Walking The Edge: A Romantic Suspense/Espionage Thriller (Corpus Brides Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

“Peter Jamison.”

Bad, and he meant, really bad. Even if she were a cradle robber, a teenager hardly fitted the bill of being the drug-giving, controlling husband of a woman who looked to be at least in her late twenties.

Something of tremendous proportions must be playing out here, and he didn’t know the half of it.
Putain
, he probably had no clue as to the real ramifications.

The only certainty stated that this woman, whoever she must be, lay at the heart of it.

How and why, though?

Could she be a part of the scheme, a pawn, or an innocent, caught in the intricate web of something that escaped all their grasps?

He stood, already on his way to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

Chapter Six

Marseille.
Corniche
JF Kennedy

Sunday, December 16. 1:06 p.m.

Yeah, right. My arse!
She yearned to shout at him as he disappeared behind the closing panel; ended up throwing a cushion at the door. How she hated being left dangling. What had he heard over the phone to make him up and leave so abruptly? He’d pumped her for information—which she’d willingly supplied—but he, like a mighty cop, kept his cards close to his chest and divulged nothing.

Why had she thought she’d get answers from him? Exasperating and totally bull-headed man!

Passionate and a wonderful lover, too
, her body reminded her when she tried to move and ached all over. Damn him; he’d made her boneless, with every cell of her body singing his praise while awaiting his touch again.

“Fuck you, Gerard Besson,” she screamed into the empty room.

Yet, what else could she do but wait for him? The ball lay in his side of the court, with her in unknown territory, having no access to any information.

The dreams.

These could’ve come in handy right now. The drugs to allow them had remained in the London house, though, and she doubted she could walk into a pharmacy and buy some without a prescription.

She really found herself stuck, Gerard her only lifeline.

Damn him.

Growing antsy, she threw the sheet off and paced the room like a caged animal, ready to pounce on anything just to let out the restlessness in her.

Later on, when the four, sable-coloured walls closed in on her, she went down to the hotel shop to buy some clothes and other necessities.

Then evening rolled in, and he still hadn’t called, or come by. She ordered dinner, choosing to eat in her room as she’d done with brunch. At least, these took her mind off her predicament for a few moments. But at close to nine, she couldn’t take the endless wait any longer.

She tried the
commissariat
, but the receptionist said he was out. Why didn’t that surprise her? What an idiot she’d turned out—she’d not taken down his mobile number.

Dead end spells Gerard Besson
. A great shag but nothing more, good only to complicate her life. She seethed. The walls of the room closed in on her again. How much longer she could remain without any further clue as to her real identity and what the hell was happening to her? She had come to Marseille hoping Gerard would help, but so far, he’d done nothing for her.

It all reinforced her conviction that she could count only on herself.

With a resolute step, she exited the room and went down to the grand foyer. She needed to learn some things about the town and find out about any mentions of the accident she’d been in. A bomb blast wouldn’t go unnoticed by the media, would it? There had to be an allusion somewhere. What better than the Internet to help her in her quest, especially so late when all the public libraries would be closed?

At the front desk, a young man directed her to the business lounge. She didn’t have a computer with her, but he reassured her they had laptops she could borrow and use in the Wi-Fi area of the lounge.

Settling into a comfortable sofa, armed with a cup of strong coffee, she searched the online newspapers for an article on the accident. Strangely, she found nothing. What on earth...? Had Peter been lying...? She closed her eyes and thought of their fateful conversation. The part about her lover had been true, though, since she’d dreamed of Gerard soon after.

The dreams. Her focus returned to them. If only she could go down that road again, even with the tiny hope of gleaning a vision of something to lead her further in the right direction. They had come steadily lately, but they needed a slight push from the narcotics to materialize in her brain.
Damn it all to hell!

Without knowing why she did so at first, she tried an online search for trance-inducing drugs. The results’ page landed on LSD—one of its effects being it could provoke highly lucid dreams and nightmares.

Something else on the page caught her attention. Apparently, LSD could be a potential aid in psychotherapy cases, since it sometimes unblocked repressed material from the subconscious.

Could this be for real?

She stared at the screen for a long time, unwilling to consider the information, but at the same time, excited since the drug sounded like exactly what she needed.

Not allowing herself to think any more, she did a further search on the drug—it could be easily available at rave clubs in town. One name sounded familiar, as if she’d heard it before, and she focused on it, getting the nightspot’s address from its official website.

She would be going there tonight. No turning back now, and she needed answers, which an LSD trip could provide her.

She erased the history and Internet folders and returned the laptop to the lounge desk. On the way back to her room, she noticed the hotel shop still hadn’t closed. She couldn’t go to a nightclub in the tailored trouser suits she had bought earlier during the day. No dealer would sell her anything when she’d look like a cop or a lawyer. She needed different clothes.

Going into the shop, she found the perfect outfit—a sexy little black dress and strappy stilettos. She charged them to her room, went upstairs, and changed. Taking a taxi, she left for the heart of the old city and stopped in front of one of the glitziest nightclubs in a trendy area of town.

Here, the whiff of exhaust fumes covered the lingering smell of fish and seawater redolent in the city. The buildings rose up as hulking steel and glass structures; a far cry from the stone constructions with their pastel roofs dotting the landscape all the way from the port and up the slope to the hilltop of the
Notre Dame de la Garde
basilica.

Once on the pavement, she sidestepped the long line of waiting patrons and went straight for the bouncer. Winners took; they never asked. Unleashing a killer smile and tugging the hem of her dress farther up her thighs, she had no trouble getting the thick, bald guard to let her in. With a seductive sashay of her hips, she winked at him and ducked inside the club.

Across the threshold, she paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the setting. Psychedelic light beams roamed the otherwise dark interior. The pulse of the techno and house music thrummed inside her, echoing along with her heartbeat when she paused and scanned the place.

It looked familiar, as if she’d been there before. But what did they say—been to one club, been to all? She wouldn’t peg herself down as a party animal but still, an eerie sense of
reconnaissance
flowed over her when she stepped farther into the place. Flashes of her drinking from sloshing martini glasses as she moved to a hard yet sensuous beat grazed her mind. Memories, or wishful thinking, brought on by seeing women doing just that on the dance floor?

A few men gave her openly lustful stares as she went past them. She smiled in acknowledgement and ambled over to the bar. She didn’t know who could provide what she wanted, so she had to treat everyone with honey and not vinegar. Still, she needed to appear aloof, distant, a goddess on a pedestal that any man would be lucky to approach, let alone touch.

A chuckle escaped her at the thought. Her thoughts sounded like a bad club-flirting guide’s advice.

She slid onto a stool and smiled at the sexy bartender.

He leaned across the bar, his face close to her ear so she’d hear him over the deafening music. “What will it be for you?”

“A good time,” she huskily replied, and winked. “What’s your name, darling?”

“I’m Stéphane.” He winked back, then placed a Cosmopolitan in front of her. “On the house,” he said. “How do I address you, Goddess?”

She caught herself before she spilled the drink with surprise. So the bad advice
did
work. “Call me Amy.” Not the time to divulge her full name. She needed to keep her cards snug in her Wonderbra-enhanced cleavage.

He winked. “Sweet name. Amy,” he replied, letting the words drip with a hint of sexual provocation. A come-hither smile later, he left to attend to other waiting goddesses.

What a flirt
. Did he hope to score with her later?

She took a sip of the drink, then placed the glass on the bar when a man asked her to dance. Both women and men flocked to her like bees. She got up and danced with a few, allowing her body to move to the trance-like, erotic rhythm, but always staying one step ahead of wandering hands and soft caresses.

One of the men caught her attention. He looked older, suave, and sophisticated, completely the master of his game. She instinctively knew he wasn’t here simply for pleasure, like the horde of guys who danced and flitted about looking for a grope and, if they were lucky, a shag partner. No, this one knew the score and didn’t bother with it.

He confirmed her suspicions when he leaned close and said, “Stéphane says you’re looking for a good time?”

So the bartender acted as a go-between. This guy didn’t want sex. He hadn’t touched her or pressed his body suggestively to hers so far. Business—that’s what he meant. “What’s on offer?”

He smiled. “What’s your poison?”

“Now we’re talking.” She smiled back before taking a sip of the vodka martini one of the women had sent her.

His grin widened, and he placed a hand on the small of her back. “Let’s go somewhere quieter, shall we?”

She allowed him to lead her to the cordoned-off VIP lounge area. Catching herself squinting, she erased the frown from her forehead upon realizing she’d give herself away if she looked like she thought too much.

But with startling certainty coursing in her veins, she suddenly knew she had been here before. The surroundings appeared too familiar. If she wasn’t mistaken, right here in this same salon, she had drunk from martini glasses while she danced all her worries and thoughts away, all for a man’s viewing pleasure. An influential man, because admission had been reserved for him and a guest only.

Lord, the memories were coming. A trigger like LSD would unleash so many more remembrances.

The suave older man led her to a secluded corner of the lounge. Couples and threesomes lay scattered over the banquettes, some in full orgy mode despite still being clothed.
As if the scraps on the girls’ bodies can be called clothes.

He kept a respectable distance from her when they sat down. “So, tell me,
mon coeur
, what is it you’re looking for?”

She watched him through hooded eyes. A bit too forward for her liking—something told her to take stock of him. In the dark, she couldn’t really decipher his face, and she had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to recognize him if they met in broad daylight.

“I could introduce you to someone,
trésor
. Mary J, maybe?”

Selling marijuana represented not that much a criminal offense, so he could get off scot-free even if he said those words to an undercover cop.

Time for
her
to get her game on.

“I’d prefer to meet Lucy,” she replied, using the term LSD went by in such crowds.

“Ah. You walk in the higher circles,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s not easy to meet her.”

“But you’re here to introduce us, aren’t you?”

He seemed to ponder her response, and then he snapped his fingers, as if deciding he could trust her. “Access is paying only.”

“Tell me the fee.”

His sharp gaze prodded her.

“The Lucy I know is, how can I put it...?
Different
. She’s new here.” He paused. “You still want to meet her?”

She nodded.

“A short meeting or an extended visit?” he asked.

“Make it very extended.” The more pills or blotter papers she had, the better, since it could mean quite a few trips to unleash some memories.

He stood and took her hand, dropping a light kiss on her knuckles like a courtier at Versailles.

He then took her elbow and she followed him, back to the bar where he placed her on a stool.

“Stay here,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s been my pleasure.” With those seductive words, he took her hand, dropped another light kiss on her fingers, and left.

A drink made its way in front of her as if out of thin air, and she sat and waited. After a while, Stéphane slid a piece of paper in front of her.

“Your bill,” he said.

She glanced at the number. An awful lot of money for a few drinks. Realization dawned—the total amounted to the fee for meeting Lucy.

“I assume you don’t take cards,” she enquired teasingly.

He smiled. “Sorry, Amy. Just hard cash,” he said as he leaned over the counter, his mouth close to her left ear. “In my back pocket,
chérie
.”

She retrieved some large notes from her purse, lifted off her stool, and bent over the bar to place the rolled up money in the back pocket of his pants. To anyone, it would look like she teased and copped a feel of his tight arse.

He laughed, a deep, throaty sound. When she pulled back, he whispered in the shell of her ear, “Ladies’ room.”