Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (30 page)

“Les Grillons is a criminal syndicate,” Bronwyn murmured, too low for Bertrand to hear. “Why do they keep books as precisely as Lloyds of London?”

“Not much difference between Lloyds and a crime organization,” Marco answered quietly. “They’re both businesses. Both rely on income from their clients—or victims—to stay in the black.”

She shook her head. “I can’t say which appalls me more. The fact that Les Grillons is like the world’s most powerful insurer, or that Lloyds is basically a criminal consortium.”

“Every business is.” He flipped through more pages. “One of the reasons why I never joined the world of commerce. Much to my father’s dismay.”

She looked up from a notebook. “He’s a man of business.”

“Vulcanized rubber. I saw a future of board meetings, factory tours, and ledgers just like this one. Couldn’t stomach the idea.”

She was silent for a long while, but she wasn’t studying the book in front of her. Instead, she studied him. “Is he proud of you?”

“Don’t know. I never asked.”

“He must know the good you do.”

Marco snorted. “My father doesn’t know about any of it. Not my work for British Intelligence, and sure as hell he doesn’t know about Nemesis. He thinks I shuffle papers for some obscure government bureau.”

“And your mother?”

“I can’t tell her. About any of it. For her safety.” He caught the note of regret in his voice, and it startled him. Then he realized he’d been talking about himself for several minutes. But instead of a sense of panic, he felt … not comfortable, exactly, but he liked the idea about this part of him being revealed to her. She had the hands of a violinist—delicate but strong—and she could hold this piece of him as carefully as she held her instrument.

“That must be hard,” she said. “You seem close with her.”

“Don’t see her often, and I don’t have time to write much.”

Bronwyn smiled sadly. “I miss my mother, too.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, each absorbing the connection between them, until Bertrand called out from the other side of the room, “Find anything yet? If not, get out.”

“Time,” Marco threw over his shoulder. “We need more of it.”

“You’ve got fifteen more minutes,” Bertrand grumbled.

“But, monsieur—” Bronwyn pleaded.

“I am sorry, madame,” the Grillons man replied. “But I’ve got my own hide to worry about. Longer you’re here, the more I’m sticking my neck out, and I don’t want some Grillons blade slitting it.”

In this, Bertrand seemed intransigent, so Marco and Bronwyn returned to their study of the ledgers, conscious all the while of the clock ticking, marking the minutes until they were shoved out into the street with their best lead just on the other side of the door. Marco could forcibly take the ledgers from Bertrand, but it might entail a spot of violence—something he didn’t want Bronwyn to witness more of. There was always theft, too. Yet that meant consigning Bertrand to a life of even greater fear. The former Grillons bookkeeper might not be Marco’s favorite person, but he didn’t want to make the man suffer more than he already did.

Besides, Giovanni was taking a risk for Marco and Bronwyn. To steal from or hurt Bertrand would be a betrayal.

So he combed over the notebook, searching for patterns.

“I’m seeing payments from someone named Olivier Maslin,” he said to both Bronwyn and Bertrand. “They go on for a long time—from ’78 to the end of last year. And then they suddenly stop. Why?”

“Maybe this Maslin paid off his debt,” Bronwyn suggested.

But Bertrand, his shirt now stained with spilled wine, shook his head. “Government man, Maslin. Worked in the treasury bureau. High level.”

“Not the sort of man who’d need a loan from Les Grillons,” Bronwyn said.

“All kinds of people take out loans to pay off their dirty habits,” answered Marco. “Like our late friend Devere. Maslin could’ve had the same gambling problem. Or maybe he had a taste for something else, something expensive, like morphine.”

“He had a taste, all right,” Bertrand said, his words starting to slur. “For pricey whores. But he’d more than enough to pay for them.”

“Then why pay Les Grillons?” asked Bronwyn.

“Because they found out about Maslin’s whoring. And that he liked to dress in the whore’s clothes and get spanked like a schoolgirl.”

“Ah…” Bronwyn said faintly.

Marco kept forgetting that, even after everything she’d survived and witnessed, there were still elements of the world with which she was unfamiliar. Including government officials’ unusual sexual preferences.

“Les Grillons was able to get some photographs of Maslin playing dress-up,” Bertrand continued. “Threatened him. Said they’d take the pictures to his superiors and his wife.”

“These are blackmail payments,” Marco said.

Bertrand nodded. “Maslin paid. Until he decided to stop. Refused to give Les Grillons another sou.”

“So Les Grillons took the … pictures … to Maslin’s superiors,” Bronwyn concluded.

But Bertrand smirked. “Nothing to gain by actually carrying through with the threat. When they saw they weren’t going to get any more money out of him…” He drew his finger across his throat.

“They killed him?” Bronwyn asked, her voice thin and strained.

“Ambushed him when he went to one of those whores. Then threw his body into the river. It made the papers. Hold a moment.” Hauling himself up, Bertrand trundled into the bedroom and rifled around inside a wardrobe. He returned with a stack of yellowed newspapers bound with twine, and tossed the bundle toward Marco.

Untying the string, Marco thumbed through the newspapers, until he came to the one with this headline:
GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL’S BODY DISCOVERED IN SEINE—ANARCHISTS SUSPECTED.

The article went on to detail how Maslin had been shot at point-blank range, and his disappearance was brought to the police within a day by his adoring wife.

“How … sordid.” Bronwyn shuddered.

“But exactly what we’re looking for,” Marco noted. “Our insurance against Les Grillons.”

“The police,” Bertrand said, lowering himself back into the chair that held the deep impression of his body, “they’ve been trying to build a case against Les Grillons. But they never have enough. Slippery bastards,” he muttered before taking another drink. Presumably he meant Les Grillons, not the police.

Marco turned to Bronwyn. “This ledger links Maslin’s death to Les Grillons. It’ll put two of their bosses in prison.”

“How?”

He pointed to names written in the margins: Reynard and Cluzet. “These names appear again and again, but they aren’t listed as payors. They’re the ones being paid.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If we take this ledger to the French police, it’ll be enough to at least imprison Reynard and Cluzet.”

At the mention of those names, Bertrand gave another snort. “Those sons of whores. The worst of them. If you can get either of them thrown behind bars, you’ll be sodding national heroes.”

“Don’t want to be a national hero.” Marco rose, and offered his hand to Bronwyn. It felt fitting and right, the slide of her palm against his as he helped her to stand. “I just want to get her money back.”

But the Nemesis operative in him couldn’t help but relish the thought of sending scum like Les Grillons to prison. Striking at these two men could be the key to his and Bronwyn’s safety. Provided, of course, that he succeeded.

TWELVE

It didn’t surprise Bronwyn that Bertrand was even less likely than Giovanni to be hospitable. Besides, she wasn’t certain she
wanted
to stay with that callous drunkard, even if he had more than one bed. So it was with some measure of gratitude that she and Marco left that infernal little set of rooms—ledger in hand, with promises to return it as soon as it had served its purpose—to find a
pensione
somewhere in town.

Once they’d located a small place to stay, they went up to their room. Bronwyn sat down on the bed, sighing. The day had been incredibly long and tiring, and despite her brief nap on the train, she ached with weariness.

“Stay here,” Marco directed as he headed toward the door. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Running a quick errand. When I return, we’ll find somewhere to dine.”

She was too weary to demand more of an answer. Only yawned and nodded. He made it to the door before turning back and striding to her on the bed. He tipped up her chin, but instead of kissing her mouth, he kissed her forehead.

“You played Bertrand almost as well as your violin,” he murmured.

“You sound nearly proud of me,” she said sleepily.

“Don’t believe in feeling pride for someone else’s accomplishments,” he answered. “It takes away from them, makes their achievements mine, not theirs. But what you did … it was damn fine work.” In the lamplight, with his morning shave all but a memory, he was the picture of dangerous elegance.

“Sprezzatura,”
she said. The word leaped into her mind suddenly.

He looked startled. “What?”

“I think that’s how you say it.” She rubbed at her eyes.

“It is. Why do you say it now?”

“Because”—she stifled another yawn—“it makes me think of you. I read it somewhere, an English translation of an Italian book.”

“Castiglione’s
Il Cortegiano
.
The Book of the Courtier.
”

“Yes … that’s right. The word means, damn, I’m too tired to think of what it means, but it made me think of you.”

“Studied carelessness.” His voice sounded odd, far away, his expression equally withdrawn.

“Right again.” She smiled at him, drunk with weariness. “To work very hard to make it seem as though you aren’t working hard at all. What was it that it said in that book? ‘To conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort.’” She tapped him in the center of his chest. “Like this. Like everything you do. You think I don’t know. But I do know.” She waggled her finger at him. “I. See. You. Marco … Whoever-You-Are.”

He pulled away. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes. And—”

“Don’t let anyone in who isn’t you. Yes, you said so already.”

With an abstracted look on his face, he left the room, locking the door behind him. She stared at the door for a minute, wondering what it was she’d said that had disturbed him so much. A small debate sallied back and forth in her brain as to whether or not she had the wherewithal to stand and splash some water on her face. But the pillows on the bed looked large and fluffy as clouds, and she was just so very tired. Perhaps if she closed her eyes for just one moment …

A second later, she opened her eyes. The room was dark now, and she lay in bed. Under the covers and undressed. How…?

A warm, solid form nestled close behind her, one masculine arm wrapped around her waist, the palm spread against her belly.

Marco. He must have come back to the room and found her asleep, then somehow managed to strip Bronwyn without waking her. Then gotten to bed himself and, if his breathing was any indicator, fallen asleep himself.

“Are you hungry?” he rumbled.

Of course he wasn’t actually sleeping. Or, if he had been, she’d woken him.

“Not enough to get out of bed,” she answered.

“Good. Because the shops are all closed and I’m not in the mood for breaking in anywhere.”

She smiled into the darkness. “Glad that I kept a crime wave from erupting in Montepulciano.”

“Oh,” he said, yawning, “I’d leave money behind.”

“Naturally.” Heaviness weighted her limbs. He felt so good—his body hot and concrete and lightly dusted with hair. A man’s body. Pressed snug against hers. Desire stirred … softly. She craved his intimate touch, but this was marvelous, too. It held another kind of intimacy, one she missed. In truth, had never actually known.

After their honeymoon, she and Hugh hadn’t shared a bed. When the mood was upon him, he’d visit her bedroom, and they’d make love. But she always fell asleep alone, always awakened alone.

Yet these past days, she’d fallen asleep and woken up with Marco. And while the lovemaking had been passionate and primal, it was these moments that wrapped themselves around her heart as well as her body.

Marco stirred behind her, pulling her closer. He was most definitely naked. And aroused.

Yet he didn’t do anything more than brush her hair aside from the nape of her neck and press a kiss there. “Sleep now,” he murmured. “We’ve got more long days ahead of us.”

“But you—”

“Sleep.”

As if obeying a mesmerist’s command, she did exactly that.

*   *   *

“I will be heartily glad not to see another train for a good long while.” Bronwyn didn’t like to complain, especially about things that couldn’t be changed. They’d taken a freight train again over the border from Italy to France, and switched to second-class compartments for the other legs of the voyage.

They didn’t speak of it, but they knew—now that they were back in France, the home of Les Grillons, spying eyes would be everywhere. Danger was heading their way, and more to come as she and Marco worked to retrieve her stolen fortune. They would have to tie the two Grillons operatives to the government man’s death.

As she and Marco disembarked in a small French town in order to change trains, she was quite ready to never board another coal-powered vehicle again. Until she had to return to England.

First, they had to reach Paris. And the train they planned on taking was due in fifteen minutes. Enough time to stretch their legs after hours and hours of travel.

“My bones are done with rattling,” he agreed. “Don’t plan on taking an assignment out of London for a few months.”

She cradled her violin case against her chest. It was only natural that he’d think of his next mission, just as she thought about going back to England. Eventually—soon, hopefully—all this would be over. She’d have her fortune back, and she and Marco might have an amorous liaison. One that would have a limited life span. Then he’d be gone from her life.

The thought sounded like a requiem, one she had no desire to play or hear.