“Thank you,” I said quietly and ducked my head in gratitude. Stepping to the side, I pointed with my bow to indicate my fellow musicians and encourage their support once more.
Malik and Rodrigo struck up a riff and the crowd ate it up, especially when Khal slung his guitar behind his back and grabbed my free hand, twirling me in front of him.
I masked my shock quickly and fell into the performance, my hips swaying with the skeleton beat, my violin hardly a weight in one hand while Khal directed my movements with the other. The laughter and applause went wild, and I remembered what Monsieur Bonheur had said—music brought people together.
We looked a sight. Khal, in his half-unbuttoned dress shirt and dress pants that hadn’t been tailored for movements like this, dancing with me, black hair piled up on top of a bright red scarf, dark makeup, ears, nose, hands, and feet glittering with jewelry, and my off-the-shoulder mustard yellow dress whirling out from where it was cinched at my hips to flutter around my legs.
It only lasted maybe a minute before one final spin had him releasing me, all of us turning to beam at the crowd and take one final bow to the rally of applause.
My adrenaline-infused smile remained glued to my face as the crowd finally dispersed revealing the massive palace of the Louvre in the background. On the weekends, we drew better crowds from the more touristy areas, especially on a warmer evening like tonight.
It had taken me longer than expected after my meeting with Monsieur Bonheur in the nineteenth arrondissement to get back to Notre Dame. I dallied there under the pretense that I was planning out my scans for the next few days when really it was a foolish attempt to see Quinton. And when I finally overstayed the time I had, my anklets jingled with my frantic flee to the palatial museum where we played tonight.
“Esme.” I looked up at Khal from where I’d begun to pack up my violin.
“Hey, what’s up?”
The look in his eye was unmistakable as he spoke, “I’ve been holding off, thinking that maybe you’d reach out or offer an explanation, but I have to ask…” I stood tall and breathed in deeply. “What happened the other night with the fight? Who was that guy?”
Kindness and protectiveness swirled in his gaze which was then glazed over with the finest sheen of desire, and if I hadn’t considered him a friend, I would’ve put a stop to our acquaintance right there, knowing I didn’t return his affection in that way.
I couldn’t.
It was being held hostage by a gargoyle.
The last time I’d been in Paris, I’d seen the same desire in his eyes, but he’d played it slow, cultivating our friendship and by the time I realized what his intentions were, I’d already started a casual fling with their previous bass player before leaving and heading back to the States. The thing was Khal was a good guy—smart, funny, talented. But he was the kind of guy who would want more—who had wanted more. And more had never been in the cards for me.
Monsieur Gargouille was right. I did have a secret. My secret was my fear of stability.
There was a kind of comfort that came from knowing something wasn’t going to last because I was never left wondering.
And never left brokenhearted. There was a freedom in being able to just move on. A freedom in never being left behind.
Until Quinton began playing from a different deck.
And now, I didn’t want safe. I wanted scarred.
My weight shifted onto my other foot, my wedges giving me a few more inches against his massive height.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him not to worry about it, but I worried what he might do—or who he might look for—if I did.
“He’s a… friend.” Instantly, the light in Khal’s eyes dimmed even though I didn’t know what the word was for Quinton.
He was a ghost.
A gargoyle.
He was the man who set my body on fire and demanded my secrets.
He was the one who made my wandering soul feel not so alone.
He was a lot of things to me and yet nothing that came as a single word.
“A friend who came to watch you play and ended up throwing someone into the Seine?” One eyebrow expertly rose—a skill I wished I had when talking to Quinton. “Why was that the only time he’s come to see us play? What could that man have said to justify that?”
I sunk a hand into the curve of my waist and offered Khal a tight half smile as I continued, “The man in the crowd was saying things… about me… so that’s why he started a fight,” I paused and winced, “And then dropped him in the Seine.”
My eyes shifted, and I caught Malik intently watching the two of us and I wondered if we were speaking loudly or if the whole crew was as concerned about Quinton as Khal.
“Still…” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I saw the way he held him. I mean… I saw him. That anger… those scars…”
“What about his scars?” I heard myself becoming defensive. “Do you have a problem with what he did or just how he looks?” My head cocked right along with my attitude.
Khal’s eyes widened in shock and instantly, I regretted my assumption.
“Esme…” We both turned as Malik came over and entered the conversation. “I think what my cousin is poorly trying to say is that this guy looks like that wasn’t his first fight. It looks like it probably wasn’t his second or third either. And Khal’s just worried for you… we all are.”
There was honesty in his eyes but also something else. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something that was so faint, I was more inclined to believe I was imagining it.
“He just seems like a dangerous guy, Esme, and Malik’s right… I’m worried about you.” Khal’s concern and the tenderness in his voice was touching. There would be some lucky woman in the world who would appreciate it, but that woman wasn’t me.
I liked being taken care of but under duress. Like Quinton not asking if I wanted food but simply leaving it for me. Like tossing a man in the Seine for being a sexist pig without bothering to ask me if I was okay with it. And like being pulled back from the railing of the cathedral just before falling to my death, all the while insisting that I would’ve been fine.
I bit back a worried but unstoppable smile. Or maybe I only liked being taken care of when it was by him.
“What did you say his name was?” Malik asked.
Heat crept into my cheeks. I’d tried to avoid giving Quinton’s name, knowing just how much it had taken for him to give it to me.
But before I had the forethought to lie and fabricate something, I answered with a sharp clip in my voice, “His name is Quinton, and he’s not dangerous. Not to me,” I clarified. “Now, if you both are done with the third degree, there is something I actually need to talk to you about.”
My arms crossed over my chest and I stared them both down.
Even though it was technically Khal’s group, the stern motherly tone I found effective with my students, also seemed to work well when attempting to corral these guys.
“Of course. What’s going on?” Khal asked even though Malik looked like he would have preferred to query me further on Quinton.
I waited a beat as Rodrigo ambled over, chugging down a bottle of water.
“I have a show for us to play next week.”
“For the kids again?” Malik’s eyes narrowed.
My head turned. “No. In the Neuf Trois. At Saint-Denis.”
I watched as all three sets of eyes bulged out from their heads. How, even for three large and stocky immigrants, the infamy of that banlieue instantly set them on edge.
“Mademoiselle Esme,” Rodrigo began, clearing his throat nervously. “I’m not sure if you are familiar with the area or some of the things—”
“I’ve seen the news, Rodrigo,” I assured him. “I know what it’s been made out to be.”
“Not just what it’s been made out to be,” he garbled. “There are riots there. Fights. Drugs. It may not be as bad as they say, but that doesn’t mean it’s not bad.”
I sighed and, rather than argue, went on with my news. “We’ve been invited by Monsieur Bonheur to play in front of the basilica as part of his campaign and for his photos.”
That bit of knowledge seemed to placate them some—knowing I hadn’t just suggested we play in arguably one of the most unsafe places in the city just for fun.
“Monsieur Bonheur?” Malik repeated skeptically.
I nodded and reached down for my own water, taking a sip before my tongue could get the best of me.
“I saw his last exhibit,” Khal said, his chin dipping thoughtfully. “Merde…” He looked to his two friends before continuing sincerely, “I’ve been there a few times with friends who’ve grown up there. It can be a bad place.” My heart sunk. “But it can also be a good one.”
I held my breath, unsure what I would do if they refused since I’d already told Monsieur Bonheur that we would be there.
“And if there is something I can do to show that side to the world, I’d like to be a part of it,” he declared, sending me a tight smile that I hoped had everything to do with the opportunity and nothing to do with how he felt about me.
Another few moments passed before the tense façade of Malik’s face broke and he nodded, one muscular arm reaching out to clap Khal on the back. “I’m in.”
Rodrigo turned and look at them like I’d turned them crazy before swearing under his breath and declaring, “Fine. But you strapping young men better remember that I am your elder, and it’s your job to protect me if anything should happen.”
Khal threw back his head and snorted before wrapping an arm around Rodrigo’s shoulders. “We’ll do what we can, but maybe you should lay off those crêpes between now and then just to be safe,” he teased and tapped Rodrigo on his protruding stomach.
Swatting his hand away and calling Khal something I didn’t understand but assumed wasn’t a compliment, Rodrigo grumbled and waddled away, shaking his head as he went.
“First, she takes up with an assassin and now she drags us to the Neuf Trois.” My eyes whipped to Malik as he spoke once more. “Are you sure you’re just an architecture professor?”
I didn’t like his tone.
I didn’t like his assumptions.
Nor his accusations.
No matter what kind of smile nor how light his intonation was.
“I’m just teasing you, Esme.” He grinned and reached down to pick up a small bouquet of two roses that someone had left in front of us while we played and handed it to me as his peace offering.
Reluctantly, I took it from him but only managed a brief nod of acknowledgment before he turned, his shoulders still bouncing with a laugh, and walked away.
His little joke didn’t stop the concern from retracing its previous path over Khal’s face.
“Are you sure about this guy, Esme?”
“Yes,” I replied without hesitation. Without thinking.
It was then I learned there was a difference between not knowing someone and being unsure of their character.
There was still a lot I had to learn about my gorgeous gargoyle, but when it came right down to it, I was sure about the goodness that was inside of him.
And I was sure that no matter what else had transpired in his life, it hadn’t—it couldn’t—change the way he felt about me.
I was sure that given the chance to kiss me or kill me, he’d kiss me every single time.
I was sure that given the chance to stay in the shadows or defend my honor, he’d walk into the light and fight for me every single time.
I was sure that given the chance to stand back with no one the wiser and let me suffer the consequences of my own foolishness, he’d reach for me—he’d pull me to him and keep me safe every single time.
“I’m sure,” I said quietly, long after Khal had walked away.
And I was sure that given the chance to keep wandering and exploring, my heart kept turning and finding its way back to him,
Every. Single. Time.
Quinton
I silently avoided the hopscotched puddles on the sidewalk like I avoided the thoughts of her, knowing they’d leave a trace—a stain—on me that I wouldn’t be able to remove before I saw him.
The last thing I needed was for my father and the Valois to question my focus—or my loyalties.
It was bad enough the original reason I’d requested this meeting was to find out why Malik was in Esme’s band of street performers.
Descending into the underground tunnel beneath the Arc de Triomphe, I maneuvered unseen through the various hidden passages that led me to the same elevator to my father’s office.
I nodded to the man stationed outside the protected room before letting myself in.
My father looked up briefly from where he sat behind his desk, as though he hadn’t moved from that exact spot since I’d last visited him here a few days ago.
“I take it you found the information you were looking for,” Henri’s smoke-infused voice remarked as soon as I entered his office.
The scent of expensive cigars was so thick I could see it hanging in the air.
Whoever had been here before me had been someone important; Henri had supposedly quit cigarettes and cigars two years ago for his health.
I walked up to his desk and planted my hands on the dark wood rather than taking a respective seat like I usually did.
“Gustav Hubert is Méchant’s son.”
The hand scratching notes in the book on his desk froze as his eyes dragged up to mind.
“You’re sure?”
Pushing off the desk, I took my seat, resting my elbows on my knees and clasping my hands up in front of my face.
“Nine months before Hubert was born, a sum of ten million dollars was deposited into the account of Hubert Holdings—a company that had previously been on the verge of bankruptcy.” Succinctly, I laid out the succession of facts as I’d been able to string them together into a heartbeat of truth behind a life of lies. “Another million when the baby was born, followed by supplying for all of Gustav’s needs, according to Villecort, who also indicated that Hubert senior never in private referred to Gustav as his son.”
“Mon Dieu…” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. In all the years I’d been doing this, I’d never seen him respond to intel like this.
In all his years of doing this, I don’t think he’d ever encountered the idea of a sleeper agent quite like this.
“Méchant paid off a man’s debt in return for fucking and impregnating his wife…”
I gave a curt nod. “Either that or he was already fucking her and decided the child might be worth using someday.”
“Christ.”
I sucked in a long breath, feeling the sting of cigar smoke as it poked tiny holes in my lungs.
“I need to get to Hubert.”
It was the only way, now that the connection between him and Méchant had been confirmed. Now that I knew Hubert wasn’t an unwilling or innocent bystander.
“If he’s in league with Méchant, you’ll never get close enough to do that. Not with your face.”
It was the truth. A man with a face like mine was easy to pick out, easy to remember, and easy to put a target on. Still, hearing the cold truth from his lips still stung.
“There has to be a way,” I insisted, my hands falling to clenched fists in my lap. “I don’t care if I have to dress as a priest and corner him in confession, I’m willing to sacrifice my soul to find out what the hell he’s planning.”
Or sacrifice what was left of it.
The older man’s head tipped to the side, lured by whatever thought occurred there and rubbed his thumb and forefinger along his chin.
“What is it?”
“I think there might be a way,” he murmured gruffly. “And one that won’t get you excommunicated.”
“If I’m not already,” I grumbled under my breath, staring down at my two fingers that had been knuckle-deep inside Esme’s warm, welcoming body in the hall of the cathedral.
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He pushed back slightly in order to open one of the drawers on the side of his desk, pulling out a stack of letters and sifting through the unopened envelopes.
My eyes narrowed.
Mail was a luxury the head of the Valois was privileged to. Some of the agents, like myself, were taken completely off the grid. Sometimes, the Valois needed more than someone planted in a job to collect information. Sometimes, they needed a ghost. And receiving mail implied you were a person with a life, not an agent with a purpose.
Finding the piece he was searching for, he separated it from the rest and shoved them back into the drawer I doubted they would see the light of day from again.
He rubbed a thumb over it for a moment before tossing the smaller, square envelope in my direction where it landed on the edge of his desk.
Picking it up, I glanced at the name, knowing Henri Lautrec was a name that existed in only very small privileged circles.
Quinton Toulouse.
“What is this?” I slid my finger under the edge to peel it open.
Inside was an invitation from the French Ministry of Culture to a fundraiser to support the renovation and refurbishment of historical and cultural landmarks.
A masked fundraiser.
And it was co-sponsored by Hubert Holdings.
“I would assume the man helping to sponsor the event would be there in person,” he remarked as I read over the details a second time.
“What did you do?” I demanded a second time, even though I knew who Quinton Toulouse was.
Quinton Toulouse Bossé.
He was me.
“I am dead,” I said through tight teeth.
Once again, I caught the frame of age as it sat in front of my father’s face, turning the vigilant visage into one that was worn and weary of a life spent saving the world at the expense of his own.
A year ago, maybe even a few weeks ago when I’d seen him last, he probably would have brushed me off with a finality of my boss, devoid of any trace of my father.
But today… Today, he seemed too tired to even keep up the clench of his jaw, much less the wall that had always separated him from me.
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 19