The Paris Game (2 page)

Sera ran her tongue along the underside of his cock before taking him in her mouth. He grasped her hair and rocked his hips forward. She let him slide deeper into her mouth, pressing her hands against his hips to keep him from thrusting too far. She listened to his gasping breaths as she sucked him off. Just as he was about to ejaculate, she pulled away, and he spilled onto the pavement. She loosed his fingers from her hair and stood. He sagged back against the wall and looked well satisfied.

“Bonne nuit.” He opened his eyes, but she turned away, walking back the way she had come.

“Tomorrow?” he called after her.

“Perhaps.” She quickened her pace and reached the boulevard, walking towards the empty cab rank.

“Bonsoir,” said a voice from behind her. She started. A man strolled into the light from the street lamp and Sera recognized him from the club. Standing next to her, he was taller than she’d thought, towering over her with ease. “I thought you’d already left with that other man,” he continued, glancing down at her. She caught a whiff of his cologne, a spicy unfamiliar fragrance.

“We decided to part ways.”

“That was fast.” His mouth quirked up at the corner.

Had he seen them?

“He wasn’t the one for me,” she replied, glancing down the empty street.

“How fortunate. May I buy you a drink?”

A cab pulled up to the curb. She moved towards it and he opened the door for her.

“It’s a bit late,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Will you be at Le Chat Rouge? I’ll look for you.”

This man was far better than Anton Morel. His suit looked bespoke, the fabric fine, his tie still neat. His gold watch flashed in the street light. She smiled up at him. “I will. I perform there almost every night. And you are?”

“Jeremy Gordon.” He took her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

The cab driver muttered to himself and she made to get in.

“Until tomorrow then.” The man bent to kiss her cheek, his lips warm on her skin.

“Bonne nuit, Jeremy.”

Chapter 2

That same evening, Marc exited a black cab in London, the collar of his leather jacket drawn up against the rain. As his contact had told him, the antiques shop was across the road from the Boar’s Head pub, an establishment that looked as if it had seen better centuries. He far preferred the environs of London around his regular haunts near Claridge’s and Bond Street. Here he felt out of place, his elegant suit a contrast to the rundown street and its inhabitants.

He ducked out of the rain and into the shop. Its gilt lettering seemed old-fashioned in comparison to the garish colors of its neighbors and it faded into obscurity under the overcast sky. His family’s firm had started out much the same way a century earlier, but they had managed to leverage themselves from shopkeepers to sought-after experts. A bell jangled above his head, announcing his presence. He ran a hand through his dark hair, shaking off the damp.

The shop appeared empty. He checked his watch. In a few minutes, his contact Bates would be late. He wandered through the shop while he waited. The merchandise was of good quality and he mentally revised his initial assessment of the shop. Bates could make a fortune if he moved the business somewhere more conducive to wealthy shoppers. They were the livelihood of a place like this. Marc’s own great-grandfather had done far better when he’d moved the family business to its current location in central Paris. He paused to pick up an urn sitting on the shelf of an old Victorian-era dining room hutch. He rubbed the dust from its surface, revealing the delicately etched design underneath.

“Mr. Perron?”

Marc turned. The man stood casually, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. His suit hung on his thin frame, his tie loose at the collar. Under the two-day shadow, his skin had a ruddy flush. He’d probably come from the pub, given the state of his appearance.

“Yes. Mr. Bates?” He extended his hand. Bates’ fingers were cold and clammy.

“I appreciate you taking the time from your busy schedule.” Bates smiled and it made him look rapacious. His demeanor reminded Marc of the slick salesmen he sometimes ran into in the auction halls, shepherding around ignorant fools wanting to invest their wealth in the latest art fad. Already he regretted agreeing to this meeting.

“I don’t have much time before my next appointment,” he told Bates smoothly, though in truth this was his last appointment of the day. Let Bates say his piece, and quickly.

“Of course. Shall we go back to my office?”

Marc followed Bates through the shop and into a back office that smelled faintly of fish and chips. Bates seated himself behind a cluttered desk and gestured for Marc to take a seat. He shed his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. He took a seat, his ankle crossed over his knee.

“Our mutual friend suggested to me that you might be able to assist me with a client,” Bates began, lighting a cigarette. Marc nodded and waited for him to continue. “My client, a lower member of our illustrious aristocracy—” At that, Marc had to keep himself from laughing. If Bates was trying to impress him, he’d have to try harder. “—has been let down in his search for original works by Degas.”

“As he would.” Marc knew that very little by Degas had been auctioned in some time. Most collectors were content to hold onto their acquisitions. “Am I supposed to discover these pieces for him?”

Bates shifted in his chair, giving a sly grin. “For a price, my client wishes to obtain two sketches by Degas that he saw at the d’Orsay on his last trip to Paris.”

“Then he should deal with the museum.” His uncle’s corrupt legacy had a long reach, and now he knew why his firm had come recommended.

“You’ll appreciate that my client realizes such inquiries would be useless,” Bates replied. “He’s willing to offer a substantial payment to someone who could arrange their liberation from the museum.”

“How much is he offering?” Enough circling. If the offer wasn’t sufficient, he wasn’t going to waste his time.

“Twenty thousand pounds.” Bates looked smug. Marc rose to his feet, slipping on his jacket.

“Good night, Bates.”

“But—” Bates rose, stretching out a hand to forestall Marc’s leaving. “That’s double what they’re worth!”

Marc shrugged. “That may be, but it’s not worth the risk. And the thieves would have to be well paid. You’ll have to find someone else.” He walked to the door, Bates trailing him.

“How much would you want?”

“If your client can come up with a better offer, I may consider it. Otherwise, you’ll have to look elsewhere.” Marc looked coolly at Bates. “So far you’ve just been wasting my time. Call me if you can make it worth my while.”

He stepped out onto the street and flagged down a black cab. The sun was setting and he had the entire evening free. It would be a waste to not make the fullest use of his suite at Claridge’s. He leaned forward.

“Charing Cross Road at Manette Street,” he told the driver. He knew exactly how he was going to enjoy his evening.

“We’ll be closing in half an hour,” the clerk told him. Marc nodded and continued into the bookshop. He had Madelaine’s number from several weeks prior, but he far preferred to surprise her at work. If she wasn’t available, there’d always be someone else. He turned a corner and made his way towards the back of the shop, passing military history and philosophy before he found her. She stood on a small stepladder, methodically dusting the upper shelves.

“I’m glad to see they’ve replaced the old stepladder,” he remarked as he came up beside her. She gave him a brilliant smile, and if they hadn’t been in the middle of the shop, he knew she would have kissed him. Still, he helped her from the ladder and bent to kiss her cheek, pulling her into a close embrace. His hand slid down her back and over the snug fabric of her dark skirt.

“Marc!” she scolded him. “You didn’t tell me you were in town.” She leaned into his embrace, her red hair brushing his chin. Small and delicate, Madelaine was a beautiful Irish girl he’d met during a quick stop to find a book he’d needed for a deal he’d been working on. She had found him the book and hand-delivered it to his room. There had been chemistry between them in the book shop, but when she had showed up at his door, she confirmed his hopes. She’d stayed for a drink, which had lengthened into two, and then the rest of the night.

“Are you free this evening, ma petite amie?” he asked, pushing aside her hair to taste the skin beneath her ear. He felt her shiver.

“Of course.” She drew back. “I just have to finish this and then I’m all yours.”

He chuckled. “Should I wait for you?”

“There’s a bar down the road—the Birchfield. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.” Madelaine stood on her tiptoes and he took the opportunity to kiss her. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said against his lips. He kissed her again, delving into her mouth. She gave a little moan that made him wish they had more privacy.

He pulled away, caressing her cheek. “I’ll be waiting.”

Marc found the bar easily enough—a tiny hole-in-the-wall that reminded him of Paris and some of the places he used to frequent. The interior held a dozen tables and a few booths, barely busy at this hour. He found a table for two and gave his order to the single waiter on duty. While he waited, he checked his messages. Bates hadn’t called and he doubted he’d hear from the man again. The receptionist at the firm had called to remind him of two late afternoon appointments upon his return to Paris tomorrow. He sighed. He’d have to send her an email later and see if she could reschedule or give them to Fournier, his associate. After two weeks of straight travel and auctions, he wanted to spend his Friday doing something more pleasant.

He slid his phone back into his pocket and took a long drink of his wine. A small feminine figure at the bar caught his eye and for a moment he thought she looked familiar. Her dark hair fell down her back in waves and she moved as gracefully as a dancer. However, when she turned, he didn’t know her. He felt a pang of disappointment. Seraphina was back in Paris, beguiling the crowds as she sang at Le Chat Rouge, not here.

The door opened and Madelaine walked in. She slid into the chair next to him and kissed him soundly.

“That didn’t take long,” he commented when they broke apart.

“I rushed the last bit,” she admitted. Her hand settled possessively on his thigh. “You know, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

He poured her a glass of wine from the carafe before replying. “Why is that?”

“I know you said you’d come back, but I didn’t think you were telling the truth,” she replied. She flushed. “That sounded awful.”

Marc chuckled. He rarely bothered to see a woman twice; she’d read him right enough. But she’d been delectable and he wanted more.

“It’s true enough, but you’re more than just a one-night-stand.”

“Good.” Her hand slid farther up his thigh and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

“Hungry?”

“Very.”

“Then what are we doing here?” He rose, tossing a bill onto the table. They left the bar and hailed a taxi.

“Where are we going?” she asked as the black cab sped along Charing Cross Road.

“My hotel.”

“Claridge’s?”

“Always.” He would call room service, but first he wanted to see Madelaine sprawled on the gorgeous Art Deco desk in his suite, her arousal glistening between her parted thighs. He didn’t think she’d object to a bit of a wait for her supper.

The taxi ride was short and they hurried through the lobby, not pausing until they reached the door of Marc’s suite. Once inside, Madelaine’s giggles turned to a gasp as he pressed her into the closed door, his hands hiking her skirt around her waist. She squirmed in his embrace and he paused.

“What is it?”

“I’m wearing the most awful knickers,” she said in a low voice, her cheeks flushing.

He shrugged. “It’s not your knickers I’m interested in.” He tugged down her pantyhose and her underwear, going down on one knee to unhook the fabric from around her feet. He tossed the garments aside and stood, sliding his arm under her buttocks. She clasped his shoulders in surprise as he lifted her.

“Where are we going?”

“I had this vision,” he said, taking her through into the sitting room. His free hand swept the papers from the desk and he set her down. He pulled up a chair as she watched and when he’d settled, she had shifted to the edge of the desk, letting her knees fall open.

“Parfait.” His tongue penetrated her folds and he felt her fingers in his hair. Her legs quivered and he held them apart, his thumbs resting in the soft hollows of her inner thighs. He teased her clit and listened as her breathing turned to short gasps. Her hands left him and she slumped back on her elbows. He glanced up from between her legs and met her gaze. She licked her lips.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured. He didn’t plan to. He wanted to hear her cry his name, to have her orgasm on his tongue. He let his teeth scrape over her clit, provoking her into a guttural groan. It wouldn’t be long now.

He sated her twice on the desk, curling his fingers inside her until she begged him for release. Now she lay prone, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and he gave her a caress as he stepped away.