Rule: Paris Mob Book Three

by St. James, Michelle

  She watched as Christophe handed their bags to the other man, then came toward her. He put his arm around her and led her to a waiting golf cart. They slid into the back, and the man joined them, piling their bags into the passenger seat and starting for the house, the only speck of light in the darkness. She looked up as the chopper rose into the sky, the stutter of its rotors replaced by the crashing of the sea somewhere in the distance.

  “What do you think?” Christophe asked, his voice echoing through the sudden silence.

  She turned her attention to the house, although that seemed too simple a word for the historic chateau looming beyond the field where the chopper had landed. The building was large but not offensively so, with three stories and a mansard roof probably constructed in the late 1700s. The front of the property was divided into two equal green spaces lined with symmetrically spaced trees, a white gravel path running between them and leading to the house.

  “It’s beautiful,” Charlotte said. “But it’s so late. Won’t we wake everyone up?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Father sleeps like a rock, and I called ahead to make sure everything was prepared for us. I’m sure most of the staff is asleep now.”

  They continued up the path toward the house where the man stopped the golf cart.

  “Can I carry your bags inside, Monsieur Marchand?” he asked. In the light of the house, Charlotte realized he was younger than she’d first thought, probably no more than nineteen or twenty.

  “No thank you, Denis,” Christophe said. “We’ve kept you up late enough.”

  “It is no trouble at all, Monsieur.”

  Christophe stepped from the cart and lifted their small bags into one hand, then used his other to help her out. The man-boy was already driving away as they climbed a set of wide stairs to double doors set with arched panes of glass. Christophe opened the door and waited for her to step through.

  She found herself in a large foyer, the ceiling rising far overhead. A staircase led to the second floor, its thick marble banister curving upward, past a set of faded tapestries hanging from the walls. She recognized a beautiful Fantin-Latour painting near a stuffed peacock on an 18th century console table.

  Christophe shut the door and turned to her. “Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head. “More tired.”

  “Then let’s get you to bed.”

  Her legs were leaden as they started up the stairs. They’d been packed and on the way to the airport less than an hour after she’d stepped from the bath, and she realized in the last twenty-four hours she’d been reunited with Christophe, had suffered the loss of Galerie Duval, and had flown across France in the dead of night. She hadn’t slept since Christophe’s return the night before.

  She gazed up, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the tapestries as they reached the second floor landing. Were they among the things Christophe had replaced after he’d entered the world of organized crime? It wasn’t difficult to see him as a little boy, running down the stairs with Bruno on his way to the sea, his eyes lighting on the tapestries. It was even less difficult to imagine him seeking them out after they had been sold by his father. Trying to restore some of the beauty that had been lost to him.

  When they reached the second floor landing she was stopped cold by a large oil painting depicting a fair-haired woman in an emerald green gown. The woman’s eyes were mirror images of Christophe’s, warm and filled with mystery. A mischievous smile played at her full lips, as if she could barely contain her humor at the idea of sitting still for something as staid as a portrait. Charlotte’s eyes were drawn down the woman’s long slender arms to a glittering ring on her left hand, the emerald seeming to shine from within the painting.

  “That is my mother,” Christophe said softly.

  “She’s beautiful.” The words didn’t do the woman justice, and Charlotte suddenly wished she’d had the opportunity to know her.

  They made their way to the end of a wide hall, then climbed a simple set of stairs hidden at the back of the house. She’d seen the third floor from the ground, but she was unprepared to enter into a sweeping room decorated with an assortment of old but comfortable furnishings.

  “What is this?” she asked, taking in the large bed against one wall, the curtain-less windows, the settees with faded upholstery.

  “This is where I stay when I’m here,” Christophe said, setting down their bags.

  She turned in place, realization dawning on her. “But this was a servant’s quarters at one time, wasn’t it?” she asked. “Surely this wasn’t your room when you were a child?”

  There wouldn’t have been anything wrong with it. It was a lovely room, warm and comfortable. But somehow she couldn’t imagine his mother or father secreting him away on the third floor as a boy.

  He laughed, pulling her into his arms and looking down at her. “Of course not. When I was a boy this room was filled with many old and curious things. I was fascinated with it, and I spent hours up here reading and playing.”

  “When did you turn it into your bedroom?”

  “When I finally had enough money to begin renovations on the house, we had to vacate many of the second floor rooms. I moved my things up here and became quite fond of it.”

  “So you never went back to your old room?” she asked.

  “There didn’t seem a point,” he said. “I quite like it up here, and it was strange to think of sleeping as a man in the same room I’d slept in as a boy.”

  A veil of sadness passed over his eyes, and she wondered if perhaps it had been easier to remake his place in the house somewhere that didn’t remind him of how things had once been.

  She looked over his shoulder. “You never… renovated this floor?”

  He smiled. “Are you saying it’s shabby? Because if you’d like to redecorate I’d be be happy to put you in charge.”

  She laughed. “No! I adore it. I’m simply surprised, that’s all.”

  “Because you think me a snob,” he said.

  “Because you like beautiful things.”

  He touched his lips to hers. “I have all the beauty one man can handle at the moment.”

  “Are you trying to get me into bed?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Perhaps.”

  She tightened her arms around his neck. “Then I’d say it’s high time we get moving.”

  17

  She came to wakefulness slowly, watching the sun slant golden columns of light across the old wood floor. The bed was empty next to her, and she tried to recall the events of the previous night. She remembered brushing her teeth in the small, neat bathroom, stripping off her clothes, slipping between the cool sheets. She remembered watching Christophe’s back as he bent to make a fire in the grate, the sinew and muscle flexing as he arranged the logs, lit the match, leaned forward to blow on the growing flame.

  After that, nothing. She must have fallen asleep.

  She threw back the covers, surprised to find the room warm, embers still glowing in the fireplace. She crossed to the windows and immediately understood why they were devoid of draperies.

  Directly below her, an immaculate French garden, perfect in its order and symmetry, gave way to sweeping lawns. A barn stood in the distance, and beyond the trimmed lawn, fields dotted with violet stretched to woods on one side, the Mediterranean glittering on the other.

  She wondered that he managed to leave this place at all.

  Movement caught her eye on the terrace above the gardens and she changed her position, trying to get a better angle. She recognized Christophe despite the fact that he was half-hidden in the shade cast from the house. He was sitting on one side of a wrought iron table across from an older man, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Christophe’s father?

  Her stomach fluttered with nervousness, and she hurried to wash her face and brush her teeth, forgoing make-up altogether in the interest of time. She had no idea what time everyone else in the house woke, and she didn’t want to be rude by lounging about
in bed all day. She threw on a pair of soft black jeans and an oversized sweater, pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, and plucked her sunglasses from her bag. Then she started down the steps, hoping she could make her way through the house to the back terrace without a map.

  Four hallways, two wrong turns, and one embarrassing foray through the kitchen staffed with two people arguing about the menu for dinner later, she stepped through a set of french doors and onto a stone patio. The sun was shining, the air slightly chilly.

  Both men rose to greet her.

  “Good morning, darling,” Christophe said. “How did you sleep?”

  She cast a smile at the other man before turning her attention to Christophe. “Lovely, but you should have woken me. I’m embarrassed to be such a lazy house guest.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Nonsense. There is absolutely no rush.” He turned toward the other man. “Charlotte Duval, this is my father, Philippe Marchand. Father, this is Charlotte.”

  She extended her hand, and the older man took it, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “Enchante, Mademoiselle.”

  “English, Papa,” Christophe scolded. “Et cesser de flirter avec ma femme.”

  And stop flirting with my woman.

  Charlotte laughed. “Il est tout à fait correct. Je suis heureux de te rencontrer. Et aucune femme je sais esprit un flirt.”

  Philippe beamed. “You see,” he said, turning to Christophe. “I’ve told you all along women like to be flirted with, but you never listen.”

  “Yes, yes,” Christophe said, pulling out one of the chairs for Charlotte. “You are undoubtedly the expert when it comes to women.”

  Charlotte sat, and Christophe poured her a cup of coffee. “You must eat something,” he told her. “But save room. I’m taking you on a picnic later.”

  She smiled. “A picnic?”

  “But of course. It’s my duty to show you the grounds. You’ll work up an appetite.”

  She took a small croissant from a tray at the center of the table and spooned some jam onto her plate.

  “I understand you are American,” Philippe said as she pulled off a piece of the bread and spread some jam on it.

  She took a bite, calculating the surprising flavors on her tongue. “Is that…?”

  “Lavender,” both men said at once.

  “It’s grown in the fields here,” Christophe added.

  “It’s wonderful,” she said, preparing another bite and looking at Philippe. “I am American, although my father was French. Is that all right?”

  “All right?” the old man said. “I love American women. So voluptuous. So passionate, so - ”

  “Papa,” Christophe cut him short, and the older man scowled.

  “I’m simply paying her a compliment.”

  “Well, don’t,” Christophe said.

  Philippe scowled and muttered something in French that Charlotte couldn’t quite hear.

  “Don't be childish,” Christophe scolded.

  “Very well,” Philippe said, pushing back from the table. “I must go anyway. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon, Mademoiselle Duval.”

  He gave a small bow and retreated down the terrace steps. She watched him disappear around a corner of the garden.

  “I apologize," Christophe said.

  She turned to him. “For what?”

  “For my father, who is a lecherous old man.”

  She laughed. “It’s quite flattering actually.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You find it flattering when other men compliment you?”

  “Perhaps.” She was teasing. She didn’t need compliments from other men. She didn't need anything from other men. Her feelings for Christophe filled her up from the inside out.

  He took her hand, turned his palm to his mouth, touched his lips to the tender skin. “Then I shall have to make sure they do not have the chance — and that I do it enough to make up for any loss.”

  She reached over, slipped her hands into the hair at the back of his head, touched her mouth to his. “I’m sorry I fell asleep last night.”

  “No need to apologize,” he said. “It was late. We’ve had a long two days, and unfortunately, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

  She didn’t have to ask what he meant. He would be making plans with Farrell and the others to eliminate Raneiro, and the explosion at Galerie Duval made it clear there was no time to waste.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Will you stay here?” he asked. “Until the danger has passed.”

  She hesitated. She’d promised in L.A. that she would heed his advice on matters of security. It came with the territory of his business, and she knew his worry for her would be a distraction if she were to refuse.

  “What about Bruno?” she asked. “Won’t he know I’m here?”

  Christophe’s expression hardened. “He wouldn’t dare. The estate is mine. I pay for its operation, and every single member of its staff was hired by me, as were the two guards I will be leaving with you. They have loyalty to no one else.”

  She hesitated. She didn’t love the idea of being trapped on Corsica, however lovely the Marchand estate. But this is what loving him meant. She’d known it in L.A., and it had only been proven over the past few days.

  “I’ll stay,” she said.

  His relief was visible in the relaxing of his shoulders, the exhale of his breath. “Thank you.”

  She nodded. “It was our arrangement.”

  He leaned over to kiss her, then looked deeply in her eyes as he rested his forehead against hers. “I love you.”

  She smiled. “I love you, too.”

  “Good.” He leaned back. “Now that that’s settled, you must finish your breakfast. There are some things I want to show you before I return to Paris this evening. I’ll need to find you a bigger jacket.”

  18

  He held her hand as they walked through the gardens. His mother had spent many hours tending to the roses here, and he could still see her kneeling in the dirt, head bent to the luxurious blossoms. He wished she were here now. Wished she could meet Charlotte. He had the sudden image of the two women talking in low voices, laughing conspiratorially when they thought he wasn’t watching. His mother would have liked Charlotte, he was sure of it.

  They continued across the lawn on the west side of the house, through the fields where they pulled pieces of lavender that remained after the harvest, crushing the buds between their fingers and scattering them to the wind. Charlotte held her palms to her nose, bent her head to inhale the scent. He watched as she closed her eyes, a smile touching the corners of her mouth.

  He showed her the horses and introduced her to the stable boy in case she wanted to ride while he was gone. His heart already hurt at the thought of leaving her, but he knew now that there would be no peace until Raneiro was dead. This was the only way.

  They left the stables and picked their way down the path set into the cliff at the edge of the property. The wind blew fiercely at they descended, and he looked out over the water at the whitecaps frothing the surface of the Mediterranean.

  They took off their shoes and walked at the water’s edge. His body was still sore, but it felt good to move freely, to be out in the open air after his days in the small, dark room where he’d been held captive. Conversation was minimal, and he was reminded of their time in Boston, the hours they’d walked the streets together, sometimes deep in conversation but just as often in companionable silence. She was the only person in his life with whom he could do both, and she was in danger because of him.

  He pushed the thought aside. There would be time enough to dwell on Raneiro, on the unique threat he posed to Christophe’s life, and most of all, to Charlotte. Tonight he would go back to Paris and begin planning with Farrell and the others. For now he just wanted to be with her, soak her in while he could.

  The sun had warmed the ground by the time they climbed the path back up to the house. He took her hand, sa
voring the feel of her flesh against his.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “I am actually,” she said. “Although it hasn’t been that long since breakfast.”

  “That wasn’t breakfast,” he said.

  She looked up at him as he led her through one of the fields. “It wasn’t?”

  He shook his head. “That was just something to tide you over.”

  “Tide me over until when?”

  He pulled her into a small clearing. “Until now.”

  Surprise lit her face as she took in the low table, only a foot off the ground. It was laden with covered dishes, a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Two cushions had been placed next to the table, and long stalks of lavender bent in the breeze on every side, the air scented with their oil.

  “”How did you do this?” she asked. “You’ve been with me all day.”

  “I’ll never tell,” he said.

  “Well, it’s lovely,” she said, lowering herself to one of the cushions. “And I can’t wait to see what is on all these plates.”

  There was cheese and bread, olives and spiced almonds, raw honey from bees raised on the estate and strawberries and cream. He poured the champagne and spent the next hour filling her in on the history of the property, the extensive renovations he’d initiated five years earlier, the painstaking search for the pieces that had been sold off by his father.

  “That’s how you came to Galerie Duval,” she said softly when he was done.

  “That’s how I came to Galerie Duval.” He smiled. “How I came to you.”

  “Technically, I came to you,” she said.

  “How is that?”

  “The desk,” she said. “I delivered it that day, so I came to you.”

  He held her gaze, lost in her eyes. He wanted to remember her this way when he went back to Paris — her hair shining under the sun, the flecks of amber in her eyes glimmering like gold, full mouth stained red with strawberries.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  “Because you’re so lovely,” he said. “Simply looking at you reminds me how much beauty there is in the world, whatever is happening outside of this moment.”