They pulled out of the parking spot, then began the descent to the ground floor. They’d rounded the first corner when she heard the screech of tires behind them. She glanced in the side mirror and caught sight of a blue sports car rounding one of the concrete pillars.
Christophe accelerated, hands firmly on the wheel. She kept her eyes on the car in the mirror, watching as it came around each corner behind them, picking up a little more speed, moving a little bit closer. Their pursuers weren’t being subtle. By the time they reached the second floor of the garage, the car was only two lengths behind them.
Christophe glanced at her. “Is your seat belt secure?”
She checked it, just to be safe, then nodded.
He turned his eyes forward. “Hold on.”
They rounded the last corner, the ticket window in sight. But instead of slowing down as he approached, Christophe accelerated. Charlotte placed a hand on the door to stabilize her body as the car sped forward toward the wood arm closed over the exit.
She didn’t have to ask what he was going to do.
She looked in the mirror and saw the car behind them accelerate to match their speed. When she turned her eyes back to the windshield, they were only feet away from the exit. Christophe punched the gas, the car quickly accelerated.
The distance between the ticket booth and car rapidly closed. Charlotte braced herself for the crash of the wooden ticket arm as they flew threw it and was surprised to find that it was quieter than she’d expected, its destruction muffled by the sealed interior of the Jag.
They bounced into the street, and Christophe made a hard right. The car responded smoothly, with only a slight squeal. They straightened out, and the car in pursuit appeared in the mirror, the back end of it fishtailing as it fell into line behind them.
Christophe increased his speed, the car jumping quickly from 48 KPH to 100 KPH as he weaved in and out of the late day traffic. Other than his eyes, moving between the road in front of them and the rearview mirror, he looked completely relaxed, and she realized that other than asking about her seat belt, he hadn’t spoken at all since he’d started the car.
The car behind them picked up speed, narrowing the distance between them. Christophe accelerated in response, narrowly missing another car as he weaved in and out of the increasingly tight traffic.
“We have to get off this street,” he said. “There’s too much traffic to lose them.”
He pulled a hard left onto a slightly smaller street. The other car bounced into the road behind them with a screech of tires, and Christophe made a last minute right into an alley flanked by old buildings. The road through it was narrow, cluttered with dumpsters and pallets loaded with boxes.
“Fuck,” Christophe said.
Charlotte followed his gaze and saw the trash truck at the end of the alley, its blinker on, obviously waiting for the chance to pull into traffic on the busier street at the other end of the alley.
Charlotte reached out, her arm reflexively bracing her body against the dash as the trash truck loomed in front of them, approaching with startling speed as Christophe sped through the alley toward it.
But there was no going back. The other car was still in pursuit behind them.
The trash truck inched forward in front of them amid a cloud of black smoke, lumbering slowly into the street. Charlotte watched as a tiny space, not nearly big enough for them to make it through, opened up behind the truck.
They were moving too fast, getting too close, the truck moving too slowly. They weren’t going to make it, and Christophe showed no signs of slowing down. She gripped the dash tighter as the truck inched forward, and they glided through the minuscule opening as shots rang out behind them.
She ducked instinctively, then turned around in her seat, wanting to see for herself if the other car made it through. Frustration surged through her body as the car emerged onto the street behind them. She turned back around.
“They shot at us,” she said.
Christophe reached for the gun on the console. “We have to lose them. Put your hand on the wheel, Charlotte.”
29
She looked at him like he was mad.
“What are you talking about?”
“I need you to drive while I get rid of them.” He tried to speak calmly. He had put her at risk by coming to Vienna, by allowing her to pursue the lead given to them by Stefan Baeder. He’d gotten her into this. It was his job to get her out alive.
Then he would make the bastards behind them, whoever they were, pay for targeting her, not once, but twice. Because there was little doubt in his mind that they were the same people who had threatened her in Paris.
“No. I… I can’t do that.” She glanced at the street in front of them, loaded with commuters heading home after work. “There’s too much traffic. We’ll crash.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Christophe said. “We aren’t going to lose them in this kind of traffic.”
“There are too many people,” she said. “Someone will get hurt.”
He felt his heart soften in spite of the circumstances. They were being pursued through Vienna by someone who obviously meant them harm, and she was worried about the people in other cars, the ones walking on the street.
“No one will get hurt.” It sounded like a promise, and he quickly amended the statement, because even now he knew he wouldn’t lie to her. “No one who doesn’t deserve it anyway.”
She hesitated, looking from the traffic in front of them to the car behind them.
“You can do this, Charlotte,” he said. “I know you can.”
He believed it. She was stronger than he knew. He’d seen it in the resolute way she'd talked about her past, the way she'd insisted on coming with him to the Belvedere, not knowing what might await them.
She looked into his eyes for a split second before slipping her leg over the console and reaching for the wheel. He waited for her to slip into his lap to inch out from under her, and the car slowed a little as he maneuvered into the passenger seat. The blue car gained on them, and Christophe rolled down the window.
“Are you all right?” he asked Charlotte.
“I think so,” she said. She accelerated a little, as if to prove the point.
“Good. Keep moving. Change lanes as often as you can to keep some distance between us.”
“Which way do I go?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter. We just need to get to a quiet street so I can get a clear shot.”
He hadn’t driven this part of Vienna often, but he trusted her. She was one of the most intelligent women he knew, and far more capable than she realized. She would read the signals, keep her eyes open, get them where they needed to be.
He turned in the seat, keeping his eyes on the blue car, trying to get a glimpse of who was behind the driver’s seat while he waited for an opportunity to stop them. But he couldn’t make out the features of the person behind the wheel. There was only the impression of bulk and dark hair, a white face intent on their pursuit. Somewhere in the distance, police sirens had begun to wail.
Charlotte made a hard left, then another right. “How is this?”
He glanced through the windshield and saw they were on a straightaway just outside the city center. There were still a few cars, but they were sparser and more spread out here.
“This will do,” he said. “We’ll need to let them get close.”
He positioned himself at the window as she slowed down a little. The blue car pulled closer, and he leaned out the window, breathing, taking his time as he zeroed in on the tires of the car behind them. The sounds of the city faded into the background. There was no traffic, no distant police sirens. Just the smooth metal in his hands, the car behind them gaining ground.
Closer… closer…
He fired and hit the bumper of the car, then took another breath, retrained his eyes and fired again.
This time he heard the pop hit something soft, and the car behind him pulled to the left, ca
reening into a delivery truck parked at the curb.
“Did you get it?” Charlotte asked.
“I got it. Keep moving. And get us off this street.”
The police sirens were louder now, and she accelerated, maneuvering around the other cars at a pace that wouldn’t draw attention to them but would get them out of the area quickly.
His mind was reeling, trying to put together the pieces as she navigated out of the city. He was still brooding when she pulled into the parking lot of a grocery and cut the engine to the car.
The sudden silence was deafening, and Christophe noticed distantly that the sky had darkened, the sun casting orange and gold light over the landscape as it began its descent.
“What now?” Charlotte asked.
Christophe thought about it. First and foremost, he wanted to keep Charlotte safe. That meant getting her back to the States. But he had a feeling she wouldn’t go quietly — not after all that had happened. Which meant he would have to maneuver gently.
He looked at her. "How do you feel about Boston?”
She smiled. “I love Boston.”
He nodded, his mind working the problems. Because now there was more than one, something he’d realized when he caught a glimpse of the driver’s face in the blue car as they’d pulled away; it was Felix, Bruno’s right hand man.
Which meant that somehow, his brother was involved in the killing of Stefan Baeder.
And the threat against Charlotte Duval.
And the last was something he could not let stand.
30
She didn't start shaking until the plane was in the air. After deciding to go to Boston, they'd made their way out of the city center in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Julien had been waiting at the airport with their bags and passports, all of which he’d retrieved from the hotel after a call from Christophe. All the while she’d been perfectly calm. Or she thought she’d been perfectly calm. Now that they were airborne, she was beginning to wonder if it had been numbness, her body’s response to the shock of being chased through the city by someone who clearly meant them harm.
She turned her eyes to the window, watching Vienna disappear beneath them, trying to focus on her breathing, to ignore the prickle of ice that seemed to be spreading along the surface of her skin. The air in lungs felt heavy and wet. It took effort to drag it in and out of her body.
“Come.” She looked up to find Christophe leaning over her, concern written on his face. He reached down, unbuckled her seatbelt, held out a hand.
She took it, and he led her through the plane. They passed the galley and a restroom before coming to a bedroom at the back of the aircraft. The room was small, a bed occupying almost every inch of it, although there was also a diminutive cabinet and drawers built into the walls next to the bed.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, overcome with the desire to lay down, let her head sink into one of the soft pillows, close her eyes and shut off her mind from everything that had happened.
Christophe opened a door built into the wall of the plane and removed a blanket. He set it across her shoulders, and she wrapped it tightly around her body, a buffer against everything harsh and dangerous that had somehow come to occupy her world.
He turned away and opened the cabinet, poured a healthy dose of bourbon into each of two glasses, handed her one of them.
“Drink.”
She did, and for a moment her body was occupied with the smoky taste of it in her mouth, the burn of it in her throat. The warmth spread slowly into her limbs, and she felt the frost on her skin begin to recede.
“You're in shock,” he said, sitting next to her. “It's understandable.”
“They were shooting at us,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Do you think they were the same men who threatened me in Paris?” she asked.
“I suppose that's a fair assumption.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then seemed to decide against it. She wanted to ask him about it. What had he been about to say? Did he know something about the men who had chased them? About what they wanted?
But her body was weighted down with shock and bourbon, her mind growing increasingly fuzzy as her eyes fought to stay open.
He took the glass from her hand, set it on the cabinet, pulled her back onto the bed so that she was nestled in the crook of his arm. She sighed, sinking into him, breathing in his scent, a scent that she’d somehow come to associate with safety and solidity in spite of the danger that had surrounded her the past few days. The hum of the plane was a faint backdrop to the sound of his heart beating against her ear, the soft inhale and exhale of his breath.
He stroked her hair, his hands gentle but sure. “I’m right here. Sleep, darling.”
She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his voice settle over her nerves like a lullaby. She was falling into the abyss of sleep when a last thought drifted across her mind.
He called me darling.
31
She woke with a start, sitting up all at once, pulled from some kind of nightmare.
“It’s all right,” Christophe said, stroking her back. “I’m here. You were dreaming.”
She lay back against him, trying to calm her racing pulse as the last remnant of the dream — shadows and fear and footsteps closing in behind her — faded like smoke.
The cabin of the plane was dark, the hum of its engine a soothing vibration. The moon was full, shining in through one of the windows. She could make out the shape of the cabinet, the rumpled bedding, Christophe’s legs stretched out in front of him next to her own, bare under her skirt.
“How long have I been asleep?” she asked.
He checked his watch. “About three hours.”
She lifted a hand to his chest, reassured by the solidness of his body under her fingers. But of course, it wasn’t just that. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever touch him and have it only be that. Because now she felt the current of her desire for him spark between his skin and her fingertips. Felt the low and persistent beat of need at the center of her body.
She should have been embarrassed. After all that had happened, wanting him shouldn’t have been at the forefront of her mind. Needing him inside her shouldn’t have been the one thing she desired most of all.
But there was no help for it. Her body’s call to him was as undeniable as the breath moving in and out of her lungs. As the feel of his body under hers.
She ran her fingers lightly over the crisp shirt, touched her fingers to the bare skin near his neck. Already something was coming alive in her, the nerve endings that had been cold only a couple of hours before now glowing like embers at the heart of a fire.
He captured her hand in his, kissed it. “You should rest.”
She propped herself onto her side, lowered her mouth to his. “I don’t want to rest,” she said against his lips.
And it was true. She’d been in shock earlier, her body shutting down as it attempted to process the near-death experience of being chased by the men in Vienna. Men who had probably killed Stefan Baeder.
Men who probably wanted to kill her, too.
But she was alive, and now her body was crackling with the truth of it. She was nearly crawling out of her skin with need for him. With the need to touch him. To feel his hands on her. To kiss him. To feel his lips on her skin. To open herself to him until he filled her completely.
She kissed him again, slipping her tongue between his lips as she slid on top of him, straddling his cock, already bulging and rock-hard in his trousers.
He groaned, reached up to cradle her head in his big hands as he pulled her closer, taking possession of her mouth with his tongue. A bolt of heat pierced her center, and she positioned herself over his erection, her skirt riding up to her hips as she ground against him through his pants while she returned every parry of his tongue with one of her own.
He kissed his way to her ear and she reached down, unzipping his pants, reaching in to free his massive
cock. She closed her hand around it, and the feel of it — skin on skin, heat on heat — sent a pulse of fire to her pussy.
He groaned as she stroked him, his lips traveling down her neck as he unfastened the buttons on her blouse one at a time, kissing each newly revealed patch of skin. There was something tender about the motion, about the stroke of his tongue on her stomach when he reached the last button, the gentle sweep of his hands across her shoulders as he dispensed with the shirt. It was something that hadn’t been present the night before when his possession had been a force of nature.
This was different, and he moved his hands over her breasts, down to her hips. His eyes glittered in the half-darkness, and she thought she saw something conflicted there, something more complex than the fire igniting between their bodies.
She leaned down, kissed him slow and deep, and felt his cock pulse through the thin fabric of her panties. She unbuttoned his shirt slowly, sinking into the languid feel of their lovemaking. They were underwater. Already in the lagoon that had closed over them when they’d come together the night before.
When she was done with the buttons, she spread open the shirt, revealing his muscled chest, perfectly formed and defined. Moonlight streamed in through the window, painting his skin alabaster. She’d never been an artist, had always been satisfied with her study of the art of others. But now she wished she could draw or paint, that she could somehow commit the beauty of his body to paper or canvas.
His eyes were locked with hers through the darkness, and she felt something pass between them. Some kind of communication that transcended language. He moved his hands carefully down her body, tracing her curves, as he held her gaze. When he reached her hips, he slipped a hand between their bodies, pulled her panties aside. Then he was bare against her folds, the taut, smooth skin of his cock nestled within the petals.
She moved against him, let him slide back and forth, his thick head hitting her clit until it throbbed like a sensual beat.
Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) Page 12