38
Christophe steered the car up the winding hill, the Pacific stretched below them like a jewel. He was following the directions on the car’s GPS, wondering which was more compelling, the sea or the woman in the passenger seat next to him.
It didn’t take him long to decide it was no contest.
He glanced over at her, hair blowing around her face, the setting sun casting her delicate features in golden light. He hadn’t been lying; he was happy to be in Charlotte’s hometown. He had never been fond of L.A., but now he wondered if it held a clue about the woman who had captured his heart.
And he was no longer in denial about that fact.
He’d known it the moment he’d returned to bed after meeting with Julien in the hotel bar. She’d been sleeping soundly, hair tousled, her breath escaping like a sigh into the room. He’d stripped down quickly, sliding into bed next to her, pulling her into his arms and kissing the top of her head.
It had been like coming home.
Like returning to a home he hadn’t known he’d been missing.
“Where have you been?” she’d murmured softly.
“Shhhh,” he’d said against her hair. “Go back to sleep, darling.”
He’d lain awake until the darkness began to fade, the early morning sun painting the room blue. He’d run circles around the dilemma of the woman in his arms. Around the undeniable truth of his feelings for her.
Had it been less than two weeks since she’d appeared in his Paris study, beautiful and composed? He knew that it had, and yet it seemed impossible. His soul had connected to hers like the piece of a puzzle he’d believed to be complete. He’d occupied every inch of her body, had touched his lip to every curve and crease. He’d slept with her in his arms, had kissed her upon waking in the morning. They’d had countless meals and even more discussions, long walks and hot showers where he’d soaped her body, allowing his hands to travel over her smooth, slippery skin until he'd had no choice but to drive into her, desperate to mark her as his even as he tried to deny that it was what he wanted.
It had been a lifetime.
And not nearly long enough.
He wanted more. He simply wasn’t sure if it was possible. Wasn’t sure he was capable of loving her the way she deserved. Of opening up to her, sharing his feelings as seemed to be required of the men of his generation.
But even with all those questions, he wanted to know every part of her. They shared comfortable silences and just as many passionate conversations, but in many ways, she remained a mystery to him, her innermost thoughts and her life without him locked away behind the calm facade like the secrets of Mona Lisa.
“Right here,” she said, pointing to a small driveway halfway up a hill overlooking the ocean.
He turned, winding around the narrow drive until he came to a cottage set in a clearing. He pulled next to an older white Miata parked outside, then cut the engine.
She smiled at him. “This is it.”
He scanned the place through the windshield: the small white house surrounded by jasmine and brush, the porch trellis climbing with red bougainvillea, the relative isolation of it all. It was hidden and wild. Like her.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
They exited the car, and he removed their bags from the trunk. He’d sent Julien back to Paris on the plane with a long list of tasks. Christophe was still clarifying the threat against his organization, but if he was right, there was no time to waste. Julien would compile the information Christophe had requested, and they would compare it to data pulled from Farrell’s operation in London. His gut told him they were both under attack — and maybe other territories, too, although he had no idea who might be powerful and ballsy enough to stage a takeover of the organizations formerly run by the Syndicate.
He wasn’t looking forward to whatever would come next. He would have to make the most of his interlude with Charlotte, of this last leg of their mission to finish the work Stefan Baeder had begun.
He followed her up a set of wooden stairs, worn and bleached from wind and salt. The air was soft, fragrant with jasmine and the sea. He breathed it in and had a flash of Corsica. Of the secluded, pristine beaches and the cliffs that rose above them. Of the old house where he’d grown up and the lavender fields that had been so beloved by his mother. He suddenly wanted Charlotte to see it. Wanted to ride with her on horseback through the wide open spaces surrounding the property. Wanted to lead her into the ageless forests beyond them. Wanted to swim naked with her in the same surf he’d swam in as a boy.
She opened the door and held it open while he passed through with their bags. They emerged into a tiny entry, the living room and kitchen both visible from the door.
“This is it,” she said, sounding suddenly unsure as she looked around.
He set down the bags, let his eyes roam the small space. It was neat and clean, the furnishings surprisingly modern for someone who loved classical art.
“It must look so… bare,” she said, as if reading his mind. “After being at the museum all day, keeping things simple gives my mind room to breathe…” She trailed off, sounding embarrassed by her own explanation.
He stepped into the living room, pausing at the bookshelves against one wall, taking in the titles of the books there, a mixture of classics and contemporary literature, poetry and reference manuals on art and antiques. Through the big windows on one wall, the ocean stretched like a blanket of diamonds under the setting sun.
He turned his attention to the art on the walls, although he would have used that term loosely, and knew instinctively that it didn’t belong to her. It was too bland, too mediocre for someone with Charlotte’s taste.
“They’re not mine,” she said, following his gaze. “I rent this place from a friend of my mother’s in exchange for keeping an eye on the place. It’s the only way I can afford to live so close to the water. It didn’t seem worth it to replace the art.”
He turned to look at her, and his heart caught in his throat. She looked so small. The uncertainty on her face exposed a kind of vulnerability she hadn’t yet shown him, even when he was exploring her body, when he was inside her. This was a different kind of exposure. A window into her innermost world. Into a world she clearly didn’t share with many people.
He didn’t like what he saw.
It wasn’t the modern furnishings that bothered him, nor the size of the house, which seemed somehow perfect for her. It wasn’t even the so-called art, the one thing that Charlotte loved most relegated to the tastes of someone else so she could breathe in the sea.
It was the utter loneliness of the place that almost broke him, and the loneliness in her eyes as she looked at him. There was pride there, too, and he knew it would be a mistake to show her pity. Charlotte was better than that. She didn’t want his pity, and he wouldn’t offer it.
He knew then that he would offer her something else instead. That it was pointless to try and resist the deep well of feeling she had opened up inside of him.
He walked slowly toward her, touched her face. “It’s a lovely place.”
“Do you think so?” she asked.
He forced himself to nod. He would have to find the right way, the right moment, to tell her.
To ask her. Because of course, there was no guarantee that she would agree.
He lowered his lips to hers, lingered over the pillowy softness of them before dipping his tongue into the warmth of her mouth.
It took effort to pull himself away from her. “Do you have a bed in this house?”
He wanted her. Wanted to take care of her. Wanted to be inside of her. Wanted to know all of her.
Body. Heart. Soul.
She smiled. “I do.”
He lifted her into his arms. “Tell me where,” he said. “I want to make love to you with the windows open so we can smell the sea.”
39
“Did you hear from Julien?” Charlotte asked from the kitchen.
She was sti
rring a pot of tomato sauce, adjusting the seasonings as Christophe worked on his laptop at the tiny dining room table.
“I did.”
“Was he able to get the email address?” she asked, turning off the heat on the sauce.
“He was.”
He crossed the room and stood behind her, pulling her against him. Lifting her hair, he touched his lips to her neck. She sighed as a shiver ran up her spine, her nipples already hard despite the fact that they’d spent two hours making love while the ocean rushed onto the beach below the house. He’d taken her ferociously, making her come again and again before he’d finally released himself into her. She’d given up thinking she’d ever have enough of him. He would always leave her wanting more.
She’d accepted that now.
They’d made a trip into town for supplies, and Charlotte had uncorked the wine, letting it breathe while she cooked, happy and content to have Christophe in the little house she called home. She realized with surprise that she’d always met her dates at restaurants and bars, had always returned to the houses of the men she saw regularly. She’d never given any thought to why she hadn’t invited them to the cottage by the beach, but now she wondered if she’d been saving it.
If she’d been saving a part of herself.
Their intimate dinner was a glimpse of domesticity she’d only been witness to in other couples, and while she doubted life with Christophe would be quite so provincial, she was determined to enjoy it as long as it lasted. She hadn’t even told her mother she was home, and she wouldn’t return to work until they’d settled the issue of Randall Ayers and Christophe went home.
“We should eat before this gets cold,” she said. She didn’t want to think about the moment when he would leave her.
He turned her around in his arms and kissed her. “Will I get to look at you over dinner?”
She laughed. “Unless you’d like me to blindfold you.”
He grinned. "Maybe later."
This was a different Christophe, and she wondered if it was a product of being out of his usual environment, in a place that was unfamiliar to him, one in which he didn’t control every facet of life.
She didn’t know, but she liked it. Probably too much.
She dished their plates in the kitchen while he poured the wine, and they took everything to the tiny table on the balcony off the living room. The white lights strung through the trellis cast a soft glow over their meal, and she sighed contentedly as she took the first bite of pasta. It was one of the few things she knew how to make well — perfectly al dente with a simple sauce of fresh tomatoes sautéed with garlic and basil, oregano and red pepper and the slightest pinch of sugar.
“You didn’t tell me you could cook,” Christophe said after chewing his first bite.
“Because I can’t,” she laughed. “Not really.”
He shook his head. “You must be setting expectations low to impress me. It’s very good.”
“I’m glad you like it. It’s almost literally the only thing I can cook well.”
He raised his glass. “To one good meal then.”
She touched her glass to his. “One good meal.”
The wine was dry and earthy, with the slightest hint of spice. She should have known it would be good when Christophe picked it out. He was a man who seemed to know everything about everything.
“Did you already email Ayers?” she asked, twirling more pasta around her fork.
“As soon as I got the address.”
He’d been honest about the cyber lab he kept in Paris, and about the work they did there, not all of which was legal. She didn’t love the idea of hacking — she wouldn’t want anyone fishing around in her computer — but in this case it had been necessary. Randall Ayers was a bona fide celebrity; getting close to him would be virtually impossible without his permission. An email to his personal account was the best chance they had at securing a meeting with him.
“Do you think he’ll meet with us?” she asked.
“I don’t think he’ll have a choice.”
“What did you say in the email?”
He turned his wineglass in his fingers. “I told him that I’d been led to believe he might know something about an important piece of art, and that I would prefer to discuss the details with him directly rather than with the press.”
“You’re a smart man, Christophe Marchand.”
“You can tell me I’m smart when we’re allowed onto the Ayers property tomorrow,” he said.
She paused, glass almost to her lips. “Tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Apparently getting his physical address was easier than obtaining the email. I told him we would be around at noon.”
She set down her glass. “So he’ll either let us in or he won’t.”
“Yes.”
It meant that at this time tomorrow, it would all be over. Either Ayers would have a lead on the cross, in which case it would be time to call in the authorities, or he wouldn’t, in which case it would be time for Christophe to return to Paris. Time for Charlotte to go back to her real life.
“You look almost disappointed,” he said.
She smiled. “I am a little,” she admitted.
He studied her over the flickering candlelight. “Have you enjoyed our adventure?”
“Very much,” she said. “And you?”
“More than I could have imagined. And it’s not over yet.” He stood, left his napkin on the table, and held out his hand. “We still have the beach.”
40
They reached the sand using the winding pathway down from the house. The beach was empty and mostly dark, occasional spots of sand lit by the lights spaced every twenty-five feet on the road above. Christophe had grabbed the old afghan off the back of the sofa on their way out the door, and he wrapped it around her shoulders, then took her hand.
She breathed in the salty air as they walked and felt immediately calmer. The beach always did that for her — put things in perspective, reminded her that her problems were small in the grand scheme of things. The rhythm of the waves making their way onto the beach was proof that life would continue. It would continue whether or not they found the cross. Whether or not she was ever able to banish the loneliness she now realized she wore like a second skin.
It would even continue when Christophe left.
Then she would walk the beach and remember this moment when her hand was in his. When she could almost make herself believe he belonged to her.
“I see why you live with the bad art,” he said.
She laughed, then nudged his shoulder with her own. “I knew you hated it.”
He hesitated, and she thought he would try to soften his criticism. “It’s truly atrocious.”
She laughed harder, tears stinging her eyes. “It really is.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I understand, though,” he said. “Truly. There is no greater master than nature.”
She smiled up at him.
“Let’s sit,” he said.
He positioned himself on the sand and pulled her down in front of him. She nestled herself between his legs, and he wrapped the blanket around both of them so that she was locked in a cocoon of warmth. She leaned back against him and closed her eyes, letting herself savor the moment, feel her breath, hear the waves making their way onshore before rushing back out to sea.
“Do you like it here?” he asked.
“I do,” she said.
“I don’t mean here on the beach,” he said. “I mean in California.”
She thought about it. “It’s difficult for me to separate my feelings about my mother from Los Angeles. In some ways, it’s home. In others, New York feels like home. Or the home of my youth anyway.”
“And Paris?”
“It’s the home of my father, the only place I ever felt close to him. I sense him in every old building, every piece of furniture, every painting hanging in the Louvre.”
“If California is your mother’s hom
e, New York is the home of your youth, and Paris is your father’s home, where is your home?” he asked.
She looked out over the blackness of the water, her eyes pulled to the horizon she couldn’t see. “I suppose I don’t really have one.”
She felt the truth of it, its full weight, for the first time.
He was silent for a long moment. “I’m not sure I do either.”
She twisted a little to look up at him. He was gazing out over the water, like he was looking for the same thing she’d been searching for only moments before.
“What about Paris? And Corsica?”
“I thought Corsica was home once,” he said.
“And now?” she asked.
“Now I think no place will be home without you.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She placed a hand on his cheek, looked up into the beautiful angles of his face, the aristocratic cheekbones, the full lips. “What are you saying?”
“I”m saying I don’t want to be without you. That somehow you’ve come to feel like home. That I want to take care of you.”
He looked down at her, pulled her closer. And it was only then, when she saw his eyes, that she knew he was speaking the truth. There was pain there, and a naked kind of fear she had never seen in him.
She turned in his arms, cradled his face in her hands. “What does this mean?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Your work is here. Your mother. I wouldn’t ask you to leave it all behind. But…”
She looked into his eyes. “But?”
“I can’t imagine walking out of your life,” he said. “Or letting you walk out of mine.”
She nestled closer to him, burying her smile against his chest. She hadn’t imagined it after all; there was something between them. Something rare and important.
Something worth saving.
The how of it all was still in question. She didn’t have the answer. Not yet. But they would find one.
She took a deep breath. “We’ll figure it out.”
He tightened his arms round her. “Yes.”
Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) Page 16