“Oh, that,” Charles said with a laugh. “Andre is a paranoid chap. It is quite silly, though none of us have the heart to tell him so. Does he actually believe someone would steal into his home in the night and take his work? Andre is a wonderful writer, and I know he has had trouble with plagiarizing in the past, but this nonsense with dividing his manuscripts and hiding them is extreme.”
I chuckled along with Charles, as though the idea of people wanting to steal Rosenthal’s manuscripts was funny. As though that wasn’t precisely my job.
Even if that wasn’t the case, having read two-thirds of Blue’s Canyon, I didn’t find the notion ridiculous in the least. His writing was a work of art. Rosenthal possessed the rare ability to create characters that leapt from the pages and materialized in your mind. They became your friends, you cared about them. When they were going through hard times, you shared their agony. You cried when they cried and you laughed when they were happy. And for someone like me, who’d spent so much of her life being mistrustful of those around her, it was easier to form emotional bonds with Rosenthal’s fictitious characters than the living, breathing people I was surrounded by.
“So silly,” I echoed hollowly, plastering on a smile as fake as the paste jewels on my dress.
When I brought my champagne flute to my lips—it seemed to be my nervous gesture of the night—I was surprised to find the glass nearly empty again. Charles reached for the bottle to refill my glass for a second time, but I waved him off.
“I’d better wait until the food arrives. My brother will be upset if I’m inebriated when I return home.”
Actually, Gaige was more likely to give me a high-five and ask if my clothes came off, but Cyrus would definitely be peeved.
“Where all does he write?” I asked, attempting to keep the conversation on track.
“Andre? Well, let’s see. He frequents a bookstore, Shakespeare and Company. Have you heard of it?”
“I have,” I said casually, as though I hadn’t just robbed the place. “My brother and I paid a visit just the other day.”
“He also likes a little café called Closerie des Lilas. Ernest is fan, as well. If you stop in, your brother just might have a chance to see them work.”
Charles set his glass down, but continued to run his long fingers around the rim of it. The act was oddly mesmerizing. I found myself staring, transfixed, and wondering what it would be like to feel those long fingers sliding around the nape of my neck.
Wait. No. Inappropriate.
What the hell was this guy doing to me? Cool, calm and collected, Stass. Lock it up.
Charles’s laugh was low and throaty, as if he was reading my mind and knew my indecent thoughts. Hell, given the year, my thoughts were probably downright erotic.
“If I did not know better, I would say it’s you, not your brother, who is fascinated by Andre,” Charles said.
Admittedly, it was a sound conclusion based on my line of questioning.
“Not at all,” I said, brushing off the notion as ludicrous. “I only ask because I’d love to take my brother to his favorite writer’s favorite places while we are here.”
Not a lie. That had been our main objective for the past several days.
“Andre would be tickled to realize he has such a big fan.” Charles leaned across the table, fixing me with his honey gaze. “If he really wants to see Andre in action, then he should wander by Carmen’s place. As I understand, our boy spends a great deal of time writing in her gardens.”
“I’ve seen Carmen, that is not all Rosenthal does in her gardens.”
My face was on fire the moment the Gaige-worthy comment slipped through my lips. Where was my filter? Had the champagne really made me so flippant?
Charles threw his head back and laughed loudly.
“Truer words were never spoken, my Stassi.”
The food arrived just then. The waiter drew Charles’s attention, so my dinner companion did not see me catch my breath at his offhand comment.
Dinner consisted of the finest foods the City of Light had to offer. Course after course arrived, an impossible amount of food for two people to consume. I ate without really tasting much of anything, though the heavy cream sauces and buttery morsels did smell amazing. We talked more about Rosenthal and his friends, though the topics were more general than those from earlier. I didn’t press him further about Rosenthal, yet Charles mentioned two other cafés the writer visited on occasion. Carmen’s place seemed like our best bet, which meant another count of breaking and entering would soon be on our rap sheets. Thankfully, we were the only ones keeping score.
After five courses of food that were beyond decadent, a vanilla crème brûlée arrived, the top perfectly golden with burnt sugar. As I cracked the top with my spoon, Charles again complimented me on my dress. Steeling myself for what might come next, I took the opening.
“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, reaching for my beaded clutch. I unclasped the top and removed the handkerchief from Lachlan’s second hotel room. “Gaige found this the other night at Exotique. You must have dropped it during the commotion.”
Charles gave me an odd look.
“What a peculiar coincidence. I did have one just like it that night, but the suit was taken to the cleaner’s yesterday, including the coordinating kerchief.”
“So this is not yours?” I asked hopefully.
His expression turned into one of amusement, though I saw an underlying doubt within his gilded eyes.
“It must belong to another gentleman,” Charles replied. “It must be difficult to keep us straight when you have so many courting you.”
“Hardly,” I assured him. “My brother keeps me quite busy with all of his running around Paris. In fact, Gaige asked that I inquire about the tailor who made the suit this goes with.” I held up the silk slip, then put it back in my bag. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief knowing that Charles was not a killer, but I still needed to follow the lead.
“Every Parisian has their favorite tailor, but we don’t share that information with just anyone,” Charles said with a wink, glancing mockingly from side to side as if someone might overhear him. “Mine is a British gentlemen by the name of Waldorf Hucklesbee, but let’s keep that between us.”
“Well, Paris is the capital of fashion, right?” I joked. “Everyone is competing to be the best-dressed?”
“That it is, as I see you have noticed. How does a newly-arrived American have so many fine Parisian garments?”
I knew he was teasing me, but the comment hit too close to home. It was one of those small details that I should have prepared an answer for. But I hadn’t.
“My father is an extremely influential man,” I said quickly. “He had many gowns ordered for me before our departure from Baltimore. Most of my wardrobe was waiting when we arrived here, though I picked this dress up just this morning.”
I found that I regretted lying to Charles—another first for me. Lying was a crucial part of being a runner. We lied to nearly everyone we ever met. I lied so often that the truth was a malleable concept. I wished that I could just be myself with Charles, not Anastasia Prince. Unfortunately, it would never happen.
“And you wore it tonight….” He trailed off, leaving the words “for me” unspoken, though I still heard them in my head. “I am honored.”
I’d done what Cyrus asked and found out the name of Charles’s tailor. If the small square of silk was any indication, my date was not the Night Gentleman, and so my interrogation was done. I vowed to relax and just enjoy the rare evening away from my job, dressed to the nines, and with a handsome guy.
Unfortunately, I was not the only one at our table playing an angle. Complimenting my outfit was a natural segue to my locket. Which he smoothly took. Had I not been well-versed in the arts of interrogation, deception, and manipulation, I may have believed his interest was innocent. Except, of course, he’d asked about the damned thing two nights before. Charles DuPree had a lot to learn about subtle inform
ation gathering.
“It is a beautiful piece,” Charles continued. “I have not seen many like it.”
His hand traveled slowly across the table, towards my throat, as if to touch the necklace. Those golden-brown eyes became unfocused, like he was under a spell.
For the briefest of moments, I wondered if it called to him the same way it did to me. But that was ridiculous. It was my necklace. My family heirloom.
I drew back out of his reach, inhaling sharply. The action caught him by surprise and he dropped his hand.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you are more interested in my necklace than in me,” I joked, though my tone sounded flat and distinctly not amused.
Then, a horrible realization hit me with the force of an emotional wrecking ball: Charles was more interested in my necklace than in me. That was why he’d asked for this date.
I am so stupid.
Why, though? Why would a guy from this time period be interested in something from hundreds of years in the future? I thought about his words, “I have not seen many like it.” Which implied he’d seen at least one other. Across the table, Charles was rambling excuses to explain away his interest.
“The metal work is just so—”
“Have you seen another like mine?” I cut him off abruptly. I gripped the locket in a tight fist, irrationally wanting it hidden from his view.
“I have,” he admitted. “When I was a very young boy. A woman, a friend of my parents, had one very similar.”
“Similar?” I pressed, no longer caring about etiquette. “But not the same?”
“No, not the same. At least, I do not believe it was the same. It was so long ago, I cannot really be certain. All of my memories from that time are a bit hazy.”
“How long ago are we talking?” I was in full-on future mode, speaking to Charles as if he was one of my island friends. “Ten years? Fifteen? You said you were very young, right? And you’re how old now? Twenty? Twenty-two?”
“I am twenty-one. It has been approximately twelve years, if I had to wager.” His eyes were rolled up and to the right, as if trying to recall a memory. “Yes, well it would have to be twelve years exactly. It was right before I moved to live with the DuPrees.”
“I thought you said the woman was a friend of your parents?” I accused, not liking the holes in his story.
I’d rattled him.
Clearly flustered, Charles replied, “Well, yes, she was. Tessa was a mutual friend of both my natural parents and my adoptive parents.”
Tessa? Unsurprisingly, the name meant nothing to me. Even if I had an ancestor by that name, I’d never have known.
I was so focused on the name that the rest of his statement nearly flew over my head.
Nearly.
“You’re adopted?”
Was that why I felt so drawn to him? Because we were both displaced as children?
Charles took a deep breath and reached for his champagne.
“I am. It is not something I tell most people. In fact, even my closest friends are not aware of my past. I would appreciate it if you did not share that particular bit of information. I do not care to be the subject of gossip.” He sounded impossibly prim and haughty.
“Of course not,” I replied, taken aback. “I would never.”
Charles relaxed slightly. “I apologize. I did not mean to accuse you of anything. The adoption is a sensitive matter that is all.”
“Sensitive? Why is that?”
“It is difficult to explain. The situation was…complicated,” he answered, looking as lost as I often felt.
“What happened to your birth parents?” I asked, decorum totally going out the window.
He met my gaze levelly.
“They were murdered.” Charles gestured to my locket. “I owe my life to the woman who was wearing a necklace very much like that one.”
SO, THAT HAPPENED.
My lips clamped shut, Charles’s admission effectively putting an end to the brief interrogation session.
I was at a loss. I’d never known my parents, but Charles had. He’d spent at least part of his life with them. Was that better or worse in the long run? I’d always said I would give anything to spend one day with my mother and father. Now, those words seemed silly, childish even.
In the end, I said the most useless phrase one can utter in these situations.
“I am so sorry, Charles.”
Head held high, expression perfectly neutral, Charles replied, “As am I. But things could have been far worse. I could have been with my parents when it happened. I might have even suffered the same fate.” His tone was so matter-of-fact that I had to imagine he’d practiced the response for situations such as this one. “The DuPrees are lovely people,” Charles continued after a brief pause. “They’re wonderfully kind to me, and exceedingly generous. I have been very fortunate.”
“I’m glad,” I said, truly meaning it. “They should be very proud of the man you’ve become.”
A whisper of a smile crossed his lips at the compliment. His honey-colored gaze became wistful.
Just then, the waiter arrived with the final course, a selection of cheeses and fruits, along with the bill. With six courses already under my belt, I worried that Charles was going to have to roll me out of the restaurant if I so much as nibbled on the newest spread.
It seemed my date did not have the same qualms as I did. He dove in immediately.
The faraway expression was still present in Charles’s eyes, and he did not attempt to resume our earlier conversation. In fact, Charles remained quiet through most of the final course, only breaking his silence to insist that I try the Brie topped with fig jam.
To be polite, I sampled the concoction. I was so glad that I did. The mixture of salty and sweet was enough to make my eyes roll back in my head, an embarrassing reaction that Charles, thankfully, was too preoccupied to notice.
When it became obvious the few crumbles of cheese and stray grapes still on the wooden cutting board were going to remain there, I decided that enough was enough. I’d given Charles ample time to mourn days long past.
I opened my mouth to apologize for bringing up such a painful topic, when Charles spoke first. “Perhaps you would care to take a walk before returning home?”
Figuring that my inadvertent insensitivity had upset him enough that he’d be glad to see the back of me, I was pleasantly surprised.
“I’d like that.”
As Charles pulled a thick stack of Francs in a gold money clip from his pocket, and discreetly counted out the bills, I considered everything I’d learned over the course of a single meal. I wondered how much more information I might be able to glean on our walk. Supposing, of course, that Charles was willing to revisit the topic of Tessa.
His birth parents and their deaths were likely off the table, but Charles brought up Tessa in the first place. He’d hinted, or maybe just hoped, that there was a connection between our necklaces. The reason he’d asked me on this date was the same reason I’d accepted: To get answers.
At the start of the evening, my questions had been business-related. Now it was personal. I wanted to know every scant detail from Charles’s spotty memory that involved this Tessa woman.
What did she look like? Did I bear a resemblance to her? Was she still alive? Was Charles looking for her? Did he think that I was capable of helping him locate the woman who’d saved his life? And if Tessa’s necklace was identical to mine, were the two lockets actually one and the same?
“Are you ready, Stassi?”
Caught up in my own frantic thoughts, I was startled to find Charles standing beside the table. He extended his hand to help me from my chair.
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
Slipping my fingers through his, I let Charles pull me to my feet. “Tonight was wonderful—the restaurant, the meal, the company.” I grinned cheekily, channeling my inner flapper as I dialed up the charm.
My previous approach—the rapid-fire questioning that
lacked both finesse and tact—made Charles clam up. This time around, I planned to use a more tried and true method of information gathering. Flirting.
Molly always said that lust made fools of even the most brilliant of people. I was going to put her theory to the test.
“Seriously, Charles. Thank you for a lovely evening. After the past couple of days, it was exactly what I needed.”
He gave me an adorably embarrassed smile in return.
Once outside, I found that the night had turned cold while we were dining. I shivered as we began walking down the quiet street in front of La Coupole.
“Where are my manners?” declared Charles, halting abruptly in the middle of the empty sidewalk and shaking his head.
He shrugged out of his suit coat and draped it over my shoulders.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” I objected.
Charles silenced my feeble protest with a look of mock sternness. “I insist.”
“Then who am I to refuse?” I teased.
Charles grinned, and I felt a twinge of shame. For some reason, using him for personal reasons felt more duplicitous than using him to further my mission. I assuaged my guilty conscience by reminding myself that Charles’s reasons for inviting me to dinner had not exactly been pure.
I snuggled into his jacket, still warm with his residual body heat, and the scent of freshly laundered clothes left outside to dry in the sun wafted over me.
“Better?” asked Charles, tugging the lapels together in the front to block the wind.
His hands moved to my shoulders under the pretense of smoothing the material into place. Even in my heels, which brought my height to well above average for a woman, Charles towered over me. I tilted my head back to see his face. Those honey-colored eyes churned with an emotion I couldn’t quite pinpoint.
“Much better. Thank you,” I replied.
The cool breeze ruffled my hair, causing several auburn strands to fall into my eyes. Charles reached down and tucked the wayward locks behind my ear, fingertips skimming lightly over my cheekbone as he did. His hand lingered on my face for several beats past innocent, before sliding down the side of my neck to rest on my shoulder again.
The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) Page 29
