The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  Brielle’s eyes fall to the floor as she absorbs this. “Adeline knew about what Marie had done, but didn’t know anything about what happened to her after the war…or Victor, for that matter. She thought it was the Nazis who had killed him.”

  “Non,” I confirm, looking around the room again. I’ve been here many times, and each time I feel the ghosts of my ancestors speak to me in dark whispers. For some reason, this time, here with Brielle, I feel a different sort of voice reach my subconscious, something that speaks to happier times that took place here. My eyes land on the wall where my great-grandmother once hung. I can almost feel her looking down at me with that bold, encouraging gaze.

  After collecting my thoughts, I turn back to Brielle, whose eyes are glued to me once again. “She came to after he tried to strangle her, then she waited for him to come back. When he did, she hit him over the head with a paperweight from his desk. The Gestapo worked with the French police in those days. By the time they arrived to take Victor away, Adeline and Charles were gone and he was dead. She claimed self-defense; the marks on her neck helped her case. One member of the French police, sympathetic to the German occupiers, eventually fell in love with her. Gabriel Petit, my great-grandfather.”

  I walk toward the window next to her, my hands firmly in my pockets again as I stare down at the street below. The little girl and her mother are of course gone by now. This time, my eyes focus on a couple who have stopped to take a moment to kiss.

  My voice is almost monotone as I continue, still staring out of the window. “I can only assume that she kept the painting out of some sort of satisfying spite, even after she married Gabriel. They lived well for a while under occupied-France while the Germans ran things.

  “You no doubt know about the Nazi’s interest in art from your research on the painting?” She nods slowly. “They stole quite a bit of it. Destroyed almost as much. There were a few who were smart enough to consider the consequences of both actions. Rarity equals value. If there are only a few paintings by an artist, especially if that artist is already well-established—say, someone like Jean-Pierre Chabat—it would make smart financial sense to hoard a few while the rest of your fellow madmen are destroying the others.

  “When the war ended, and they were officially declared the bad guys, it made things…difficult for them, as you might imagine. The tide had turned. Nazi collaborators were being attacked in the streets, so they escaped to Argentina with many other former members of the party. Still, she held onto it.

  “A good number of them ended up paying for their crimes, all valuables and works of art returned to their rightful owners. There are also works of art that remain hidden in the dark recesses of family closets, never to see the light of day, lest certain unfortunate skeletons come out as well. As my great-grandmother did, long after the fact, with Noémie. It was her daughter, my grandmother, Hélène who eventually got rid of it, though she never told me how.

  “It was bad enough when that idiot Gaultier announced the finding, but then to go ahead and show off by making it publicly available for viewing?”

  “Wait a second, is Gaultier…?” Brielle interrupts.

  “A member of the Werwolf Order? I honestly don’t know. But the painting was now public, which made it dangerous for us all, including me. My legacy,” I muse with a wry smile.

  “That’s why my grandmother, Hélène hired me to steal the painting. It was one tie to our evil past that would have publicly ruined us, and Bernard Gaultier had suddenly decided to put it on public display.”

  Her mouth falls open. “I thought it was—”

  “Celeste who hired me?” A half smile cocks my lips up to the side. “Yes, this is true too. I was acting as a sort of double agent. Pretending to steal the painting on Hélène’s behalf, but delivering it to Celeste instead.”

  “So what would you have done if your plan had worked and the painting ended up with Georgie?”

  “Hélène didn’t care so much about the painting, at least not in and of itself. She just wanted it gone. She was far more worried about your proof, which could have been potentially more incriminating to her.”

  “So you were hired by both of your grandmothers?”

  “Oui. It’s…complicated, but I will try to explain. Marie’s daughter, Hélène came back to France…as part of the Werwolf Order. I told you that the purpose of the Order is to help clean the Nazi ties of any of its members. That’s only part of it. The end game is to reestablish the Third Reich, via less…problematic means; basically, through political and social infiltration.”

  This has Brielle falling back against the window again. She pulls back up with suspicion in her eyes. “So you work for them?”

  “That’s where the non-coincidence of my parents meeting comes into play,” I say with a wry grin. “My father worked with my grandmother, Celeste, to help bring down the Werwolf Order. For obvious reasons, the two of them decided to focus on my mother, Marie’s granddaughter, Lisette as a way to infiltrate them. Celeste Merchant reverted back to her adopted maiden name of Celeste Ciello, then faked her death, complete with an urn filled with ash in a mausoleum, just to cut any connection to my father.”

  My eyes wander to the side, remembering happier times with my mother and father. “My father didn’t realize that my mother had rejected the ideas of her Hélène and Werwolf Order. That’s one of the reasons she lived in Nice instead of Paris. So instead of following through on his original plans,” My gaze falls back to Brielle with a direct look, “he fell in love.”

  Brielle’s eyes fall away to the side again, not wanting to meet the obvious meaning behind my frank gaze. “I still don’t get how or why I became part of the plan in the first place.”

  “I’ll explain that part in a bit. My father disappeared when I was barely a child. My mother was the one to tell me about my legacy once I was old enough to understand. That’s the reason I never met or even knew that my grandmother Hélène existed until then. I’d also never met Celeste, for altogether different reasons.

  “When my mother was killed by a hit and run driver, I had to go live with Hélène. She was the one to gradually bring me into the fold of the Werwolf Order, without my even realizing what it was. For a while, she made it seem like a noble cause, stealing back art and other valuable items from the Nazis who had originally stolen them, to be secretly returned to the proper owners. It was only when I was eighteen that I discovered the true reasons behind what I was doing. Which is when my grandmother Celeste finally came back into my life.”

  “How?” Brielle asks, her interest once again piqued.

  “She had been watching me for a while and finally decided to reach out to me. I wanted to abandon Hélène when the truth was first revealed. I was disgusted at what she had used me for. Celeste suggested an alternative: work behind the scenes to bring them down.”

  My mouth twists into a sarcastic smile. “Ironic, since the original purpose of the Werwolf Order was to do the same with the Allied Forces.”

  Brielle sags against the window and gradually drops to the floor.

  “This is just…information overload here,” her eyes snap back to me with accusation written in them. “And none of it explains why you dragged me into this mess.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Elle

  “Let’s go someplace we can sit and talk.”

  I feel the protest reach the tip of my tongue, but let it die there. I need both a drink and a place to sit.

  André reaches one hand down to me and I accept it, allowing him to lift me up from the floor. I feel slightly numb after everything I’ve learned—and everything we did. Both my muscles and my mind are utterly exhausted. I walk in a trance-like state behind him all the way down to the sidewalk.

  “We’ll walk to the cafe ahead,” he says, nodding toward the corner where I see tables and chairs set up along the sidewalk.

  Once we’re settled at a table far away from any other patrons, I feel my energy come back with a
vengeance.

  “Start with why you took my ID in the first place, long before you were supposedly saving my life,” I say, making sure he gets the cynicism lacing those final words.

  He cocks a smile and I both hate him and want him all over again. “There were very few people who had unlimited access to the gallery and you were one of them.”

  My mouth drops open. “That’s why you stole it? So you would have framed me either way!”

  “Non,” he says, shaking his head no.

  Before he can continue, a waitress comes out. “Bonjour,” she says with the barest hint of a smile. “Que préféres-vous?”

  “What would you like?” he says, pointing to the menu lying on the table, which we haven’t even opened.

  “Any white wine.”

  He opens the menu, quickly scanning the offerings before answering. “Deux verres de chardonnay.”

  She barely nods before escaping back into the cafe.

  André returns his attention to me. “I planned on making sure that you had an alibi before using the ID. I also had access to the records, which I could have easily deleted. It would have made things more complicated, but I never deliberately embroil innocent people in my…activities.”

  “That would have still landed me in trouble for losing the ID in the first place.” I point out.

  “At most, a slap on the wrist.”

  “Well, thank you for that,” I say sarcastically, feeling only slightly assuaged.

  He just stares at me and I can practically sense him wanting to smile, or worse, laugh.

  “It’s a serious thing!” I point out.

  “Very,” he says, faking earnest agreement, even as those damn green-speckled eyes dance.

  “It is! Using my ID to steal a multi-million dollar painting? I could have been at the very least fired.”

  “You’re welcome?”

  For some reason, I cough out a laugh that I wasn’t even aware was bubbling up inside of me.

  “Asshole.” I say, shaking my head, now unable to keep the smile from my face.

  “Connard,” he says with a grin on his face. “When in France…” he adds with a raised eyebrow.

  “Connard,” I mimic, leaning in for good measure.

  The waitress appears out of nowhere, giving me a slightly disgusted look. I ignore it, focusing on the wine placed before me instead. I pick it up to take a good long sip, glaring at André over the rim.

  His grin just broadens as the waitress leaves us. He takes a long sip, matching my pace and pulling his glass away at the same time as me. He sets it down and gives me a thoughtful look.

  “I apologize for everything…Elle. You deserved none of what happened to you, which is entirely my fault. If I have to say it a hundred times over, I will.”

  I blink in surprise, realizing that I hadn’t even thought to ask for an apology—which is very much owed. Something about the frank and honest way he’s said it melts some of the ice clinging to my heart.

  I bring my glass back to my mouth, not knowing how to respond. Instead, I turn my attention to the street around us, which is getting busier as the day has progressed.

  As a girl, I always dreamed of coming to Paris—what American girl hasn’t? It looks just like all the pictures I’ve ever seen of the city. With small quaint shops and cafes lining the sidewalks below pristine apartment buildings, it’s similar to New York’s SoHo district but prettier.

  “C’est belle, non?”

  I turn back to see his eyes focused on me, green specks flickering like flames in his eyes.

  “It’s lovely,” I say before turning away from that intense gaze to look out at the street again. “More beautiful than I imagined. I just wish it were under different circumstances.”

  A thought occurs to me and I turn back toward him. “Is it even safe for me here? You said they were trying to kill me. Is that still the case?”

  He hasn’t mentioned anything about my safety so I just assumed I was. Now that I’m here on his home turf, I wonder.

  Something fierce hardens his eyes as he stares at me. “You’ll be fine.” His voice is just as granite-like as his jaw, which sends a small shiver through me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I feel myself swallowing hard at that answer, which was almost territorial. It fills me with the same desire that led to what happened in the apartment. This time, I allow it. I know I shouldn’t give in to my basest feelings this way, but the fact is, I’m simply tired of hating André.

  I relax back into my seat and smile, thinking back to the videos of him and Georgette. The way he was with her was no different from that of a son with his aged mother, gentle at times, humorous in attempts to cheer her up at other times. Now, desire has softened into something warm and tender.

  “Tell me what it was like for her…at the end.”

  The small smile that cracks on his face tells me he knows exactly who I’m talking about.

  “Until the last month, she was…surprisingly cheerful. She smiled a lot, I think mostly to make me feel better.” He laughs softly and takes a sip from his glass. “It made me understand even more why you did what you did for her. I don’t think I could work for Bernard Gaultier for more than a day.”

  “Technically, you didn’t,” I point out with a smile.

  André’s smile matches mine. “Touché,” he says, lifting his glass.

  His face becomes thoughtful, almost sentimental. “She told a lot of jokes, not very good ones.”

  I laugh. “That would all have come from Frank, a connoisseur of dad jokes.”

  “Dad jokes?” he repeats with a questioning look.

  “Jokes that are not very good,” I say with a smile.

  “Ah, c’est vrai.”

  “It’s just sad she never got to meet Celeste.”

  “She did,” he replies.

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

  “Face time, before the cancer was too far gone. At Georgette’s insistence, I also made digital copies of Adeline’s diaries for her, so Celeste would learn all about her half-sister’s life.”

  That thought fills me with joy.

  “So when do I get to meet her?” I ask, feeling giddy at the prospect. Noémie’s very own daughter.

  Something in his expression shifts. “We can’t, not yet. It isn’t safe for me to get in touch with her right now. ”

  “Why?” I ask, sitting up with mild panic as I remember the circumstances of my being here.

  “The Werwolf Order doesn’t know about her. Once they find out, we’ll all be in danger.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “Yes, you’re safe, Brielle.”

  I don’t even care that he’s slipped up with my name. “How do you know?”

  “The painting was their only interest in you. Now that it is a non-issue, they’re focused on other things.” His gaze hardens again. “And because if they try to kill you, they would have to go through me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Elle

  He keeps his eyes firmly planted on me until I feel the fear begin to subside.

  “Paris is meant to be enjoyed. Allow me to show you my city,” he says, shifting the topic to more enjoyable fare.

  I laugh and shake my head. “This is so…surreal. In the middle of all this madness, you want to play tour guide?”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Alors,” he says, sitting up straighter with a grin on his face before he finishes his wine. “Let’s explore.”

  I laugh again, enjoying the way it makes me feel—enjoying the way André and his ability to so easily flip a switch in me makes me feel.

  “I will go and pay, you enjoy the spring air.”

  Before I can say a word, he’s out of his seat.

  I look out at the street once again. As the pedestrian traffic increases around me, the heaviness weighing me down begins to subside. The last time I felt so
light and carefree was while living with Frank and Georgette. For once, knowing that they’re both gone doesn’t fill me with sorrow or anger, but more of a warm, comforting nostalgia, remembering those fun times. Also, the fact that Georgette is now free of any pain and with the man she loves.

  André comes back and reaches a hand out to me. I take it and allow him to lead me back to the car that has remained parked outside of Victor’s former apartment,

  Once we’re settled into the backseat, he rattles off something in French to the driver, then turns to me with a grin on his face, making him look more handsome than ever. “Do you still hate me?”

  “I should,” I reply. “But it’s not as enjoyable as not hating you.”

  “That’s an improvement, I suppose,” he says with a laugh.

  “Have you really been thinking of me these two years?”

  “Toujours,” he whispers. “Always.”

  A sizzle of electricity runs through me, striking right at my core.

  “And you’ve been thinking of me.” He says it as more of a statement than a question.

  I look to the side, feeling slightly unsettled by his deep gaze.

  “It’s funny, that night with you, it was like a tiny seed, the barest hint of something that could grow inside of me. Who knows where it could have gone? Under my usual modus operandi, I probably would have found an excuse to let it wither and die, completely forgetting about you. But those eighteen months? It was like…the manure piled on top, forcing it to grow exponentially despite all the odds against it.”

  “That’s a very…colorful way of putting it,” he remarks.

  I laugh and shake my head. “I think I hated you so much, it wouldn’t let the passion burn out. Instead, it turned into something…irrational. The only other people in my life I’ve felt this strongly about are Frank, Georgette, and…my mother.” I say the last bit, still feeling the bitterness on my tongue. “Which I suppose makes sense, considering. I just couldn’t let go of you.”