the booth. Inside, there was a small table at the center, a low, built-in lounge on either side of it.