Die for Me (4 page)

“Oh, he did?” Vincent muttered, his expression assuming the hardened look it'd had the first time I met him. He thrust his hands back into his pockets and continued walking. We were getting closer to the Métro stop. I slowed my pace to buy a little more time.

“So what are you guys, undercover cops?” I didn't believe it for a second, but tried to sound sincere. His sudden change in mood had intrigued me.

“Something like that.”

“What, kind of like a SWAT team?”

He didn't respond.

“That was really brave, by the way,” I insisted. “Your diving into the river. What did the girl have to do with the gang fighting under the bridge, anyhow?” I asked, digging further.

“Um, I'm not supposed to talk about it,” Vincent said, studying the concrete a few inches in front of his feet.

“Oh yeah. Of course,” I said lightly. “You just look really young to be a cop.” I couldn't stop a facetious smile from spreading across my lips.

“I told you . . . I'm a student,” he said, giving me an uncertain grin. He could tell I didn't buy it.

“Yeah. Okay. I didn't
see
anything. I didn't
hear
anything,” I said dramatically.

Vincent laughed, his good mood returning. “So . . . Kate, what are you doing this weekend?”

“Um . . . no plans,” I said, silently cursing my reddening cheeks.

“Do you want to do something?” he asked, with a smile so charming that my heart forgot to beat.

I nodded, since I couldn't speak.

Taking my silence as hesitation, he added quickly, “Not like a formal date or anything. Just hanging out. We can . . . take a walk. Wander around the Marais.”

I nodded again, and then managed to get out, “That would be great.”

“Okay, how about Saturday afternoon? Daylight. In public. A perfectly safe thing to do with a guy you barely know.” He held up his hands as if showing he wasn't hiding anything.

I laughed. “Don't worry. Even if you
are
on a SWAT team, I'm not afraid of you.” As soon as it was out of my mouth I realized that I
was
afraid. Just a little bit. I wondered once more if that was his pull on me. Maybe my parents' deaths had left me with a lack of self-preservation and it was the hint of danger that I was going for. Or maybe I was attracted to the vague aura of untouchable aloofness that he exuded. Maybe all he was to me was a challenge. Whatever the reason, it was effective. I really liked this guy. And I wanted to see him again. Night, day, I didn't care. I'd be there.

He lifted an eyebrow and chuckled. “Not afraid of me. How . . . amusing.” I couldn't help myself from laughing along.

Nodding the other direction down the boulevard, he said, “Jules is probably waiting for me. See you Saturday. Meet you outside the rue du Bac Métro station at three?”

“Saturday, three o'clock,” I confirmed as he turned and walked away. I don't think it would be exaggerating much to say that my feet didn't touch the ground the whole way home.

VINCENT WAS WAITING FOR ME BY THE MÉTRO
entrance. My heart caught in my throat as I wondered (not for the first time) why this too-gorgeous-to-be-true guy had any interest whatsoever in plain old . . . okay, maybe slightly pretty, but by no means beautiful on his level . . . me. My insecurity crumbled when I saw his face light up as I approached.

“You came,” he said as he leaned in to give me the
bises
, those double-cheeked air-kisses that Europeans are famous for. Though I shivered when his skin touched mine, my cheeks were warm for a good five minutes afterward.

“Of course,” I said, drawing on every drop of my “cool and confident” reserve, since, to tell the truth, I was feeling a bit nervous. “So, where are we off to?”

We began walking down the steps to the subway tracks. “Have you been to the Village Saint-Paul?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Doesn't ring a bell.”

“Perfect,” he said, seeming pleased with himself but giving no further explanation.

We barely talked on the train, but it wasn't for lack of conversation. I don't know if it is just a cultural thing, or because the trains themselves are so quiet, but as soon as people step into the car from the platform they shut up.

Vincent and I stood facing each other, holding on to the central steel pole for balance, and checked out the other passengers, who were busy checking us out. Have I mentioned that checking people out is the French national pastime?

As we turned a corner and the train jerked to one side, he put an arm around my shoulders to steady me.

“We haven't even gotten there and you're already making a move?” I laughed.

“Of course not. I'm a gentleman through and through,” he responded in a quiet voice. “I would throw my coat over a puddle for you any day.”

“I'm no damsel in distress,” I retorted as the train pulled to a stop.

“Whew—well, that's a good thing,” he said, breathing a fake sigh of relief. “How about opening the door for me, then?”

I grinned as I flipped up the metal door-release lever and stepped onto the platform.

We emerged from the Saint-Paul stop directly in front of the massive classical church called the Église Saint-Paul. “I used to come here when I was a kid,” I said to Vincent as I peered up at the decorative facade.

“Really?”

“Yeah. When I came to visit my grandparents during the summer, there was a girl I used to play with who lived just there.” I pointed to a building a few doors away. “Her dad told us that this street was used for jousts in the Middle Ages. Sandrine and I used to sit on the church steps and pretend we were in the middle of a medieval tournament.” I closed my eyes and I was back, ten years ago, reliving the sounds and colors of our imaginary tourney. “You know, I always thought that if the centuries and centuries of Paris's ghosts could materialize all at once, you would find yourself surrounded by the most fascinating people.” I stopped, suddenly embarrassed that I was spouting off to this guy I barely knew with details about one of my several dreamworlds.

Vincent smiled. “If I were riding to the challenge, would you give me your favor to display on my arm, fair lady?”

I pretended to dig through my bag. “I can't seem to find my lace kerchief. How about a Kleenex?”

Laughing, Vincent threw an arm around my shoulders and squeezed me tightly. “You're amazing,” he said.

“That's a definite step up from ‘amusing,'” I reminded him, unable to prevent my cheeks from reddening with pleasure.

We headed to a side road leading down toward the river. Halfway there, Vincent stepped through the large wooden doorway of a four-story building, pulling me behind him.

Like many Parisian apartment blocks, this one had been constructed around an internal courtyard sheltered from the street. The most modest courtyards are barely as big as a king-size bed, with only enough space to hold the building's trash bins. Others are large, some even having trees and benches, forming a quiet haven for residents away from the busy street.

This courtyard was massive and had little shops, and even an outdoor café, scattered among the ground-floor apartments, something I had never seen before. “What is this place?” I asked.

Vincent smiled and touched my arm, pointing to another open doorway on the far side of the courtyard. “This is just the beginning,” he said. “There are about five of these courtyards all linked together off the street, so you can wander for as long as you want without seeing or hearing the outside world. It's all art galleries and antique shops. I thought you'd like it.”

“Like it? I love it! This is incredible!” I said. “I can't believe I haven't been here before.”

“It's off the beaten path.” Vincent seemed proud of his knowledge of Paris's out-of-the-way spots. And I was just happy that he wanted me along to explore them with him.

“I'll say,” I agreed. “It's almost completely hidden from the outside. So . . . you've been here before. Where do we start?”

We strolled through stores and galleries packed with everything from old posters to ancient Buddha heads. For a city heaving with summer tourists, the shops had surprisingly few visitors, and we wandered through the spaces as if they were our own private treasure troves.

As we browsed through an antique clothes store, Vincent stopped in front of a glass case that held jewelry. “Hey, Kate, maybe you can help me. I need to get a gift for someone.”

“Sure,” I said, peering into the case as the shopkeeper lifted the cover for us. I fingered a pretty silver ring with a cluster of flowers curving outward from its surface.

“What would someone your age like?” he said, touching a vintage jeweled cross pendent.

“My
age
?” I laughed. “I'm only three years younger than you. Maybe less, depending on your birthday.”

“June,” he said.

“Okay, then two and a half.”

He laughed. “All right, you got me there. It's just that I'm not sure what she'd like. And her birthday's coming up.”

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. What an idiot I had been: totally misreading his intentions. He obviously just saw me as a friend . . . a friend with good enough taste to help him choose a present for his girlfriend.

“Hmm,” I said, closing my eyes and trying to hide my dismay. I forced them back open and stared at the case. “I guess it depends on her taste. Does she wear more feminine, flowery clothes, or is she more into . . . um . . . jeans and T-shirts like me?”

“Definitely not flowery,” he said, stifling a laugh.

“Well, I think this is really pretty,” I said, pointing to a leather cord with a single teardrop-shaped silver pendant hanging from it. My voice wavered as I tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow the lump in my throat.

Vincent leaned closer to the piece. “I think you're right. It's perfect. You're a genius, Kate.” He lifted the necklace from the case and handed it to the shopkeeper.

“I'm just going to wait for you outside,” I said, and left as he fished through his pockets for his wallet.

Get a grip,
I chided myself. It had seemed too good to be true, and it
had
been. He was only a really friendly guy. Who said I was cute. But who must just like to hang out with cute girls while buying vintage jewelry for his girlfriend.
I wonder what she looks like.
My hands were clenched so tightly that my fingernails dug little trenches into my palms. The pain felt good. It relieved some of the stinging in my chest.

Vincent came out of the shop, tucking a little envelope into his jeans pocket as he closed the door behind him. Seeing my face, he came to an abrupt stop. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “I just needed some air.”

“No,” he insisted. “Something's bothering you.”

I shook my head resolutely.

“Okay, Kate,” he said, linking his arm through mine. “I won't force you to talk.” The pressure of his arm against my own filled me with warmth, but I mentally pushed it away. I was so used to self-protection by now that it was almost a reflex.

We wandered out of that courtyard and into another, walking in silence for a few minutes as we paused to look into shop windows. “So,” I said finally. I knew I shouldn't say it, but I couldn't help myself. “Who's your girlfriend?”

“Sorry?” he asked.

“Your girlfriend. Who you bought the necklace for.”

He stopped and faced me. “Kate, the necklace is for a friend . . . who happens to be a girl. A very good friend.” He sounded uncomfortable. I wondered for a second if it was the truth, then decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Vincent studied my face. “You thought I was asking you to help me choose a present for my girlfriend? And that made you feel . . .” From the smile stretching across his lips I could tell he was about to say something that would embarrass me, so I began walking away.

“Wait, Kate!” he said, catching up to me and lacing his arm back through mine. “I'm sorry.”

I decided to play nonchalant about it. “You told me this wasn't a formal date when you invited me to come. Why should I care if you have a girlfriend?”

“Absolutely,” he said, giving me a fake-serious look. “Yeah, you and I are just friends . . . out for a friendly walk. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Exactly!” I agreed, my heart giving a little painful twist.

He broke into a large grin and, leaning over, kissed me on the cheek. “Kate,” he whispered, “you are way too gullible.”

I WAS ABLE TO BASK IN THE MEANING OF HIS
words for exactly three seconds before he put a firm arm around my shoulders and began steering me toward an exit. “What—” I began, but his steely expression quieted me and I followed his lead—walking steadily, but not quite running, toward a doorway.

Once on the street, he headed back toward the subway. “Where are we going?” I asked, breathless from the brisk pace.

“I saw someone I didn't want to run into.” He slipped his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed a number. Getting no response, he hung up and tried another.

“Do you mind telling me what's going on?” I asked, confused by his sudden personality change. In an instant Prince Charming had morphed into Secret Agent Guy.

“We have to find Jules,” Vincent said, talking more to himself than to me. “His painting studio's right around the corner.”

I stopped, and since he had ahold of my arm, I pulled him backward. “Who are we running away from?”

It took a lot of effort for Vincent to compose himself. “Kate. Please let me explain later. It's really important that we find one of my . . . friends.”

The wonderful feeling from five minutes ago had disappeared. Now I felt like telling him to go ahead without me. But remembering what my days had consisted of lately, I decided to throw caution (and boredom) to the wind and follow him.

He led me to an apartment building that practically oozed with old-Paris charm next to the Église Saint-Paul. We climbed a tightly winding wood staircase to the second-floor landing. Vincent knocked once before pushing the door open.

The studio's walls were hung with paintings all the way up to the high ceiling. Reclining nudes hung alongside geometric-looking townscapes. The visual overload of color and form was as overwhelming as the strong smell of paint thinner.

In the far corner of the room a stunningly beautiful woman was draped across an emerald green couch. Dressed in a tiny bathrobe that barely covered her, she might as well have been naked. “Hi, Vincent,” she called across the room with a low, smoky voice that couldn't have matched her seductive looks better if she had bought them as a paired set.

Vincent's friend, Jules, walked out of a tiny bathroom just beyond the couch. Wiping some dripping paintbrushes on a rag, he said without looking up, “Vince, man. Just getting started with Valerie here. Did you get Jean-Baptiste's call?”

“Jules, we have to talk,” Vincent said with a sense of urgency that made Jules jerk his head up. He looked at me in surprise and then, seeing Vincent's face, his own darkened. “What's going on?”

Vincent cleared his throat, staring expressionlessly at Jules. He pronounced his words with care. “Kate and I were walking around the Village Saint-Paul and I saw
someone
there.”

The code word meant something to Jules. His eyes narrowed. “Outside,” he said, looking sideways at me, and strode out the door.

“Be right back, Kate,” Vincent said. “Oh, and this is Valerie, one of Jules's models.” And having made that introduction, he followed Jules into the staircase, the door slamming behind him.

A gentleman even during a crisis,
I thought, amazed at Vincent's sangfroid in making sure I was introduced to Naked Girl before leaving us alone together. “Hi,” I said.
“Bonjour,”
she replied, bored. Picking up a paperback, she settled back to read. I lingered near the door, looking at the paintings while trying to hear what was going on outside.

Their voices were hushed, but I could pick up a few words. “ . . . couldn't do anything without backup,” Vincent was saying, bitter regret in his voice.

“I'm with you now. Ambrose can be our third,” Jules responded.

There was silence, and then Vincent was speaking to someone on the phone. He hung up and said, “He's on his way.”

“Why the hell did you bring her with you?” Jules sounded incredulous.

“I'm not on duty twenty-four/seven. She's with me because we had a date.” Vincent's low voice traveled through the thin wood door easily.

He called it a date,
I thought with as much pleasure as I could derive under the circumstances.

“That is exactly why she should not be here,” Jules continued.

“JB only said we couldn't bring people
home. . . .
I don't see why she can't come here.” Their voices were getting lower. I scooted closer to the door, keeping an eye on Valerie, who glanced at me and back down at her book. She obviously couldn't care less if I was eavesdropping.

“Dude. Anywhere we have a permanent address is off-limits for . . . ‘dates.' Or whatever. You know the rules. In any case, date's over!”

There was a pregnant silence, which I imagined was taken up by lots of boy-to-boy stare-down action, and then the door opened and Vincent walked in, looking apologetic. “Kate. I'm sorry, I have to take care of something. I'll walk you to the Métro.” I waited for him to give an explanation, but none came.

“That's okay,” I said, trying to sound like I didn't mind. “But don't worry about seeing me to the Métro. I'll do some wandering on my own. Walk up to rue des Rosiers for some shopping or something.”

He looked relieved, as if that was the response he had hoped for. “I'll at least come downstairs with you.”

“No, really, that's okay,” I said, feeling a little cloud of anger form inside me. Something was obviously going on that I didn't know about. But it was still rude of Jules to demand that I leave. Not to mention cowardly of Vincent to give in.

“I insist,” he said, and opening the door for me, he followed me out into the hallway. Jules stood, arms crossed over his chest, glowering at us.

Vincent walked me down the stairs and into the courtyard. “I'm sorry,” he said. “There's something going on. Something I have to take care of.”

“Like police business, you mean?” I said, unable to hide my sarcasm.

“Yeah, something like that,” he said evasively.

“And you can't talk about it.”

“No.”

“Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you around our neighborhood . . . ,” I said, attempting to mask my disappointment with a smile.

“I'll see you soon,” he said, and reached out his hand for mine. Though I wasn't very happy with him, his touch warmed me to my toes. “Promise,” he added, looking like he wanted to say more. Then, giving my hand a squeeze, he turned to walk back into the building. My bad mood eased a little with his gesture, and I wandered through the gate feeling not quite ditched but not very pleased with how things had turned out, either.

I started walking north, trying to decide whether to visit the shops on the rue des Rosiers or stroll under the shady arcades surrounding the seventeenth-century square called Place des Vosges. I wasn't even halfway up the block when I decided my heart wasn't in it. I wanted to know what was going on with Vincent. Curiosity was killing me, and if I wasn't going to get any answers, I just wanted to go home.

I stopped at the crepe stand outside the Dome café and waited as the vendor spread the batter on the piping hot circular grill. I couldn't help but wish that Vincent were here getting a crepe with me as I watched people come and go from the Métro stop across the street. As if prompted by my wish, I spotted Vincent approaching the entrance with Jules. They began making their way down the stairs.

This is my chance
to find out what's going on with the policeman charade,
I thought. Vincent had said that there was something he had to take care of. Based on his behavior at the Village Saint-Paul, it seemed more like some
one
he had to take care of. I wanted to know who it was. I reasoned that if I was going to keep seeing Vincent, or whatever it was we were doing, I should be aware of any mysterious activities he was involved in.

“Et voilà, mademoiselle,”
said the vendor, handing me a paper-towel-wrapped crepe. I pointed to the change I had left on the counter and called,
“Merci,”
as I sprinted toward the subway entrance.

Once through the turnstile, I spotted the boys heading down the tunnel to the train. When I reached the bottom of the steps, I saw them standing halfway down the track. Before they could notice me, I slipped onto one of the plastic benches lining the wall.

It was then that I saw the man.

Just a stone's throw away from Vincent and Jules, a clean-cut thirtysomething man wearing a dark suit stood at the edge of the platform, holding a briefcase in one hand and pressing the other against his lowered forehead. It looked like he was crying.

In all my years of riding the Paris Métro, I had seen some weird things: Street people peeing in the corners. Madmen ranting about government persecution. Bands of children offering to help tourists with their luggage and then taking off with it. But I had never seen a grown man cry in public.

The whoosh of air that precedes the train came gusting through the tunnel, and the man looked up. Calmly placing his briefcase on the ground, he crouched down, and using one hand to steady himself on the edge of the platform, he jumped down onto the tracks. “Oh my God!” I felt the words coming out of my mouth in a scream, and looked around frantically to see if anyone else had noticed.

Jules and Vincent turned my way, not even glancing at the man on the tracks, though I was wildly pointing at him with both hands. Without speaking, they nodded at each other before each moving rapidly in a different direction. Vincent approached me and, taking me by the shoulders, tried to turn me away from the track.

Fighting him, I whipped my head around to see Jules jump down off the platform onto the tracks and push the now sobbing man out of the way. With the oncoming train just feet away, he looked up at Vincent and, giving a slight nod, touched his index finger to his forehead in a casual salute.

The sound was terrible. There was the earsplitting screech of the train's brakes, way too late to avoid the disaster, and then the loud thud of metal hitting flesh and bone. Vincent had prevented me from seeing the actual crash, but a snapshot of the penultimate second lodged in my mind: Jules's calm face nodding to Vincent as the train rushed up behind him.

I felt my knees give way and slumped forward with only Vincent's arms to hold me from falling. Screams came from all sides, and the sound of a man's loud wailing drifted from the direction of the tracks. I felt someone lift me and begin to run. And then everything was as silent and black as a tomb.