“Then he should deal with the museum.” His uncle’s corrupt legacy had a long reach, and now he knew why his firm had come recommended.
“You’ll appreciate that my client realizes such inquiries would be useless,” Bates replied. “He’s willing to offer a substantial payment to someone who could arrange their liberation from the museum.”
“How much is he offering?” Enough circling. If the offer wasn’t sufficient, he wasn’t going to waste his time.
“Twenty thousand pounds.” Bates looked smug. Marc rose to his feet, slipping on his jacket.
“Good night, Bates.”
“But—” Bates rose, stretching out a hand to forestall Marc’s leaving. “That’s double what they’re worth!”
Marc shrugged. “That may be, but it’s not worth the risk. And the thieves would have to be well paid. You’ll have to find someone else.” He walked to the door, Bates trailing him.
“How much would you want?”
“If your client can come up with a better offer, I may consider it. Otherwise, you’ll have to look elsewhere.” Marc looked coolly at Bates. “So far you’ve just been wasting my time. Call me if you can make it worth my while.”
He stepped out onto the street and flagged down a black cab. The sun was setting and he had the entire evening free. It would be a waste to not make the fullest use of his suite at Claridge’s. He leaned forward.
“Charing Cross Road at Manette Street,” he told the driver. He knew exactly how he was going to enjoy his evening.
“We’ll be closing in half an hour,” the clerk told him. Marc nodded and continued into the bookshop. He had Madelaine’s number from several weeks prior, but he far preferred to surprise her at work. If she wasn’t available, there’d always be someone else. He turned a corner and made his way towards the back of the shop, passing military history and philosophy before he found her. She stood on a small stepladder, methodically dusting the upper shelves.
“I’m glad to see they’ve replaced the old stepladder,” he remarked as he came up beside her. She gave him a brilliant smile, and if they hadn’t been in the middle of the shop, he knew she would have kissed him. Still, he helped her from the ladder and bent to kiss her cheek, pulling her into a close embrace. His hand slid down her back and over the snug fabric of her dark skirt.
“Marc!” she scolded him. “You didn’t tell me you were in town.” She leaned into his embrace, her red hair brushing his chin. Small and delicate, Madelaine was a beautiful Irish girl he’d met during a quick stop to find a book he’d needed for a deal he’d been working on. She had found him the book and hand-delivered it to his room. There had been chemistry between them in the book shop, but when she had showed up at his door, she confirmed his hopes. She’d stayed for a drink, which had lengthened into two, and then the rest of the night.
“Are you free this evening, ma petite amie?” he asked, pushing aside her hair to taste the skin beneath her ear. He felt her shiver.
“Of course.” She drew back. “I just have to finish this and then I’m all yours.”
He chuckled. “Should I wait for you?”
“There’s a bar down the road—the Birchfield. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.” Madelaine stood on her tiptoes and he took the opportunity to kiss her. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said against his lips. He kissed her again, delving into her mouth. She gave a little moan that made him wish they had more privacy.
He pulled away, caressing her cheek. “I’ll be waiting.”
Marc found the bar easily enough—a tiny hole-in-the-wall that reminded him of Paris and some of the places he used to frequent. The interior held a dozen tables and a few booths, barely busy at this hour. He found a table for two and gave his order to the single waiter on duty. While he waited, he checked his messages. Bates hadn’t called and he doubted he’d hear from the man again. The receptionist at the firm had called to remind him of two late afternoon appointments upon his return to Paris tomorrow. He sighed. He’d have to send her an email later and see if she could reschedule or give them to Fournier, his associate. After two weeks of straight travel and auctions, he wanted to spend his Friday doing something more pleasant.
He slid his phone back into his pocket and took a long drink of his wine. A small feminine figure at the bar caught his eye and for a moment he thought she looked familiar. Her dark hair fell down her back in waves and she moved as gracefully as a dancer. However, when she turned, he didn’t know her. He felt a pang of disappointment. Seraphina was back in Paris, beguiling the crowds as she sang at Le Chat Rouge, not here.
The door opened and Madelaine walked in. She slid into the chair next to him and kissed him soundly.
“That didn’t take long,” he commented when they broke apart.
“I rushed the last bit,” she admitted. Her hand settled possessively on his thigh. “You know, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”
He poured her a glass of wine from the carafe before replying. “Why is that?”
“I know you said you’d come back, but I didn’t think you were telling the truth,” she replied. She flushed. “That sounded awful.”
Marc chuckled. He rarely bothered to see a woman twice; she’d read him right enough. But she’d been delectable and he wanted more.
“It’s true enough, but you’re more than just a one-night-stand.”
“Good.” Her hand slid farther up his thigh and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement.
“Hungry?”
“Very.”
“Then what are we doing here?” He rose, tossing a bill onto the table. They left the bar and hailed a taxi.
“Where are we going?” she asked as the black cab sped along Charing Cross Road.
“My hotel.”
“Claridge’s?”
“Always.” He would call room service, but first he wanted to see Madelaine sprawled on the gorgeous Art Deco desk in his suite, her arousal glistening between her parted thighs. He didn’t think she’d object to a bit of a wait for her supper.
The taxi ride was short and they hurried through the lobby, not pausing until they reached the door of Marc’s suite. Once inside, Madelaine’s giggles turned to a gasp as he pressed her into the closed door, his hands hiking her skirt around her waist. She squirmed in his embrace and he paused.
“What is it?”
“I’m wearing the most awful knickers,” she said in a low voice, her cheeks flushing.
He shrugged. “It’s not your knickers I’m interested in.” He tugged down her pantyhose and her underwear, going down on one knee to unhook the fabric from around her feet. He tossed the garments aside and stood, sliding his arm under her buttocks. She clasped his shoulders in surprise as he lifted her.
“Where are we going?”
“I had this vision,” he said, taking her through into the sitting room. His free hand swept the papers from the desk and he set her down. He pulled up a chair as she watched and when he’d settled, she had shifted to the edge of the desk, letting her knees fall open.
“Parfait.” His tongue penetrated her folds and he felt her fingers in his hair. Her legs quivered and he held them apart, his thumbs resting in the soft hollows of her inner thighs. He teased her clit and listened as her breathing turned to short gasps. Her hands left him and she slumped back on her elbows. He glanced up from between her legs and met her gaze. She licked her lips.
“Don’t stop,” she murmured. He didn’t plan to. He wanted to hear her cry his name, to have her orgasm on his tongue. He let his teeth scrape over her clit, provoking her into a guttural groan. It wouldn’t be long now.
He sated her twice on the desk, curling his fingers inside her until she begged him for release. Now she lay prone, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and he gave her a caress as he stepped away.
“Give me a moment.”
She nodded, turning her head to watch him walk into the bedroom.
&nb
sp; “Yes?”
“Mr. Perron?” It was Bates.
“You’d better have another offer or you’re wasting my time,” Marc warned him.
“Of course.” His voice sounded hurt and a bit resentful. “My client has authorized me to offer you forty thousand pounds for what we discussed.”
“Much better than your first offer.”
“You’ll receive payment on delivery,” Bates continued. Marc laughed.
“Who do you think you’re trying to scam?” Marc asked. “Half up front or no deal.”
He heard Bates mutter to himself. “All right.”
“I’ll be in touch regarding my account,” Marc told him. “Until I have the money, I won’t lift a finger.”
Bates agreed and Marc hung up. He dialed another number, one he hadn’t used in quite some time.
“Girard, I have a job for you.” He filled the man in on the details. “Soon would be best, even this weekend. It’ll be busy.”
He returned to the sitting room and found Madelaine relaxing on the sofa.
“Are you going to call room service?” she asked. “I’m starving.”
“Soon, ma petite. There’s something I need to do first.” He drew her onto his lap and her hands reached for his belt, undoing his trousers so she could slip a hand into his briefs, around his cock. She leaned over to the side table and pulled out a condom from the drawer before she brought him out, stroking her hand over his length, then rolled the condom over his erection. She settled onto his lap with a delighted shiver. His hands grasped her hips and he thrust up into her tight heat. Her gasps in his ear made him tighten his grip and she whimpered.
“Harder,” she pleaded. His fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her head back so he could taste the hollow between her clavicles. She arched against him and took him deep. He held her immobile as he fucked her roughly, dragging hoarse cries from her as she came. She clenched around him and he spilled into her, a shudder racking his body. She slumped in his embrace and he rested his forehead on her shoulder, catching his breath.
“Now we can call room service,” he told her with a chuckle.
Chapter 3
Sera left her tiny garret apartment in Montmartre when the sun was high overhead, illuminating even her small winding street. A malnourished ginger tabby cat stared at her from atop a battered cardboard box as she walked by on her way to the metro station at Abbesses. She emerged into the bustle of the boulevard St. Germain, crossing the street to her final destination. The cathedral of St. Germain-des-près had been her sanctuary since she’d first come to Paris. All the noise from outside fell away as the door closed behind her.
She made her way to the chapel of the Virgin, the walk to the furthest point of the church calming her. She took a couple of euros from her trouser pocket and deposited them in the donation box before she lit a taper.
Please let me find enough money to pay Royale, she thought, watching the tiny flame flicker into existence. She found herself a spot and knelt at the prie-dieu, taking her rosary from her bag. The jet beads glinted in the low light. She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross, whispering the Apostles Creed and the Our Father before reciting the first Hail Mary, her fingers marking the spot on the bead. Her grandmother had tried to teach her the prayers in Latin, but she still preferred them in French. They felt more substantial in her mind, more powerful. Not that her grandmother would approve of her praying to the Virgin after what she’d done, and would have to do again. She repeated her wish between each of the rote prayers, slowly counting through the five decades. She let the beads hang from her fingers for a few moments as she looked up at the statue in the chapel. Mary’s serene face looked down on her, luminous in the sun shining through the stained glass windows.
Sera rose to her feet and tucked her rosary back into her bag, feeling rested and ready to face the rest of her day. She still had several hours before she had to be at work, and her time was her own. She squinted into the sunlight as she emerged from the church and nearly stumbled over a young woman with a sketchbook across her knees. She laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
The young woman glanced up, brushing her auburn hair away from her face. Her movement left a smudge of charcoal on her lightly tanned cheek.
“It’s no problem.” She gave Sera a shy smile. Her French was hesitant and accented. She hadn’t been in Paris long.
Sera caught a glimpse of her sketchbook and couldn’t help gawking. The girl had nearly finished a drawing of the Deux Magots café in careful detail. She bent to look closer.
“You’re very talented,” she remarked. The young woman smiled again, seeming less shy.
“Thank you, Madame. I really should be working on my thesis, but the day was too nice to stay inside.”
Sera perched on the step next to her. The girl’s looks reminded her of Edouard’s Paula, slim and delicate, but she had a calmer mien. What would Edouard think of her? She couldn’t help being a matchmaker, especially with Edouard. If she’d had a brother, she’d have done the same.
“Are you studying art?”
“Art history,” the girl replied. “I chose my thesis especially so I could come to Paris.” She held out a hand. “I’m Sophie, by the way.”
Sera clasped her hand. “Sera.”
“Are you from Paris?” Sophie asked.
“Not originally. What about you?”
“Ottawa, though I wish I could have been born here. There’s just so much to see.”
“It’s a lovely city. Have you toured around a bit?”
“Not nearly enough. I’ve been here less than a week,” Sophie confided. “And most of that week has been work.”
“You should come to the club tonight, take in some music,” Sera suggested. Edouard would be working and it would be the perfect opportunity. Already she knew Edouard would like her; Paula had no interest in art and he’d complained regularly about missing exhibitions to make her happy.
“What sort of club is it?” Sophie looked down at her sketchbook, tapping her pencil against the edge.
“It’s a jazz club called Le Chat Rouge,” Sera replied. “Say you’ll come, Sophie. I’d love to have a new ear for my performance.”
Sophie looked at her with a kind of awe, her eyes wide. “You’re a singer?”
“I am. Will you come?”
“I could.” Sophie’s enthusiasm faltered. “Where is it? I don’t want to get lost.”
Sera dug in her bag for a pen and a scrap of paper. She jotted down the address. “It’s not too far from here, actually.” She wrote out directions from the metro stop. Sophie looked over the slip of paper.
“I think I can find it,” she said. “Should I wear something nice?”
“You could wear jeans, but there’s nothing wrong with something fancier,” Sera replied. Edouard would love her, even in jeans. He just had to.
“I’ll come up with something.”
Sera rose. “I’ll look for you tonight. The band starts around nine. À bientôt, Sophie.”
Sera could hear the murmur of the growing crowd. Friday nights were her favourite; she loved singing for a full house. It made her fantasies of success seem real, and her cut of the cover charge would give her enough to pay Royale for another week. €300. She’d just make it without leaving herself destitute.
A brisk knock at the door announced Benoît’s presence.
“Are you ready?”
“Just about.” Sera leaned forward, picking up her face powder. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Benoît’s reflection grinned. “Two minutes,” he told her. The door shut behind him.
Sera applied her powder and made the final touches to her makeup. She rose and smoothed down her dress. It clung to her curves and dipped to give her more than a hint of cleavage in front, and left bare an expanse of her pale back. Perfect to impress the crowd, and Jeremy Gordon, if he decided to return. She’d spend the evening
with him if she could. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror and put a sultry smile on her face before she opened the door.
She strode out into the club, scanning the crowd for familiar faces as she approached the stage. Benoît held out a hand and helped her up the short stair. Serge and Patrice were already there, talking in low tones. Patrice cradled his cello as he talked, gesturing with the bow as he made some point to Serge. Edouard came to the edge of the stage, holding a glass of water. She bent to take it from him.
“Look for a slim girl with dark auburn hair,” she told him.
“Why?”
“Just trust me. You’ll like her, I’m sure of it.” His aggrieved expression amused her. “You won’t regret it, Edouard.”
“I’ll watch for her,” he conceded. “What’s her name?”
“Sophie. She’s Canadian. And she’s an artist—just like you.” His expression softened and she thought she saw a hint of a smile. He nodded and headed back to the bar.
She set the water at the side of the stage, tucked behind one of the small speakers. As she stepped up to the microphone, she glanced at the band. Benoît gave her a nod and she heard the opening bars of 'Le Vagabond'.
The first lines came easily and she saw the club’s patrons turn their heads to listen. Even Jean paused in his work, holding a snifter of cognac. Her confidence swelled and she allowed a small smile to hover on her lips between verses, widening as she saw Jeremy Gordon moving from the bar to a better vantage point. Perfect. Near him, Sophie waited her turn for a drink. Sera met Edouard’s gaze across the bar and knew he’d spotted her as well. She watched them until the song finished and she had to turn her attention back to the band.
Benoît had chosen a song by Dietrich for their next piece, one of her favourites. It seemed appropriate to sing about falling in love again as she watched Sophie hover by the bar with her drink, Edouard speaking to her every time he had a lull in his work. Satisfied, she let her gaze wander.
The flicker of a cigarette lighter in the gloom caught her eye. It flickered again and held, illuminating the face of a man she hadn’t seen in weeks. Marc Perron lit his cigarette and his features faded back into the shadows. Not that she needed bright sunlight.
The Paris Game Page 2