He turned around and stepped back so he faced them both. “I wish you would have told me about your search for Heaven’s Doors out of Hell as soon as you learned about them. I could have helped. I would have helped.”
“Nothing against you personally.” Jesse shrugged and shook his head. “But if you want to keep a secret, you don’t tell anyone. Especially not friends you want to protect.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“But you did,” Prudence said. “You’re moving up the Hell Runner’s corporate ladder. You’ll be a council member in no time. And that’s important. There aren’t many young council members, especially ones with your brilliance and field reputation. Bringing you in would only screw up your career.”
“No, it would have saved all of ours.” He tapped his temple with a finger. “I’m the one with the cool head, remember? I’m Mr. Rational. I analyze, then plan. I don’t react. I don’t think with my heart.”
An obvious shot at their poorly timed relationship.
“Liar,” Prudence said. “You’re all heart.”
“But I don’t think with it. Never have. Never will.”
“One day you will. For the right person.” Jesse crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “And when you eat your words, I’ll be there to watch. But you’re right. We should have brought in you. From now on, we’ll keep you in the loop.”
“No sneaking around? No covert missions?”
Prudence placed her right over her heart and flashed him her most sincere grin. “Promise.”
“Okay, P.” Zane didn’t worry about her as much as her husband. He met Jesse’s hard gaze; his golden-brown eyes glowed with the August sun. “Truth? Or should I get the Taser? In case you change your mind.”
“If you’ve got a whollop anything like your brother Boone, you won’t need it.” Jesse rubbed his jaw and smiled. “He clipped me good in training one day. Knocked me flat on my ass. And he’s half your size.”
“Don’t say that to him. He thinks he’s catching up to me.”
“Hey, I just got an idea.” Prudence said. “Next time you’re sitting at the table, bring up the subject of your prototype guns. In fact, jump in first before Savard goes off on a filibuster.” She snapped her fingers. “No more guard duty.”
“Maybe. I wanted to wait for the right moment.”
“You have to make right moments, not wait for them.”
Jesse looked at them bewildered. “What the hell are you two talking about?”
“I’ve designed and produced a couple of prototype guns designed to shoot bullets filled with holy water.”
“Really? That’s fantastic. Especially now that we don’t know what’s waiting on the other side of the Gate. But,” he raised his eyebrows and hooked a thumb at Prudence, “she knows and I don’t.”
“I told her about it this morning over coffee. You slept in.”
“What can I say? Flying does me in.” He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “So, does the Council know? Our Council, not these guys?”
“No. The guns weren’t ready until before we took off, and I swore Boone to secrecy.”
“Says the man who hates secrets.” Jesse grinned broadly and rocked back on his heels. “So spill. Tell me about these guns.”
Rather than admit to being just as covert as his friends, Zane proceeded to explain. “I got the idea when we learned Prudence converted holy water into demon-burning sweat. Before we couldn’t carry bottles of holy water. The risk of spillage and exposing our identities was too great. So I designed an accurate delivery system in a spill-proof way to carry. Bullets with a heavy rubber casing that can withstand being shot out of a barrel, but explode on impact. Similar to a paint gun, but smaller and easier to carry.”
“Awesome!” Jesse’s face lit up like a kid on his birthday. “When do we start shooting?”
“You’re jumping ahead. I need to ask permission to present them first.”
“You don’t ask permission, especially with these bastards. Do you have them with you?”
“Yeah. Box from Dad came last night.”
“Perfect.” He slapped Zane on the shoulder and leaned close. “Tonight we plot. Over beers. They gotta have beer somewhere in this wine-soaked country.”
“Jesse. Prudence.” Jack’s stern voice carried across the gardens as sharp as a train whistle.
“Crap. More lecturing.” Prudence groaned.
“Guard duty doesn’t sound so bad after all.” For the first time since landing in Paris, Zane smiled. “Go on. Pick me up on the way out.”
He watched them jog back, relieved they were one big team again. At least until the Paris Council fired them all. Then what?
All the hours he’d spent on his new invention would be wasted.
All the months researching Julian Eymard would be useless.
All the years he’d spent saving souls would be erased. Forgotten.
His whole life, for almost as far back as he could remember, would be a big sack of worthless.
Chapter Four
With hours at his new assignment stretching out ahead of him, Zane strolled over to the coffee bar and ordered a café au lait and a couple of croissants to go. If he had to stand guard, the bosses could at least buy him a snack. “Charge that to HR. In fact, make the coffee extra-large.”
Sipping the sweet, creamy brew, he clutched the bag of pastry and meandered past the bigger-than-life sculpture depicting the most dramatic moment in the Burghers of Calais legend.
Amazed by Rodin’s ability to depict their agony in such stark relief, Zane considered the story that inspired the statue.
During the Hundred-Years War, England beat the shit out of Calais. Despite having their asses handed to them, the French king insisted the city stick it out, but the French forces never rescued them. Abandoned without supplies, the citizens of Calais realized they had two choices—starve to death or surrender. Since dead is a permanent solution, they wised up and negotiated for renunciation.
The terms the Brits demanded included offering up six of the top leaders with the assumption they would be executed, sparing the rest of the city. Eustache de Saint Pierre, one of the wealthiest men in the city, volunteered to be one of the six, and with him five others stepped up to the plate. As instructed, they met their captors with nooses around their necks and the keys to the city in hand.
He approached the statue of Eustache de Saint Pierre, feeling an overwhelming sense of reverence as he gazed into its bronzed face like he could connect with the person it once represented.
According to the story, the king’s wife begged he spare their lives. To please her, the king let them go.
The ending of the story reeked of bullshit. A happy ending to appease the masses. More likely, a deal had been struck, motivated by a love of cash. Lots of historians thought the same thing. It didn’t matter. Leaders of the community saved the lives of those counting on them.
Like they’re supposed to.
Zane snorted and then slugged down more coffee. The council members passed this sculpture every day entering the Hotel Biron and probably never once considered the parallel of the legend to their everyday decisions.
Definitely not, or he wouldn’t be on guard duty.
His stomach grumbled, needing more than liquid to fill it. Croissants would have to do the trick for now, so he headed over to the Gates.
Though on public display, The Gates of Hell at the Museé Rodin did not face the street like the set in Philly. Erected near the Rue de Varenne entrance, traveling in and out had to be less complicated with the front of The Gates facing a garden and the back against a stone wall. Even possible with the museum open, if need be. But the only need be Zane could think of would be an emergency.
It had been nearly eighty years since the last real emergency. A team networked the entire expanse from Paris to Philly. Not that they had a choice. After breaking a glass bottle filled with holy water, every demon within sensing distance chased aft
er them. It hadn’t ended tragically, but that depended on your definition of tragic.
No lives were lost, but holy water as a means of protection had been banned. So had traversing the expanse. Another knee-jerk reaction by the Council over a single incident.
His hungry stomach tightened with anxiety.
History could repeat itself. The Council, no matter what old men occupied those chairs, were notorious for following the rules. Had they all forgotten their field experience? Had they disavowed the sheer joy of harboring a soul next to theirs until Heaven spirited it away?
Or did they resent the need to save souls from Hell in the first place?
Sometimes Zane resented the system. He often contemplated the complexities of Heaven’s divine plan with a heavy heart. Life, and afterlife alike, functioned on the concept of freewill. Because of that rule, Hell was allowed one last shot at stealing a soul in the seconds before the newly passed ascended into Heaven’s light. So many crossed the Gates of Hell lured by sweet visions of the life they left behind. A choice leading to damnation.
Totally unfair. And the reason for the existence of Hell Runners.
The sun rose from behind the exhibit, and he had to shield his eyes from the glare.
Lit from a sixty-degree angle, the wall and shrubbery cast animated shadows on the front of The Gates. The bodies molded in the bronze relief seemed to undulate into a mass of seduction and hysteria—pleasure and agony expressed identically.
Much as he loved The Gates, he couldn’t stare straight at that all day.
Instead of sitting on the far more comfortable bench, he turned and parked his butt on the bottom concrete step leading up to the sculpture. Dangling the paper bag filled with pastry over one knee, he swirled his cup to judge the amount of coffee remaining in relation to his breakfast.
A sharp succession of barks drew his attention. Small and scruffy, a white terrier eyed him from a few feet off, his tail wagging hard enough to slap his own ribs.
“Hey there, little fella.”
A blue leash trailed from his collar.
“You get lost?” A lover of all God’s creatures, he put down the bag and motioned the dog over for a scratch behind the ears. He’d check his tags and help the little guy—he tilted his head slightly—yes, a guy. He could spare a few minutes to find his owner.
The dog barked once and waggled his entire body, as if starved for attention.
Then he barreled right at Zane, dodged one step short of his outstretched arm, and clipped the unguarded bag with his teeth. He took off full-tilt like a Runner outmaneuvering a demon.
“Hey! That’s breakfast.”
He sprang off the bottom step, chasing the dog while holding the cup out from his body. “Stop. You little outlaw.”
The dog high-tailed it across the gardens all the way past the statue of The Thinker, but Zane kept up despite the hot coffee sloshing out of the sipping hole and all over his hand. The end of the long blue leash disappeared around the side of the Hotel Biron. The little sneak was doubling back to his owner, no doubt.
Or almost. The mutt pranced over the trim lawns, banking sharply around topiary shrubs, and then diving into the woods in what was obviously a well-practiced trail for ditching his pursuers.
Though he could have easily replaced the pastry, Zane wasn’t about to give up. The scamp’s owner had earned a lesson in dog obedience.
Just when he thought the little bandit had given him the slip, he spied the slack end of the blue leash. “I’ve got you now.” Eyes on the grass shaded by a copse of trees, he bent and picked up the end by the loop one handed. Slowly, he walked toward the dog busy nudging at the rumpled bag.
“Henri. What mess have you made this time?”
Zane stopped cold and raised his sights. He knew that voice. He recognized the name.
Henri. Not a Soul Saver.
A dog.
Her back to him, she pressed a sketch pad against her hip. The familiar white tank top clung to the column of muscles supporting her spine.
Man—she was even taller than he’d guesstimated after their collision. Probably close to six feet. He could imagine the top of her head tucking right under his chin. Blunt cut black hair swished above the base of her slender neck.
She dropped the pad and bent down to pry the goods from the determined mutt. Shirt no longer tied around her waist, he got an eyeful of flawless upper thigh. Runners’ legs. Lean and muscular under smooth skin lightly tanned. Better still, the most frayed pair of cutoffs he’d ever seen stretched over the swell of her round behind.
Anger dissipating like smoke off a brand, he stopped and considered his next move.
“Give it to me. Did you steal from a child again?”
The pastry meant nothing. He wouldn’t want it back covered in dog slobber anyway. But he wasn’t walking away empty handed. After the long chase and the tense Council meeting, he deserved to see the face that matched the gorgeous body.
He stepped slowly toward Henri, gathering the slack of long leash.
“No. From me,” he replied, using his deepest, slowest home-on-the-range voice.
She turned and straightened in one fluid motion, her slender fingers letting go of the bag. He’d expected a pretty face offering a surprised expression, with eyebrows raised and flirty eyes batting long kitty lashes.
Instead, his mouth dropped.
Intense eyes the color of dark roast coffee and trimmed in delicate lashes pinned him in his tracks a few feet away from her as if daring him to move. Full, defined lips. The kind designed for kissing compressed into a scowl that rivaled Savard. Her face glowed as golden as her shoulders except for the pink stains rising on her high cheekbones. A warm breeze kicked up, and long strands of black hair fluttered around her oval face in a stormy nimbus that matched the irritation emanating off her.
Blatantly pissed off.
And sexy as all hell.
Sensual. Emotional. Evocative. Like every one of Rodin’s creations. Only better. She delivered heat and fire in her gaze.
Zane couldn’t walk away before earning a smile.
“Unless you consider me a big kid.” He rolled the nylon lead around his palm, expecting her to relax her gorgeous mouth.
She didn’t.
Her full lips pursed harder, forcing a little chin dimple out of hiding. Eyes, flashing with anger he hoped was meant for the dog, narrowed on him.
He extended the rolled leash. “I take it Jean Valijean belongs to you?” Bent on engaging her in conversation, he grinned broadly, resorting to his best weapon first—two irresistible dimples. At least he’d been told they were irresistible.
She took the leash and one corner of her mouth relented, curving up. Score one for the dimples. “Cute. Use that line much?”
“Nope. Haven’t had a French dog steal second breakfast before.”
“Second breakfast?” Her gaze lifted to his Stetson. “All cowboys eat two breakfasts?”
“Pretty much. Especially when not a single café in this town serves eggs or bacon before supper.” He took off his hat and raked his fingers through his sun-streaked hair. Weapon number two. More than one woman had toyed with his waves until he dozed off to sleep. “We get up pretty early. Work off first breakfast by eight a.m.”
She nodded and he noticed interest lighting in her eyes. “But you’re in Paris now, and I’m sure you haven’t rustled any cows this morning.”
“Well, I…” he hesitated and then resorted to his charming grin. “I walked a lot.”
Henri yipped, grabbing her attention. Paper rustled, followed by the sound of wet chomping. The dog feasted loudly on a freed croissant, crumbs dotting his whiskers. The rest littered the grass at her feet.
“Ugh. He’s more pig than dog. And that’s a lot of second breakfast.” Those intense eyes fixed on him again. “But then, you’re a big man.” She shook her head, and strands of purple-tipped hair swung fetchingly along her square jaw. She reached for the tie-dyed sack beside her, and he t
hought she was going to take the dog and leave. Instead she pulled out her wallet. “Now you’ll have to take another walk to replace it.”
Was she dismissing him? Not possible. No woman ever resisted the Gideon dimples. “No.” He shook both hands in front of him. “No. I don’t want your money.”
“Why else would you have tracked down a dog for cheap rolls?”
“To be honest, I really wanted to yell at someone. It’s been that kind of morning.”
“Then go ahead.” She crossed her arms over her scantily clad chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he could see the pinkish-tan ovals of her areolas and soft nipples through the white knit top. “Yell.”
He swayed his head from side to side, not so much to indicate no, as to tear his eyes off of her tempting breasts. “For some reason, I don’t need to yell anymore.”
She sighed like she was disappointed he didn’t rant and then uncrossed her arms.
“And it’s not like France is going to run out of croissants anytime this century.”
The hint of a smile shadowed her face again. She was going to make him work hard for a real one. Fine. He’d accept the challenge.
“Very true.” Openly giving him the once over, her eyes slid down the front of his T- shirt and jeans all the way to his boots. “Cowboy.” Though said with a hint of derisiveness, he liked the way all words slipped off her tongue.
“Cutoffs,” he countered with a grin. “Could I interest you in a walk and a second breakfast?”
Eyes dropping, she slid the wallet inside the sack and lifted the strap over her shoulder. Not a good sign. “I’m not hungry. I’m busy.”
“I think people spend too much time being busy. That might explain why your dog is poorly trained.”
“He’s not my dog.” She sighed, long and exasperated. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude, but I’m frustrated. He’s gotten away from me twice this morning. The first time right before we collided.” She blushed again, and he remembered the feel of her hand around his ankle. “You’re right. My grandmother has never taken the steps to discipline him. He would steal from my plate if I let him. Why he isn’t shaped like a bowling ball is beyond me.”
Dream Breakers, Oath Takers Page 3