by Jenni Wiltz
Ella swiveled in her seat, looking out the back window. As much as she hoped the other guys would just give up, she knew it probably wouldn’t happen. Her heart sank when she saw the black sedan performing a similar maneuver. “They’re coming back,” she said, heart pounding in her chest. “What do they want?”
Sébastien glanced into the rearview mirror. “I’m not sticking around long enough to find out.”
As much as Ella liked that idea, she realized that running wouldn’t help figure out who was behind this. “Shouldn’t we try and get a license plate number or something?” she asked.
“Do it,” he said, slamming on the brakes once more. The car drew itself to a halt almost instantly and the sedan in pursuit had a hard time stopping without slamming into them. As the sedan fishtailed and swung past them, Ella memorized the license plate number, make, and model.
“Got it!” she cried.
“Good girl.” Sébastien gunned the engine again. They sped off down the two-way street, flying past coffee shops and hairdressers’ salons. Behind them, the black sedan crept up closer and closer. Sébastien veered into the fast lane and the sedan pulled up at their side. Ella turned her head and saw the driver lower his tinted window. A black-gloved hand held out an automatic pistol.
“Sébastien, duck!” she screamed as the shooter fired three shots into the car’s cabin.
She and Sébastien crouched down, pressing themselves into their seats. Sébastien kept one hand on the steering wheel, attempting to keep the car straight.
The bullets broke her window and whizzed straight through the car, breaking the window on Sébastien’s side, too. Bits of shattered glass tumbled over them. She put her hands over her head, feeling the sharp edges of the tiny shards slice across her flesh.
As soon as the rain of glass ceased, Sébastien popped up and jerked the steering wheel to the right. Their car sideswiped the dark sedan, forcing it up onto the sidewalk. The sedan swerved unsteadily to avoid hitting a lamppost and then a mailbox. Sébastien turned the wheel once more, using the weight and power of his vehicle to keep the black sedan on the sidewalk.
The sedan charged straight ahead. Unable to change directions, it slammed into a telephone pole. Sébastien jerked the wheel to the left and pulled the e-brake again, turning the car so they faced the sedan head-on.
Smoke plumed from the crumpled hood. Multiple cracks cris-crossed the windshield. Ella popped up from her crouch and stared, open-mouthed, at what Sébastien had managed to do. Her heart felt as if it were permanently lodged in her throat. She felt a ringing in her ears and it took her a moment to realize it was her pulse, racing out of control. We almost died, she thought. They could have killed us.
“What do we do now?” she asked, more than half afraid of the answer.
He kept his eyes fixed on the other vehicle. “I want to see who gets out of that car.”
“We need to get out of here,” she whispered. “This isn’t right.”
“I want to know who did this.”
“What if they come out of the car still shooting? Sébastien, I’m scared.”
She reached out to grip his arm, hoping her touch could communicate what she was still too frightened to say. I don’t want to die, she thought.
She turned to face him, hoping she could see some sign of humanity looking back at her, some sign that he was as shaken as she was. He couldn’t think this is all in a day’s work, could he? And then another, more chilling thought struck her. Ella gulped to force her heart out of her throat. “Sébastien, what if they’re dead? What if we killed someone?”
“You didn’t kill anyone.”
“You know what I mean.” She refused to allow him to retreat behind that gruff exterior, especially now when they might be facing the worst kind of trouble. “We have to call the cops. Someone might need an ambulance.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt.
“Sébastien, wait!”
He put out a hand and pressed it to her chest. “No,” he said, finally facing her. She took one look at his face and stopped short.
The wildness in his eyes was frightening to see. They had turned from a clear olive into a dark forest green, swirling with emotion. His face took on a snarl that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a wolf. Curled lips bared the points of his canine teeth, shining in the moonlight. Anyone who looked at him would realize he was in the throes of a deep and violent fury.
She opened her mouth to say his name but nothing came out.
His hand rested in the concave between her breasts, holding the seat belt against her chest. “Stay, Ella.”
She felt tears prick her eyes. She wanted to beg him not to go out there, to take her home instead and help her wash the blood from her hands. But as hard as she tried, the air she forced from her mouth refused to shape either words or sound. Beneath his hand, her heart beat with the force of a kettle drum. Its warmth spread through her from the epicenter of his touch.
Her right hand slipped up and encircled his, keeping it pressed against her chest. “Don’t go, Sébastien,” she whispered. “Please don’t go.”
He brought his other hand up to caress her face. She leaned into his touch, wishing she were enough to persuade him to stay. With her cold cheek resting in his hand, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then he tilted her face up and pressed his lips to hers.
Soft at first, they rested lightly over hers, a comforting presence that was almost enough to transport her outside this car, outside this city, into a place where bullets and death didn’t exist. Then his lips began to press on hers, pushing them open. He took her lower lip between his teeth and nipped it gently.
All of a sudden, she felt as if her whole body were on fire. She opened her lips to him and allowed her tongue to meet his. Circling and twirling, they danced together in a ballet of beautiful blackness, with a ferocity born of fear. He tasted warm yet spicy and she found herself craving more. Her tongue couldn’t explore enough, couldn’t taste enough of him.
Sébastien brought both of his hands up to hold her face. Every place he touched her felt as if it had been set on fire with flames that no amount of water could extinguish. She clutched at him, wondering where this strange electricity had come from.
When Sébastien finally pulled away, she could hear their sharp intakes of breath as they gasped for air. The anger had vanished in his expression, replaced by something she couldn’t identify, something that softened the line of his jaw and his arched brows.
Ella didn’t trust her mouth to speak, but it didn’t matter. Sébastien pulled back from her without a word, leaving her paralyzed. All she could do was stare as he slipped out of the car, crossed the street and pounded on the driver’s side window of the ruined sedan.
She tried to gather her scrambled thoughts, dimly aware that they were both still in danger. She watched him knock again on the other sedan’s window. When no one responded, he lifted the door handle and it opened.
Ella put a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Don’t, she wanted to cry.
But he did. He pulled open the door and stood for a long moment, staring at what he found inside the sedan. Part of her wished she could see around him and find out what held his attention. The other part of her knew she didn’t want to see whatever it was.
After a pause and a silence that seemed to last forever, Sébastien slammed the door of the sedan and crossed the street. He slipped back into the car and sat motionless, staring out the windshield.
Ella watched his hands, tense where they grabbed the steering wheel. “Sébastien, what happened?” she asked.
“There was no one inside,” he said softly. “They’d already slipped out the passenger side.”
Even though she knew he was disappointed, Ella let out her breath in a sigh of relief. Sébastien is safe. The other driver isn’t dead. I’m not dead. In that moment, she knew those three things were all she could ask for.
She turned sideway
s in her seat to face him, not bothering to hide the relief on her face. “I was so afraid,” she said. “Can we go now, please?”
He nodded as if he’d suddenly become too tired to speak. The key turned in the ignition and the car began to move. Cold night air filled the cabin, whooshing through the shattered windows with the force of a celestial exhale.
Ella shivered and wondered why Sébastien was suddenly acting so withdrawn. He rested his right hand over the shifter and made no move to clutch hers or rest his palm on her leg. She knew she hadn’t imagined what had happened between them—a force with heat enough to replicate a solar flare, hot enough to sear them both to the bone. Something she couldn’t walk away from, even though she knew she didn’t trust him yet, couldn’t trust him yet.
But why was he pretending it hadn’t happened? Didn’t he wonder, too, at the inexplicable force that was obviously present between them? Or did he intend to crush it, and her, beneath the force of his indifference?
The very thought brought a knife-edge of pain to her belly, sharper than the pieces of glass that had pierced her skin.
Chapter Seven
Sébastien pulled the car into the garage and shut off the engine. He felt sick inside, his stomach churning with a combination of leftover adrenaline and the aftereffects of the kiss.
He’d never felt anything like it before.
Something electric had happened as soon as his lips touched hers. He could still feel it reverberate through his bones, shaking with the force of an earthquake.
Who was this woman and why did she have this strange power to make him forget about everything around him, including a life-or-death situation exploding right in front of him? She was like a live wire, twisting and sparkling beside him, tempting him to touch her. But when he did, he discovered she was silver-bright lightning encased in pale white skin.
An image flashed through his mind: pictures of men who had been struck by lightning, whose hair had turned white in an instant. He wondered what he would see when he looked in the mirror. Would he, too, have been struck? Would the hair at his temples have turned white, like an old man’s?
As soon as he thought it, he realized it didn’t matter. Every nerve in his body wanted more of her, no matter what it did to him. But he couldn’t let her know. She might be a thief. Even if she wasn’t, she was probably still just like Amanda and all the rest. The only way to keep his heart—and his money—safe was to ignore it. All of it.
“Follow me,” he said tonelessly, still in shock after what had happened. He was only dimly aware that they’d both been cut by the shattered glass and most likely required a bit of first aid. His only goal was to get inside the house and pour himself a stiff drink. Anything to set his head right after what had happened. Thinking about kissing her was dangerous, more dangerous than whoever had tried to run them off the road.
Sébastien led Ella through the back gardens, into the house through the kitchen. When he opened the door, Frau Müller stood tapping her foot anxiously. “Where have you been?” she cried. “Mr. Novochek came looking for you and I had no idea where you were!”
His housekeeper’s shrill voice shook some of the cobwebs from his head. He heard the worry in her voice and instantly regretted not calling ahead to warn her of their plans. Still, his head of security should have known to contact him via cell phone. “I didn’t mean to worry you, Gertrude. Things got a bit out of hand.”
“I can see that! You’re both bleeding! I’m going to fetch Peter.” The housekeeper bustled down the hall, arms at her sides. Frau Müller was far too practical and efficient to do anything like wring her hands. He realized he should be grateful for her no-nonsense way of handling things.
This whole situation was spinning out of control faster than he’d expected. The day had begun optimistically, with no indication that his exhibition would be completely derailed within a matter of hours. First Ella, then the robbery, now an attempt on our lives…what have I stirred up?
Ella shuffled closer to him and jostled his elbow gently. “Wake up,” she said.
“What?” He shook his head to clear the rest of the cobwebs. “What did you say?”
“I asked you who Peter is,” she said softly. Up close, he could see the smattering of freckles beneath her eyes. She looked tired but stable—still in better control of herself than he was.
Get it together, he thought. You have a job to do. “He’s the Cherbourg family’s private physician. He lives on the grounds in one of the guest houses.”
Ella raised an eyebrow. “Are Cherbourgs in the habit of coming home shot up?”
Despite his fatigue, he couldn’t hold back a small smile. “Contrary to what we experienced tonight, violence is pretty rare in this family,” he explained. “My grandfather was ill for many years. My father hired Peter to take care of him. When my grandfather finally passed away, we’d grown so dependent on him that he stayed with us as a permanent employee.”
He thought of the times Peter had come up to the mansion to treat his childhood illnesses, prescribe new sleeping pills or anti-depressants for his mother, and lecture his father on the number of whiskeys he drank before dinner. When his father had died of a heart attack at the young age of 43, Peter had been there to hold his mother’s hand and dry her tears. “He’s trustworthy. Just like Frau Müller.”
Ella nodded. “Sébastien, I can’t stay here. I need fresh clothes. I need to go home.”
“We’ll talk about it once Peter has checked you out.” Instantly, he knew he didn’t want her to go. He had to keep an eye on her, but it was becoming more than that. He realized he didn’t want her to be the thief. Even if it meant he had to go to the police for help in tracking down the stolen jewels.
Before Ella could protest, a pair of footsteps clicked in the hallway leading to the kitchen. He saw the white shock of hair belonging to Dr. Peter O’Malley. O’Malley was in his early sixties, an Irish immigrant who began as a family practitioner before becoming attached to the Cherbourgs exclusively. O’Malley had been hired before Sébastien was even born. The man was as familiar to him as his own father, as steady a presence as Frau Müller.
“Peter,” he said, coming forward to shake the older man’s hand.
O’Malley smiled. “Gertrude tells me you’ve been in a bit of a scuffle. I suppose it’s useless asking you to keep regular business hours?”
Sébastien nodded. “Peter, we’re in the middle of something here. There was a robbery in the vault a few hours ago. Ms. Wilcox and I have been following a lead. I wouldn’t have dragged you out of bed for myself, but I’d like you to make sure she’s all right.”
The doctor acquiesced, turning to Ella. “Miss Wilcox, is it?”
“Ella,” she said, holding out her hand to shake his.
“Ella,” he agreed. He stepped closer to her and held her hands up into the light. “These are sharp incisions. Glass?”
“Yes,” Sébastien said. “She had a fall, too, hard on her right side.”
“Let’s go have a look,” O’Malley said. He clasped Ella’s hand and hefted his black doctor’s bag. “Come with me into the study. I’ll set up shop there.”
Ella threw him a worried glance and he nodded at her, reassuring her she’d be safe with Peter. “I’ll be right here,” he said. “Go with Peter.”
When the two of them had left, Sébastien pulled his phone from his pocket, wondering if Jake had been able to dig anything up on Ella’s background. He navigated to his email inbox and saw a zip file waiting for him. He downloaded it and opened it, discovering his PI was as good as his word. The file contained a handful of PDFs and an overview from Jake. He selected the overview and opened it up.
Sébastien,
Found what you were looking for. Ella Jean Wilcox, 26, is the daughter of Frederick and Mara Wilcox, both of San Francisco. The mother died in 1989; death certificate attached as PDF file. Frederick was a jewelry restorer. Looks like he worked with some high-class people back in the day. His shop addr
ess was the same as their home address—seems he worked out of a shed in the backyard, if you can believe it. In 1993, there was a break-in. The police report, also attached, notes that Frederick and Ella interrupted two armed men as they cleared out the workshop. The men shot Frederick and escaped with millions of dollars of loose stones. The poor kid saw it all and watched her father bleed to death in her arms.
Seems she told the cops what she saw, but nothing came of it. The state put her into the custody of an aunt and uncle and the cops never recovered any of the jewelry and never found the perps. Here’s where it gets even more interesting, though. The kid never gave up. There are four or five additional police reports attached that list her as a complainant, accusing various jewel collectors of having her father’s stones. Apparently that’s her MO—she gets access to the collections while appraising them and scopes them out for stones she knows belonged to her father. She’s got photographs of her father’s designs that she carries with her, comparing them to everything she sees. So far, none of these accusations have panned out. Seems like the cops indulge her because they feel sorry for her. My source on the inside says they’re rooting for her, but so far, she hasn’t brought them anything solid enough to act on.
Only one of her tip-offs resulted in an arrest. She fingered a local jewel thief, Joey D’Angelo, who’d been following her from client to client, robbing them after she completed their appraisals. D’Angelo cut a deal with the prosecutor, gave up his boss and his fence, and got away with a slap on the wrist—five years in Lompoc. He’s still there, with three years left on his sentence.
Pretty sure I don’t have to tell you what she wants with you, buddy. Watch out for this one. If she’s seen your collection, be ready to defend yourself against an accusation of theft. She’s like clockwork, this one.
--Jake
P.S. Had to spring for three dozen Krispy Kremes and box seats for the Giants’ season opener to get this. Sounds like bonus material to me, buddy.
