“This is related,” Tristan said.
“How?”
“Classified.”
Ainsbury didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll have someone call you with the exact location.”
Tristan flipped his phone closed and looked at Paul. “Keep working on it. I’m going to follow a lead.”
Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s the lead?”
“Not sure. I’m going with—”
“Gut instinct.” Paul nodded knowingly and entered a new set of useless coordinates on the computer. “And gut instinct is never wrong.”
Tristan laughed softly. “You’re learning, Dunne.”
As he pushed open the door to the chilly spring night, his phone rang again, this time with the address of Bérnard Soisson’s winery. He punched it into his PDA and angled the screen in the moonlight to read the map that appeared.
The southern region of the Côte d’Or. He could take a flight to Dijon or drive. Either way, it would take five or six hours to get there.
He wanted Benazir, but he couldn’t do a damn thing about that right now. What would it hurt to check on Luc’s friend?
It bothered him that an old man living peacefully in the country would die violently. And it bothered him that, if not for the connection to Luc, his death would undoubtedly be an open and shut suicide. But what really bothered him was the timing. Why now?
If it’s too strange to be a coincidence, then it isn’t one.
Chapter
Ten
A pparently Luc had traded caution for speed with the change of cars. He’d abandoned the country roads and opted to fly his stolen car down the highway. Janine had watched for the turn-off for Dijon, but he’d blown right by it and headed south, toward the heart of French wine country. Toward the narrow limestone slope of the Côte d’Or.
She listened to the rumble of the tires on the road, gathering warmth from the jacket that she still wore. He’d cracked his window open, and the fruity, earthy smells mixed with the clean, masculine scent that clung to his clothes. And if that wasn’t intoxicating enough, whenever she stole occasional glances at him, her imagination ran as fast as the Citroën.
Every glimpse of the man made her mouth water. And then go bone-dry. Her reaction had little to do with his great looks, or the hypnotic cadence of his French accent. It was the way he moved, the way he attacked this situation, his grace under pressure.
Dear God, what was the matter with her? Since when did Dr. Coulter go for testosterone-loaded supermen who knew how to hot-wire cars and elude the law? Her ex-fiancé had set his Mercedes alarm off every time he tried to arm it. Testosterone? He all but counted the number of wavy brown hairs in his brush each morning.
Luc slid into the right lane at the exit to Beaune and glanced at her. “We’ll be stopping at a winery in a few minutes,” he said.
She sat up in her seat. “Really? Got a tasting lined up for four-thirty in the morning?”
He almost smiled. “I wouldn’t be surprised. My friends, Bérnard and Lisette, are expecting me.”
But they weren’t expecting her. Evidently that didn’t concern him. “Do you think Lisette is my size? I could use a change of clothes.”
“She’s about your size.” He glanced at her and smiled. “But they are wine country farmers, so don’t expect couture.”
The wool of his jacket scratched her bare shoulders when she shrugged. “I don’t need Versace, Luc. A pair of slacks and flat shoes would do the trick.”
“I’m sure Lisette can accommodate you,” he said, as he turned onto a narrow, rutted road. “They are old family friends.” His tone implied that nothing would faze them—not even guests in the middle of the night.
“How long will we stay?”
“Long enough to track the Plums. We can shower and change, get something to eat.”
In the moonlight, Janine could see endless rows of vines lining the foothills. An occasional iron gate or low wall marked the perimeter of a winery. Luc pulled into one of those, slowly enough for her to read words carved into a stone marker.
Château Soisson.
“It’s not really a château in the truest sense of the word,” he warned as the Citroën coughed up the hill and passed some darkened outer buildings. “Just a private country winery.”
As they rounded a bend, the headlights fell on a cozy two-story house covered in ivy.
“It’s very sweet,” she noted, studying the mossy hip roof and weathered shutters. “Very inviting.”
“I’ve always felt at home here,” he said softly.
At the personal revelation, she glanced at him. What an odd place for a man like Luc Tremont to feel at home.
The tires kicked up dirt and stones as he drove around the side of the house, under the outstretched arms of an ancient tree. Not a single light burned in any of the arched windows.
“We’ll go in through the back,” Luc said.
“You mean just walk in?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Or shoot off the lock. With you, one never knows,” she said, almost to herself.
“These are my very close friends, Janine,” he assured her. “I have my own room in this home.”
He parked inside an open storage shed in the back, avoiding the gardening tools scattered about. Reaching under the dash, he yanked at something and the engine shut off. “Let’s go,” he said, closing the doors of the shed behind him.
They crossed a darkened courtyard to a back door. He jiggled the door handle. Kneeling, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a tiny flashlight. Twisting a cap off with his teeth, he flashed a small instrument—a screwdriver?—and slid it in the keyhole. Evidently he had a room, a parking space, but no key.
“More breaking and entering?”
“Just…” The lock made a grinding noise, then unlatched. “Entering.” He flipped off the flashlight and popped on the screwdriver cap with one hand.
He entered first, and suddenly the room was bathed in a soft golden glow. Janine held her breath, expecting someone. The owners. A dog. An alarm. But the spacious kitchen was deserted. A long worktable dominated the center of the room, which was lined with pine cabinets, an ancient gas stove, and a glass-paneled break-front. All was silent, but for the low-pitched hum of the refrigerator.
“Shouldn’t we let someone know that we’re here?” Janine whispered.
“Bérnard should be here,” Luc said, moving toward a darkened hallway. “And Lisette.” He paused and listened, frowning. “I’m going to check the house.”
She wanted no part of hanging out in the kitchen alone. “I’m coming with you.”
He extended his hand. “Come on.”
As they moved through the house he paused to switch on lamps, illuminating polished wood floors with well-worn throw rugs and simple furnishings. They passed a darkened study and living room, then stopped at the bottom of a curved wooden staircase.
“Bérnard?” he called softly, taking the first few steps. He waited a beat, then cocked his head. “Let’s go upstairs.”
The second floor hallway wrapped around the stairs. At one end was a set of closed double doors.
This time, he knocked. “Lisette?”
Tight-lipped, he eased the door open to reveal a darkened bedroom with an antique four-poster bed taking up most of the space. The rumpled bedclothes looked completely out of place in the otherwise spotless house.
He went directly to the huge antique armoire and opened the doors. “You can get something to wear,” he said, indicating it with a nod.
Inhaling the cedar and wool scent of the armoire, she quickly chose a dark flannel shirt, then lightly ran her fingers over the other hangers. She needed sweatpants or something comfortable for…whatever she’d be doing. Running.
She took a pair of black jersey slacks with an elastic waist. At the bottom of the armoire, there were a few pairs of flat leather shoes. “Do you think she’d mind if I borrowed some shoes?”
He stood in front of an open dres
ser drawer across the room. “Take whatever you need. Underwear? Socks?”
It felt so weird to be taking this stranger’s clothes. “I’d rather not pilfer the woman’s panties, if you don’t mind,” she said, as she picked a pair of black loafers.
“You were freezing in the car. Here.”
She turned and caught a ball tossed to her. Socks. “Fine.”
“I’ll show you the guest room.”
The hall led to another smaller bedroom, this one powder blue and antique oak.
“There’s an en suite bath,” he said. “I’ll come back in half an hour. I have some things to do.”
When the latch clicked behind him, Janine stared at it for a few seconds. Should she lock it? What a bizarre situation. Alone, apparently, in a little farmhouse in Burgundy. Stealing the owner’s ugly clothes and wondering if she should lock the door to keep out…who? The missing residents? The man she trusted to find her Plums?
She took a few steps to the door and turned the knob, and a sickening realization squeezed her heart.
She couldn’t lock him out. He’d locked her in.
By the time she heard his quiet rap on the door, Janine had washed her face, brushed her hair, and changed into her comfortable, if frumpy, new outfit. She’d even found an unopened toothbrush and brushed her teeth. She sat on the edge of the blue-chenille-covered bed, fighting mad.
“Why the hell are you knocking?” she called. “I can’t open it.”
The door opened. Luc now wore a dark sweatshirt and faded jeans. Well, he’d said he had a room here.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t realize it locked when I left.”
She speared him with a withering look. He realized everything. “Do you not trust me? You think you have to lock me up like—like Rapunzel or something?”
“Rapunzel?” He smiled and reached for a strand of her hair. “You look like Rapunzel with your beautiful, long hair.”
Every time he touched her hair, it felt as intimate as a kiss. She pulled her hair out of his reach into a makeshift ponytail. “Please don’t do that again.”
“What? Touch your hair or compliment you?”
Both. “Lock me up.”
“Would you forgive me in exchange for some coffee and breakfast?”
Her empty stomach responded for her. “Possibly.”
He slipped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her to his side, his mouth close to her ear. “And, yes, I trust you.”
She sidestepped his solid grasp and walked into the hall. “Did you find out where your friends are?”
“No.” He started down the stairs ahead of her. “And I had a setback on the vases, too.”
“You did?” She slowed her step. “Has something happened to them?”
“I’m not getting a correct read on them. I’ve found the forgeries, which are traveling along A-5, probably headed toward Germany or Switzerland.”
She rounded the corner into the kitchen, momentarily distracted by the aroma of coffee and baked pastries. He pulled a chair out for her. “Hungry?”
“Famished. And the real vases?”
He took a coffeepot off the stove, then carried it to the table and filled two cups. “There’s some kind of error reading. It shows the receiver location instead of the transmitter location.”
She poured warm cream into her cup and watched the black transform into perfect café au lait. “Where’s the receiver location?”
“Here. Installed in Bérnard’s computer.” He placed a basket of pastries on the table, the fragrance reminding her that she was starved. “Obviously that’s a mistake, and I hope it’s temporary,” he said as he sat down.
“What do we do? What if you can’t get a reading? How do we get them? I thought we’d be able to get them sometime today.”
“We’ll trace them, don’t worry.” He laughed softly, took a brioche from the basket, and put it on her plate. “You’re such an American.”
She broke the pastry, and the buttery crust crumpled, causing a flurry of flakes that she brushed off her fingers. “I suppose that’s an insult.”
She expected his casual French shrug, but got a warm look instead. “Not at all.”
She concentrated on the brioche. “You didn’t answer my question. What do we do next?”
“When Bérnard arrives, we’ll work on the program. If we have no leads at all on the real vases, I may opt to travel after the forgeries.”
He might opt. “What about me?”
This time he did shrug. “We’ll have to play it by ear, as you Americans say.”
She took a bite of the crumbling brioche, aware that he watched her every move. She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “Do you hate Americans like most French people do?”
He sipped his coffee. “I can’t speak for the whole country, but no, I don’t hate Americans.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she wiped her lips again self-consciously. “For example, I like you.”
Brioche caught in her throat, and she sipped coffee to get it down. “Even though I invited myself along on your chase?”
His dark eyes glinted. He reached across the table and touched her bottom lip. “Perhaps that’s why I like you.” A sliver of pastry clung to his fingertip. “You missed this.”
“Oh.” She put her hand to her mouth, to the spot where his fingertips left their invisible imprint.
With his eyes still on hers, he put the pastry crumb in his mouth, and it disappeared on his tongue. “Mmmm.” He closed his eyes for a second. “Arlaine is a genius.”
She somehow managed to speak. “Arlaine?”
“The housekeeper.”
Outside, an engine growled and a bright beam of headlights flashed through the kitchen window.
“That’s probably her now.” Luc stood and strode to the door, inching its curtain aside.
Janine followed him and tried to get a look over his shoulder. The driver’s door of a rusty truck slowly opened with a high-pitched creak. A small figure dressed entirely in black jumped out and started toward the house.
Luc shoved open the door. “Lisette,” he called.
The woman froze and stared as he sprinted across the courtyard. “Luc!” Janine heard surprise—no, shock—in the exclamation. “Que fais-tu ici?”
What was he doing there? She thought he was expected.
They met at the gate, the first rays of sunlight highlighting the older woman’s face. Janine could make out plain, angular features and dark cropped hair.
“Où est Bérnard?” Luc asked.
She said nothing but shook her head, her expression changing from surprise to…something else. Something dark.
“What is it?” Luc demanded in English. “Where is he, Lisette?”
“Il est mort.”
The words carried across the morning air, and Janine’s breath froze. He is dead.
“How?” Luc grabbed Lisette’s narrow shoulders and practically lifted her off the ground. “What happened?”
She just looked at him.
“What happened to Bérnard, Lisette?” he insisted, in English.
“Oh, God, Luc,” she answered in the same language. “He killed himself.”
“What?”
“They found him drowned in the Armançon River, with a bullet in his head.”
Janine grabbed the doorjamb and felt her blood run ice cold. Drowned…with a bullet in his head.
Exactly the way Albert Farrow had died.
Chapter
Eleven
A thousand responses screamed in Luc’s head. It was impossible. A lie. Bérnard would never, ever take his own life.
Raw, bitter bile rose in his throat, and he fought the urge to punch something. Instead he put an arm around Lisette’s shoulder, feeling her frail bones quaking beneath the wool. “Allons, Liz. Come inside and get warm.”
Janine tried to grab his arm as he passed her. “Luc.”
He heard the urgency in her voice, but answered with a harsh look. No questions, not n
ow.
Lisette fell into a chair with a sob.
“Tell me what happened.” He sat down next to her, clenching and unclenching his jaw to keep from pounding the table. “Tell me, Lisette.”
She lifted her head and looked at him, then at Janine. “Qui l’est?”
“This is my…friend. Janine.” He glanced at her, still standing by the door, one hand fisted at her mouth and a storm in her eyes.
Lisette dropped her head into her hands. “I can’t believe he is dead,” she said softly in French.
Neither could he.
“Luc.” Janine knelt down in front of the table. “Listen to me. It’s important.”
He held up a hand. “Wait, Janine. Not now.” He turned back to Lisette. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
She kept her face buried in her hands. “He swam out into the river and put a bullet in his head.”
Janine gasped, but he ignored her. This just wasn’t possible. Bérnard sucked every breath of life with gusto. “I don’t believe it,” he said, nearly blinded by a flash of rage.
Lisette spread her fingers and peered at him with narrow eyes. “You must believe it. They found him a day ago. He was going to town for lunch and…he didn’t come home. His bicycle…was there…and they found him.”
He jumped up from his chair, hard enough to nearly knock it over. “Bérnard would never kill himself, Lisette.”
Suddenly, her lips started quivering. “They won’t let me have him. They are doing…medical tests.”
An autopsy. His stomach tightened at the thought. The authorities would alert Tristan Stewart, of course, who’d be here in record time to check it out. And if Dudley Do-Right found him here—with the American curator in tow—the whole plan would fall apart. He’d broken every rule in the book by involving Bérnard, but he’d trusted the man completely. And he’d needed a contact other than the FBI to make this all work. A sudden ache of loss—and guilt—weighed on his chest.
“Lisette.” He sat down next to her again, softening his voice. She’d known he’d done work for the government, that he was involved with art. Beyond that, Bérnard had told her nothing. “I—we—are working on a complicated project, and Bérnard was helping me.”
French Twist Page 10