"The Paris Game is a sexy noir romance--a gritty, thrilling peek between dangerous Parisian sheets." -Tiffany Reisz, Award-Winning and International Bestselling Author of The Original Sinners series (Mira Books)
"Dark, mysterious, sexy. Noir at its best." -Roxy Boroughs, author of A Stranger’s Touch
“Sophie’s not interested in you.”
He chuckled. “So you keep saying. Let me offer you a wager then, ma chère, since you seem so certain.” He ran a hand down her bare arm and she tried to keep from reacting. Goose bumps rose on her skin and she hoped he hadn’t noticed. “It’s been so long since our last one.”
“And that turned out so well for me,” she said dryly. “Why would I want to?”
“I’d give you the choice of terms,” Marc offered.
“Anything?” She tried to think of something appropriately damning and to get him back for having lost their last wager. She didn’t want to spend 24 hours on her hands and knees again.
“Whatever you like, ma chère.” He was so easily confident that he would succeed. She wanted to wipe the smirk off of his face.
The Paris Game
A Le Chat Rouge Novel
Alyssa Linn Palmer
DEDICATION
To Tiffany—merci beaucoup, mon coeur.
To Paris—the city of my dreams.
And to my family.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Forthcoming Releases
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
“Royale wants to see you.”
The maître’d caught Sera at her dressing room door, blocking her way. She tried to step around him, but he persisted. “Now. You have time.”
“I should be on stage. Our next set starts in a minute.”
“I’d love to tell him that you wouldn’t come when he ordered. Have it your way.” He turned and she caught his arm.
“I’ll go.”
The back corridor of the jazz club frightened her, claustrophobic and dark. It seemed to stretch forever, until she turned the corner and a sliver of light shone from under a door. She moved towards it, her footsteps in her high heels echoing off the scuffed parquet. Cigarette smoke, and something more rancid, like rotting meat, hung in the air.
She knocked.
“Entrez!”
The wet sound of coughing greeted her as she opened the door. Monsieur Royale, the club’s owner, covered his mouth with a linen handkerchief. When he saw her, he tucked it away in his pocket and gave an imperious wave towards the chair in front of his desk. Sera took a seat, pushing a lock of her dark hair back behind her ear. Her gaze wandered as she tried to look at anything but him. She could pretend he wasn’t undressing her with his eyes, or calculating the money he could make from her.
The office was cramped and untidy, and it reeked of a combination of smoke and body odor. The rancid smell she’d noticed out in the corridor seemed to be from a forgotten plate on a shelf behind him, holding the remains of a meal. Her eyes followed Royale’s hand as he grasped the packet of Gauloises on the desk, bringing one to his fleshy lips. A diamond pinky ring glinted in the light. He dug a gold lighter from the pocket of his expensively tailored jacket and lit the cigarette.
“Mademoiselle Durand,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’ve disappointed me.”
Sera dared a glance at him. He glowered at her from under bushy brows, his eyes dark.
“What have I done?” Her fingers tightened on the folds of her black dress and she made herself relax. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
“When I lent you the money, mademoiselle, I told you quite clearly that it needed to be repaid swiftly. And you’re such a good girl, I thought you’d obey.” He coughed again and reached for a snifter of brandy that sat on a pile of old ledgers. “The €200 payment you left me this week is not what I would consider swift.”
“It was all I could afford,” Sera retorted, though she tried to keep her voice even. Work had been slow.
“That’s not my concern, just yours. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear when you came begging.” He leaned forward, filling her field of vision. “If you default on your loan, you’ll pay up in other ways.”
Sera remembered, her stomach churning. He’d pinned her to the wall and yanked up her shirt. “A bit small,” he’d said as he groped her breast, his rancid breath washing over her. Now, his lewd gaze slid over her cleavage.
“I’ll give you more this week,” she replied, straightening in the chair. His eyes flicked up to her face, weighing her words.
“If I have less than €300 in my hand, I’ll consider you to have defaulted.” He looked at his watch. “And if I’m not mistaken, you have work to be doing, mademoiselle.”
Sera rose, swallowing against the bile that threatened. She smoothed her dress, anything to keep her from showing her fear to Royale. “Good night, monsieur.”
She backed from the room. Turning away from Royale always made her uneasy. Though his bulk meant he didn’t move quickly, she didn’t trust him. She pulled the door closed and hurried down the corridor. She could already hear Benoît warming up on the piano and the low tones of Patrice’s cello. She turned the corner and stepped out into the small club, nearly colliding with the bartender as he shifted a case of liquor.
“Sorry, Edouard!”
He smiled at her, the dimple showing in his olive-skinned cheek. “You’re late.” He scolded her gently. She hurried down the three steps and across to the stage, darting around a table full of carousing men. One tried to pinch her buttocks, but missed. Serge, the drummer, held out a hand as she ascended the stage, helping her up.
“It’s our last set,” he said. “Then we can relax. Are you ready?”
“Of course.”
He gave her a look and she squared her shoulders and looked back. “It’s Piaf first, then the Billie Holiday,” she replied. Any doubt in his eyes faded.
“'Le Vagabond',” he replied in a low tone. “Let’s wow them—make them glad they tore themselves away from M6’s cop dramas.”
Sera laughed. “Yes, let’s.” She stepped up to the microphone and looked out into the club, pretending that its faded crimson walls were instead the bright gloss of a club in Monte Carlo and the tarnished candelabra were glittering chandeliers.
A smattering of applause accompanied the first few bars of the song. She smiled, mostly to herself. One day it might be Monte Carlo. She wanted to leave this all behind.
Her euphoria faded as the set ended; her fantasies overtaken by the club and its worn appearance. The dim lights hid the worst of it: chairs that hadn’t been varnished in years, sags in the floor and the faded burgundy velvet of the banquettes along the wall. The small crowd had already begun to dissipate as she made her way to the bar. Edouard set a bottle of Coca-Cola in front of her as she slid onto a chair. She took a grateful sip.
“You were fantastic,” he said.
“The Piaf was good,” the maître’d added as he set down a pair of dirty glasses on the bar. “But the Dietrich you did earlier needs work.”
Jean hated Dietrich. He’d never be satisfied, and she refused to make the effort for him. “I’ll talk to Benoît about it.”
�
�Do.” The maître’d straightened his tie. “Edouard, I’ll need you to work the closing shift tomorrow, and Saturday.”
Edouard’s smile disappeared. “Jean, Raymond was supposed to take those shifts.”
“And he’s quit. I’ll expect you here at six.”
Edouard glared at Jean before he turned on his heel, pulling a mobile phone from his pocket as he walked away, rapidly dialing a number.
“You couldn’t have gotten anyone else?” Sera asked.
“I had to get those shifts covered. What do you care?” Jean left, and she watched him turn on the charm as he escorted a couple to the door.
“What an asshole.” Edouard returned and began loading glasses into the dishwasher. “I was supposed to go out with Paula tomorrow, but now I can’t. She’s pissed.”
“What happened?” She hated that her matchmaking wasn’t working out.
Edouard grimaced. “She broke things off. Tomorrow was my last chance to try and get her back.”
“Maybe she’s not the one for you.”
“She is the one,” he replied, suddenly earnest. “You know that I’ve never met anyone like her.”
Sera found it hard to argue the point, though she decided to try anyway. “You’ll meet someone better.” Easy for her to say, when she couldn’t give up the man she loved. She searched the bar, but Marc wasn’t there. He hadn’t been by in months and she found she thought of him less and less. But he still lingered in her mind, the flash of his smile, his dark blue eyes, the low chuckle he made when amused.
“I doubt it.” Edouard hung the rest of the wine glasses in the racks over the bar. He turned away to straighten the bottles and grab a rag.
Sera let her gaze wander. A man with short blond hair standing at the rail turned and their gazes met. His intense blue eyes startled her. He smiled at her briefly, lifting a glass of bourbon to his lips. She returned his smile, but was interrupted as a man sidled up next to her.
“You were marvelous, mademoiselle,” he said, leaning against the bar. His dark hair fell over his forehead and he was unshaven. What had been an elegant dark suit looked slightly the worse for wear, and his tie had been loosened. “May I buy you a drink?”
She was about to demur, but stopped. Royale’s admonition rang in her ears. She glanced back at the man at the rail, only to find him gone, his glass empty on the nearby table. She turned back.
“Just a drink?”
The man grinned broadly and slipped an arm over her shoulders. “Darling, I love the way you think.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “Your place or mine?”
Sera forced an amused chuckle, though her stomach churned. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Anton Morel,” the man volunteered instantly.
“Let me get my things, Anton, then we’ll go.” She stood, letting his arm fall from her shoulders. “Meet me at the door.”
Once outside, Anton drew her close, sidestepping into a dim alleyway. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head. Undeterred, he dropped kisses on her cheek and down the side of her neck. She caught his hand as he tried to delve past the neckline of her dress.
“Not here.”
“Why not?” He looked like a child denied his favourite sweet. “I can’t convince you?”
“It’ll take some convincing,” she replied.
“How much? I want you to suck me here, if you won’t fuck me.” He waited, his hot breath brushing her cheek.
“Fifty.”
“That much?” He pinned her against the wall and she shivered at the touch of the cold stone. “Thirty.”
Sera pushed him away. “Good night, monsieur.” She readjusted her shawl, stepping around him. She’d only gone a few paces when she heard him call out.
“Thirty-five?”
She spared him a glance over her shoulder. “Forty or nothing.” He reached for his wallet and she retraced her steps, taking the bills from his hand. She tucked them into her purse before she pushed him against the wall.
She brushed her lips over his before she lowered herself to her knees, dragging her palms down his shirt and over his dark trousers. His cock bulged against the zipper and she caressed it before she undid his belt, feeling him strain against her fingers. She freed him and wrapped her hand around his length. He was of a good size, but not so large that she’d have trouble accommodating him.
Sera ran her tongue along the underside of his cock before taking him in her mouth. He grasped her hair and rocked his hips forward. She let him slide deeper into her mouth, pressing her hands against his hips to keep him from thrusting too far. She listened to his gasping breaths as she sucked him off. Just as he was about to ejaculate, she pulled away, and he spilled onto the pavement. She loosed his fingers from her hair and stood. He sagged back against the wall and looked well satisfied.
“Bonne nuit.” He opened his eyes, but she turned away, walking back the way she had come.
“Tomorrow?” he called after her.
“Perhaps.” She quickened her pace and reached the boulevard, walking towards the empty cab rank.
“Bonsoir,” said a voice from behind her. She started. A man strolled into the light from the street lamp and Sera recognized him from the club. Standing next to her, he was taller than she’d thought, towering over her with ease. “I thought you’d already left with that other man,” he continued, glancing down at her. She caught a whiff of his cologne, a spicy unfamiliar fragrance.
“We decided to part ways.”
“That was fast.” His mouth quirked up at the corner.
Had he seen them?
“He wasn’t the one for me,” she replied, glancing down the empty street.
“How fortunate. May I buy you a drink?”
A cab pulled up to the curb. She moved towards it and he opened the door for her.
“It’s a bit late,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Will you be at Le Chat Rouge? I’ll look for you.”
This man was far better than Anton Morel. His suit looked bespoke, the fabric fine, his tie still neat. His gold watch flashed in the street light. She smiled up at him. “I will. I perform there almost every night. And you are?”
“Jeremy Gordon.” He took her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
The cab driver muttered to himself and she made to get in.
“Until tomorrow then.” The man bent to kiss her cheek, his lips warm on her skin.
“Bonne nuit, Jeremy.”
Chapter 2
That same evening, Marc exited a black cab in London, the collar of his leather jacket drawn up against the rain. As his contact had told him, the antiques shop was across the road from the Boar’s Head pub, an establishment that looked as if it had seen better centuries. He far preferred the environs of London around his regular haunts near Claridge’s and Bond Street. Here he felt out of place, his elegant suit a contrast to the rundown street and its inhabitants.
He ducked out of the rain and into the shop. Its gilt lettering seemed old-fashioned in comparison to the garish colors of its neighbors and it faded into obscurity under the overcast sky. His family’s firm had started out much the same way a century earlier, but they had managed to leverage themselves from shopkeepers to sought-after experts. A bell jangled above his head, announcing his presence. He ran a hand through his dark hair, shaking off the damp.
The shop appeared empty. He checked his watch. In a few minutes, his contact Bates would be late. He wandered through the shop while he waited. The merchandise was of good quality and he mentally revised his initial assessment of the shop. Bates could make a fortune if he moved the business somewhere more conducive to wealthy shoppers. They were the livelihood of a place like this. Marc’s own great-grandfather had done far better when he’d moved the family business to its current location in central Paris. He paused to pick up an urn sitting on the shelf of an old Victorian-era dining room hutch. He rubbed the dust from its surface, revealing the delicately etched design underneath.
>
“Mr. Perron?”
Marc turned. The man stood casually, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. His suit hung on his thin frame, his tie loose at the collar. Under the two-day shadow, his skin had a ruddy flush. He’d probably come from the pub, given the state of his appearance.
“Yes. Mr. Bates?” He extended his hand. Bates’ fingers were cold and clammy.
“I appreciate you taking the time from your busy schedule.” Bates smiled and it made him look rapacious. His demeanor reminded Marc of the slick salesmen he sometimes ran into in the auction halls, shepherding around ignorant fools wanting to invest their wealth in the latest art fad. Already he regretted agreeing to this meeting.
“I don’t have much time before my next appointment,” he told Bates smoothly, though in truth this was his last appointment of the day. Let Bates say his piece, and quickly.
“Of course. Shall we go back to my office?”
Marc followed Bates through the shop and into a back office that smelled faintly of fish and chips. Bates seated himself behind a cluttered desk and gestured for Marc to take a seat. He shed his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. He took a seat, his ankle crossed over his knee.
“Our mutual friend suggested to me that you might be able to assist me with a client,” Bates began, lighting a cigarette. Marc nodded and waited for him to continue. “My client, a lower member of our illustrious aristocracy—” At that, Marc had to keep himself from laughing. If Bates was trying to impress him, he’d have to try harder. “—has been let down in his search for original works by Degas.”
“As he would.” Marc knew that very little by Degas had been auctioned in some time. Most collectors were content to hold onto their acquisitions. “Am I supposed to discover these pieces for him?”
Bates shifted in his chair, giving a sly grin. “For a price, my client wishes to obtain two sketches by Degas that he saw at the d’Orsay on his last trip to Paris.”
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