The Paris Game (6 page)

“You can still make it six months.”

As what he said penetrated the layers of bliss, she shivered.

“No.”

“Truly?” He sounded surprised and disappointed. She lifted her head.

“You won’t win.”

“You underestimate me.” Marc wasn’t the least bit concerned. It was Sera’s turn to chuckle.

“You underestimate Sophie. I would never have made the wager if I thought otherwise.”

“Why do you need the money so badly?” She lowered her head back to the pillow. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably.

“You’ll have to tell me eventually.” Marc reached over and turned off the lamp. Sera closed her eyes, but a hand sliding between her legs made her realize that he wasn’t anywhere near finished with her.

Sera woke alone. The apartment was still. Only a quiet hum of traffic could be heard from the nearby avenue Wagram. She pushed the hair from her eyes and sat up in bed. The handcuffs were gone from the rail and Marc’s clothes had been removed. The wardrobe door hung ajar and she saw her dress on a hanger. The trousers and shirt that she had worn to the club last night were neatly folded at the end of the bed. Her bag was on the floor.

She got out of bed and picked up her bag, digging through it for her watch. It was after ten. She opened the wardrobe further and pulled one of Marc’s crisply pressed shirts from its hanger. He’d be annoyed with her, but she’d always liked wearing his shirts. It smelled faintly of him as she buttoned it up the front and rolled up the sleeves that flopped over her hands.

Marc wasn’t in the living room, but the drapes had been drawn back and the window left open. Nor was he in the kitchen, though a faint scent of smoke lingered and an empty cup of espresso had been left on the counter. A paper bag stamped with the name of the pastry shop and café a few doors down sat on the counter, and she opened it, hoping that he had left her some breakfast.

There was a pain au chocolat—a croissant filled with chocolate—and she grabbed a plate from the cupboard. As she nibbled the croissant she snooped through the kitchen and into the fridge to see what else he had to eat. The cupboards held little in the way of food and the fridge was nearly empty. Two bottles of white wine and a bottle of tonic water held court next to a carton of orange juice.

She decided to browse Marc’s book collection as she ate, wandering up and down the hallway. A book-shaped parcel wrapped in paper was laid at an angle and she set her plate carefully on a stack of literary magazines to pick it up. The parcel wasn’t taped shut and she was able to unfold the paper easily. A receipt fell to the floor and curled up at her feet as she pulled the book from its wrappings. It was an art criticism text and she flipped it over to read the back. Oxford University Press. How dull. She stooped to pick up the receipt as she placed the book back into the paper wrapping. It was for a bookstore in London and someone had written on the reverse, “Please come again! Madelaine” in a neat, girlish script. Apparently Marc had gained another admirer. She laughed to herself and replaced the book.

After taking her plate to the kitchen and leaving it beside Marc’s cup, she went into the bathroom. She stood before the mirror as she worked to untangle her hair from its messy braid. She dropped her arms and unbuttoned the shirt. There were bruises on her hips, and shadowed marks from where he’d held her, reminding her of why she had tried to stay away from Marc. It was too easy for her to lose herself.

Sera stepped into the shower. The last of her Marc-induced euphoria fell away. She washed her hair quickly and was relieved to step out onto the tile. She wrapped a towel around herself after drying her hair and went to the bedroom, leaving damp footprints on the parquet. She pulled on her trousers and shirt.

As she waited for her hair to dry, she went back to the bookshelves. She touched the spines of several favourite books, greeting them like old friends. She hadn’t noticed last night that his collection had gotten larger in the past few months; there were books that had been turned and stacked in columns, and several places had double-rows. She braced one of the columns and tugged a paperback out from mid-stack. The bright color of the spine had caught her eye, but reading the back, it wasn’t as interesting as she had thought. She went to put it back in its place, but the stack of books toppled over, sliding to the floor in a heap.

She bent to pick up the books, holding them against her chest as she reached up to put them back. Instead of another stack of books behind, as she had expected, there was a dark box. If she hadn’t been looking right at it, she might have missed it altogether. She set the books down on a lower shelf and pulled the box from its place.

There was nothing very remarkable about it; it was smooth and cool, slightly heavier than it looked, metal with a small catch on one side. She pressed the catch and it popped open.

A folded sheaf of papers protruded from the open box and she pulled them out. She knelt and set the box on the floor and unfolded the papers to get a closer look. Museum hours for d’Orsay. A brochure with the full layout of the exhibits. A tourist’s map of the area. All the material looked recent, and she couldn’t figure out why he would have bothered to tuck it away. She set the papers aside. They hadn’t been weighing down the container.

Underneath a book about the museum, which she had to pry out of the box, she found a handgun. It lay over a box of ammunition and was tucked in next to a switchblade and a roll of bills. She reached out to touch the gun, but drew back, sitting on her heels. It wasn’t illegal to own a handgun in France; her father had owned several in his lifetime. But her father had never kept them hidden away.

What was going on? She knew that some of Marc’s dealings weren’t entirely above board, but this seemed several steps further than that. She didn’t dare ask him. With careful movements, she put everything back in the box as she found it and re-stacked the books. She shouldn’t be here. She returned to the bedroom to collect her things, pulling her damp hair into a tight ponytail. She took her dress down from the hanger and folded it, putting it in her bag on top of her high heels. She slipped on the comfortably old pair of suede lace-up shoes that she’d worn to work yesterday and then stood. She wouldn’t come back here again. She should never have come back.

Chapter 4

Marc lounged on the terrace of a café on the boulevard St. Germain, enjoying his second espresso of the morning. He sat with his back to the full length glass windows, observing the growing weekend crowd of tourists taking advantage of the sunny day. A newspaper lay neglected on the table in front of him and he appeared to be just another man out enjoying the morning, dressed casually in jeans and a slim fitting leather jacket. Completely unremarkable, as he’d planned to be.

He drained his cup, and at his nod, the waiter brought him another. A glance at his watch confirmed his suspicions. Girard was late. He’d left Sera sleeping in his bed and she should be waking to his touch. Instead, she’d wake alone and he wouldn’t have the satisfaction he’d had last night, far beyond any of the other women he’d had in the past few months. If only he could have her every night. Even Madelaine, delectable as she might be, was no Sera. Winning their wager would give him three months, but that wasn’t enough. He should have forced her to accept the full six.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

Claude Girard drew up a chair and sat down, motioning for the man with him to do the same.

“I didn’t expect you to bring company,” Marc said, lighting a cigarette. “Also, you’re late.”

“This is my brother, Michel. He’s going to help me out. And the traffic was hell trying to get over here.”

Marc looked him over. Like Claude, Michel was of average height and build, his brown hair falling over the collar of his hooded jacket. They looked like any of thousands of young Parisian men. Unlike Claude, who bore the censure and inspection with a bored air, Michel fidgeted, picking at his thumbnail.

“I’m not paying extra,” Marc warned.

“Of course not,” Claude replied. “But it’ll be easier for the two of us. In the weekend crowds, we’ll be less noticeable.”

“Next weekend should be sufficient,” Marc replied.

“We don’t need to wait that long.”

“Really? Why is that?”

Claude leaned his elbows on the table. “We cased the place last week; we could do the job today.”

Marc frowned. “Do you routinely waste your time before you know there’s a job?”

Claude shrugged. “We’d heard hints of something from our mutual acquaintance, so it seemed worth the effort.”

Marc weighed his options. He didn’t like that Royale had known so far ahead and had prepared Girard, even though the action fell in his favour. He was tempted to call off the whole job, but for the fact that Royale obviously wanted it to succeed. What had first seemed simple now appeared complex. Did Royale want to impress Bates? Or was it Bates’ client he was after? He had the money, and to back out at this stage would mean a loss.

“Do it today then, if you must, but if there’s any damage, I’ll be taking it out of your payment.”

“Understood,” Claude agreed. “We’re no amateurs, are we, Michel?” Michel nodded in agreement with his brother, though he didn’t lift his eyes from his hands.

“Call me tomorrow when you’re clear.” Marc took his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out several €500 bills. Claude pocketed the money and they took their leave.

Marc lingered awhile longer and then tucked enough for his tab under the saucer. He strolled along the boulevard, taking his time to enjoy the sunshine and the crowds. He wondered if Sera had left his apartment yet. She probably had, which was a shame. He smiled to himself as he thought of the wager. She hadn’t been truly his for years. He wanted to convince her to stay even longer and he thought that three months might be enough to make it permanent.

He turned off to head towards the Place Saint-Sulpice, where a market was held regularly. Occasionally there would be a junk dealer selling old furniture and trinkets. Last time, there had been a gorgeous old sofa table that he’d purchased on the spot. The junk seller thought he had made money, but Marc had sold it two weeks later to one of his clients for over double the price. There were no junk dealers this morning, but he walked through the stalls anyway.

He emerged facing Saint-Sulpice, the largest church in Paris, with its Ionic colonnade and double towers. A familiar figure stood sketching in the middle of the square, oblivious to the passerby. He took his time approaching her. As he came up beside her, he leaned in to glance at her half-done sketch of the church.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle Sophie,” he said, his voice low. Sophie started, her pencil slipping from her grasp and clattering on the cobblestones. He picked it up and handed it back to her. “I’m sorry to have startled you,” he said, making sure their fingers brushed as she took her pencil from him. Her cheeks flushed pink and Marc knew that he was going to enjoy seducing this young woman. Winning the wager would be the icing on the cake.

“It’s not your fault,” Sophie replied. “I get caught up so easily.” He smiled and saw her relax a fraction. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and he followed the motion of her hand down and over the collar of her delicate pale blouse, noting where the thin fabric clung to her curves.

“Could I see your work?” He held out a hand and she gave him her sketchbook. The piece wasn’t near to being finished, but he could see in a moment that she had skill. “Sera was right, you’re very talented.”

Sophie ducked her head shyly. “That’s very kind of you, monsieur. And Sera.”

“I don’t give compliments like that out of kindness.” And it was true. For all that he would lie to a woman about her attractiveness, he saw no reason to coddle someone with no talent. He’d seen enough middling artists and appreciated those with real skill.

“I’m not used to it. I was hardly even the best artist in my classes.”

“How many of your classmates have come to Paris and have been following in the footsteps of their favourite artists?”

Sophie gave him a grateful look. This wager would be easy to win if all he had to do was give her a few compliments. Sera had misread her.

“Just me. I’ve wanted to visit Paris for years.”

“Then I should leave you to your work.” Marc took a slow, calculated step away. Sophie glanced at her sketch and back at him.

“No, I think it’s better left unfinished. My memory can fill in the details. Besides, I was going to go to d’Orsay this afternoon, and you’ve kept me from being too late.”

“You’re braver than I,” he remarked. He took his cigarette case from his jacket pocket and lit a cigarette.

“Brave?” Sophie echoed.

“Saturday afternoons at d’Orsay mean that every tourist this side of the Seine will be there. Better to go midweek, or when they have free admission for students.”

Sophie considered for a moment. “I’m sure I can find something else to do.”

“Do you like books?”

“I haven’t gone book shopping yet. I can’t read French as well as I’d like.”

“Then we should go to Shakespeare and Company.”

“They sell English books?” Sophie raised a brow, looking doubtful.

“Thousands. And it’s a strange little building. I think you’ll like it.” Marc gestured towards the street. “Come with me, mademoiselle.”