The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  I growled but couldn’t disagree.

  “What is the truth, Quinton? That you don’t trust Esme, or that you don’t trust yourself?”

  “Both.” I winced. “Myself. Of course, myself. After Sophie…”

  “Bullshit,” he called. “Sophie happened before you knew anything. Before you knew who Méchant really was. Before the Valois.” He rubbed his hands together. “You’re not afraid to trust your instincts, Quinton. You’re afraid to trust your feelings because you’ve told yourself for so long you don’t need them.”

  “And. I. Don’t.” My head began to pound. “I have a life. I have a purpose.”

  “Quinton, a life without love is like a dry gear,” he began with a resigned sigh. “It may turn, but it will grind and grate until it begins to splinter and finally, fractures and fails.” He paused. “Isn’t that right, ma petite?”

  I turned to see Troy slip quietly from the doors to their bedroom that had been closed.

  Long brown hair and honest almond eyes, Troian looked young for her age though I knew better than to be deceived by it. Her life and her love for my friend had given her a wisdom that most would not find in a lifetime. She was quiet, but sharp, and, though I didn’t enjoy the idea of friends or being around people the way I once had, I felt less discomfort with Léo and Troy, and perhaps, that was the reason I’d maintained the loose links of friendship with them even after I’d helped them uncover the truth behind my stepsister’s plot.

  “Quinton,” she acknowledged me with a small smile before looking to her husband. “She finally fell asleep, poor thing.”

  He rose and met her as she crossed the space, dropping a soft kiss on the top of her head before returning to his seat.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “What did you ask me?”

  He reached for her hand and held it tight. “I was telling Quinton that a life without love is no life at all.”

  She hummed with a mix of agreement and exhaustion before asking, too tired to be anything but blunt, “Are you in love, Quinton?”

  “No,” I replied too quickly.

  “That’s a shame. I really like Esme,” she mused without even a question as to who I wasn’t in love with. “And not just because she’s a fellow American.”

  “I’m sure there will be other, better men for her.” My hand rose unthinking to rub down the eerily smooth half of my face.

  “Maybe.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But she doesn’t seem to be interested in them. She seems to want you.”

  “She’s just intrigued—just like the rest of the damn world,” I replied gruffly. “I have nothing to offer except scars and a life built on solitude and secrets.”

  She reached for the bottle of water which sat on the coffee table between us and took a long sip before replying, “We all have scars, Quinton. They are the fingerprints that living a life gives us.”

  “Yes, well, most people’s fingerprints don’t cover half of their fucking face,” I snapped, earning a sharp glare from Léo, but Troy held her own.

  “Oh, so you think she’s shallow then?” she asked me with a false innocence that reminded me of Esme. “Strange… I didn’t get that vibe from her at all.”

  I sat back and took her tart reply that I deserved for my outburst.

  Shallow was the very last word I would ever use to describe Esme. In truth, she was far deeper than I’d even imagined, and that was why I didn’t realize until it was too late that I was in over my head.

  “No,” I finally rasped, letting my head drop to stare at my knuckles that were white as they dug into my knees. “She’s not shallow. But neither am I whole. And maybe my life is a grating gear, but I can’t stop it now.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  My eyes narrowed.

  “Mon ami,” Léo returned to the conversation. “I may not be the only person, but I know I’m at least one of very few who knows what happened to you—who knows what Méchant did. For years, I’ve watched as you’ve done what you needed to make it right. For years, I’ve watched as you sought vengeance as though it would be an even trade for happiness. But revenge won’t grease the wheel; it will only drive it faster and faster toward breaking.”

  I reached up and pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling one side that burned for revenge and the other that cried out for freedom.

  “He may have given you those scars, but how deep they run is up to you. And I can tell you from experience, getting rid of him won’t change how much you’ve let them damage you.”

  “Even if I wanted to,” I found myself speaking, not in answer really to his assertion, but simply from the very depths of my heart. “I wouldn’t know how to love.”

  Troy laughed and my eyes flew open.

  “I’m sorry, Quinton. I’m not laughing at you. I just think men in general make love out to be something so much harder than it is.” Her head tipped to the side. “Actually, I think the world makes love out to be one of the hardest things to find and cultivate, when the truth is it’s the easiest.” She brushed her hair back from her face and sighed. “Love is like a river. If you let it, it will flow.”

  I glowered at her, unwilling—unable to reply before she went into the small kitchen and left me to finish my conversation with Léo.

  Quinton

  Malik Nekkaz was a smart man.

  Smart enough to know someone had been following him since he left his law offices earlier. Smart enough to make the same turns I would to draw away from the after-five rush of people into alleys. Smart enough to know that, for a man of his skills (and mine) finding seclusion would provide an advantage.

  Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t just some random thief or lackey who’d set his sights on robbing a wealthy lawyer.

  He’d been trained to gather intelligence out in the open and fight when necessary.

  I’d been trained to sift through the shadows for information and take out anyone, anywhere, without leaving a trace.

  And that was the mark of the smartest kind of spy—not using the body count to inspire fear, but keeping your abilities concealed and underestimated.

  Because the one who underestimates his opponents will always be the loser.

  My jaw clenched as I thought of Esme.

  I’d underestimated her.

  I’d underestimated how there were moments when a woman’s hand could possess a superhuman force. When just one touch on my cheek could reach in and rip away the walls I’d build to protect not only myself but those around me.

  And I’d underestimated just how far I’d let her in. And now that she was too damn deep to be able to be cut out, I had to know what Malik had found on Esme.

  I didn’t care if my father didn’t think it was the right time for this truth—it was the right time for me to know everything I could about her.

  So I could know what kind of betrayal to expect.

  Malik turned into another alleyway that rounded a corner into a dead end. It was a well-thought-out plan, and if I were attempting to rob him I’d be dumb enough to follow. Instead, I passed the alley and entered into the café on the other side, keeping my head down as I wove through the mostly-empty tables toward the back.

  I heard the hostess begin to follow me when she saw I had no intention of taking a seat, rather continuing toward the kitchen.

  I picked up the pace, avoiding the eyes of the chef and two waitresses who were preparing for the evening rush, and finally made it to the back door that dumped out around the corner where Malik would be waiting.

  The back door swung open, revealing Malik plastered against the wall to my left. He’d only begun to turn at the noise before I pinned the tip of my knife into his back.

  “Don’t move.”

  Using my back to block the view of the hostess who’d leaned out the door looking for me, I glanced over my shoulder, letting her see the scarred half of my face as I murmured an apology and told her to go back inside.

  Sensing that whatever was taking place in the alley wa
sn’t something she wanted to be involved in, especially with a man who looked like I did, her wide, frightened eyes disappeared inside just before the door locked.

  “Who the hell are you?” Malik demanded, and I could see how he itched to know who’d bested him.

  “Hands up and drop your weapon.” Begrudgingly, he complied. His pocket knife clattering to the pavement at our feet. “Turn around slowly.”

  I kept my expression steady as the look of violent anticipation transitioned to shock as he saw me and then recognized me.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Bossé?” he bit out.

  “Breaking the rules,” I informed him, reading the unspoken accusation in his eyes.

  The Valois weren’t supposed to know each other, let alone confront each other on the street. Solitude protected the organization, its mission, and the information it acquired.

  “What do you want?”

  I stepped forward, imposing not only the knife but myself into his space, and demanded, “I want to know what you’ve learned about Esme St. Claire.”

  His jaw tightened. “You know I can’t fucking tell you that.”

  Growling, I twisted my fist into his fancy suit and shoved him up against the wall, ignoring the fury that flared in his eyes.

  “What have you found?”

  His nostrils flared. “I think the more important question is why do you care?” he replied tightly. “If she’s part of my mission, then I know she can’t be yours.”

  “She’s not my mission,” I said with a low voice. “But she is mine.”

  My statement surprised me, but what was more concerning was that it didn’t surprise him.

  “You’re fucked,” he laughed.

  I tensed. “You know I’m also the one with the knife, right?”

  “I know you’re not going to kill me. We’re on the same side, and we both have a mission to complete.”

  I hated that he was right. But then again, I didn’t have to kill him to get what I wanted.

  Releasing his jacket, I slammed my fist across his cheek.

  “Fuck!” he swore, spitting blood onto the ground before looking back at me, the split in his lip evidence of my handiwork.

  “I don’t have to kill you to make you hurt.”

  “Lautrec will have your head for this.” I could see his face starting to swell as he spoke. “We aren’t supposed to know each other. We aren’t supposed to talk. We aren’t supposed to share missions. And we definitely aren’t supposed to fucking fight each other.”

  Fuck.

  I grimaced.

  With a low curse, I stepped back from him and sheathed my knife. “I know I’m fucked,” I admitted, dragging my gaze back to his as he wiped his lip on the back of his suit sleeve. “I’m asking you to tell me how badly.”

  Whether it was pity or fear, I didn’t bother to try and decipher the reason why he responded.

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” His shoulders sagged. “I joined the group because my cousin asked me to and he works at the Algerian Embassy.” He didn’t have to elaborate why the Valois might be interested in a man like Khal. “But then when Esme St. Claire showed up, when I realized she was friends with Khal, I looked into her.”

  “And?” I bit out.

  “And I couldn’t find any fucking record of her before the age of eighteen.” He planted both hands on his hips in frustration. “Everything after that is legitimate as far as I can find. But before that, there is no record of Esme St. Claire.”

  My jaw ticked like a broken clock, hard and fast and out of time. “Did you tell him?”

  “What do you think?” He spat out another wad of blood onto the ground, and I could see the temptation in his eyes to trade a blow for a blow.

  But Malik Nekkaz was a smart man.

  Smart enough to know I’d easily kill him before the temptation could be translated into thought.

  “No record…” I repeated with a low strained voice.

  His eyes dropped, and I caught the subtle shake of his head.

  “Why are you following her?”

  “I’m not.” Half-truth, half lie. What else could he expect from the half man?

  “Bullshit,” he spat. “Everyone’s heard the rumors about you. The ghost. The phantom. The man with a past as bleak as his future.”

  The air inside my lungs burned.

  “You’re not following her because of the group because I’ve only seen you once,” he went on, and I found myself reaching for my knife again as the dots began to click. “And you’re not at the school where she works. Too public.”

  He shook his head as his brow crunched in the center.

  “Don’t think too hard there, Nekkaz. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” I hoped it would derail him.

  It didn’t.

  “The only other place she works is at Notre—” His eyes went wide for a moment of silence before he clapped his hands together. “I believed all the other rumors. All the ones about your past, your relation to Henri, your ties to the crime lord… every single one except that you lived in the damn church.”

  His eyes glistened with awe and a strange sort of glee—as though he’d just found out his favorite celebrity was living next door.

  I didn’t want to be infamous. I didn’t want to be an attraction.

  I wanted my revenge and to be forgotten.

  And Esme.

  I fucking wanted Esme.

  “And you fell in love with the little temptress.” He tsked and shook his head. “When you said you were breaking the rules, I had no idea you meant this.”

  “I’m not in love with her.” The words escaped through clenched teeth. “I knew there was something off. And the fact she’s working in that church makes it my business.”

  “You think she’s planning something?”

  “No,” I replied without hesitation. Without even a semblance of concern to mask the lust that fought with logic. “At least, I had no reason to until now.”

  “Well, if you find out what she’s hiding, you should tell Henri so he can let me know.” He straightened his jacket and began to turn. “Whatever your deal is… whatever your past is, Bossé… you break the rules, you put more than yourself in danger. And if you fuck her, without knowing who the hell she is, you only have yourself to blame.” He smeared the blood from his lip over his jacket once more and ordered me, “Just stick to your mission, and I’ll stick to mine.”

  “Do you ever stop talking?” I snapped as I strode toward him, invading his space once more as he stood at the exit of the alley.

  Smart man—good agent—or no, he was a cocky asshole.

  “Maybe if you could hit harder than a girl,” he snickered and licked over his lip that was clearly split and swollen.

  I paused right in front of him. “I would if you stopped whining like one.” With a smirk, I walked by him, my shoulder smashing against his before he shifted to the side to let me pass.

  “Yeah, okay,” he laughed after me, his footsteps a few behind me.

  “Tell Henri about this, and I’ll be happy to let you find out.”

  My final words faded along with me into the crowd that pushed toward the nearest metro station.

  I didn’t want to head back to Notre-Dame after what he said, but the bitter truth was I had nowhere else to go. Nowhere else I wanted to go.

  Nowhere else where I would find her.

  I was the monster, made of heartbreak and hardened by vengeance, who lived in the great cathedral of Notre Dame.

  And Esme…

  She wasn’t supposed to be a lure or a liar.

  She wasn’t supposed to be part of my story at all.

  But then again, gypsies never are.

  They wander on their own accord, with an unshakeable determination, and claim things as their own.

  Crossing the Seine and slipping into the sanctuary, the familiar scents of one element changed into another, sitting water to the subtle smoke of the candles, I knew she’d al
ready claimed parts of me.

  Like the part that let myself feel drawn toward another person.

  The part that made me comfortable enough to talk about my past.

  The part that made me want to protect someone other than myself.

  And the part that made me proud of my scars to know how much she desired them.

  Parts which I’d long forgotten, convinced I’d never need them again.

  Quinton

  I sought to prove my friends wrong.

  But with every grinding step, my wheel cranked and creaked farther forward.

  I told myself my mission was necessary. Whatever I felt for Esme was not.

  Today, my path moved me toward the seedier parts of the city—the playground for Méchant’s men. And the location where my priest told me there would be a riot happening today.

  I heard the rumors of a Monsieur Bonheur appearance—the man who fought for social justice by bringing the truth about Saint Denis to light. By portraying the lives of the resolute and ordinary people who lived here under the cloud of media misconceptions. A man who tried to do good and fought against a wall of discrimination.

  This was exactly the kind of event Méchant would target—the kind of event that would spark hope in the hearts of the city when all he wanted them to feel was despair.

  In the food chain, halting one more rigged riot against the president and his policies was like catching plankton compared to spearing the shark.

  But I found myself pulled in the direction of instant gratification. I needed the immediate satisfaction of revenge coursing through my blood knowing I’d taken out a few more pawns in his organization.

  The thought of word getting back to him—another loss at the hands of the monster he’d created—drove me toward the Neuf Trois with new vigor.

  Maybe it would provoke his endgame. Maybe it would finally bring me the satisfaction I craved.

  But, at the very least, it would provide me with the distraction I needed.