by J C Ryan
Now Rex was confused. “You don’t?”
She laughed her magical laugh. “This could go on all night. What are you talking about?”
“Uh… Flo. Well, she kind of… Damn, I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. I think I know what’s going on. You know Flo has this romantic notion that you and I should be together and live happily ever after, don’t you?”
He hadn’t, but now that she said it, it made sense.
“Well, sort of…”
“So, she told you I’m going after Alexandro, and I want you to go with me.”
“Something like that. And if you’re going after that weasel, maybe I should.”
“Ray, I don’t think so. I’ve been in contact with the National Police. They have an idea where he is, and it’s in the city. Lima. I don’t have jurisdiction there, and it’s not as informal there as it is here. It’s best you move on.”
Ray felt his jaw drop.
She’s dumping me? Can’t say I don’t deserve it though.
It seemed he’d lost control of his face, because something in hers changed. They were standing so close that her eyes had to track his one at a time, moving back and forth. She took his face in both hands.
“I didn’t mean to say that until the feast was over. Not until tomorrow morning, to be honest. I want another night with you.”
Ray collected himself. “I can live with that. For now, let’s not talk about it and enjoy the feast.”
“Let’s do.”
Rex called Digger, who left his watch over Junior with a growl in his direction. The three of them ate and danced late into the night, before Luciana led Rex by the hand back to the hut.
Sometime since this morning, she’d put the sleeping bags back together.
***
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Rex woke from a peaceful sleep, the best he’d had in a week it seemed. He’d made love to Luciana as if it were the last time, and from her hints, he thought it might be.
His own thoughts on the matter were mixed, but it wasn’t up to him.
The smell of coffee was what had awakened him. He sat up in the sleeping bag to see her fully dressed at the stove, pouring a cup. She turned and brought it to him, taking a seat on the top of the bedroll, her legs crossed.
Rex took his time with the coffee while Luciana petted and cooed at Digger. The silly dog rolled over on his back and let her rub his belly. It was a position of submission and trust, which told Rex Digger was down with Luciana being part of their pack.
When he’d finished his coffee, he slipped out of the sleeping bag. He pulled his clothes on, and then turned to find she’d stood up, too.
“So, we’re moving out this morning?”
She turned to him. “I’m moving out. I take it you’re going with the Markses? I think they could use your help with the llamas.”
He bent to roll up his kit without answering. Soon she was doing the same with hers. When they stood, Rex could feel her pulling away.
“You’re sure about this?”
She took his face in both hands. “Ray. If that’s your real name. It’s been wonderful knowing you. I could love you. I could.
“But I know you’ve got a restless soul, which prevents you from settling down. I’m not sure what it is, but I’ve sensed you’ve got something important you still must do—unfinished business. I won’t be ready, and you won’t be ready for commitments until you’ve closed that chapter.”
It hit him, then, that her decision was final. And she’d hit the nail on the head, although it was a bit disquieting that it was so obvious he had unfinished business.
He turned her chin up and claimed her lips, one kiss to last a lifetime. When he drew back, a single tear tracked down her silky cheek.
He wiped the tear with his thumb and whispered, “I’ll never forget you, Luciana.”
“And I’ll never forget you.”
~THE END~
THE FRENCH GIRL
A REX DALTON THRILLER
BOOK SIX
JC Ryan
Chapter 1
Paris, France
FRENCH PRESIDENT GILES Raphael Aguillard raised his arms, one hand linked to that of his patrician wife’s and the other to Lucien Laurent’s, his newly-appointed Prime Minister. The Presidency not only bestowed the power as head of state of the French Republic on him, ex-officio he was now also the Co-Prince of Andorra, honorary proto-canon of the Basilica of St. John Lateran in Rome, and Grand Master of the Légion d’honneur and the National Order of Merit.
His triumphant smile marked the occasion—a rally and celebration following his election ten days before and today’s accession to office. His teenaged and young adult children stood to their mother’s side, and the Prime Minister’s wife, along with several high-ranking ministers, stood to his. It was an illustrious occasion marred only by gray skies and drizzle, as the notorious wet and cold Paris January was barely begun.
Among the ministers and high-ranking officials stood a figure that had become a well-known accompaniment of the President before his election, and a frequent spokesperson since. It was the young, dark-haired, uber-intelligent head of Aguillard’s communications team, Margot Lemaire, who’d engineered his resounding victory. The person who, in preparation for this occasion, rehearsed with the President until his speech was not only letter-perfect, but also pitch-perfect. Not that the new President would sing the speech—it was honed to precision to reflect the same public sentiment that had swept the President to victory in the special election.
His predecessor had served only two and a half years of his second and final five-year term when a diagnosis of aggressive brain cancer forced his imminent resignation and triggered the need for an early and abrupt election. There’d been hardly any time to campaign, but Aguillard’s status as the hand-picked successor had overwhelmed the opposition party. His solemn promise to continue in the footsteps of his ill-fated predecessor, one of the most popular presidents in recent memory, and continue the most popular of his policies hadn’t hurt any, either.
Margot Lemaire was content, actually, she welcomed this rare occasion to let others occupy the limelight today. She was confident of her importance to the President and of her bright future. Neither arrogant about her assets nor unaware of them, Margot was beautiful, though not spectacularly so, not at first sight. She was one of those women whose beauty proliferated the more time you spent with her. Single, friendly, and outgoing, and from a wealthy family, she moved with equal grace in the circles of the elite, the middle class, and the poor, which was what made her an excellent choice as Aguillard’s campaign manager. Margot held a double PhD in political science and international affairs.
During the campaign, it had been she who graced the President’s right side, where the Prime Minister stood today, while the wife and children occupied the left, closest to the President’s heart as the campaign had subtly emphasized. The main planks in his brief campaign were family values and the promise that the electorate’s wishes when they’d elected his predecessor for a second term would be honored; the most important of which were ambitious plans to address France’s economic and immigration woes.
From the beginning, the people liked her. Before the campaign wound down, journalists and bloggers alike were writing about her elegance and unflappable demeanor under pressure, her quick understanding of any situation that might impact the campaign, and her firm grasp of the conservative principles of the prevailing party. A few bold pundits predicted that she’d be given a ministerial role in the new administration, but she herself knew she wasn’t ready for that.
As the crowd roared, Margot bent down to attend to the distinguished guest seated in a wheelchair in front of her, who’d left his hospice bed to attend the inauguration of his successor.
“He makes a handsome figure, does he not?” she remarked.
“I chose well,” the older gentleman said, nodding. “And you helped the people to accept that choice. Well done, my dear. No
w, if you don’t mind…”
“Of course.” Margot’s face showed sympathy and concern as she backed the wheelchair toward the stage’s exit. It was too cold, and certainly too wet, for the former President. It was her responsibility to get him out of the weather and back into the hands of his caregivers, who met her in the wings.
Rather than disrupt the speech, which was going well if the roars of the crowd were any indication, she stayed in the wings.
She shivered slightly when a light gust of ice-cold air hit her face. It’s cold. I wonder if he would allow me to take a holiday? I need it… and I think I deserve it. Somewhere nice and warm.
***
AS IF AGUILLARD had eyes in the back of his head, he was aware, even as he continued his well-rehearsed speech, that Margot was leaving the stage, along with the former President.
He didn’t miss a beat. Between the memorized sentences, he interrupted himself and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for the able leadership of the great man who is leaving the stage. Can we all please stand and show him our support for his recovery?”
But there would be no recovery. The former President was worn out, and the doctors thought he had only weeks to live, if that. He had given everything he had to keeping a firm hand on the reins of government until the special election could be held, and Aguillard was grateful for that. He had an orderly administration to help him transition into office, though he’d shortly announce his own appointments.
Trust Margot to do the right thing. She is a gem!
After the roar of applause subsided, Aguillard went on with his speech, pausing in the right places for more applause and cheering, smiling when he imparted wit, looking fondly at his wife and children when he talked about how important they were to him, and how the nation must return to a time when family was everything. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand.
But while he spoke, Aguillard couldn’t stop his mind from taking a subliminal detour to Margot. She had steered his campaign with the brilliance of a life-long politico. But unlike many campaign managers, who were at heart marketers and spin doctors, instead of attacking the opposition and making promises that could never be fulfilled, Margot promoted the principles of the party with conviction. It was a fresh new breeze in French politics, and the voters loved it.
When the election went exactly as planned, he’d offered her a junior minister position, and when she declined that on the admirable grounds that she was not yet experienced enough, he’d offered her an assistant role to a new position he was creating, like that of the Chief of Staff that American presidents relied upon. In a remarkable display of intelligence, she’d declined that, too, on the same grounds. In fact, it was she who suggested Communications was the more appropriate place for her, for now. There would be plenty of time for a ministerial assignment later.
Slightly taller than the President himself, she carried herself with the style and confidence befitting a member of the aristocracy. She dressed impeccably, as well. Unlike his wife, who’d been lovely in her youth but was now putting on weight around her middle and dressed like a dowager, Margot’s attire was always at the height of fashion but appropriate for every occasion.
The sight of her long legs striding down a corridor with enough speed to lift her mid-neck length, dark, silky hair in the breeze set his heart racing. He couldn’t help himself gazing at length upon her regular features—the strong, straight, well-shaped nose above full lips with just the right amount of pout, the high cheekbones leading one’s attention to the wide-spaced, brown eyes and high forehead. The square chin, with just enough softness to it to make it feminine. The ear just peeking from the casual hairstyle…
He forced himself to concentrate on the speech, before he lost track of where he was. His eyes strayed back to the teleprompter.
***
SOME OF THE media described Margot as part of the hope for the future of the party and France. The public and the other party leaders alike expected her to soon become one of the youngest ever junior ministers in the history of the French Republic, definitely a senior minister (Ministre) in the not too distant future, and some even predicted her to one day be the first woman President of France.
The only woman who’d ever come close to the position of President was Édith Cresson, who was the first and only French female Prime Minister, appointed by Francois Mitterrand in May 1991. She’d made a very bad job of her tenure and ended her career in April 1992 in a scandal of corruption within 11 months of taking office.
But this young woman was different. She was not going to disappoint the electorate. They loved her. Therefore, a cheer went up from the crowd when the President announced her appointment as his advisor in charge of press relations. Even the press loved her, as she was always good for a pithy quip, and of course, she was photogenic.
Therefore, at the first press conference after the inauguration, it was with surprise and disappointment that members of the press looked up at the podium to see, not their favorite, Margo Lemaire, but her first assistant, a decidedly less-photogenic young man.
Before he could even get the written remarks started, journalists were calling, “Where’s Margot?”
“Is Margot ill? What’s going on?”
The assistant was forced to answer before he could make the important announcement of several new appointments to various ministries. “Mademoiselle Lemaire is not ill. However, President Aguillard has granted her a holiday to recover from the strain of the campaign and election. Please allow her the well-deserved rest, and respect her privacy.”
Some of the audience settled down. Others, employed by gossip rags, rushed out of the room to write their scoops: Lemaire Exhausted by Campaign, Mystery Holiday for Lemaire, and other headlines.
Meanwhile, Margot, dressed casually, wearing makeup different from her usual, large sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat that dipped below her eye level, boarded a Eurail train for Lyon for a brief visit to her brother before going to Italy, thence to her destination for the month-long holiday she’d negotiated with the President.
A faint smile made her expression pleasant as she handed her Eurail Pass to the conductor. He returned the smile, even though it had not been for him. Margot was thinking about her meeting with the President to request the holiday. At first, it had been contentious. He rightly pointed out that she’d only just begun her duties as his Press Secretary. However, she had made a persuasive argument, and in the end, he’d said only, “We will miss you. Come back well-rested.”
She had given him her broadest smile.
“The press will not tolerate your assistant for long.”
“He is completely capable. They will have nothing to complain about.”
“Capable, yes. But not so pleasing on the eyes.”
“Mon Président! You forget yourself!”
Chapter 2
Mumbai, India
REX DALTON STEPPED into the baggage claim area in Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport to collect his best pal, his military-trained dog, Digger. Digger was a good traveler. It seemed as if he knew whenever he was put into a cage like that it was the beginning of a new adventure. So, Rex found him in good shape, not at all anxious. In fact, he was busy flirting with a member of the airport staff, who was showing him bits of something Rex was sure wouldn’t be good for him. Digger didn’t care about a healthy diet—as long as it smelled good, he gulped it up.
“Digger!”
Digger’s head dipped guiltily, and he turned eyes full of innocence on Rex, who didn’t buy it for a minute.
“You know better than to accept food from strangers,” Rex scolded. Digger’s happy smile seemed to say, “But surely this pretty lady is an exception.” Rex frowned at him and then turned away before the smile could give away his amusement.
To the pretty lady in question, Rex explained in flawless Hindi that the dog was trained not to accept food from strangers, but that he only observed the rule when his mas
ter was in sight, and she was not to blame for the dog’s disobedience. Nevertheless, she apologized and sent a look of regret toward the charming animal as she moved to another duty after inspecting the claim ticket.
Rex let Digger out of the cage immediately and put him on leash right away. Digger would have been perfectly well-behaved traveling through the busy airport off-leash, but the leash was required, and Digger didn’t care.
“We are seriously going to have to get back to your training regimen, you hooligan,” Rex said to Digger. The only word the dog understood was training, and Rex was sure he was intelligent enough to know it had been uttered in reference to his attempt at scrounging an illicit snack from that caring lady. His ears drooped momentarily. But he was soon his happy self again, as the familiar scents of Mumbai let him know where they were and maybe also realizing that he was soon to see one of his favorite human friends, Rehka, again.
Rex kept a small pied-à-terre in Mumbai as he had frequent business there. If he could be said to have a home, this was it, though he didn’t think of it as such. It was merely the city where his financial administrator and IT specialist, Rehka Gyan, was based. How that had come about was a long story.
Rex could be referred to as a secret agent or special operations operative or an assassin or a spy. It was less than eighteen months ago when he still worked for a black ops outfit that went by the name of CRC – Crisis Response Consultancy. Nominally commanded by the CIA, it was actually a private company under the command of the Old Man – John Brandt – who called himself a private military contractor. Rex was their most coveted of assets – a stone-cold killer with a grudge against bad guys, especially Middle Eastern terrorists, who had killed his family when they blew up a train in Barcelona in 2004. But no one, least of all John Brandt, doubted Rex was his own man. Rex had his own definition of the ‘liberty’ aspect of ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’. And it didn’t always coincide with his stated orders.
