The Paris Game (33 page)

“Sera?” He opened the door a fraction. When she didn’t answer, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Her dress had puddled on the floor, red streaks running on the wet tile and her underwear was strewn nearby. The shower curtain was partly open and he could just see her back, bare and pale but for a couple of bruises. She stood under the spray, her shoulders hunched.

“Sera?” he said again. She turned, and he couldn’t tell if the drops on her face were tears or moisture from the hot water. He held out a towel and she turned off the water and stepped out, letting him wrap it around her. For a moment she leaned against him. He dropped a kiss on her forehead. If she hated him, she wouldn’t have allowed him this liberty.

“I need to go home,” she said, tucking the towel around herself. She grabbed another towel for her hair. “I have to work tonight.”

How could she even think of work? “Do you really think you could manage?”

She looked forlorn. “I have to go. He’ll dock my pay, or worse.” She stepped around him and he followed her into the bedroom. She started digging through his wardrobe. “Have I left anything here to wear?” Her voice broke and she leaned against the door, trying to hide the shine of tears in her eyes from him. He wanted to hold her, to try to make everything right again, but he didn’t know if she’d allow him to touch her.

“Let me call the club. You can’t perform in this state.” Marc felt his pocket for his phone and remembered that it had been left in his jacket. When he returned, Sera had found a pair of his rarely used pyjamas. She sat in the middle of the bed, her head resting on her knees. He set the phone on the side table and went to her instead, gathering the wet towels she’d left on the bed. He rested a hand on her damp hair and she lifted her head. She caught at his hand as he cupped her cheek, pulling him down to the bed. He let the towels fall to the floor.

Her lips were on his before he could say a word. He returned her kiss, drawing her into his embrace as she crawled onto his lap. He had nearly lost her and now her scent filled his nostrils, reassuring him that she was here and she was his. She straddled his lap, her kisses fierce and demanding. Her fingers caught the hem of his shirt and she pulled it up and over his head, tossing it to the floor. Her hands skimmed over his chest before returning to her own garments. The pyjama top slid from her shoulders and he broke off their kisses to take a nipple in his mouth, dragging his tongue over the tip, rolling it between his teeth until she cried out. The roughness of his unshaven chin pinkened her pale skin as he transferred his attention. She arched into his touch, pressing herself against him, and he could feel her heat even through the layers of fabric.

Marc tugged at the waistband of the cotton trousers, pulling them down her hips. She shifted her weight until he could fling them away. Her hand struggled with his jeans and he unbuttoned them for her, pushing them down his legs. She was all softness and heat against him, his cock sliding between her damp thighs. He wanted to sheathe himself in her but she shifted, teasing him.

“Seraphina,” he murmured against her breasts. She lifted his head and he looked into her dark eyes.

“Beg me for it,” she told him, tilting her hips just enough to put him between her lips. He shuddered.

“Please, Seraphina.”

She drew back, the air a chill caress on his thighs. He put all his pent-up longing, and all his desire, into his next words.

“I need you.”

She took him in hand and slid forward. He was enveloped in her slick heat, the sensation so intense that he muffled his groan in the crook of her neck. She rocked her hips against him and then placed her hands on his chest and pushed.

He fell back and she rode him to the edge before easing away, her nails digging into his chest. She did it again, and a third time, until the perspiration prickled on his brow. Her smile told him she knew exactly what she was doing. She loosed his hand from her hip, letting it drag up over her body as she brought it to her lips. She kissed his palm and directed his hand downward once more, between her legs. His fingers found her bud and as he caressed her, she shuddered against him with a cry, tightening around his cock. She sunk onto his chest, her breathing heavy.

Marc rolled onto his side, bringing her leg up onto his shoulder. Her fingers tightened in the hair at the nape of his neck as he thrust into her, the orgasm overtaking him.

“I love you,” he murmured against her neck. He didn’t know if she heard him, but her pulse beat against his cheek, momentarily irregular before it began to calm.

Sera relaxed against him, but her skin felt cool to the touch, and he moved them under the covers. She tucked in beside him, her leg over his, dozing in the cocoon of warmth. She didn’t acknowledge his words, but when he stroked her hair, she murmured something unintelligible, her eyes closed. He heard her breathing slow and wished that he could sleep as easily. The post-sex euphoria dwindled and his mind returned to earlier events. Even if the police were unable to find evidence, and he hoped that would be the case, he knew that Royale’s reach was vast. He needed to call the club.

Marc got out of bed, tucking the covers back in around Sera. The dark circles under her eyes were stark in her pale face and he hoped she wouldn’t wake for hours. He pulled on a clean pair of trousers and a t-shirt, snagging his phone from the table before he walked from the room on silent feet.

He tossed the towels into the hamper and went to the kitchen. The espresso brewed quickly and he downed his first cup in two swallows. The second cup he sipped at a more leisurely pace. He lit a cigarette, cracking open the window.

Marc’s phone buzzed on the counter, rattling the small porcelain cup in its saucer. He glanced at the number, but it was unfamiliar.

“Oui?”

Françoise’s prim voice came over the line. “Monsieur Royale wishes to speak with you.”

Royale was calling him. How did he find out so quickly? He took a deep drag on his cigarette to calm his nerves.

“Perron.” Royale greeted him with grim amusement. “Did you really think that you could keep this a secret?”

Chapter 18

Sera woke in a daze, enveloped by warmth. It took her several moments to remember where she was. The strains of Marc’s cello came through the closed door and she sat up in bed. How long had she slept? The drapes had been shut and she reached to turn on the bedside lamp. She didn’t see a clock but clothes lay folded at the end of the bed. She slid out from under the covers.

The black trousers were her size, still crisp from pressing. They looked new, though there were no tags. The shirt felt like cashmere, a long-sleeved top in deep violet. There was clean underwear too, but no bra. The shirt clung to her when she put it on. She glanced around for her bag, but couldn’t see it. She smoothed her hair down with her fingers, but she needed her brush.

She hesitated at the door, her hand hovering over the knob. The cello went quiet and she wondered if he’d heard her moving about, but then the first notes of the Tchaikovsky nocturne came through the door, one of her favourite pieces. How could she face him now? Last night had been an impulse, an urgent need. Today, she wanted to creep out in silence, to hide away and pretend that nothing had ever happened. He knew all her secrets, and she felt ashamed.

Sera stood at the door until Marc had finished playing. She quietly turned the knob, easing out into the living room. He didn’t notice her at first, but then he lifted his head. He smiled—one of his genuine smiles that crinkled the skin around his eyes—rising from his chair to lay the cello back in its case. She hung by the doorway until he came to her.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, bending to kiss her. She allowed it, but stepped back when he tried to deepen the kiss. The more aloof she was, the easier this would be.

“You bought me clothes?” She’d meant to start with something more gracious, but the words just slipped out.

He chuckled. “Don’t you like them?”

“You didn’t need to.” He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. Already her resolve had weakened.

“But what would you have worn?” he asked, before becoming solemn. “I had to throw out your dress. There was too much blood.”

“I expected as much.” She frowned. “I loved that dress, though. And I guess you had to throw out my bra too?”

“I’d have bought you a new one but the Monoprix nearby didn’t have your size. It was the only place open this morning.”

“Thank you.” She spotted her bag by the sofa and picked it up, sitting down to dig through it for her hairbrush.

“Coffee?” Marc asked. She looked up.

“Please.”

He left the room. She found her brush and began working on her hair. She should never have slept on it while it was wet. She had only half-finished the task of detangling it when Marc returned with two cups. She set down the brush and took a sip of the café crème. Marc settled next to her on the sofa. He was too close to her and she wanted to move away, but she couldn’t. She felt as if she were sitting on eggshells. He seemed to be waiting for something. After she’d set down her cup and returned to brushing her hair, he leaned forward.

“Sera,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “I need to know—how much do you owe Royale?”

The worry that had been nagging her curled itself into a ball in her stomach. She hadn’t expected him to ask that, not yet. She wished Jeremy hadn’t said anything. That was a worse shame than turning tricks, that she’d put herself in the position in the first place. “Too much,” she said shortly, focusing on brushing her hair. He sighed.

“How much?” he pushed.

“Almost ten thousand euros.” She forced her hands to stop trembling. “At first he was fine with my repaying him 300 euros a week, but he kept wanting more.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

She’d known he would ask that question sooner or later. “You weren’t here.” She blinked back unexpected tears. “I was desperate and no one I knew had any money.”

He winced. “But what did you need so much for?”

She turned away so he couldn’t see her swiping at her tears. “My mother called, in dire straits. She’d promised me before that she’d stop gambling, but she’d lied. She was going to be evicted from her apartment because she couldn’t pay the rent, hadn’t paid the rent in months. I couldn’t let her be homeless.”

“Is she going to pay you back?” he asked pointedly.

“I’ve a greater chance of winning the lottery.”

“But you never said anything when I came back. You didn’t ask for help then. Instead, we have our wager.”

“You brought that up,” she reminded him. “It wasn’t my idea in the first place. And when you did, it seemed easier—it would solve my problems in one fell swoop.”

“Would you have asked even if we hadn’t made the wager?”

She looked right at him. “No. I didn’t want to be beholden.”

He rested his forehead on his hand. “You would rather turn tricks than ask me for money.”

“I hadn’t planned to, but when Royale started demanding more money, it was the only way I could come up with the cash.” She saw him shake his head. “I couldn’t get another job and a paycheque before it was due,” she snapped, hating him then, hating the shame he made her feel for doing what she’d had to do.

“What if you can’t manage?”

“I’ll pay it off, you don’t have to worry about that.” She didn’t want his help.

“Can you? Do you think Royale will be patient? He didn’t sound so patient yesterday.”

Sera nearly dropped the brush. “You talked to him?”

“He called. I didn’t call him.”

“What did he say?” She tried not to shiver.

“He knew about the fire. And he knew that we’d been there.” He paused. “He doesn’t know who killed Jeremy, though.”

“How’d he find out so fast? If he finds out it was me...”

“I think Claude and Michel may have gone to see him; he wouldn’t tell me how he knew. But he won’t find out.” His arm came around her shoulders and she allowed herself to lean into his embrace.

“But he will. He always knows.”

“I have to see him tomorrow,” Marc told her. “I’m going to tell him I did it.”

Sera clenched her hands around the handle of her brush. “You would lie for me?” He looked at her solemnly.

“I would.”

“He’ll kill you.” She couldn’t imagine Royale doing anything less. And she would be the cause.

“He won’t.” Marc’s confidence surprised her.

“Why?” Royale had no reason to let Marc live once he knew. She looked at him, puzzled, and saw that he’d become pensive. How did he know Royale would spare him? And then it came to her. “You know Royale. Well.”

He drew back. “I’ve met him.” His evasiveness told her more than he’d planned.

“It must be more than that. Jeremy worked for Royale, by the sounds of it, but yet, he knew you. What did he mean when he said that your priorities had changed?”

“You heard that?”

“Did you want Claude and Michel dead? That’s what it sounded like to me.”

Marc didn’t answer. He rose abruptly and picked up his cigarette case from the table.

“What were they to you? And why did you have a gun hidden away?” She wanted him to answer, but instead he lit a cigarette and turned away. “From what I can tell, you’ve become as much of a gangster as he is.”