by Jenni Wiltz
Ella emerged into the kitchen, an enormous room filled with gleaming stainless steel appliances and windows that looked out onto the gardens. The countertops were tiled with blue and yellow designs that reminded her of her Aunt Molly’s French country kitchen. Above her, a ceiling rack held dozens of copper pots and kettles. The place looked like a magazine spread, right down to the bowl of lemons sitting on the kitchen island.
Behind her, Sébastien stepped quickly to a built-in cabinet and pulled two leather jackets from padded hangers. “Here,” he said, handing one to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“It belongs to Frau Müller, but you’ll borrow it while we’re out. Take off that red thing.”
Ella shook her head. She was determined not to give in, not to be ordered around. “No way.”
Sébastien’s green eyes flashed with anger. “Do it!”
She stomped her foot and staked her ground. “Why?”
“Because I asked you to,” he snarled, baring his teeth.
“You didn’t ask me to do anything. If you have a good reason for it, just tell me.”
He stepped closer to her, near enough for her to feel his breath on her face. He curled his lip and glared at her.
Ella gulped and locked her knees in place to keep from stepping backward. So this is what it feels like to work for Sébastien Cherbourg, she thought. You take your life in your hands every time you disagree with him. Inside, she was terrified he’d accuse her of the robbery and have her arrested. She was even more terrified that she’d never find out why Sébastien’s family collection included a stone obviously stolen from her father.
Every instinct in her body warned her to run, to get away from this man towering over her. He was at least half a foot taller than her and almost a hundred pounds heavier. If he wanted, he could do some serious damage to her.
But then she remembered what her father had taught her. “Never let them see how they’ve hurt you,” he’d said. “Never let them know you’re scared.” He’d given her this lesson after a client balked at paying his bill and left Frederick with no choice but to insist on payment or a call to the police. After a tense stand-off in the workshop during which the man had threatened her father’s life, the client had finally agreed to pay in installments, thanks to a generous compromise on her father’s part. I’m trying, Dad, she thought.
Ella stood up straight and met Sébastien’s fiery gaze head-on. “If you want me to wear a different coat, you have to tell me why. And the answer can’t be because you don’t like red.”
He clenched his fists. It took all of her physical control not to wince or step backward. “Are you always like this?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“A pain in the rear.”
“I’m always me,” she said. “Take it or leave it.”
Ella felt her knees quiver once but kept her stance tall and straight. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
She saw him clench his jaw as he fought back an angry reply. The muscles in his cheek stood out against his jawbone as he ground his teeth. The strain it took for him to control himself was both frightening and amusing. It was frightening because if he ever released his pent-up anger, he’d be like a hurricane—so powerful he could destroy just about anything in his path. But it was also amusing because the fact that he controlled it meant she was winning.
Ella felt a thrill of pride that she was able to make this big bully back down. “Tell me what’s going on,” she repeated.
“Fine,” he retorted, backing away. He ran a hand through his tousled black hair. “If someone has just gotten out of here with a handful of my family’s jewels, they’re going to want to sell them. They’ll either have to do it right away, before the cops get involved, or they’ll have to wait for months, until the investigation settles down or they’re caught. I’m guessing they’ll want the money as soon as possible, which means we need to pay a visit to the first people a thief would turn to.”
“What does that have to do with my red coat?”
He curled his lip. “I’d prefer not to be spotted eight blocks away while I’m talking to a fence at three in the morning.” He held up Frau Müller’s jacket again. “Consider it camouflage.”
It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Why, she wondered, couldn’t he have just said that in the first place? Ella took the jacket, slipping off her dusty red wool and replacing it with the butter-soft brown leather. “There,” she said. “Was that so hard? But now I have another question.”
He sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Make that two questions. Why aren’t you calling the cops? And where is everyone? Why hasn’t anyone from your security team checked in? Why didn’t the alarm raise anyone else?”
“That,” Sébastien said, “is far more than two questions.”
Ella shrugged. “They’re all good ones. You should answer them.” She was afraid to push him much farther. After all, she was bound to be suspect number one when he did call the cops and report the robbery. She knew she wasn’t guilty and that no sane cop would link her to the robbery, but she wasn’t in a hurry to be dragged down to the police station and tossed in an interrogation room.
Sébastien narrowed his eyes. “You’re awfully curious about my security team for someone who is simply here to sign a few forms.”
“I do much more than that and you know it,” she retorted. “But it seems strange to me that millions of dollars of jewels have gone missing and you’re standing here, not worried about calling the police. Why?”
“The police,” he repeated, laughing dryly. “You want me to call the police.”
“Yes! Is that really so unusual?”
He shook his head, still laughing in a dry, humorless way. He held his hands to his forehead and closed his eyes. “What I want is for this exhibition to go off without a hitch. I don’t care about anything else.”
“Figures,” Ella said.
Sébastien’s head snapped up and his still-violent eyes fixed themselves on her face. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re only thinking of yourself. You haven’t even thought about how much harder you’re making it for the cops by delaying calling them. Or about how your mother will feel when she realizes some of her prized possessions are gone.”
“That’s it,” he said, snapping to action. He crossed the kitchen, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her out the back door.
“Where are we going?” she cried.
“To solve a crime.”
Ella left her arm in his grasp, wondering why he thought this was the preferred mode of transportation for her. They crossed a swath of carefully manicured gardens, filled with box-row hedges and beds of roses. He pulled her to a separate building behind the gardens, a long and narrow rectangle without any windows. From his pocket, he pulled out a smart phone and pressed a few buttons. The roll-up door began to lift itself.
“Is this your garage?” she asked.
“It’s not a petting zoo.”
Funny, she thought, realizing he responded to pressure-filled situations the same way she did: using black humor as a defense mechanism. The thought frightened her. I’m not like him at all, she argued with herself. Am I?
Sébastien pulled her towards a black European sedan with tinted windows. He came around to the passenger door and unlocked it, then held onto her arm while she slipped into the leather bucket seat. He waited until she was settled and then tucked in the edge of the brown leather coat, ensuring it wouldn’t get shut in the door.
Ella almost gasped in surprise. She hadn’t expected such a chivalric gesture from a man who was basically holding her hostage. She waited for him to round the car and settle himself in the driver’s seat before she turned her head to look at him once more.
In the shadows of the garage, his profile looked like what she imagined Roman emperors would have looked like—strong and determined, with square, angular faces that belied generations of breeding. She�
��d seen a few of their profiles on ancient coins in the museum’s Greek and Roman wing. They always comforted her, far more than the faces she saw on billboards or brochures.
Those ancient faces always seemed so capable, so sure of their destinies. They never doubted their birthright or their right to take over other territories. They built temples, aqueducts and amphitheaters because they wanted to or because it would make their people happy.
In many ways, Sébastien seemed similar. He ordered people around and wouldn’t take no for an answer, without ever seeming to doubt his choices. But did he do it because he saw himself as an emperor, in charge of his family’s destiny? Or did he do it because he was an insensitive jerk who never learned how to take other people’s feelings into consideration?
It made her think. And thinking about Sébastien Cherbourg wasn’t what she wanted to do. She wanted to find those stones and figure out what it all meant: to her, to her father, to her shattered life.
Sébastien backed the car out of the garage and closed it behind them. He maneuvered in reverse down a narrow driveway to street level and waited for a set of iron gates to open outward. When they’d opened, he flung the car into gear and sped off into the night.
Ella held onto the armrest with a sinking feeling. She wasn’t thrilled about the fact that he hadn’t called the police, but what could she do? She was a virtual prisoner. Maybe, she thought, I should find out just how “virtual” a prisoner I am.
“Take me home,” she said. “Please.”
Sébastien didn’t even turn his head to look at her.
Okay, she thought. No go. Let’s try something else.
“I’ve been in these clothes all day. I could sure use a quick shower and a change. What if we stop by my apartment? It would only take ten minutes, I promise.”
Nothing.
She pressed her lips together, feeling her anger rising. Apparently there was no “virtual” about it—she was a fully fledged prisoner, only without the handcuffs. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out,” she said. “I want to find the thief as much as you do, but what right do you have to keep me prisoner?”
“Prisoner?” he scoffed. “I’m keeping you safe is what I’m doing.”
To prove her point, she pulled the door handle—but he’d already locked her in. Nothing happened. “I beg to differ,” she said.
“You know, there is such a thing as keeping you safe from yourself.”
“But that’s not what you’re doing.”
“Apparently not,” he said, sounding frustrated. “Why don’t you just tell me what I’m doing and be quiet?”
“The great Sébastien Cherbourg wants me to tell him what he’s doing?”
“The great Sébastien Cherbourg wants you to shut up and let me think.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Holy hell, woman, are you ever quiet?”
Ella shrugged. “I was quiet when I was a girl. I guess I’m making up for lost time.”
He flicked an interested glance her way, as if she’d finally said something that didn’t anger him.
“Watch the road,” she said, pointing at the intersection in front of them.
But he wouldn’t let it go. “Why were you quiet?”
Suddenly, she realized she didn’t want to tell him. It was no one’s business but her own. Even though it was a simple statement of fact—I was an orphan at the age of eight—she was afraid he’d make some snide comment like, Oh, that explains a lot. Besides, she’d built her whole life around the search for her father’s killers. If she told him any tiny detail about it, he could deconstruct her life into all its parts. He’d know everything about her, instantly.
She thought about something the museum talked about: diversification. Maybe she should have diversified her life a bit more, developing friends and interests that had nothing to do with gems and jewelry and murderers. But she hadn’t. She’d been a lost, lonely little girl and now she was a lost, lonely grown-up girl. She didn’t even know what she would do if she weren’t searching for her father’s missing stones. What was it that normal people did…go to the movies? Walk on the beach? Learn to knit?
I’ll do those things when the man who pulled the trigger is behind bars, she thought.
“Did I bring up a touchy subject?” he asked.
“No,” she answered quickly. “I was just trying to think of a polite way to tell you it’s none of your damn business.”
From the corner of her eyes, she saw him smirk. “Ms. Wilcox,” he said, “one of these days you’ll learn that is the polite way.”
She turned her head quickly to hide her smile.
Chapter Five
Sébastien sped from Russian Hill to the Tenderloin, a few shady blocks that held more than their share of homeless people, drug addicts, and thieves. The Cherbourg Foundation owned and operated three halfway houses in the area, where he sometimes recruited for jobs as part of a charitable welfare-to-work program.
He rarely ventured into the neighborhood himself, but like anything else that affected his family, he knew everything about the properties he owned, from the current residents’ names to the crimes they’d been convicted for. He remembered that one of the Turk Street buildings had rented a room to a man named Eddie DiMarco, recently released after a ten-year stint in Folsom Prison for grand larceny.
DiMarco had been in the building for three months, long enough to have a feel for the area—and for who a more experienced thief might turn to fence his stolen goods.
As he drove, he tried to avoid making eye contact with Ella. He’d come close to losing his temper with her in the kitchen. Too close. Usually, it was easy for him to keep his feelings behind a wall of disdain or disinterest, but something about her was getting under his skin.
He couldn’t tell whether it was the way she pelted him with questions, the way she stood up to him or the silent fear that never left her eyes.
She didn’t seem to be afraid of him the way most people were, yet something obviously had her spooked. What was it? And where had she learned to stand her ground like that? Half of the board members of his foundation were too afraid to challenge him or ask him to explain his reasoning. She’d already done more than they ever had, and for what? To defend her favorite coat?
It made no sense. She made no sense. If she had that much instinct and initiative, why wasn’t she a high-powered executive? Why was she wasting her time looking at old pieces of jewelry? Everything with her only led to more questions.
He pulled up in front of the halfway house, a two-story ochre brick building with a white porch and cornice. “This is it,” he said.
“What are we doing here?” Ella asked. “This place is kind of creepy.”
“We’re going to talk to someone. Come on.” He got out of the car and hurried around to open Ella’s door for her. Nuisance or not, she was still a woman and Cherbourg men opened doors for women.
He grasped her arm as she exited the vehicle, both to make sure she stayed safe and to make sure she didn’t run away. He hadn’t forgotten that she might be the thief, after all.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable leaving your expensive car here?” she asked, glancing from side to side. “This is a rough street.”
“They wouldn’t dare to take anything that belongs to me.”
She flashed him a doubtful look but kept her mouth shut.
Sébastien pulled her up to the front door and pounded on it. It swung open under the pressure, revealing a dark lobby with threadbare chairs and a fraying chenille sofa. He tightened his grip on Ella and stepped inside. She closed the front door behind them.
The lobby smelled of cobwebs and cheap beer. He glanced around, looking for someone to speak with, but every door was closed and every light switched off. “Who are we looking for?” Ella asked, pointing at a mailbox bay with resident names printed in black capital letters.
“DiMarco,” he said.
Ella ran her finger down the list until she spotted hi
m. “2A,” she said. “I don’t like the look of this. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
No, he wanted to say. But it’s too late to turn back now. “Of course I know what I’m doing,” he snapped. “Just stay quiet and listen carefully.”
They marched up the staircase, covered with frayed floral carpeting. The wood creaked under their every footstep. He made a mental note to question the property manager about the decaying furnishings. What did he pay the man for if not to keep this place in top shape? Letting it fall to pieces destroyed the property value as well as the credibility of the halfway house’s message.
With a tight grip on Ella’s arm, he stepped into the hallway and proceeded to door 2A. “Mr. DiMarco,” he said, pounding on the door. “This is Sébastien Cherbourg.”
Instantly, he heard shuffling inside at least three nearby rooms. He continued pounding and calling for DiMarco until a pair of feet scuffed their way to the door and opened it slightly. Sébastien glimpsed a tanned face, full cheeks and sleepy brown eyes. “Mr. DiMarco, I’m—”
“I know who you are,” the man said. “What do you want?”
“I have a few questions to ask you regarding your. . .what shall we call it?. . .prior field of employment. I’ll stand here in the hall and ask them as loudly as I can or you can open the door and—”
DiMarco quickly opened the door and Sébastien hustled Ella inside. DiMarco rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shut the door behind them. “What do you want with me?”
“I need a name,” he said.
“But I don’t know—”
Sébastien waved away the man’s protests. “Listen,” he said. “If someone wanted to sell a few million dollars worth of stolen jewelry, which fence would he use?”
DiMarco’s eyes fell to the floor and shifted nervously from corner to corner. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.
They always lie the first time out, he thought. Sébastien grabbed the man’s t-shirt and gripped it tightly. “You do know,” he growled. “And you’re going to tell me right now.”
