Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) (6 page)

S
he waited
, nearly holding her breath. She was already learning about him, already figuring out that he would speak when he was ready.

“You could go to the police,” he finally said. “But that doesn’t address the problem of the threat against you.”

“That would be my concern with going to the police, too.”

“Are you asking me for protection?”

She hesitated. That was exactly what she was asking for. Exactly why she’d come.

Wasn’t it?

“I think so,” she said.

He stood, walking to the big window. He stared out at the street below. “I could have them killed.”

She should have been horrified by the thought. Instead she had a flash of the man’s dead eyes, his iron grip on her wrist, the hot fear that had coursed through her body when he pressed the tip of the knife against her throat. When she realized she was completely at his mercy. That he could kill her then and there and she would be nothing more than another story in the Paris papers.

“I’m not asking you to do that.”

He rubbed at his chin. “I could send someone home with you tonight,” he said. “Or go with you myself.”

She sensed something unsaid. “But?”

He turned to face her, and she was struck all over again by the directness of his gaze, the completely impassive expression on his face. Had she imagined the anger she thought she’d seen when he noticed the bruise on her wrist? The interest in his eyes when they’d been face to face?

“We don’t really know if these men are working alone,” he said.

“You think they may have been sent by someone else?” The thought had never occurred to her.

“It’s possible,” he said.

“So even if we deal with them, there’s no guarantee I’ll be in the clear.”

“That would be my concern,” he said.

“What do you propose?” she asked.

He seemed to consider her question. “I’d like to know more about Stefan Baeder.”

“Baeder?” It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say.

He nodded. “The ring was part of his estate, and he was killed not very long ago. I can’t help but wonder if there is some kind of connection.”

She hesitated. “How curious are you?”

He tipped his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Maybe I have a proposition.”

A smile teased the corners of his lips. “That sounds rather intriguing.”

“A business proposition,” she clarified.

“I’m still interested,” he said.

She drew in a breath. “Well, I can’t exactly go back to the shop, and I’m not ready to take you up on the offer of violence against the men who want the ring.”

“But?” he prompted.

“But I’m not ready to give them the ring either.”

“I’m listening.”

“I could go to Vienna,” she said. “Speak to someone who knew Stefan Baeder, see if I can find out more about the circumstances surrounding his death.”

“You said this was a proposition for me,” he reminded her.

“You could keep an eye on the store while I’m gone, or… have someone else keep an eye on it.” She was thinking of the big men who had been in his foyer the last time she’d visited. “I can call Joelle and have her stay home for a few days while I figure this out.”

“That seems a… disproportionate solution to our problem.”

“Disproportionate?” She repeated the word to avoid thinking too hard about his use of the pronoun “our.”

… our problem.

He paced the room, ran his fingers along the surface of a seventeenth century marble-topped console. “One might say the ring technically belongs to me.” He met her eyes. “Because it was found in the desk.”

The statement threw her for a loop. Is that what he wanted? The ring? After everything she’d told him he actually wanted the ring that might as well have been a machete hanging over her neck?

“You want the ring?”

“We can talk about ownership later. But I think it’s safe to say that the problem of these men now belongs to both of us.” He looked into her eyes. “All of which is to say that I have a counter-proposal to your proposition.”

Interesting.

“I’m listening.”

He smiled at her use of his words. “We both go to Vienna,” he said. “We can be there by evening, inquire about Baeder tomorrow, be back in Paris tomorrow night.”

“How will this solve my problem?”

“Our problem,” he corrected.

“All right. Our problem,” she said.

“What I’m proposing is an agreement between us,” he said. “If we believe the ring is connected to Baeder’s death after our visit to Vienna, we can discuss going to the police. If we don’t, we can discuss its ownership. Either way when we return to Paris, you will steer clear of Galerie Duval for a couple of days while I… have a few words with the men who threatened you.”

“I haven’t said I want you to hurt anyone on my behalf,” she said.

“Ah, but that is not part of our covenant. I accompany you to Vienna. In return, you allow me to take care of the men who threatened you to insure your safety and the security of your father’s store.” He gave her a small nod. “With the understanding that violence will be avoided if possible.”

It wasn’t the idea of allowing Christophe into the mystery surrounding the ring that suddenly made it hard to swallow. No. It was the thought of going to Vienna with him. The thought of sitting next to him on a plane and staying in a hotel — albeit in separate rooms — and generally being in such close proximity to this man who was like a mysterious box that kept opening onto another mysterious box.

“The store…” she said faintly.

“I can have someone keep an eye on the store, and you can give Miss Masson a holiday just as you would have done if you’d gone to Vienna alone.” He paused. “Unless you’d like to go back to America, in which case I can take the ring off your hands and handle the matter from here.”

She tried to imagine packing her things, heading to De Gaulle airport, crossing the Atlantic, arriving back in sunny L.A. like none of this had ever happened.

She couldn’t. She’d spent her life deeply embedded in the mysteries of the past, and here was a great and terrible mystery right in front of her — one that might have cost a man his life. She couldn’t simply pretend she’d never found the ring. That Stefan Baeder — or his killer — might have been wearing it when he was murdered.

Given her background, it was natural that she would want answers to the mystery.

Liar.

It’s him. Christophe Marchand.

She tried to quiet the voice in her mind. She was a strong, intelligent woman. She wasn’t going to be added to the collection of a man like Marchand. She was too smart for that. She would accompany him to Vienna. They would find out more about Stefan Baeder. Whatever happened, she would be back in Paris in less than forty-eight hours.

Everything would be much clearer then.

T
he shadows were lengthening
when she took a last look around the store. The space felt different to her after the invasion of the men who had wanted the ring. Once she saw only the soft sunlight making its way in through the windows, the gleaming wood of the pieces that had been found in estates and old barns all over the world.

Now she saw danger lurking in the corners. She imagined the men coming back, breaking in through the door or the plate glass window, destroying things that had been lovingly restored by her father’s own hand.

She took a deep breath. Christophe Marchand had said he would take care of the store. And while she didn’t know him, somehow she believed him. There was something certain in the directness of his gaze, something dangerous hiding beneath his fine, polished surface. It was something that told her when he made a promise, he kept it. That she could take his word to the bank.

She peered out the front window at the black SUV idling at the curb. He’d insisted on accompanying her back to the store while she packed a few things, and she’d paced nervously as they waited for the man named Julien to arrive at the house in Saint-Germain. She’d recognized him immediately as the one who opened the door when she’d dropped off the desk. He’d given her a nod as she slid into the car and hadn’t so much as looked at her since.

She was nervous about going to Vienna with Christophe Marchand, was putting off the moment when she would get in the car next to him, board a plane that would take them away from Paris and toward a situation whose outcome couldn’t be determined. It was more than the ring; it was Marchand. He threw her off-balance, and that was something she couldn’t allow.

Off-balance was her mother. It was putting all of your hopes and dreams in the hands of a man who was only looking for a taste of beauty. It was her father and men like him who would move onto the next fine thing the moment they got bored with the one in their hands.

Charlotte wasn't an off-balance kind of person. She was strong and steady. Practical and intelligent. Knowledge and reason guided her decisions.

Which is why she was going to Vienna with Christophe Marchand.

He offered her the protection she might need, and a man with his resources could likely open doors that would remain closed to her alone. Plus, it was part of their agreement — the joint trip to Vienna, the information about Stefan Baeder, the eventual return to Paris and protection for her father’s store. It was an agreement that would allow her to put this behind her and return to her life and job in L.A. knowing she had done all she could to protect her father’s legacy and do right by Baeder.

It all made perfect sense.

She exited the shop and turned to lock the door, then hurried purposely for the car. Julien was at the back door before she reached it. He took her bag, then waited for her to slide in next to Christophe before closing the door behind her.

Christophe’s presence was like a black hole sucking the oxygen out of the vehicle. He seemed to occupy every inch of the backseat, his essence reaching beyond his physical person like smoke. His scent was like a drug, the hint of rain and wool mingling into an elixir that made her feel slightly light-headed. She focused on her seat belt to avoid looking at him as Julien put the bags in the trunk. Then the car was starting and they were pulling into traffic, moving through the city as the sun set over Paris.

“Did you give Mademoiselle Masson her holiday?” Christophe asked when they’d been driving for awhile.

“Yes,” she said, daring a look at him and immediately regretting it.

He had gone upstairs to pack his bags while they’d waited for Julien and had returned dressed in perfectly tailored trousers and a white button down. The shirt would have been boring on anyone else, but the fabric hugged his broad shoulders, the arms that were deceptively lean, the muscle rippling when he reached for something. A sliver of bare skin was visible at the top of his chest, and she’d had to look away, a flash of him naked, her tongue skimming his heated skin momentarily stealing her breath.

She inched her thigh away from his, glad she’d changed from her dress into slacks. She already felt too exposed in his company. Now her clothes were like armor.

And the more barriers the better.

“Have you known her long?” Christophe asked.

“Who?”

His smile was knowing, like he knew what she’d been thinking. Heat rose to her cheeks.

“Mademoiselle Masson.”

“Oh, yes,” Charlotte said, trying to recover. “She started working for my father about two years ago, I think.”

“I must confess I always found her rather… high-strung,” he said.

“That’s one word for it.”

“What would you call her?”

She was surprised by the note of curiosity in his voice, the way he looked into her eyes. Like he genuinely wanted to know the answer. Like there was nothing in the world on his mind except what she was about to say.

Charlotte thought about it. “Vibrant,” she said. “Passionate.”

“Passionate?”

She nodded. “About beauty.”

He held her gaze. “That I can understand.” A moment later he spoke again. “Although I think your choice of words is simply a kinder way of saying she’s high-strung.”

Charlotte laughed, and she was relieved to feel her shoulders relax. Everything was going to be okay. Christophe Marchand was just a man.

A man like any other man.

C
hristophe sat back
in the plush leather seat and fastened his seat belt for the flight to Vienna. It took effort to avoid looking at Charlotte as she did the same. Everything she did was the subject of fascination to him. It was something about the way she moved, slowly and carefully, with a deliberation one didn’t often see in the twenty-first century. She reminded him of the screen sirens he’d watched in old movies growing up — all the sensuality of someone like Sophia Loren coupled with the reserve of Grace Kelly.

The engines grew to a dim roar as they taxied down the runway. He dared a glance at her then, drank in her slim neck, her profile as she gazed out the window. Her posture was relaxed, her hands folded casually in her lap.

He was glad for the distraction of takeoff, glad Julien had opted to sit in the cockpit with the pilot. Christophe didn’t want to make polite conversation. He was still trying to reconcile the bargain he’d struck with Edgar Duval’s daughter.

He’d presented it as the only smart, viable option. And yet, he could have advised her to return to California, close the shop for a time. He could have stationed men outside it for a few days to head off any damage by the people who had threatened her. He could have suggested she hand over the ring. What did it matter? Stefan Baeder was dead. Exploring a connection between the ring and his death — whatever the outcome — wouldn’t change that.

But he hadn’t done any of those things. He’d suggested a joint trip to Vienna instead.

Because of her.

Her appearance in his life had been unexpected, but now that it had happened, it had the air of inevitability. As if it were destined.

Ducunt volentem fata.

Except he didn’t believe in fate. Not really. A man — or woman — made his own destiny through the choices he made and the work he did. So why did he feel like he was breathing for the first time in years? Animated by a single life-giving breath, like a person pulled from the water, blue and cold, brought back by the breath forced into his lungs by another?

It didn't make sense. He didn’t like things that didn’t make sense. But the truth was undeniable; he wasn’t ready to see her walk out of his life. He didn't know what it meant, but Vienna would give him time to figure it out. They could spend a couple days together in one of the most romantic cities in the world. Unless he was misreading her physical response — and he rarely misread a woman’s physical tells — she was attracted to him as well. Perhaps it would be a passing infatuation. That would be easiest. They could find out more about the ring, develop a strategy for resolving the problem of the men in Paris, part ways when she went back to Los Angeles.

He turned his attention to the men who had threatened her. Petty thievery seemed unlikely. Small time crooks weren’t interested in valuable works of art. They were too difficult to pawn, too easy to trace by the authorities.

That meant either the ring itself was valuable for reasons they hadn’t yet determined (its value had been appraised at a hundred thousand Euros when it was last at auction — hardly a king’s ransom) or it connected these men to the murder of Stefan Baeder.

He let his gaze slide to Charlotte across the aisle of the private plane. Her head was bent to a book, an obviously well-read copy of Suite Francaise she’d carried onto the plane. She flipped the page, and he caught sight of the smudge at her wrist, the discoloration marring her porcelain skin.

His outrage was immediate. It was like looking at a work of art that had been damaged by someone careless and cruel. He wanted to repair the damage, but there was something else — a kind of ache in his chest at the knowledge that whoever had done it had caused her fear or pain.

That she’d been alone in that moment.

He didn’t like the thought of her being alone and afraid.

The realization left him with a deep sense of disquiet. He didn’t like disquiet. He turned his attention to the catalog in front of him. An important estate was coming up for auction in Berlin. He would have to have his buyer there attend and bid on his behalf.

He felt better as he turned the pages of the catalog, mentally tracking the pieces that were of interest to him. This was his world. A world of oil paintings and gilded frames, centuries old mahogany and oak, stained glass and the finest gems.

Here everything made sense, everything was for sale. And if one couldn’t own the object of one’s desire, there was always another of equal beauty around the corner.

He kept turning the pages long after he was really seeing the items displayed there, his mind turning over the unwelcome suspicion that Charlotte Duval wasn’t like all the other beautiful things in his world.

That she would not be for sale.

That she would not be replaceable.