French Twist

by Roxanne St Claire

His gaze slid behind her toward the cellar. “As long as you can.”

  Shaking her head, she fumbled with the handle and slid out of the car. This was murder. Murder on her soul.

  Walking to the cellar door, she turned and glanced back at the truck, but the disgusting little Indian had disappeared. Should she run? No. They’d find her. She had no choice but to comply now. Her black soul couldn’t be saved, and neither could that girl.

  “Luc!” Lisette called, as she opened the cellar door slowly. “Help me, quickly!”

  Immediately, she heard his footsteps on the stone steps, and he appeared in the dim light. “What is it, Lisette? What’s the matter?”

  She gave in to the trembling of her body. “There’s…someone…in the house, I think.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder and looked past her. “How do you know?”

  “I heard something. A noise in the house. I think someone came in the front door.” Her mind was spinning as fast as she could tell her lies. “I am so scared, Luc.” That much, at least, was true.

  Without hesitating, he nodded. “Stay here with Janine.” He hustled away toward the house. As soon as she saw him open the kitchen door, she turned toward the cellar.

  “Madame, Luc has gone to check something in the house. I am going with him. Wait here.” Without giving Janine a moment to respond, Lisette slipped out the door and looked at the key in her hand. Should she leave the door unlocked? No, the girl would barge out…right into the blade of the Indian.

  Her heart pumping wildly, she turned the lock. This was better for her, Lisette told herself. That terrible man couldn’t get in, but the poor girl couldn’t get out.

  Pocketing the key, she dashed toward the house, half expecting someone to jump out of the bushes at her. She jerked open the back door and tried to think of more ways to detain Luc.

  Lisette was gone before Janine could protest, leaving her alone in the wine cellar. She’d understood what happened: the woman had heard a noise in the house. Then why not stay here in the cellar until Luc checked it out? A chill skimmed down her arms, regardless of the sweatshirt she wore.

  A snapping sound from the top of the stairs grabbed her attention. “Luc?”

  She waited, but heard nothing. Picking up the flashlight, she pointed it toward the door, but it remained closed. “Lisette? Is that you?”

  She could have sworn she heard the sound of metal scraping. But, then again, her imagination was definitely running on overload. When she thought too hard about it, even the association between Luc’s friend Bérnard and Albert seemed absurd. There was no way anyone could make such a wild connection.

  Janine waited at the table, holding her head in her hands, as at least twenty minutes passed. How could she be tired again? She’d just slept for hours. Still, her breath became slow and even, and she laid her head on her folded arms. As her eyes started to get heavier, she realized something felt vaguely familiar. She felt…drunk.

  But she hadn’t had any more than one sip of the zillion-dollar wine.

  Fear snaked through her, shooting just enough adrenaline to give her the strength to lift her head. Peering into the darkness, her gaze traveled to where the vent had been open all day, supplying air and slivers of daylight.

  There was nothing but blackness where there should have been an open vent.

  It took every ounce of strength she had to push herself up from the table. Dear God in heaven, the vent was closed. How long until she had no air at all?

  She called for Luc again, but her voice sounded weak and far away. She managed to get to the steps, but that disconnected sensation was starting again. Her legs wobbled as though she were learning to walk. Stumbling once, then again, she made it up the stairs and reached the vent. It was shut tight. She turned the crank as hard as she could, and it cracked right off in her hands.

  Damn it! She poked her fingers against the metal slats, but they were closed completely and sealed around the edges. She pressed her mouth against it, as though she could suck air through the slats, but the rubber-lined edges prevented her from getting a molecule.

  A wave of dizziness rolled through her. This was ridiculous. This was fear taking over. There had to be enough air in this cellar for her to survive until Luc came back. Pulling herself up, she struggled to reach the door, but the handle wouldn’t move. Goddamn him; why did he always lock her in?

  He’d be back in a minute. She tried to take shallow breaths to conserve air, to stay alert and awake.

  But the room got darker and her body got heavier, and finally, she just closed her eyes and put her head on the stairs.

  He’d been through every room in the house several times, at Lisette’s insistence. All was fine, he assured her, anxious to get back to the cellar. Janine wouldn’t like being in there alone this long. “I’ll keep an eye on things,” he told her as they walked across the courtyard. “You just get what you need in Dijon and hurry back.”

  She looked up at him, sadness giving her eyes a haunted look. “Walk me to the truck, Luc.”

  He put a comforting arm on her back and quickly guided her across the yard to where her truck was parked. Opening the door, he patted her shoulder. “Go now, Lisette. It’s important that we leave tonight.”

  He watched her drive away, a little ripple of guilt sliding through him. She was just an old farmer, now a widow, and shouldn’t be involved in this. He’d have to make it up to her somehow.

  As he strode back to the cellar door, he remembered the key. Lisette had it! He’d have to call through the vent and tell Janine to wait a bit longer. Bérnard must have another key somewhere. Otherwise, he’d break into the cellar.

  He dropped to his knees, and slammed his hands on the rusted metal of the vent. The slats were completely sealed. He leaned into it and yelled, “Janine!”

  How long had he been in the house? And how did the vent get closed? He’d known it to slam shut before; he remembered once it happened when he and Bérnard were in the cellar. But it was only a matter of cranking it open again; wouldn’t Janine figure that out?

  Kneeling in front of the massive brass keyhole, he peered in. “Janine!” he called again.

  Yanking his tiny screwdriver from his pocket, he began to work the lock. Side to side. Front to back. There was nothing standard about the ancient device; it didn’t respond to his pick, and he couldn’t rake the pins with his scraping technique.

  Swearing again, he stood and kicked the door, and then gave the vent a solid smack with his shoe. The metal bent, which would allow some air in the cellar, but not enough, and not fast enough if she was already out. But it would give him some time to find another key.

  He stood to run to the house, but suddenly froze. No. He would not leave her out here. This may have been a fluke or an accident…or not. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he knelt again at the lock and jammed his screwdriver in. There were no pins, so it had to be an old-fashioned tumbler lock. Just about impossible to pick.

  He twisted the screwdriver and closed his eyes to feel the shape of the cylinder, applying varying tension with his fingertips. Damn. A bead of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades. He’d finally met a lock he couldn’t pick and someone’s life depended on him doing it.

  Snapping the screwdriver out of the keyhole, he stood up, stepped back, and pulled out his gun. With one careful shot, he shattered the lock without sending a bullet through the door.

  Shoving the door open with a grunt, he almost tripped over Janine’s body at the top of the stairs. He dragged her into the evening air, his hands frantically searching for a pulse. Damn, but she was prone to hypoxia. Reaching under the sweatshirt, he flattened his palm over her chest and counted the beats of her heart. With his ear to her mouth, he listened to her intake of breath increase with every gasp.

  She would be fine.

  But the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. Something told him this wasn’t a mere mishap.

  Scooping Janine into his arms, he then carried
her across the courtyard toward the house. By the time he reached the kitchen door, she started to wake up.

  She blinked at him. “What happened? How did I get trapped in there?”

  He put her in a chair, then reached behind his back for his gun again. “I don’t know. I had to shoot off the lock, and while we wait for Lisette, I’m keeping this handy.”

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  J anine managed to shower and eat the stew that Luc warmed for her. They ate quietly, the lights low, the gun on the table next to him.

  They didn’t discuss the danger they might be in, which suited Janine just fine. If she dwelled on it, terror took hold. And if he knew she was afraid, he might send her back to Versailles.

  “Do we have to wait for her?” Janine kept her eyes on the gun as she asked. “I mean, is it that important, what we’re wearing?”

  He nodded. “If we stand out, we might as well put a target on our backs. Slipping in unnoticed is critical. And to that end, you need a wig. Or something.”

  “I’ll wear a hat.”

  “Maybe that would work. I’d hate to see you cut your hair.”

  “Actually…” She smiled for the first time in hours. “My ex-fiancé used to beg me to cut my hair and color it red. It would just about put him over the edge if I came back from France with short, dyed hair after I refused him for so many years.”

  “That must be your Sam. The liar,” he said.

  “He’s not my—” She frowned at him. “How do you know his name?”

  “You said it when you fainted.”

  “Oh, hell.” She didn’t want to hear this. “What did I say?”

  He grinned playfully. “Something like, ‘Sam, you’re forgiven. If only you’ll cough up a bigger, better diamond than the one I flushed away.’ ”

  “Amazing how the lack of oxygen can turn a person into a raving lunatic.”

  This time he laughed with her, maybe as relieved as she was to not be concentrating on the danger, and the gun. “Is he also an art historian?”

  “Not a chance. His idea of art is a movie with subtitles. He can’t stand to set foot on the UCLA campus, except to hunt for coeds who want to be movie stars.” And he was very good at finding them. “He’s a producer. A Hollywood hotshot.”

  He gave her a disbelieving look. “You’re too smart for a guy like that.”

  “Not smart enough to figure that out for five years.”

  He scooped a mushroom onto his spoon. “So what made you stay with him?”

  “He’s very funny and charming, and we had a good time together. We traveled a lot, until he got a big movie deal last year and, well—” He lied, cheated, and made promises he couldn’t keep. “Things sort of slid downhill after that.”

  “But you were going to marry him,” he countered. “They couldn’t have gone that far ‘downhill.’ ”

  She abandoned her stew and looked straight into his eyes. “I was optimistic. Sam offered me the kind of lifestyle I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl in Porterville.”

  “What kind of lifestyle was that?”

  “Comfort. Security. Big-time luxury.” She was surprised at how easily she could admit that, now that she’d separated from Sam. “I wanted a home. You know, with a curved staircase and a grand piano. It took me a while to realize that the price for the house and husband was way, way too high.”

  The hint of sorrow in his eyes squeezed some unfamiliar spot in her heart. “Sounds like you figured out that the quality of the husband is more important than the quality of the house.”

  “You’re pretty smart, for a security guard.”

  He held her gaze for a moment, the compliment warming his brown eyes. “Sam’s a fool.”

  That made her stomach dip, so she looked at the gun again. Just to remind herself why she was here, in this château with a devastatingly charming Frenchman.

  Headlights pierced through the lace curtains, and he immediately grabbed the gun and stood, the brief moment of intimacy destroyed. Stepping toward the door, he inched back the curtain. “It’s Lisette.”

  Janine joined him in time to catch Lisette’s surprised look as she climbed out of the truck. “She probably thought we’d run out before she returned,” she said.

  He stuck the gun back into his waistband and opened the door. “Go upstairs and change into whatever she bought. It’s time to get out of here.”

  “Vous êtes très jolie, mademoiselle.”

  Janine didn’t feel so very pretty; she felt completely unnerved—but it was the first civil thing Lisette had said to her. The compliment, issued softly from the older woman as she pulled clothing from the bags she’d brought upstairs, made Janine feel like some kind of French nobility being dressed by her handmaid. No one in France called any woman over twenty-five, single or married, mademoiselle anymore.

  “Merci,” she responded, looking at the array of clothes. “Thank you for getting all this.”

  Lisette shrugged and smoothed her hand over a black sheath dress. “Luc requested garments of quality.” Her English was stilted, but at least she was speaking to Janine now.

  “Thank you, again,” she said to Lisette, hoping for a return smile. “All of these items will work fine.”

  Lisette nodded, then crossed her arms. “In the casino,” she mumbled, half to herself. “You may need evening clothes.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be there that long.” They wouldn’t be gambling; at least, not at the gaming tables.

  Lisette held up one finger. “Une momente.”

  She shuffled out of the room, and Janine opened the last bag. Inside was a black felt beret—sort of like the newsboys’ hats that had been popular recently. Lisette must not have been able to find a wig. In a separate bag marked la pharmacie, Janine found a small box.

  She didn’t need to translate the label; the image of a gorgeous redhead with freshly colored hair was universal. Merlot. How appropriate—hair the color of wine.

  Lisette returned with a package wrapped in tissue stretched over her arms. Janine lifted the edge of it to reveal a beaded cobalt blue gown.

  Based on the wardrobe she’d seen so far, it had been many years since Lisette wore anything this stylish. “Non, non. Merci. But I don’t need your evening gown, madame. Really.”

  Lisette pressed it into Janine’s hands. “Please. You will look beautiful in it.”

  Janine slid the tissue to the top of the dress. “Wow. It’s gorgeous.” A million tiny blue beads sewn against deep blue satin, a long, V-necked halter top that screamed Marilyn Monroe fifties, and a unique rhinestone clasp at the waist. It could have snagged a fortune at one of the vintage shops on Doheney, in L.A.

  “I will not wear this dress, mademoiselle,” Lisette said, a strange melancholy in her doelike brown eyes. But then, what was strange about heartache on the face of a woman whose husband had just died? “I want you to have it for a special evening with Luc. He will like it. I want him to see you in it.”

  Oh, God, the woman really didn’t get it. She thought they were off on some romantic jaunt to the spas and casinos of Lac Léman. Did she think having dinner with a gun on the table was a vacation? “I’m sure this dress is very dear to you.”

  “Not really.” At Janine’s questioning look, Lisette added, “It might bring you…happiness.”

  Janine took the gown, touched by the sadness in Lisette’s look, and impulsively, she hugged the little Frenchwoman. She had obviously misjudged her. “Merci. Merci beaucoup, madame.”

  Lisette shrugged off the hug, no doubt mortified by the oh-so-American demonstration of affection to a stranger. “De rien.”

  But it wasn’t ‘nothing,’ and Janine could tell by the look in the woman’s eyes. They filled as she looked up at Janine.

  “Je regret…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Pourquoi?” Why was she sorry?

  Lisette stepped back and blinked, a giant tear spilling. She laid a wrinkled, sun-damaged hand on her own chest a
nd looked at Janine. “Je regret,” she repeated.

  This must have to do with Bérnard.

  “And I am sorry for your loss,” Janine said softly.

  Lisette lifted her hand from her bosom and rested it on Janine’s face. Her hand was cool and dry, the worn palm of an old woman. “Vous êtes très jolie,” she said again.

  Very pretty. “Merci.”

  Lisette turned away and busied herself by pulling an ancient suitcase from the closet and opening it on the bed. “Voilà, mademoiselle.” Then she left without another word.

  Janine arranged the beaded gown carefully along the bottom of the suitcase. How sad, that old lady living alone in her château in Burgundy. Grieving her dead husband. Giving away her girlhood gowns.

  How very sad.

  She changed into cotton pants and pulled on a casual black sweater. Gathering her hair with one hand, she slid on the black cap, tucking her hair beneath. In the mirror, she adjusted the cap low over her eyes. This would do for now, until she had to chop it.

  Then she remembered the feel of Luc’s hands in her hair.

  Oh, hell. Maybe she could get away with wearing a hat for her entire…honeymoon.

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  L uc waited until they were almost at Evian-les-Bains to brief Janine on her new identity. Across the sedan that Lisette had produced, she sat tucked into her corner, her endearing little hat pulled low over her eyes.

  That cap. Bon Dieu. All he wanted to do was rip it off with one hand and bury the other in the hair that came tumbling out.

  “Your name is Katie Cooper.” He made the pronouncement in accent-free American English. Not the soft New England vowels he grew up with, but it felt almost as good.

  She started at the sound of his voice, then laughed. “How do you do that?”

  “It’s a gift.” For the last two hours, driving the winding, narrow roads in the foothills of the Alps, he’d forced himself to think in English. Forced himself to capture the essence of Dr. David Cooper, newlywed surgeon on his extended European honeymoon.