by Lyn Horner
Bidding Esme “À demain” – until tomorrow – she walked over to the Navajo. “Come. I will obtain better lodgings for you, but first we will dine. You must be famished after your long journey.”
“I could eat,” he said. Stepping to the glass outer door of her office, he held it open for her.
She thanked him and, heels tapping on the granite floor, accompanied him to the bank of elevators. Her office was in a high-rise building located in La Défense, the major business district just west of the city proper. This was not the touristy part of Paris with narrow lanes and picturesque, centuries old-architecture. This was Europe’s largest, ultramodern financial center. Delilah was proud to be part of it.
She paused when they stepped out onto the sidewalk, a late February wind sifting through her hair. “What kind of food do you like?” she asked Tseda.
“I usually eat Navajo and Mexican foods. And sometimes a hamburger.”
She crinkled her nose in disdain at mention of the ubiquitous American favorite. “Would you care to taste French cooking?”
“Yes. I am not so set in my ways that I will not try something new.” He gave her a smile. “But I cannot promise to like it.”
“Of course.” Thinking he looked younger when he smiled, she led him to one of her favorite restaurants a short walk away. At her suggestion, he allowed her to order for him since the menu was quite naturally in French. She chose chicken fricassee and asparagus tips with hollandaise sauce for them both.
“We must choose a wine,” she said. “They have a very good Beaujolais that compliments the chicken dish I am ordering.”
Tseda pointed at the glasses of water their waiter had already brought. “I want only water, but you should have wine if you wish.”
She raised her eyebrows, eyeing him briefly, then told the waiter to bring her a glass of Beaujolais. As soon as the young man left, she asked, “You do not like wine?”
“I do not drink spirits of any kind. When I was a young man, I drank whiskey, a lot of whiskey. It made me act crazy and almost ruined my marriage. So, I quit.”
His honest admission impressed her. “Did you find it difficult to quit?”
He chuckled. “Very difficult, but I could not face losing Yolanda, my wife. That would have killed me. I never touched whiskey again, until she died.” He sighed and shook his head. “Then I went on a bender, trying to drown my sorrow. It did not work.”
Experiencing a surge of pity for him, she leaned forward, impulsively reaching out, almost touching his hand where it lay on the table. She caught herself, recalling he was a stranger, and flattened her hand on the linen covered tabletop. “You must have loved her, your wife, very much,” she said.
“Yes, I did.” He studied their two hands, no doubt noticing the contrast between his dark skin and her much lighter coloring. Then he gazed into her eyes. “Just as you loved Malcolm Flewellen.”
Delilah drew in her breath and sat back in her chair. Grief again washed through her. She had to swallow twice before she could speak. “My relationship with him is none of your business.”
Tseda lifted one eyebrow, black with no touch of gray. “That is so, but I thought you might wish to talk about him.”
She shook her head, dropping her gaze. “No, I can’t. But I need to know . . . did he suffer before he died?”
“No. Lara was told by investigators that he died instantly.”
“Dieu merci!” she whispered, closing her eyes. When she reopened them, he was watching her with a quizzical frown. She explained, “I was thanking God.”
“Mmm. It is good to thank Ahsonnutli.”
“Is that the Navajo name for God?”
“Those of my people who follow the old ways have many gods. Ahsonnutli is chief among them. He is the sky father. He created heaven, earth and sky.”
“I see.” Clasping her hands, Delilah changed the subject. “You said Lara and others of my . . . associates came to your homeland seeking a refuge. Where is that exactly, and how many have gathered there?”
“The Navajo Nation is in the southwestern United States. It takes in part of Arizona, Utah and New Mexico. I live in the Arizona area.” He shifted in his seat and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Four of the Guard . . . I mean your friends, are there. Lara and Conn have gone to find the one who works in Africa. Do you want me to name them all?”
She glanced around the restaurant, noting the growing crowd, the couple seated at a nearby table in particular. “No, that would not be wise,” she said with a discreet tilt of her head toward their neighbors, who kept darting glances at Tseda. His odd coat and hair style attracted too much attention.
He nodded, sliding an amused look at the curious pair that made them swiftly turn their gazes elsewhere. A moment later, the waiter brought a basket of bread and the glass of wine Delilah had requested. The main course soon followed. Concentrating on their dinner, they spoke little. Afterward, Tseda tried to pick up the check but Delilah snatched it away.
“Do not be silly. You are a guest in my city. It would be ill-mannered of me to let you pay.” She didn’t add that the restaurant was expensive, undoubtedly too much for his pocketbook, since he could not afford a better hotel than the rattrap he was planning to stay in. The thought of which brought her to an impulsive decision.
“The day grows short. I must call my driver,” she said, retrieving her cell phone from her bag. “You cannot stay in that vile place where you are booked, and I am too tired to scour the city for a decent hotel for you. There is only one solution. You shall stay with me.”
Tseda’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. Good. After the shocks he had given her today, Delilah enjoyed turning the tables on him for once.
CHAPTER TWO
Startled by her offer, Leon said, “That is not a good idea. I am a stranger to you. It’s not proper for me to spend the night with you.”
Ms. Moreau laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Monsieur Tseda. I am a mature woman. It is no one’s business who I invite into my home, and I have a spare room you are welcome to use.” She cocked her delicate black eyebrows. “That is, if I can trust you not to sneak into my room and force yourself upon me.”
Heat flooded his face. “I would not do such a thing,” he said with a scowl.
“Good. Then it’s settled.”
Leon was still uncomfortable with her insistence that he stay with her. However, he realized it might give him a chance to convince her to heed Lara’s call and accompany him to America. “Alright, but if I am to stay with you, you should call me Leon.”
She eyed him for a moment before nodding. “Very well, and you may call me Delilah.” She tapped a message into her phone, paid for their meal, and said her driver would arrive shortly to pick them up.
As promised, a uniformed chauffeur who she called Germain, ushered them into a fancy European car a few minutes later. Leon sat silent and ill at ease in the luxurious interior, gazing out the side window at the crush of noisy traffic and the busy city around them. The sun had almost set by the time they turned onto a quieter street that overlooked a river with boats passing in both directions.
“That is the Seine River you are looking at, and this is where I live,” Delilah said as her driver stopped in front of an imposing stone structure across from the river. “The building was refurbished some years ago and divided into apartments. Condos, you would call them in America. Mine is on the fourth floor.”
“Mmm.” Awed, Leon could only stare when they walked into the lobby of the building. Glancing this way and that, he took in the marble walls and floor, the high ceiling with an intricate gold carving of the sun – he thought it was the sun – in the middle. Elegant upholstered chairs and low tables were grouped in seating areas around the large room.
“Let me introduce you to Armand, the concierge,” Delilah said. “Then he won’t question you when you come and go.”
Leon followed her to the marble-topped reception desk, thinking she must be very rich to live in
such a place.
“Bonsoir, Madame Moreau,” the slim, dark-haired man behind the desk said. He smiled at Delilah, causing his thin mustache to curve up.
“Bonsoir, Armand,” she replied. Speaking in English, she gestured at Leon with a graceful wave of her hand. “I wish you to meet my guest, Monsieur Tseda. He will be staying with me for a short time. He is American and does not speak French.”
“Of course, Madame.” The man gave a courteous nod to Leon. “I am most happy to meet you, Monsieur. If I may be of service in any way, do not hesitate to ask.”
Leon returned his nod. Before he could think of a word to say, Delilah caught his arm, said, “Come,” and led him to an elevator across the room and down a short hall. It delivered them to her floor, opening onto a thickly carpeted hallway which they followed to her door. She punched in a code on a numbered pad on the wall to her right. A click sounded, she opened the door and walked in.
“Come in, please,” she said, stepping aside and holding the door open for him.
Crossing the short entryway, he halted to gaze at the restful living space. Pale, blue-gray walls with white trim and a pair of tall windows facing toward the river made the room look larger than it really was. A tan and gray patterned rug covered most of the light oak floor. A fawn-colored sofa stood next to the windows with a glass-topped coffee table in front of it. Two matching chairs were arranged by the side wall, across the room from where he stood, with a smaller table and lamp between them. An abstract painting done in colors that went with the rest of the room hung above the chairs.
Opposite the sofa, a hearth with logs piled on the grate was framed by white-painted bricks. A flat screen television hugged the wall above the fireplace mantel, also white. Half-turning to his left, Leo saw a modern kitchen with a marble-topped island dividing it from the living room.
“Well, what do you think of it?” Delilah asked, drawing his attention. She stood behind him, leaning against the closed door, smiling in amusement at his inspection of her living quarters.
“You have a beautiful home,” he replied. He spoke true but couldn’t help thinking how different her world was from his. Half of him wished he was back on his own land, in his plain, familiar surroundings. His other half wanted to learn all he could about this foreign woman and her country.
“Thank you. I like it.” She straightened away from the door. “The bedroom you will occupy is this way.” She pointed left down a short hallway. “You may as well bring your bag.”
The room she led him to would swallow his bedroom back home twice over. Decorated in the same soothing colors as the living room, it held a large quilt-covered bed, a bureau and nightstand with a lamp.
“I hope this meets with your approval,” Delilah said.
“It’s fine. I will sleep well here.”
“The guest bathroom is just across the hall. You will find fresh towels in there if, uh, you wish to shower.” She clasped her hands and looked away, cheeks turning pink.
He rubbed his mouth, hiding a grin at her gentle hint. “Thank you, I could use a washing after so long on smelly airplanes.”
“Yes, well, I know you don’t want an after-dinner drink but perhaps a cup of coffee? It would take only a few moments to prepare.”
“Thank you, but don’t bother.” He shrugged. “I am tired after my journey. If you don’t mind, I will clean up and go to bed.”
“Of course, I understand. Actually, I rose quite early today and am a trifle spent myself.” A fleeting smile danced across her tempting red lips. “I shall retire and leave you to it.” She turned to go but paused in the doorway, glancing back at him. “We can talk further in the morning about . . . everything.”
Leon nodded. They said goodnight, and he listened to her footsteps recede along the hall, waiting until he heard her bedroom door open and close. Then he removed his jacket and boots, dug clean undergarments from his duffle bag, and padded across the hall to shower.
Stretched out in bed a while later, he found the mattress soft compared to what he was used to. Restless, he wondered how to convince Delilah Moreau she must return with him to America. If he succeeded, what would she think of his homeland and his humble hogan? Not that it mattered, he told himself before falling asleep.
* * *
Delilah unlocked a corner liquor cabinet in her bedroom and poured a thumbnail of King Louis cognac from its Baccarat decanter into a tumbler. The costly liqueur was her favorite. Perhaps it would settle her nerves enough to sleep.
Kicking off her heels, she paced the room, enjoying the soft tickle of plush carpet beneath her feet. She sipped slowly while Leon Tseda’s frightening story swirled through her head, sending shivers down her spine. Was it really true? His possession of Lara’s pendant seemed convincing.
Convincing enough to make me fall apart! she conceded.
But what if he had somehow learned about the precious scrolls the Guardians of Danu protected and he coveted them for himself? Might he have captured Malcolm’s niece and tortured her into handing over her pendant – along with everything she knew about the Guardians? For Lara’s sake, Delilah hoped that was not the case.
Yet, she did not want to accept the alternative, for that would mean Malcolm truly was dead. A vice closed around her heart at the thought of him being gone. They hadn’t been lovers in years, but she’d taken comfort knowing he was still there, across the vast ocean separating them. He was the only man she had ever genuinely loved. Unlike her late brute of a husband, Malcolm had always treated her with respect and gentleness. His touch had made her heart sing.
Finishing her drink, she changed into a silk nightgown and slipped into bed. Although tired from a very early morning and the stress of Leon’s arrival, sleep did not come easily.
* * *
Sara Flewellen watched Master Balor, her jailer, stride into her room. Walking up to her, he crossed his arms. He towered over her, menacing in his dark gray, deeply hooded cape. Seeing only his chin and part of his jaw beneath the deep hood, she hugged herself. He had never let her see his face. When they were lovers, a hazy memory in her heroin-addled brain, he’d always insisted on total darkness, had never removed his shirt and had covered his face with a silk cloth. She’d guessed he must be hiding some terrible deformity.
“You finally sense Lara’s presence again, your nurse tells me,” he said, holding a gloved finger over the opening in his throat. His voice sounded artificial, the way she imagined a robot might speak.
“Yes, Master.” The psychic connection she’d shared with her twin since birth had suddenly returned this morning after weeks of trying and failing to reach her. Weeks of torture when Balor ordered that witch of a nurse, now standing silent and stone-faced across the room, to periodically withhold her medicine.
“Good. Now tell me where she is.”
“I-I don’t know.”
He slapped her fast as a striking snake, causing her to cry out and sway on her feet. She might have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed her arm, his grip painful. “Fool! What good does it do if you sense your bitch of a sister but can’t tell me where she’s hiding?”
“I’m sorry, Master,” she wailed.
“Concentrate, damn you! Find her.”
She closed her eyes, reaching out to Lara. Picking up a sensation of flight, she blurted, “She’s on a plane! Like that other time when she was flying to New York.”
Balor loosened his grip slightly. “Where is the plane going?” he asked, a hint of excitement in his mechanical words.
Sara squeezed her eyes tighter shut, listening for Lara’s voice in her head. “She’s talking to him, h-her man. She says she hopes they locate Adam without too much trouble.”
“Adam who? Where is he?”
She shook her head. “Sister didn’t say, but now she says she’s worried about Leon. She hopes he can find his way around Paris and convince Delilah Moreau to return with him.”
“This Delilah Moreau is one of the Guardians?”
“I-
I think so.” Opening her eyes, Sara furrowed her brow, dredging up a memory. “Once, a long time ago, I heard Uncle Malcolm talk to a woman on the phone. He called her Delilah. I thought she was just a girlfriend because it sounded like he was breaking up with her, but now, I think she must be one of them, the Guardians.”
“Excellent. I shall send men to find her.” Balor patted Sara’s throbbing cheek, causing her to flinch. “You have done well, my dear. However, I still must know where your sister is flying off to. It’s vital for you to find out and tell me.” He pinched her chin hard enough to sting. “You will do that for me, won’t you?”
“Yes, Master.” Giving him a pleading look, she asked, “Can I have my medicine now?”
“Certainly, since you have been so helpful today.” He nodded to the nurse and, without another word, turned and marched out.
Sara heaved a sigh of relief. She’d gotten away with lying to him. She had heard Lara mention her destination, but had kept it to herself, not wanting him to get his hands on her sister. If she continued to deny Balor the information, she knew he would make her suffer again. Was she strong enough to withstand the pain? Feeling a hand grip her arm, she watched the hated nurse inject a dose of temporary peace to her battered soul.
Balor hurried back to his workroom and placed a call to his chief lieutenant in Europe. The woman was an American living near Paris, a fortunate coincidence under the circumstances.
“Marisa, I have an assignment for you,” he said as soon as she answered.
* * *
Delilah spent the night either caught in nightmares of ghostly figures chasing her, or waking to bouts of grief-ridden tears coupled with worry over whether or not to trust Leon Tseda. She woke for the last time to the sound of her alarm shortly after dawn. Groggy and out of sorts, she tossed back the covers, dragged herself out of bed and staggered into the bathroom.
After showering, she felt somewhat better. A dollop of styling product and a few passes with a handheld dryer smoothed her short hair. Choosing a cinnamon colored pencil skirt and peplum top from her closet, she dressed, slipped on matching pumps and stepped out of her room.
