The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance
Page 14
“Now, for the rest of the story,” Andrew says, shooting a charming grin her way that is impossible to defy.
“I can see how you won this one over,” she says, tilting her head my way. “You’re awfully convincing.”
“Just tell the story,” I reply with a laugh.
“Okay, okay,” she says lifting her hands. “My mother, she was only sixteen when she and my uncle had to leave for various reasons—the Nazis,” she whispers.
The amusement in her face fades as she continues. “They escaped to England. She met my father, Michael there. He was American. It was wartime and everyone was living as though tomorrow might not come. A lot of whirlwind romances back then.”
My eyes briefly catch Andrew’s, which dart toward mine with flirtatious intent. It isn’t lost on Georgette, who at least has the tact to simply smile before going on.
“She didn’t like discussing Paris, even what life was like before the Nazis came. I think it held too many bad memories for her. And she certainly never entertained the idea of going back. Fortunately, she kept her diaries from that time-period. She wrote everything in them, but stopped when she found a new life here.”
I feel my body go tense, realizing that she’s revealing everything that could get both of us killed, at least it would if it wasn’t Andrew sitting across from me.
My eyes scan the restaurant, as though waiting to land on a mysterious man in black, pretending to read a newspaper, just like in the movies. When they come back, I find Andrew giving me a reassuring smile then turning his attention back to Georgette.
“But she taught you a bit of French?”
Georgette laughs. “She tried, but I’m horrible with languages. I barely knew enough to read certain parts of that menu.”
Andrew’s lips ease into a devilish grin. “Why did the French man only eat one egg for breakfast?”
Georgette shoots him a sly smile. “A joke?”
“Brielle told me about your husband. He liked jokes?”
Her smile softens and she pats my hand, sitting in my lap, squeezing it to let me know of her approval of the man sitting across from me.
“Yes, he did. So…why did he eat only one egg for breakfast?”
“Because one was un oeuf.”
I have no idea what that means but Georgette instantly breaks out in laughter. Andrew joins in as well, seemingly more amused by her reaction than the joke itself.
“I see she told you exactly what kind of awful jokes Frank preferred.”
“Okay, time to let Brielle the punchline?” I hint
“un oeuf,” Andrew answers. “It means egg in French.”
It takes me a moment to replay the whole joke in my head and I groan, making them both laugh even more.
Our meals and drinks come and we lazily spend the next hour eating and talking. I make my way through the three glasses of wine from my flight, and watch the two of them. I’d be jealous of how easily Andrew and Georgette get along if I didn’t feel the way I did about the both of them. They’re both very alike, so it’s no wonder. It also explains how Andrew was eventually able to win me over. It all feels natural and…right.
I’m happy that for once, Georgette has something—someone to take her mind off her various medical issues and help her live life the way she of all people should be allowed to.
As for what will happen when Andrew and I steal this painting…it’s something I won’t think about for now.
“I noticed there was a certain cocktail on the menu that you seemed to have missed. The French 75?” Andrew says, once we’ve finished and the waiter takes our plates and glasses away.
The wine I’ve had has already worked its way into my system and I laugh. “Are you trying to get me drunk on the taste of French, and right here in front of my own mom?”
Georgette turns to me with a sentimental smile and pats my hand once again. I feel my face get warm at how much of myself I’ve so easily exposed without hesitation.
Fuck it. Georgette is my mom. Period.
And Andrew is…well, he’s someone I’d happily get drunk on the taste of French for.
Georgette gives me a smirk. “That sounds like something I could use a bit of myself.”
I hiccup a laugh.
“I suppose that’s two French 75’s then,” Andrew says with a wicked gleam in his eye.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Andrew
We spent too much time at Amelie. After two French 75’s on top of the wine Brielle has already had, she’s more loose and carefree than I’ve ever seen.
The Uber has dropped us at Georgette’s building. Once I retrieve her walker from the trunk, Georgette is the first to speak up.
“Brielle, why don’t you head up first and get a pot of tea started. We can sit and chat and eat some cookies. This handsome man can help me back up.”
I can see Brielle start to protest and I speak up before she can. “It’ll give me a chance to spend more time with Georgie here,” I say, using her nickname for good measure.
Brielle feigns a look of suspicion. “You two behave yourselves while I’m gone!” she says, with a tipsy smile.
We both indulge her with a laugh, then watch her walk through the front door of Georgette’s building. I’m not clueless enough to realize that this was both ploy to keep Brielle from doing anything with me that she wouldn’t if she was sober, as well as a chance to for Georgette to get some alone time with me so she could have a frank discussion without Brielle in the picture.
“I suppose you’re officially my relation,” she says, still staring after Brielle’s retreating figure. “But that girl right there? She’s my family. The only bit I have left.” Her keen eyes come back to me, still filled with humor but heavily laced with warning. “You keep that in mind while you’re playing with her heart.”
My mouth cocks up into a half smile. “I know what’s she’s been through. She told me everything. Trust me, Georgie, I have no intention of hurting her.”
She stares hard at me, trying to read the truth there. Seemingly satisfied with what she sees, she nods and relaxes with a smile.
“That’s good. Brielle needs a man in her life, a good man. Even before this whole mess with the painting, she was…somewhat closed off to the idea. Don’t get me wrong, she dated but…” A soft smile comes to her face before she continues. “No one has been able to make her smile, let alone laugh the way you apparently have.”
I feel something hard and violet tug at my heart. What I feel for Brielle, especially after learning about her background and meeting Georgette, is powerful. It’s fierce enough to not only want to see her laugh and smile more but do everything in my power to keep her from getting hurt again.
When we arrive at the apartment, Brielle opens the door and darts her eyes between the two of us.
“You two behave yourselves?”
“We’ve been perfectly scandalous, Brielle,” Georgette says with a teasing smile.
Brielle laughs and rolls her eyes as Georgette slowly walks through the door and stops for a moment. “Make sure you say goodbye properly to your young man.”
“Yes, mother,” Brielle says with a laugh, then spins to face me with a perfunctory smile. “Goodnight, Andrew. Thank you for—”
I’ve already reached out my hand to cup the back of her neck, pulling her forward to finish the rest of that sentence with a kiss. The feel of her lips against mine, even with the mild squeak of surprise that interrupts it, only reinforces the intense feeling I had before.
Brielle may have developed a taste for French, but she’s become a flavor I’m addicted to.
I pull away and quickly refocus my eyes to catch her initial reaction. This is a moment I want to save, if only to refer back to later: the feel of her neck cupped in my hand, the way her eyelids slowly rise, the way her nostrils gently flare as she softly inhales…the smile that spreads on her lips.
“Well, that certainly was a goodbye,” Georgette says, looking back our way.
“I think I’ll settle for a hug,” she says, giving me a smirk, before reaching her arms out. I lean down to accept it.
“Be good to her,” she whispers in my ear, softly enough for Brielle not to hear it.
We pull apart and Brielle gives me an awkward, suddenly sober smile, as though she knows Georgette has left some parting words of warning in my ear. I shoot her a reassuring grin and say one final goodbye before turning to leave.
I make my way back to the elevator, thinking about everything that happened today. Once again, I can see why Brielle has gone to so much trouble for that painting. Georgette is an amazing woman.
As soon as I leave the building, I feel my intuition go to work once again like it did earlier in the day. I spin around and this time I see him. This one is one of the few men I actually recognize, which I suspect is by design. He’s from a prior mission that had an ulterior motive I wasn’t aware of at the time.
A member of the Werwolf Order. One whose specialty is murder.
I’m not sure who his target is, but do know what he’s come for based on the sly smile that comes to his face…just before he takes off.
I follow, just as quick and fast. We’re both in good shape, so it’s only when he makes a break for the entrance to Prospect Park that I manage to close the distance somewhat. It’s dark now and the lighting on the pathway in the park is not as abundant as on the street so it takes me longer to catch up to him. One hand reaches out to grab the back of his collar.
He’s a trained killer, so he acts quickly, spinning around with his arm already in a swing to punch me. I duck, letting go of him before bending over to barrel into his chest. He takes it with a sharp grunt, wisely pulling back to avoid getting tangled in my arms.
He swings with better aim this time, knocking me off the path. I just barely manage to keep from falling, which gives him an opportunity to try and punch me again, following me off the pavement. I pull away in time enough to soften the blow and quickly meet it with one of my own. This one manages to knock him down into some dark patch of dirt, well away from any nighttime joggers.
I take advantage and pounce. I have a good five inches of height and forty pounds of muscle on him. He’s lithe and wiry, which works great for stealth and speed, but has nothing on pure mass when it’s pressing him into the ground. Eventually, he gives up the struggle and goes lax, obviously hoping I’ll ease up, giving him an opportunity to escape.
I’m not that stupid.
“Who are you?” I demand, even though I know the answer.
I can barely see his smile in the darkness as he answers in German. “Do you even need to ask?”
“What do they want with me?” I reply in German, just in case his English really is limited.
“Not you, the girl,” he says with a laugh. His voice is filled with disgust as he continues. “I should take care of you too, traitor to the race that you are.”
I ignore that bullshit and focus on getting to the point. “So you plan on killing her?”
“They no longer trust your judgement.”
“So they’re just going to kill her instead?”
“What is it they say here?” he says before finishing in English. “One less nigger in the world?”
I stare down at him, somehow perfectly visible now, even in the dark. His stupid, self-confident smile stares right back up at me. It disappears as I press my forearm into his throat. The look of surprise on his face is almost satisfying. He certainly wasn’t expecting this.
I don’t relish what I’m doing, but I’m cognizant enough of the situation to realize it’s either him or Brielle, probably Georgette and me as well.
A murder for a murder.
It takes a few minutes, difficult minutes since my opponent is not at all weak. Only when I’m sure he’s dead, do I relax. I feel the strain in my muscles, partially from the work it took but also from how tense my body was.
I take a moment to recover, thankful that our struggle took us off the paved pathway and deep into the brush where there is no light, nor any lurkers—at least not the kind likely to go running to the police.
I know this is hardly the end of it. Killing off this one won’t stop the Werwolf Order from sending another assassin. In fact, it may panic them enough to expedite the assignment.
Unless I can give them a reason not to.
Before I can ponder that, I hear a team of speed bikers pass by in the near distance, too fast to take note of me. But it does remind me of my situation.
My mind goes through a checklist of things I need to address to keep from getting caught: fingerprints, DNA, hair samples, witnesses.
I turn to look at the dead man next to me, barely visible in the night. Finding every trace of me on him and removing it will be impossible. But I can make it more difficult.
Any blood, hair, saliva, or skin flakes will be limited to his upper body so I take off the black shirt he has on to take with me. I pull out my wallet and grab a credit card, using the edge to remove as much DNA from underneath his fingernails as possible. Going through his pockets, I find only a cellphone and wallet, which I obviously take with me.
From there, I’ll let the lake do the rest. Just to be safe, I drag the body as far from the scene of the fight as possible under the veil of darkness. I stuff his pockets with rocks and, after removing my own wallet and phone, wade into the water as far as I can without posing a danger to myself, then let go. Thankfully he sinks enough to be submerged. It won’t last long, I know. Eventually, the gases will overcome the weight of the rocks and he’ll rise enough to be discovered. Hopefully, by then, all traces of me should be gone.
As for anyone who saw us running through the streets and then the park, we were both fast and it was dark. White male in a tuxedo jacket and pants, six foot three, brown hair, that’s about as far as it will get. I’ll take off the ruined jacket on my way out of the park, obviously by a different exit than that which I entered.
Once out of the lake, my phone and wallet collected, as well as his belongings, I walk a distance and sit on the ground in another darkened location away from the part of the lake I was in to recover and dry off a little. I wipe the phone and toss it into the lake. The wallet I’ll dump in a trashcan on the way home.
I knew this job would be difficult. I knew it wasn’t going to be like the others. I even knew it would be dangerous.
What I didn’t know is that I would end up giving a damn about the one person I initially considered my rival for the prize, Brielle Christopher.
Now, I have no choice but to save her life.
Which means doing the unthinkable.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brielle
“Eighteen months is what they’re offering and frankly, I think you should take it.”
“We’re not even going to discuss my innocence?” I ask, looking at my attorney.
This entire situation seems so surreal, I still can’t believe that I’m not in a nightmare. Last Saturday, I was happily having lunch with Georgette and Andrew. Now, I’m out on bail.
Criminal mischief in the second degree. Apparently a class D felony.
Georgette wanted to come, but hell if I was going to put her through all of this. Part of it is not wanting to unnecessarily worry her, especially since the forecast isn’t looking too bright and sunny. Another part of it is needing to focus, and if I’m worried about her the last thing I’ll do is worry about my circumstances. She’s a tough bird, but even the strong have their weaknesses. I’m hers…and she’s mine.
“Ms. Christopher—”
“Brielle, please.”
“—Brielle, we can certainly discuss your innocence but let me lay the facts out for you first.”
As though I don’t know them already.
“One, you were the personal assistant to Bernard Gaultier—the assistant who was in charge of handling security
for the painting.”
“Making sure all the contracts were signed and handling the scheduling. That’s it,” I protest.
“There are witnesses who claim—” She shuffles through a set of papers until she finds the one she needs.“—who claim you were there during the installation and asking quite a few questions, questions that are pretty damning in retrospect.”
Hoisted on my own petard. That’s the saying, isn’t it? My own damn plan for something perfectly legal—okay, slightly non-kosher, but definitely not a class D felony!—coming back to bite me in the ass.
She looks at me as though my expression already reads guilt.
“Go on,” I say with a sigh.
“Then there’s the evidence caught in your office desk. The box cutter used to shred the painting, the glass cutter used to get past the glass casing, and traces of the painting itself.”
That bit of evidence is how all of this started. It had been an exciting morning, to say the least. I’d seen the crime scene tape in front of the gallery and when I’d learned what had happened, I was devastated.
Obviously, the first thing that sprang to mind was Andrew’s warning about the Werwolf Order. I knew they didn’t want the history of that painting getting out, but to go to the trouble of slashing it was…beyond despicable.
If, indeed it was them.
That’s something I refuse to think about right now.
It was a few hours later that day when the two detectives made their way toward my desk, warrant in hand to search the contents. I was as surprised as everyone else. Even Sonia and Becca were too shocked to express any schadenfreude.
From there, the dominoes tumbled. As my attorney promptly continues to point out.
“The drawer in your desk was locked. Hell, your own purse was sitting right on top of the evidence inside.”
“Which doesn’t make sense, right? First of all, it wasn’t right on top. All those things were found underneath papers that were already in the drawer, papers I hadn’t even looked at for months. Second, why would I put my own purse on top? Doesn’t it make more sense to put the damning evidence in my purse…or better yet, not leave them practically at the scene of the crime in the first place?” I insist.