He expected her to lose her resolve when she saw their faces on the news, when they realized they were being blamed for Karlsen’s death, and later, for the death of Mrs. Hodges as well.
He should have known better.
This was a woman who had left London to save their daughter from what she saw as a dirty, criminal way of life. A woman who had kept her secret even when it meant staying away from her family for five years. Even when it meant supporting Lily on her own, struggling to make a life for them in New York.
He’d always known she was beautiful. Stubborn. So fucking smart.
But the last few weeks had shown him the depths of her strength. She hadn’t complained when they’d chopped off most of her hair in a petrol station toilet. When what was left of it had disappeared under the jet black dye. She hadn’t complained when her name disappeared along with it. She hadn’t even complained when they’d had to stay away from Lily, both to prevent their capture and to protect Lily should the people chasing them be watching the estate in Tuscany.
But she was always fragile after she talked to Lily, and he held her hand as she stepped into the steaming tub, sank back against the porcelain with a sigh. He handed her the glass of wine he’d set on the edge of the sink.
“Thank you.” She took a drink and sighed, then looked up at him through her lashes. “Want to join me?”
He smiled. “I definitely want to join you. But I won’t. I’m going to make you dinner instead. You relax.”
She closed her eyes. “Hmm-mmm.”
He closed the door to the bathroom and returned to the kitchen. He removed a package of chicken thighs and unwrapped the butcher paper, then washed and dried them thoroughly before covering them in thick salt and fresh ground pepper. He set them to fry in a skillet, then went to work on a bag of green beans they’d bought from the market that morning.
He thought about the CBT move as he worked. They would need Alain Bouchard’s help to get into the facility. Farrell had no idea where they were going, but once they moved, getting access to the new facility became more of a crapshoot. There could be less security — but there could be more. They could be in Paris, or they could move somewhere else entirely. Either way it would take time for the dust to settle, and it was time they didn’t have.
No, they would have to move now, while they had the lay of the land. And that meant revealing themselves to Alain Bouchard. Farrell didn’t understand Jenna’s compassion for the man, but he would honor it. He didn’t care about the world the way she did, and he’d never seen the point in pretending. In fact, he cared for only a handful of people. Jenna and Lily, first and foremost. His brother. Kate and Jenna’s mum, because they mattered to Jenna, and he would protect anything, anyone, Jenna cared about with his life.
Beyond that, his loyalty was to a unique brand of justice that rarely made sense to anyone else. It was about keeping the people he loved safe. About insuring their happiness and prosperity. That was where it began and ended for him.
It would be romantic to say that Jenna had changed him. That she'd made him care more. That she'd given him a conscience. But it wasn’t true. If anything, loving her had made him more single-minded, more vicious in his determination to protect her and Lily at any cost. More sure that being at the top of the food chain was the only way to avoid being eaten.
He didn’t give a fuck about anybody but the few who had his love and loyalty.
And Jenna was at the top of that very short list.
He would protect Alain Bouchard as long as it didn’t compromise her safety. He would do it for her. But they would have to act fast or lose the progress they’d already made. CBT was the only company on Karlsen’s list that had a website and a corporate headquarters. The others were as flimsy as paper.
Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
It was now or never.
He removed the chicken from the pan and dropped a couple spoonfuls of dijon into the chicken fat, then added some broth and a dash of cream before stirring it all together as it simmered. When it was done, he placed the chicken back in the pan with the sauce and turned off the heat on the steamed green beans. He tossed them with butter, lemon, and salt, then went to get Jenna.
She was right where he’d left her — head tipped back, eyes closed. The glass of wine was on the floor next to the tub. Pulling one of the thick white towels off the shelf, he bent down and stroked her damp hair.
“Hey there, love.”
Her eyes fluttered open. He wasn’t surprised to see that her irises were green. Her hazel eyes always appeared green when she was tired. He held out a hand.
“Come.”
She stood, and for a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The water sluiced off her body, and her skin glimmered like fine porcelain in the candlelight. He was still angry at himself for not noticing the subtle changes in her body when she’d first come back to London. She was still slim, but her breasts were fuller, her stomach just the slightest bit softer, her hips more lush than they’d been when she was a girl fresh out of uni. He should have known something was different, although even he had to admit it would have been a reach to think she had given birth to his child while in New York.
Still, he wished he could relive every day before he found out about Lily. Wished he could have been there for Jenna even one day sooner. That he could have known Lily one day longer.
She stepped from the tub, and he wrapped her in the towel, gently rubbing her dry. She stood still and compliant, letting him blot her skin, then slipped her arms into the robe he pulled from the hook on the back of the door.
They ate dinner on the balcony, the lights of Paris spread far and wide below them. They didn’t speak much, but he didn't mind. Being silent with Jenna was like being silent with himself. Their conversations were more than words, and he sensed her impending crash as she worked her way through the Chicken Dijon, nibbled on the green beans, drank the water he’d put near her plate.
By the time he finished his plate of food, she was almost asleep in hers, her head bobbing on her neck as she struggled to stay awake. He understood. Being on the run was physically and emotionally exhausting. It was easy to forget that. Then they talked to Lily. Saw their faces on the news. Realized how very far they had to travel before they were free and clear. The crash came hard and fast then, and sometimes the only fix was a good, hard sleep.
He stood. “Let’s get you to bed, love.”
She took his hand, let him lead the way into the bedroom where he stripped off her robe. She slid naked between the sheets, sighing as she lay her head on the pillow. He pulled the blankets up to her shoulders and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
“Where are you going?” she murmured.
He lay next to her on top of the covers, pulling her into his arms. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said against her lavender-scented hair. “Not ever.”
Five
It was gray and drizzly the next morning as they drove across the city to Saint Germaine des Pres, an old, historic neighborhood in the 6th arrondissement. They didn’t often take the Saab around the city, preferring to travel on foot or using the subways instead. But Farrell had insisted they needed the car as a precaution against a necessary quick escape, and it had appeared outside the flat one morning shortly after they’d moved in. Jenna assumed the credit went to Leo — it most often did — but there was no way to be sure. She never ceased to be surprised by Farrell's reach, by the level of support they found in unlikely places, by the financial resources Farrell could summon at will.
They pulled up next to the curb on a small side street fifteen minutes after they left the flat. The street was lined with stately buildings, most of them built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but where once the neighborhood had been home to artists and writers, it was now almost exclusively reserved for the super rich, from old money families to newly wealthy CEOs and celebrities. Jenna had been surprised at first to realize this was the home of Christophe Marchand, h
ead of Paris’s organized crime. And she soon discovered his private residence was no anomaly. Every one of his operations was housed in a lovely building filled with exquisite antique furnishings and art.
It was all so dignified. The antithesis of Farrell’s warehouse loft apartment near the docks in London and the underground club he used as a front for his operation there. But while the Paris operation was every bit as violent and dangerous as the London mob run by Farrell, Marchand preferred to wrap every aspect of his business in the veneer of old world luxury and elegance associated with the city that was their headquarters.
Farrell turned off the car and they made their way down the sidewalk to an imposing black door with a giant bronze knocker cast in the shape of a roaring gargoyle. Farrell ignored it, pressing a button near the door instead. He tipped his face to the hidden camera — protocol for meeting with Christophe. A moment later, the door was opened by a suited man just large enough to make Jenna wonder if he was more than a butler. Christophe’s bodyguards were routinely clad in Armani suits and Gucci shoes, a choice privately derided by Farrell, who insisted it would be too hard to beat a man senseless when encumbered by such attire. Then again, Jenna assumed from the things Farrell had said that the Marchand operation's preferred brand of force was quick and deadly, eliminating people with weapons that meant a minimum of fuss where Farrell liked to get dirty, get bloody, before the deed was done.
The man opened the door, indicating that they should step into the foyer. They did, and Jenna was unsurprised to realize they weren’t alone. Two more suited men stood to the side in the familiar stance of bodyguards: legs slightly apart, arms crossed in front of their bodies.
Standard operating procedure.
Farrell stepped forward without comment, lifting his arms and allowing the men to pat him down and disarm him of all but one of his weapons — a courtesy Jenna had learned the first time they visited, as was the fact that they wouldn’t insist on patting her down as well. She understood. It was a gesture of goodwill that cost them little. Farrell would be outgunned on Marchand turf with only one weapon, and Jenna would be killed immediately if he tried to make a move.
She was beginning to understand a lot of things.
Most startling of all was how normal it had all come to seem. In some ways even agreeable. There were rules here. Traditions. Rituals. All were observed by anyone who wanted to play.
And anyone who didn’t want to observe them would die.
While Farrell was disarmed, she let her eyes travel to the curved staircase leading to the second floor she’d never seen. The walls were adorned with elaborate white moldings, and a large crystal chandelier that looked to be from the late 1800s hung from the soaring, trayed ceiling. Gilded consoles identically styled with black-shaded lamps stood on either side of the foyer, and Jenna was almost positive the painting over one of them was a small Renoir.
The man who had opened the door waved them down the long hall, and the bodyguards remained in the foyer while they continued toward the back of the house. Farrell stayed at her back as they passed several doors on either side of a wide hall, their footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The hall was dim, sconces lit on the walls despite the early afternoon hour. Finally, they came to a set of double doors with enormous bronze handles. The man knocked, then opened the door and stepped aside so Jenna and Farrell could enter.
Jenna had been in the room twice before, but she still had to resist the urge to sigh aloud. It was massive, with floor to ceiling bookshelves that stretched the length and height of two walls. An old library ladder rested on a rail that ran along both walls, making it easy to reach even the books on the uppermost shelves. There was an elaborate black desk with elegantly carved legs and gilded angels mounted to its corners, and the chairs and sofa were upholstered in black leather that looked buttery soft even from the door. The room screamed old money, history, and presence. A tall, dark-haired man leaned against the desk.
She had to force herself not to stare. It was more than his good looks — the piercing blue eyes and perfect bone structure, the lean, muscular body hinted at under the designer suit. It was the total lack of expression in the man’s face, the utter emptiness of his energy. It made Jenna want to study him, figure out what was going on underneath the calm, cool facade. She had a feeling there was more there than met the eye.
He didn’t come toward them. Didn’t smile. Didn’t do anything to make Jenna think they were welcome.
And they weren’t. Not really.
The Marchand operation was in most ways a competitor to Farrell’s London organization. And while they might once have worked as part of the same machine, the fall of the Syndicate had moved organized crime around the world to an every man for himself business model.
Jenna didn’t know why Marchand was helping them when he could have used the opportunity to make a play for Farrell’s territory. After all, Farrell was a wanted man, forced to keep his distance from the operation that depended on his presence. But there was a sort of grudging respect between the two men that made her wonder if there was some kind of history between them.
“Marchand," Farrell said.
“Black.”
They didn’t shake hands, and a moment later, Christophe’s eyes flickered to Jenna. He reached out a hand, and when she responded in kind, he lifted it to his lips. “Mademoiselle Carver.”
Marchand always greeted her this way in spite of the less than warm welcome given to Farrell.
“Hello,” Jenna said.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
He was asking Jenna, but it was Farrell’s voice — hard and cold as a block of ice — that answered.
“I need to use your lab.”
Marchand’s eyes cut back to Farrell. He hesitated, then gestured to the chairs in front of the elaborate desk as he walked around to the other side. He lowered himself into an imposing leather chair, then waited as Farrell and Jenna sat.
“You’ve already asked for access to my lab,” Christophe said in almost entirely unaccented English.
It was how they’d gotten the dossier on Alain. Farrell had been careful about contacting anyone he knew in Paris. It was too difficult to know which of his acquaintances would use the opportunity to gain points with the intelligence community and which would give them the refuge they needed. But he’d gone to Marchand, and Marchand had allowed them access to his cyber lab and the hackers there who worked on behalf of the Paris operation. It had been a small request — and an easy one given the type of information the coding experts on Marchand’s payroll typically sought. Farrell and Jenna had left with a thin file on Alain Bouchard less than an hour after they’d made the request. A similar request for information about CBT had proved futile. There simply wasn’t anything of note beyond the obviously fabricated corporate story created for the company’s website.
“I know,” Farrell said. “But it’s important.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Marchand said.
“It was important then, too.”
Marchand’s mouth turned up in a chilly smile. “So you said.”
They’d been careful about revealing their reasons for wanting information on CBT and Bouchard. Farrell wasn’t sure how far Marchand’s loyalty would go, and neither had he wanted to create a panic that might deploy Marchand’s men on the same mission. It would be chaos then, with everyone getting in everyone else’s way, and it would only be a matter of time before someone leaked it to a wife or girlfriend.
Farrell held the other man’s gaze. Jenna hoped Marchand wasn't counting on Farrell breaking eye contact first. Everything Farrell did was a contest. With others, but most of all with himself. He wouldn’t give an inch to anyone — except her and Lily — on principle. It was a way of proving that he was the same man he’d embraced after his father’s death. The same man who had no rules. No boundaries. No nicety when having it meant showing weakness.
“What do you need?” Marchand finally asked.
“CBT is moving,” Farrell said. “I need to know if there’s buzz about it. In the corporate world, on the street, anywhere.”
“We found nothing on them when you last asked,” Marchand said.
“I know,” Farrell said. “I need you to check again.”
They had no way of knowing how much Alain knew about the move. Presumably, he knew when it would happen at least. But they were hoping to find out if it was a temporary relocation or a permanent closure, if there was some motivation behind the move that might be tied to the bioweapon someone had funded through the financial services corporation.
Christophe seemed to consider it. “I will not be able to shelter you forever.”
Farrell’s mouth twisted into a smirk. Jenna knew how much Marchand’s words needled him. Farrell didn’t need shelter. Not by Marchand or anyone else. Certainly it had helped to have Marchand on their side while in Paris.
But it wasn’t necessary.
Farrell could and would make his own way — and protect Jenna while he did it — if required. This Jenna knew unequivocally.
“I know.”
“Very well.” He picked up the phone and unleashed a rush of French into the receiver, then hung up without so much as an au revoir. He returned his attention to Farrell. “They’re expecting you.”
Farrell stood. “Thank you.”
Marchand rose to his feet and held out a hand to Jenna. “Mademoiselle Carver, always a pleasure.”
She took it and was relieved when he didn’t raise it to his lips yet again. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Farrell waited as she stepped in front of him, then followed her to the door. They were preparing to open it when Marchand spoke from behind the desk.
“Be careful, my friend.” Farrell froze as Marchand continued. “You are not an easy man to overlook. And that is doubly true for the enchanting Mademoiselle Carver.”
Farrell’s hand tightened on the knob. Jenna braced herself, half expecting Farrell to turn around and lunge at the man. Instead he opened the door, waited patiently as Jenna stepped through it, then followed her into the hall. The guards were still in the foyer. They handed over Farrell’s confiscated weapons without a word. Farrell didn’t speak again until they reached the car.
Eternal (London Mob Book 3) Page 3
