“It’s fun,” Joelle said, dangling the keys in front of her.
“I’ll pass,” Charlotte said, grabbing her bag. “But thank you.”
“Good luck with the ogre,” Joelle said.
“Thanks. See you in a couple hours.”
She stepped stepped onto the cobblestone street and made her way to the metro. She’d been in Paris for two weeks. The first seven days had been occupied with grief and the arrangements for her father’s funeral and burial, both held privately per the will she’d found stored in his old desk. She’d spent the next seven days inventorying the shop, auditing the books, researching recent sales of other businesses in the area. She hadn’t expected the quandary of what to do about the shop to be so difficult. Hadn’t expected to have such an attachment, not only to her father’s business, but to the pieces he’d painstakingly purchased. She would toss and turn in the little bed in the apartment over the store, then go down the narrow staircase to the store and wander among the pieces in the moonlight. There was a nineteenth century painting by Robert Sliwinski, an original Satsuma bowl rendered in ivory and gold, a Regency side table. She ran her hand gently over the old mahogany, stared into the dreamy landscapes, trying to see what her father had seen, trying to see what had spoken to him about each piece. He had taken the business personally that way; his inventory was never simply about profit and loss. He looked for things that moved him, things that needed a new home, a fresh start.
She put her father out of her mind and hurried to the metro, descending under the city via the concrete stairs. The air was hot and dry underground, the midday crowd intent on their destination. She stepped onto the train and pulled her book from her handbag, reading as the train sped through Paris’s underground tunnels.
By the time she emerged onto the pristine streets in Saint Germain she was calm, her attention focused on the desk bound for Christophe Marchand. It was the last remaining piece to deliver. She would get it done. Then she would be able to focus on closing the shop and getting back to LA.
She followed the directions on her phone to a gleaming building in the 6th Arrondissement. It was old, probably built in the early 1800s. The facade was immaculate, the white granite shimmering in the sunlight breaking through the clouds. Stately buildings stood guard on either side, all of them as perfectly restored as the one belonging to Christophe Marchand.
She approached the white moving truck parked near the curb and waved at Abel in the driver’s seat. He opened the door and stepped to the ground while his young companion in the passenger seat studied her with open curiosity.
“I’ll just go to the door, make sure Monsieur Marchand is ready for the delivery,” she said. “I’ll wave you in once it’s confirmed.”
Abel nodded and leaned against the truck.
She headed for the house, walking up a flight of granite stairs and stopping at a giant wood door with a gargoyle knocker cast in bronze. She looked for a doorbell, didn’t find one, and hesitantly reached for the knocker instead. She tried to tamp down her nervousness as the sound reverberated through the house beyond the front door. For all of the stories Joelle had told her about the high-maintenance Monsieur Marchand, he was just another client. Deliveries weren’t usually part of her job during the summers she had worked with her father, but she’d accompanied him enough times to get the job done.
The door opened, and she looked up into the cold eyes of a giant of a man. He wore a well cut suit and gleaming shoes, and when he pulled his arm back, she caught a glimpse of a gun holstered to his side.
“Monsieur Marchand?”
“Who is asking?” the man said in accented English.
“I’m Charlotte Duval, here with a delivery from Galerie Duval. Monsieur Marchand should be expecting me.”
He surveyed her for a long moment before opening the door wider in silent invitation. She hesitated, then stepped into a triple height foyer monopolized by a massive, curving staircase and a chandelier she guessed to be from the 1850s. The walls were a stark white, paneled with elaborate moldings, and the floor was constructed of symmetrical black and white travertine.
But for all its grandeur, the house didn’t hold her command long; it was the two men standing on either side of the staircase, both of them in suits, both in a stance that would have been appropriate for Secret Service agents protecting the President.
She had to resist the urge to let herself out. To run. She was in over her head. She didn’t know how, didn’t yet understand the details, but she knew with bone deep certainty that she was nowhere near prepared for the interaction that was about to take place.
“Wait,” said the man who opened the door.
“Of course.”
He disappeared down a long hall to the left of the stairs. She tried to smile at the stony faced men obviously standing guard, but their expressions didn’t change. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that they were statues, modern day gargoyles positioned at the foot of the stairs, part of the decor.
“Follow me.”
She turned to find that the man had returned. “The desk… I need to let my driver know.”
The man nodded, and she walked to the door, painfully aware of the loud click of her heels on the floor. It seemed to echo through the house, advertising her presence when she wanted to fold in on herself and disappear, do anything to avoid completing the task before her.
She opened the door and waved to Abel, then stepped back into the hall.
“I’ll take you to Monsieur Marchand,” the towering man said. “We’ll see the piece is brought into the study.”
“All right.”
She followed him down the hall, making a point to avoid looking through the open doors she saw along the way. Theirs was a business of discretion. She’d learned long ago that one didn’t pry, one didn’t ask questions of one’s clients. She was an emissary of sorts, one in a long line of people who had shepherded treasures through history.
They came to a set of double doors, each hand-carved out of rich mahogany. The man knocked.
“Come in,” a voice said from inside the room.
The man opened the door but remained in the hall, indicating to Charlotte that she should enter.
“Thank you.” She stepped into a large room filled with treasures. There were floor to ceiling shelves lined with books, many of them antique, their bindings leather or cloth, the print barely visible on some of them. Soft rugs overlapped on the wood floor, all of them with the faded color and worn nub of antique carpets. At the end of the room, near a window that overlooked the storied streets of Saint Germain, a black desk dominated the space, gilt angels standing guard at all four corners of the piece.
She was gathering her thoughts when she saw the man sitting behind the desk. All the air went out of her lungs, and for a moment, it was as if she were standing in the cortex of a wildfire, the air hot and heavy, scorching her lungs.
He sat behind the desk, looking at her with hooded eyes that seemed to see through her professional veneer. She felt naked, her body and soul laid bare for him. He didn’t move, didn’t hurry to stand or acknowledge her presence in any way. He watched her as if he had all the time in the world, as if she were his for the taking, as if he were a spider watching her flail in his web, completely confident he could devour her any moment he chose.
The door closed behind her, and she turned around, tempted to open it. Compelled to run by the same urge she’d had in the foyer. The same feeling she’d had that she was in dangerous territory. That if she stayed, nothing would ever be the same.
Then he spoke. “You must be Charlie.”
6
His English was perfect, his accent almost imperceptible. When she turned to face him, he was standing, and she was surprised to realize he was a big man. Most elegant men weren’t. But he was as tall as the men who had greeted her in the entry. His shoulders were broad, and she had the sense that he was fast and strong under the perfectly tailored suit, an instinct that was v
alidated when he stepped around the desk, his movements as languid as a mountain lion.
“Yes.” She forced the words out of her mouth, forced herself to hold out her hand. “Charlotte Duval.”
He took her hand in his, held it a beat too long. “Charlotte.”
Her name was a caress in his mouth, and she was aware that her breath was coming too fast. Too shallow. He was close now, only two feet away. She could smell him — wool and rain and the faint, bitter tang of coffee. It was a heady mix, and she had to resist the urge to grab a nearby chair to steady herself.
“Joelle calls me Charlie,” she explained. “I apologize for the confusion.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushed his lips across the back of her hand. “No apology necessary.”
She felt his breath on her skin. “I have the…” She sucked in a breath. What was wrong with her? “I have the desk.”
He lowered her hand gently, as if it were made of glass. “Yes, Claude informed me it had arrived.”
She straightened. It was easier to get her bearings now that he wasn’t touching her. She forced her voice steady. “Would you like it in this room?”
“That’s right.” His face was perfectly impassive, not an ounce of emotion in his features, his eyes.
She nodded and was relieved when she heard movement outside the door. It opened a moment later, and Abel stepped through it with his assistant, the two of them moving the blanket-wrapped desk into the room. Charlotte stood to the side, waited as they set it against the wall indicated by Christophe Marchand. They unwrapped it and stood back, waiting for further instruction.
“You may go,” Christophe Marchand said.
The two men headed for the door while Charlotte removed the delivery confirmation from her bag. “I’ll just need you to sign this.”
“I didn't mean you.”
She met his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“I told the men to go. It wasn’t an instruction meant for you,” he said.
She nodded, hating herself for the flush that rose to her cheeks. “Yes, well, I will need you to sign the delivery confirmation.”
She held the piece of paper out to him, but he walked past it to the desk. She turned the ring over in her pocket. Should she give it to him? It had come with the desk. She tried to imagine what her father would have done and decided he would have kept it. She still had questions. She wasn’t ready to relinquish it.
Christophe ran a hand over the top of the writing desk. He lowered its apron to reveal the drawers, then pulled them out, one by one and peered inside. When he was finished, he closed the front of the desk and stood back to admire it from a few feet away.
“Did you restore it yourself?” he asked without looking at her.
“Most of it was done by the time I got to Paris.” She was hyper aware of her voice, the way it had always been an octave too low, slightly hoarse. As an adult she had been told it was sexy, but she’d been teased about it when she was a child and had never quite become comfortable with it.
He turned to meet her eyes, his gaze direct and unflinching. “By your father?”
She nodded.
“I was sorry to hear of his passing,” Marchand said. “He was a good man with a good eye. I trusted him, and I don’t trust many people.” She was still trying to come up with a response when he turned his eyes back to the desk. “You’re from America.”
“Yes.”
“New York City?”
“Los Angeles,” she said.
He looked at her again, this time taking his time, sweeping her body with his eyes. She was suddenly glad she’d chosen the white Chanel shift that had been a splurge the last time she was in Paris. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I went to university in New York City.”
He nodded. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” she asked.
“You don’t look like someone from California,” he said. “You don’t speak like someone from California either.”
She felt a smile spring to her lips. “Shall I take that as a compliment?”
He looked into her eyes and acknowledged her question with a small nod.
She was caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, unable to look away from eyes that she now saw were a deep brown with the faintest hint of moss. It was like staring into a fast moving river, the water clean and cold, rocks shimmering below the surface.
She thrust the delivery manifest toward him. “I will need you to sign for the delivery.” She drew in a breath, silently scolding herself for being so gauche. She worked with fine art nearly every day at the Getty, interfaced regularly with modern artists on their way to becoming the next Picasso or Renoir, discussed the finer points of antique furniture with some of the most discerning collectors in the world. But all of her expertise, all her experience, seemed to disappear under the scrutiny of Christophe Marchand’s gaze, the pull of his body. “Assuming it meets your approval, of course.”
He held her gaze. “It does.”
Had he smiled even a little, she might have thought he was flirting with her. But there was nothing playful about the hunger in his eyes, no message in the still expression that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face. She was simply another beautiful object in a household of beautiful objects.
Something else to admire, to acquire.
She nodded. “Good.”
His fingers grazed hers as he took the paper. She thought she was prepared for it. For the schoolgirl zing of electricity that would validate her obvious attraction to him.
But it was nothing so sweet. Nothing so familiar.
Instead her body registered the warmth of his skin on a visceral level, and she was flooded with a powerful instinct to grasp his hand in hers, to pull it toward her body, lay it against the bare skin showing near the top button of her blouse, close her eyes as he slid it over her breast, lowered his lips to the nape of her neck.
He walked to the desk and bent to sign the manifest. She took advantage of the opportunity to berate herself for being foolish. She was twenty-six, not eighteen. She’d been with her share of men. She might even have loved one or two. But she was emotionally vulnerable. Feeling more lonely than usual — and that was saying something. It was perfectly normal to seek comfort in the face of her loss, perfectly normal for her psyche to turn toward a physical encounter that would distract if not exactly soothe.
He straightened and turned to face her. He held out the folded manifest. “Thank you for seeing to the delivery.”
“Of course,” she said, careful not to let her fingers touch his when she took the piece of paper and slipped it into her bag. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
He regarded her like a curiosity he couldn’t quite define. “Time will tell.”
Three words. Three little words that sent a shiver through her body, that felt like a promise despite the fact that she knew she would never see him again.
She turned away, headed for the door. She had her hand on the knob when he spoke behind her.
“What will you do?”
She faced him. “Excuse me?”
“About your father’s gallery.”
“I don’t know. I… I work in Los Angeles. At the Getty actually.” She looked down, needing space from the intensity of his gaze. “I suppose I’ll go back.”
“That is a shame,” he murmured.
She swallowed around the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. Then she got the hell out of there, still trying to figure out what he meant.
7
Christophe urged the horse forward, leaning over the animal’s sleek neck as it raced across the field leading to the chateau. The air was warm, the slightly medicinal smell of lavender drifting in from the acres of it that grew on the property. He slowed as he came closer to the stables at the back of the house. His head was almost clear of her.
Almost.
It had taken a flight from Paris to Monte Carlo followed by a trip across t
he water in the chopper, a night that would have been rendered sleepless if not for copious amounts of wine from the family cellar, a morning swim in the warm waters of the Mediterranean, and a ride on Beau, his championship stallion. But he’d almost managed to forget Charlotte Duval’s mysterious eyes, the smoky quality of her voice, her glossy auburn hair.
It was a foolish distraction. There was no shortage of beautiful women in Paris. He was simply intrigued by Charlotte Duval’s novelty, the way he would be with any fine thing. It was important to remember that lust was a physical reaction, a normal one for a man his age. It didn’t mean anything, and it certainly wasn’t worth putting his fortune — or anything else he’d built — at risk.
As if in silent answer to his inner thoughts, he caught movement from the terrace of the house and turned to see his father — the cautionary tale himself — raise a hand in greeting. Christophe turned back to face the stable, swinging off the horse in one easy movement.
A boy appeared, and Christophe handed him the reins, then gave Beau a gentle rub on the neck, leaning in to nuzzle his elegant nose.
“Thank you for the ride,” he said.
“Will there be anything else, Monsieur Marchand?” the boy asked in heavily accented English.
The staff on Corsica catered to his desire to speak English in spite of his father’s pronouncement that it was absurd. Christophe appreciated the effort.
“Merci, non,” he said.
The boy nodded and led the horse into the stable. Christophe watched them go, then turned toward the house with a sigh. The fact that the house on Corsica was a package deal that involved his father — and often his father’s most recent gold digger — was a continual source of frustration. He’d grown up at the chateau until he’d been sent to boarding school after his mother’s death when he was fourteen. Paris was his home, but Corsica had a more elemental hold on his heart. He could still see his mother here. Sometimes he had to blink when staring across the fields, almost certain he’d caught her walking among the lavender, her laughter carrying across the fields.
Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) Page 3