The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (33 page)

“YOU LOOK AMAZING,”
Charles whispered, placing a light kiss on each of my cheeks.

The slight contact had my heart beating double-time. The steady thumps were so loud in my own ears that I was sure he could hear it.

Releasing me, Charles hurried around the maître d’ to pull out my chair. I sat, arranging the bottom layers of my dress over the seat as best I could.

“Please, enjoy your meal,” the maître d’ told us.

With a bow, he left the table. And I was alone with Charles.

Sure, we’d been alone together before. But this time felt different.

Because this is a date,
I thought.
Shite. A date. I am actually on a real flipping date.

My hand flew to my necklace. With the cool metal beneath my hot fingers, I felt more grounded. I could do this. It was just a meal with an asset. A means to an end.

I wonder if the means is going to kiss me goodnight….

Um, no. You can’t just go around kissing assets.

“How are you this evening?” Charles asked, sounding remarkably formal.

Putting an end to my mental debate, I replied just as properly.

“Very well, Mr. DuPree. And you?”

“Very well,” he echoed my words. “But, as I’ve said before, please, call me Charles.”

His gaze wandered to my hand, still gripping my necklace like a lifeline. I released it abruptly, tucking it beneath the neckline of my dress. Charles had expressed too much interest in the piece of jewelry last time we’d seen each other, and I didn’t want to go down that road again.

Thankfully, Charles made no comment about my locket. I worried for a moment that we had nothing to talk about, or that I’d seem unworldly or uncultured to him when engaged in actual conversation. My worries were unfounded, though. Charles steered the dialogue, bringing up banal topics like our mutual friends and acquaintances. Unbeknownst to him, this was exactly the opening I’d been hoping for.

“My brother is having the time of his life,” I told Charles. “He has another boxing date with his boyfriends this week.”

Charles eyed me strangely as he poured champagne.

“Is Gaige queer? He does not seem the type.”

“Oh, no, no.” I laughed, realizing my mistake. “I was referencing his male friends, that is all. I assure you, my brother only has eyes only for women.”

Charles’s reply was interrupted by the waiter coming to take our order. The menus were still closed, set to one side of the table. Without looking at them, Charles rattled off an impressive array of dishes. Taken aback by his presumptiveness in ordering for me, I had to remind myself that he was from a different time. This gesture was normal, if not expected. As the Rosetta tried to keep up with what he was saying, I had to stop myself from giggling at the awkward translations. Hopefully “cock in wine” was more appetizing than it sounded.

“I hope the dishes I selected are to your liking,” Charles said, once the waiter was gone. “I should have asked, I just thought it would be easier for me to order, since I speak French.”

“I speak a little French,” I told him haughtily. Then, remembering my manners, I added in a softer tone, “But the food choices sound wonderful.”

“Very good.”

When he let out a breath and visibly relaxed, I realized he was nervous, too.

“How is your brother’s eye?” he continued. “It must be healing well if he is willing to go another round with the boxing trio?”

I shrugged.

“Gaige believes it is a badge of honor.” I sipped my champagne. “You are friends with Rosenthal, no? Do you ever box with him and the others?”

The question sounded innocent enough. Nonetheless, I knew from experience that naming only Rosenthal would, hopefully, lead the conversation to the paranoid writer.

“Me? No.” Charles shook his head. “Boxing is not really my sport. We are friends though, yes. Instead of joining him in the ring, I usually attend the theater or a nightclub with Andre. Or parties, like the one for Scott the other night. I float between two sets, Andre’s is one of them.”

“So you’re part of the literary set. Are you a writer? Or a painter?” I asked, though I was confident he was neither.

“No,” he chuckled. “Merely an enthusiast, like your brother. Though, perhaps not quite so enthusiastic.”

“I think it’s the mystique surrounding Rosenthal that he finds so enchanting.”

Charles scrunched his brow. “What do you mean?”

“How he hides pieces of his work around town until he is ready to publish,” I said. “It’s quite…eccentric.”

Charles rolled his eyes. Noticing my glass was empty, he paused to pour me more champagne.

Slow down on the booze, Stass,
I warned myself
. You don’t need alcohol muddling your brain. Your hormones are doing a bang up job already.

“Oh, that,” Charles said with a laugh. “Andre is a paranoid chap. It is quite silly, though none of us have the heart to tell him so. Does he actually believe someone would steal into his home in the night and take his work? Andre is a wonderful writer, and I know he has had trouble with plagiarizing in the past, but this nonsense with dividing his manuscripts and hiding them is extreme.”

I chuckled along with Charles, as though the idea of people wanting to steal Rosenthal’s manuscripts was funny. As though that wasn’t precisely my job.

Even if that wasn’t the case, having read two-thirds of
Blue’s Canyon
, I didn’t find the notion ridiculous in the least. His writing was a work of art. Rosenthal possessed the rare ability to create characters that leapt from the pages and materialized in your mind. They became your friends, you cared about them. When they were going through hard times, you shared their agony. You cried when they cried and you laughed when they were happy. And for someone like me, who’d spent so much of her life being mistrustful of those around her, it was easier to form emotional bonds with Rosenthal’s fictitious characters than the living, breathing people I was surrounded by.

“So silly,” I echoed hollowly, plastering on a smile as fake as the paste jewels on my dress.

When I brought my champagne flute to my lips—it seemed to be my nervous gesture of the night—I was surprised to find the glass nearly empty again. Charles reached for the bottle to refill my glass for a second time, but I waved him off.

“I’d better wait until the food arrives. My brother will be upset if I’m inebriated when I return home.”

Actually, Gaige was more likely to give me a high-five and ask if my clothes came off, but Cyrus would definitely be peeved.

“Where all does he write?” I asked, attempting to keep the conversation on track.

“Andre? Well, let’s see. He frequents a bookstore, Shakespeare and Company. Have you heard of it?”

“I have,” I said casually, as though I hadn’t just robbed the place. “My brother and I paid a visit just the other day.”

“He also likes a little café called Closerie des Lilas. Ernest is fan, as well. If you stop in, your brother just might have a chance to see them work.”

Charles set his glass down, but continued to run his long fingers around the rim of it. The act was oddly mesmerizing. I found myself staring, transfixed, and wondering what it would be like to feel those long fingers sliding around the nape of my neck.

Wait. No. Inappropriate.

What the hell was this guy doing to me? Cool, calm and collected, Stass. Lock it up.

Charles’s laugh was low and throaty, as if he was reading my mind and knew my indecent thoughts. Hell, given the year, my thoughts were probably downright erotic.

“If I did not know better, I would say it’s you, not your brother, who is fascinated by Andre,” Charles said.

Admittedly, it was a sound conclusion based on my line of questioning.

“Not at all,” I said, brushing off the notion as ludicrous. “I only ask because I’d love to take my brother to his favorite writer’s favorite places while we are here.”

Not a lie. That had been our main objective for the past several days.

“Andre would be tickled to realize he has such a big fan.” Charles leaned across the table, fixing me with his honey gaze. “If he really wants to see Andre in action, then he should wander by Carmen’s place. As I understand, our boy spends a great deal of time writing in her gardens.”

“I’ve seen Carmen, that is not all Rosenthal does in her gardens.”

My face was on fire the moment the Gaige-worthy comment slipped through my lips. Where was my filter? Had the champagne really made me so flippant?

Charles threw his head back and laughed loudly.

“Truer words were never spoken, my Stassi.”

The food arrived just then. The waiter drew Charles’s attention, so my dinner companion did not see me catch my breath at his offhand comment.

Dinner consisted of the finest foods the City of Light had to offer. Course after course arrived, an impossible amount of food for two people to consume. I ate without really tasting much of anything, though the heavy cream sauces and buttery morsels did smell amazing. We talked more about Rosenthal and his friends, though the topics were more general than those from earlier. I didn’t press him further about Rosenthal, yet Charles mentioned two other cafés the writer visited on occasion. Carmen’s place seemed like our best bet, which meant another count of breaking and entering would soon be on our rap sheets. Thankfully, we were the only ones keeping score.

After five courses of food that were beyond decadent, a vanilla crème brûlée arrived, the top perfectly golden with burnt sugar. As I cracked the top with my spoon, Charles again complimented me on my dress. Steeling myself for what might come next, I took the opening.

“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, reaching for my beaded clutch. I unclasped the top and removed the handkerchief from Lachlan’s second hotel room. “Gaige found this the other night at
Exotique
. You must have dropped it during the commotion.”

Charles gave me an odd look.

“What a peculiar coincidence. I did have one just like it that night, but the suit was taken to the cleaner’s yesterday, including the coordinating kerchief.”

“So this is not yours?” I asked hopefully.

His expression turned into one of amusement, though I saw an underlying doubt within his gilded eyes.

“It must belong to another gentleman,” Charles replied. “It must be difficult to keep us straight when you have so many courting you.”

“Hardly,” I assured him. “My brother keeps me quite busy with all of his running around Paris. In fact, Gaige asked that I inquire about the tailor who made the suit this goes with.” I held up the silk slip, then put it back in my bag. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief knowing that Charles was not a killer, but I still needed to follow the lead.

“Every Parisian has their favorite tailor, but we don’t share that information with just anyone,” Charles said with a wink, glancing mockingly from side to side as if someone might overhear him. “Mine is a British gentlemen by the name of Waldorf Hucklesbee, but let’s keep that between us.”

“Well, Paris is the capital of fashion, right?” I joked. “Everyone is competing to be the best-dressed?”

“That it is, as I see you have noticed. How does a newly-arrived American have so many fine Parisian garments?”

I knew he was teasing me, but the comment hit too close to home. It was one of those small details that I should have prepared an answer for. But I hadn’t.

“My father is an extremely influential man,” I said quickly. “He had many gowns ordered for me before our departure from Baltimore. Most of my wardrobe was waiting when we arrived here, though I picked this dress up just this morning.”

I found that I regretted lying to Charles—another first for me. Lying was a crucial part of being a runner. We lied to nearly everyone we ever met. I lied so often that the truth was a malleable concept. I wished that I could just be myself with Charles, not Anastasia Prince. Unfortunately, it would never happen.

“And you wore it tonight….” He trailed off, leaving the words “for me” unspoken, though I still heard them in my head. “I am honored.”