"You own a vineyard?" I asked, my mouth falling open. "But I thought you said that you lived a restrained lifestyle."
Felix nodded. "We do. The house isn’t very large, and the vineyard doesn't produce much. It barely pays for itself on a yearly basis."
I shook my head in amazement and turned back towards the window. The countryside gave way to the outskirts of Paris and the greens receded into urban settings. Buildings began to whiz by underneath, and then we were in the airport complex, touching down on the runway.
Charles de Gaulle Airport is huge even compared to LAX. It took us nearly fifteen minutes just to taxi from the runway to the gate, and then once inside, I felt lost. The architecture was impressive and artistic, and actually, a little bit intimidating. It had that sense of imposing grandeur that was popular in the nineteen sixties, which if the in-flight magazine I'd read was correct, made sense. I wasn’t prepared for all of it, and would have felt more than a little freaked out if Francois hadn't reached over and taken my hand. "Don’t worry . . . I prefer to fly into Rome myself. De Gaulle is too crazy for my liking."
"Then why fly in here?" I asked, somewhat confused. "Other than convenience?"
"We never fly into the same airport we flew out of," he explained in a low voice. "It was one of the rules our father taught us and one that we still keep. Remember, this is Europe, moving between the different countries is fairly easy. Especially as French citizens, moving through the European Union is easy. And of course, Felix and I have passports from a few different countries."
I relaxed and held Francois's hand while Felix led us through the halls and to baggage check and immigration. I was nervous as I presented my new passport, which stated that I was Jordan Burrows, originally from Winnipeg, Canada. "It’ll help explain why you have a North American accent, as well as the fact your French is still quite atrocious," Felix explained when he had handed me the fake papers. "The French will assume you only got a few lessons in school and that it was from a Quebecois. Just be glad that we won’t be staying in Paris for a long time — they are the most arrogant of all the French when it comes to language."
"Passport please," the customs official said, shaking me from my memories. As French citizens, Felix and Francois were in another line, and I could feel my forehead dot in sweat as he examined my passport. I kept seeing in my mind him hitting a button, and two armed French policemen coming out to escort me away. What a way to begin my new life, being arrested the first time I tried to use my new identity.
Instead, the official nodded as he looked at my documents. "You will be staying a month, Miss Burrows?"
I nodded. "Yes, my boyfriend invited me to stay with him in France."
"He is a French citizen?"
"Yes. He's over there," I said, pointing toward the other line where Felix and Francois were waiting behind an old couple who looked like they'd probably been married somewhere around the time Garbo was lighting up the screen. Thankfully, the official didn't care which of the brothers was my boyfriend, he just glanced over and then back down at my papers.
"I see. Well then, enjoy your stay in France," the official said, stamping my passport. The papers already carried a Mexican stamp as well, an actual one that we'd paid dearly for after the fake passport. He handed it back to me, and I waited a bit for Felix and Francois to exit their line. As usual, they were bickering. It was amusing.
"We could have been through faster," Francois griped. "You were the one who had to get behind the deaf people."
“It was the shortest line," Felix replied patiently. "Besides, it’s not like we’re that inconvenienced. You see, Jordan is just fine, thirty seconds of unprotected exposure to France has not harmed her. Come, let’s go to the house."
Francois grumbled but held his words, seeing the amusement on my face. He hated that I chuckled at the bickering he and Felix had, I think because in his eyes I was laughing at him more than just being amused by the whole situation. “Let’s catch the bus."
"Why not the train?" I asked. "Wouldn't that be faster?"
"Yes, but Felix here doesn't like the cameras and security all over the train platforms," Francois explained in what sounded more than a little like patronizing good humor. "Not after just getting off of a plane."
The bus from the airport into Paris was crowded, but nothing I hadn't expected. Francois sat next to me while Felix sat across the aisle of the bus, which was packed with a lot of Asian tourists. I noticed a few words of Japanese that I'd picked up in the few weeks I'd worked at the JANM, and snickered behind my hand.
"What is it?" Francois asked, leaning over.
"The man up there was saying this wasn't like Disneyland," I whispered. "I guess he thought France would be like It's A Small World or something."
Francois laughed quietly and nodded. "That happens a lot. And what are your expectations?"
"Romance, excitement, lights, and good food," I replied. "Think Paris can provide all of that?"
“That and more," Francois purred in my ear. "In fact, if you aren’t careful, you may end up seduced by it."
The soft whimper in my throat made us both chuckle, mine weaker than his. It was one of the other differences between the brothers. With Felix, the month in Mexico had been filled with intimate, sensual encounters that were as much explorations of each other's souls as they were of our bodies. We'd had sex in bed mostly, where I was left blissfully satisfied every time.
With Francois though, there was a thrill of adventure and naughtiness. With just a single phrase or twinkle in his eye, I was left helplessly aroused, ready to jump his bones in just about any situation. For us, sex was athletic, passionate, and hot. We'd pushed boundaries that I'd never done before, including in the waters of the Gulf of California while Felix rested on the sand only fifty yards away.
"Always talking about seductions, tsk tsk. You are too naughty, Francois. Where does that come from?" I asked, patting his knee. "You know I'm only one woman."
"With a depth of soul more than able to handle two men," he whispered back. "But shhh, we don't want to scare the tourists too much. They might think us Europeans as nothing but a bunch of sex-crazed maniacs."
"You are a sex-crazed maniac," I teased back, causing him to give me another one of his rakish smiles. With his glistening white teeth, slightly dusky skin from his Romani heritage, and rugged good looks from the blend of his backgrounds, my body tingled, most of it focusing between my legs. The fact that I was wearing form-fitting jeans added to the tingles.
The ride into Paris was sweet agony with my body humming and Francois knew it. Every time I started to regain my composure, he'd supposedly innocently brush his forearm against mine, or his knee would rub against my thigh. It was just enough, even through the winter clothes we were wearing, to keep me trembling. "You're being incorrigible," I hissed at one point when his tricep just happened to rub against the side of my breast, my nipple hardening to a pebble inside my bra. "I swear I'm going to spank you for it."
"Oh, you like that too?" he whispered with a grin. "Careful, you just might get the chance."
Felix, on the other hand, just rolled his eyes at our banter. For him, sexual talk was usually confined to more private encounters, and he was never as blatant with his affections in public as Francois.
The bus rumbled to a stop near the Arc D'Triumph, and everyone got off. From there we took a taxi, leaving the tourists to their organized group. Taxis in France are much smaller than the ones I'd gotten used to in Los Angeles, and I felt jammed in, even with just Felix in the back seat.
I was shocked when we stopped on a wide, cobblestone street next to the river. "What are we doing here?" I asked, looking around. There were no apartments or houses nearby. "I thought we'd drop our bags at the house, you said."
"Poor choice of words on our part," Felix said apologetically. "It’s not technically a house," he finished, pointing to a barge on the river. "This is our house within Paris. Francois and I thought that you would enjoy a day or
two here before we go to the Rhone Valley."
"You live in a houseboat?" I asked, and Francois shook his head.
"A barge, technically. While French barges can be powered, this one has no motor, and must be towed if we want it taken in for repairs or maintenance. Speaking of which, Felix, you did call for the annual maintenance, right?”
"Yes, before Charani came up here to visit," Felix said. He shouldered his bag as well as mine and led the way to the barge. "It was done before she arrived I think."
"Who is Charani?" I asked. There was so much I still had to learn about them. It wasn't that they were unwilling to share information, they answered everything I could think of with candor. But, growing up as the children of an international art thief and then going on to their own career, they weren’t the type to volunteer personal information unless I asked them directly.
"My mother," Francois said with a smile. "You’ll have a chance to meet her and Felix's mother soon."
I smiled and shrugged as we crossed the gangplank onto the barge. "Any advice? I'm not sure how to handle that part. I'm still wrapping my head around the fact that I'm with two men who are half brothers, yet were born minutes apart."
"Keep an open mind," Francois advised, keeping me in suspense as to what exactly that meant.
Chapter 16
Felix
Despite Jordan's enthusiasm for seeing Paris and taking a nap on the flight from Mexico, spending nearly sixteen hours in various airports, airplanes, and buses had exhausted her. Seeing that the sun was setting, she decided to go to bed early. I helped her into the main bed, tucking the blankets around her. “You know, I’m falling in love with you," I whispered as her eyes fluttered and she yawned. “And you know what? I don’t think I’ll ever tire of saying it.”
“And I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing it," Jordan said, kissing my fingertips while she wormed her body around under the covers. After nearly a month in Baja California, I had come to enjoy the warm days and relatively pleasant nights. While it wasn’t snowing in Paris when we landed, there was some crusted snow in the lee of the surrounding buildings and streets. The barge as well was not the best-insulated location we had, but it would serve for a few days. “Come to bed with me?” Jordan asked.
"Mmmm, mon ami, if I did that, I wouldn’t want to do much sleeping. And as enjoyable as that sounds, you need to rest,” I replied, kissing her cheek. It was true, and something that had unsettled me at first, but was now something I enjoyed. Being with Jordan, I was able to tap into the depths of my soul that I had never found before, to find a passion that nobody else had ever brought out in me.
Jordan smiled sleepily and nodded, closing her eyes and pulling the blanket up to cover her ear as she rolled to her side. Within less than two minutes, she was asleep, snoring lightly with her beautiful hair streaming out of the blanket. I watched her for another minute and then left, going back to the main living area of the barge.
Finding the living area empty, I stuck my head out of the hatch, looking for my brother. Francois had grabbed a folding chair from inside and set it up on the deck, sitting and watching the Paris skyline. In the lights of the surrounding buildings, his breath rose from his lips in a sparkling white smoke. "You seemed quiet this evening," I said. “You wanting privacy?"
He looked up from his chair, and I noticed he had a glass of wine in his hand. While neither of us were adverse to taking in wine, we almost never did on jobs, and I hadn't had any in at least four months. "Hmm? No, just thinking. It’s been a long time since we were last on the barge."
"Over a year," I said in reminiscence. It’d been winter the year before, as the two of us celebrated the New Year's holidays with our mothers. Paris has the best fireworks display in Europe for the New Year, outside of some parts of Italy that I didn't want to go to. The New Year is supposed to be cold, in my opinion. "I know we told Jordan that we come to Paris often, but not nearly as much as we used to."
"Not since Papa died," Francois replied. "I miss it, honestly. I've had some good times here in Paris. Someday, I'd like to really live here again."
I sighed, knowing what he was saying. "You know that’s difficult for me, Francois. While staying here for a while is nice, I can’t abandon my duties to the rest of the family in the homeland."
"We're Romani, Felix. Why can our people not move on to France? It's not like we're not Gypsies anyway. It's in our blood, remember?"
I sighed again. It was an argument we'd had for a long time, and one that I doubted would be settled anytime soon. "Some of the Romani have given up the old ways. Their connection to Albania, Greece and Macedonia is nearly as strong as that to their Romani heritage. And those that do hold to the old ways, many of them are too fixed to adapt to a country like France.”
“Well, it’s not like they’re living a great life in Ioannina or Vlore. So many of them are barely above being classified as working-poor that one bad economic wind and they're back to running scams on tourists to make ends meet,” Francois returned.
"Better than they had before," I replied. "I want much the same as you. The homeland is beautiful, but there is much to be desired about living here. The Rhone house or even this barge would be much better for a woman like Jordan anyway."
Francois laughed loudly, then looked over. "Do you not think a woman of her talents would enjoy herself in the rock scene of the Balkans?"
I conceded the point. Industrial, grungy metal music had stayed popular in our homeland long after it’d faded from prominence in other areas of the world. Maybe it was the leftovers of the Soviet influence on Eastern Europe. The clunky, imposing architecture and style just called out to metal-heads, especially as they decayed and took on a truly ominous, Gothic aura. "True. I guess I hadn't thought about that. But the scene here in Paris is much larger. Are we really debating the employment possibilities for Jordan right now?"
Francois laughed again. "I think Jordan shouldn't need to work for the rest of her life. But let's stick to the matter at hand, our next living arrangements. This isn’t a situation we've been in since our childhood, Felix."
I nodded. Since our father had died, Francois and I preferred to live in separate houses, usually only coming together to plan and train for heists. We’d meet up for holidays of course, but at least eight months out of the year I would be living in a different area than my brother. "I know. Would you prefer the Winnebago or the house in Durres? Or can we try and cohabitate for a while?"
"Dammit Felix, I'm being serious!" Francois hissed. "Do you really want to have Jordan living like Papa did? Splitting his time between houses?"
"He didn't always do that. Our mothers have been able to live together for years, you know that. But I am serious. If you honestly want to continue for the two of us to live apart, then I would have it be that we are at least within driving distance of each other. The only way I can see that happening is for one of us to live in the Winnebago. This barge is nice, but I can’t imagine us staying here like this forever. The same with the house in Rhone, it’s too small."
"Four bedrooms, and we call it small," Francois laughed in dark humor. "We must be spoiled."
"You know exactly who those other bedrooms are for. I doubt that our mothers would be willing to share a bedroom just because we think we’ve found love."
"It’s strange to hear you speak of love, Felix. You’ve always been the one to restrain himself from expressions of emotion when it came to women,” Francois replied. He sighed and looked out on the city, or at least what we could see from our barge berth. "What about our next job?"
I shook my head. “I’m not interested in anymore jobs, for a while at least. We have enough money, and we don’t need the rush. Besides, now we have Jordan.”
Francois huffed. “Maybe I want more than that, Felix. Papa died a very rich man."
“He died a very lonely, bitter old man," I reminded him. "Unless you count the bastards Papa probably left in quite a few countries. Or did you forget Sergei thre
e years ago in Lithuania?"
"Of course I didn’t forget Sergei," Francois said. It was a sensitive subject for him, which amused me. The logical disconnect for him between our father being a playboy and yet Francois expecting us to be his only children was confusing to me. Our father had never hidden his past from us, and as soon as I figured out how men and women made children, the assumption had been academic to me. "Still, don't you want to be more than what you are?"
"I do," I said quietly. "I want to be a good man. So far, I can’t lay claim to that."
Francois had no answer and only stared out at the river. I watched him for a moment until the winter chill caused me to shiver. "I'm going inside. I’m sure Jordan would like it if you did too."
I went back inside without waiting for him to answer, thinking the whole time. I knew that Francois cared for Jordan as I did. Unfortunately, his personal ambition meant that there was something else he loved as well. He wanted recognition, and, if it could be said for men in our profession, a bit of infamy. It’d worked well for us so far, as I could be entrusted to be the level-headed one, to see the pitfalls in any plan and to secure us against the unseen dangers. Meanwhile, Francois was the one who would push us, trying for challenges that I wouldn’t have initially accepted. I’d found his ambition to often be a good thing, pushing me beyond what I thought my limits were. He had this sort of wild, instinctual genius that allowed him to make connections that I didn't see until after the fact. Still, after meeting Jordan, I was ready to move on. Maybe I was thinking of retiring too early, at the top of my game, so to speak. Jordan was certainly one to retire for.
Shrugging, I made a mental note to think about it more the next day. I went into the bedroom, where the dim light from the living area revealed a pleasing curved lump under the blankets. I quickly stripped to my underwear, a habit I’d gotten into in Mexico first because of the warmth and then for other reasons, relishing the anticipation of feeling Jordan's body pressed against mine, even though she wore pajamas usually.
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