41
Christophe looked out over the water as he drank his coffee. Charlotte was in the shower, and while he’d been tempted to join her — the perfection of her naked body was quickly becoming his greatest vice — he had wanted a few moments alone before they made their way to Randall Ayers’ house.
He scanned the beach, now dotted with people strolling and sunbathing, and thought of the night before. Perhaps he should have offered her a more extravagant declaration of his love. Something grand and bold.
He’d been terrified in the moment — the first time he remembered being truly frightened since his mother’s death. She’d been so serene during their affair, skirting the question of its meaning, its importance, in a way rarely demonstrated by women. In his previous experience, it was women who liked to define things. Who liked to know what it all meant. Charlotte’s poker face had thrown him, and he hadn’t been entirely sure of her response until after he’d said the words.
For a moment, her body had gone entirely still in his arms. He’d panicked, wondering if this would be his karma — to be denied the one thing, the one person, he wanted above all others.
Then she’d touched his face, and he’d seen everything in her eyes. All the feelings that had been swirling in him in the two weeks since she’d walked into his life. All the vulnerability and fear that had been stalking him as he fell in love with her.
Of course, he didn’t tell her that he loved her. Not yet. He was still learning how to love a woman. How to be open and share his feelings, a notion completely foreign to him. But he would. And he would do better next time. Tell her he loved her in a romantic place with all the right words.
He’d thought sharing his feelings with her would bring relief. That he would stop being afraid. He’d taken her to bed, made love to her as the wind blew back the curtains on the windows, the surf roaring below. But when he woke up with her in his arms, he’d been startled to realize he was more afraid than ever.
She would be his. And that meant he suddenly had everything to lose.
He’d contemplated every possibility as she breathed softly against his chest. He could send her back to Paris, have her guarded by Julien until he returned. He could wait for Julien to come to L.A., have him stay with her while Christophe went alone to interview Ayers.
But he knew she wouldn’t agree to any of it. They’d come this far together, and he knew enough about her to know she would bristle at the idea of being kept under lock and key. The mystery of the cross belonged to her too. Randall Ayers was an aging actor with a relatively high profile. He wasn’t going to try anything during the visit, and that was assuming he even let them in when they arrived. And there was the added improbability of a Hollywood actor being in possession of a priceless artifact — yet another reason Christophe expected the meeting to be perfunctory.
They would follow this last clue. Put an end to the investigation that he had begun for the simple purpose of learning more about Charlotte Duval. That’s how she’d started: as a distraction. A novelty.
But she’d become everything.
He was anxious to be done with it. For once, he was looking to the future.
42
She looked out the window as they drove to Bel Air, taking in the familiar houses surrounded by iron gates. She knew it well, both from her years at school there and from the many artists and collectors who lived in the prestigious enclave of Los Angeles. All that time she’d never had any idea that Randall Ayers lived in the neighborhood, or that he would come to play such an important part in a mystery like the one surrounding Tucker’s Cross.
Of course, there was no proof that he had the cross. Peter Montoya had been anxious to be rid of them in Boston. He could have thrown them Ayers’ name as a diversion. And even if he had been insinuating that Ayers knew something about the cross, it didn’t mean the actor had ever had it in his possession, or that he had it now.
She looked over at Christophe and felt the now-familiar flutter of desire in her stomach. Had it been a dream? Had he really said he wanted to be with her? That he wanted to find a way to make it work between them?
He glanced over at her, smiled, then picked up her hand and kissed it. Then there was no doubt that it had been real. The affection in his eyes was too vivid, too raw, and she had a sudden flash of the fear in his eyes when he’d confessed his feelings for her.
He’d been afraid she didn’t feel the same way.
It was almost impossible to believe. She’d felt such a strong attraction to him since the moment they’d met, and her growing affection for him, born out of their long conversations in Vienna and Boston, had felt so obvious to her.
But somehow he hadn’t known.
The knowledge wove itself together with all the other things she’d learned about him, creating a tender spot in her heart that hurt a little when she breathed. They were like survivors of a shipwreck, adrift on the sea of their loneliness, shocked to find another soul in the water.
“That’s it,” Christophe said, driving slowly past a Tudor style house set back from the road, surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence. He kept driving. “I’m going to park on another street, just in case.”
She didn’t ask him to clarify. She assumed the “just in case” was a product of his business acumen. That he’d had to make these kinds of contingencies countless times in the past. It brought a strange kind of security — the knowledge that she was safe because she was with someone more practiced in danger, in violence, than anyone else.
He pulled up next to the curb and turned off the car. When he turned toward her, she saw that he had a gun strapped under his jacket, exactly like the men in his foyer in Paris.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
He hesitated. “You could wait here, you know. I’m sure I won’t be long.”
She looked at him with surprise. “Why on earth would I do that?”
He shrugged. “It might be a little uncomfortable given the way we got ahold of Ayers’ email address.”
She smiled. “And the threat you made about the press?”
He leaned in, kissed her quickly on the lips. “That, too.”
“No way,” she said. “We started this together. We end it together.”
His nod was slow. He looked into her eyes a moment longer before reaching for the door with a sigh.
They made their way around the block. All of the houses were set back from the road, most of them prominently displaying security decals warning intruders that the property was protected. The Ayers estate would be no different, and she had the unwelcome image of them being escorted from the property by security guards. Thank god Ayers had relinquished some of his celebrity to a new generation of social media savvy performers; the paparazzi would likely be absent from this quiet street.
She looked up at Christophe. “Do you think he’ll let us in?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It seems risky not to talk to us. Even if he has nothing to do with the cross, I can’t imagine he’d like the press asking about it, digging around in his affairs.”
They came to the address given to them by Julien. There were two stone pillars outside the property, the house number emblazoned on a bronze plaque. A fifteen foot gate with pointed spires spanned the space between the two pillars, a keypad mounted on one side. She looked up and saw a security camera moving to take in their faces.
Christophe pressed the call button.
“Yes.” The voice was indistinct through the intercom.
“We’re here to see Randall Ayers,” Christophe said. “He should be expecting us.”
There was a brief moment of silence. Charlotte wondered if they would be turned away after all, or maybe even ignored until they retreated on their own. But then a buzz sounded from inside the key pad, and the gates swung slowly open.
They walked through it. Charlotte turned to watch it close behind them. The driveway was made up of brick pavers, and they followed it towar
d the imposing house at the center of the property.
It was three stories tall, with the peaked roof, tall windows, and wood trim that was a hallmark of the Tudor Revival style. The grounds were lush and well manicured, English-style gardens around the house giving way to an immaculately maintained lawn surrounding the property.
She tried to quell her nervousness as they approached the enormous front door. Christophe had barely finished knocking when it swung open to reveal a woman in a blue dress covered with an immaculate apron.
“Hello,” Christophe said. “We’re here to see Mr. Ayers.”
She opened the door wider, gestured for them to come in. She didn’t speak a word, but she motioned for them to follow her down a long central hall with dark tile. Charlotte closed the door and started after her next to Christophe.
The house was as silent as a tomb. She caught glimpses of the other rooms as they continued toward the back of the house: large high-ceilinged rooms decorated with comfortable oversized furniture, the floors covered with thick rugs that were cozy but obviously not antique.
The woman hesitated at the final door on the right, then stepped over the threshold. They followed her through the doorway, and Charlotte realized their mistake almost immediately.
Christophe stepped in front of her, shielding her body with his own before she could see the threat that lay beyond him. She strained to see around his broad shoulders and caught sight of a man grabbing hold of the woman who had opened the door. He zip-tied her hands and opened the door to something that looked like a closet, then shoved her in. She heard a thump and cry from inside, but a moment later, Christophe spoke, and all the breath seemed to leave her body.
“Bruno. What a surprise.”
43
It took her a moment to take it all in.
The mess, furniture overturned, bookshelves emptied, broken glass and ceramic on every surface.
The two familiar men standing at the edges of the room, guns drawn.
The other man, even more familiar than the others because he’d once held a knife to her throat, standing at the center of the room.
Christophe’s defensive posture. His use of the name Bruno.
His brother.
She could barely breathe as she tried to assemble the pieces into something that made sense. These were the men who had broken into her father’s store. The men who had threatened her for the ring. Probably the men who had chased them through Vienna.
And at their center was Bruno, Christophe’s brother. Had Christophe known?
"Entrez,” Bruno said expansively. “Asseyez-vous. Je crois que nous avons du rattrapage à faire.”
Come in. Sit down. I believe we have some catching up to do.
“I’ll stand,” Christophe said.
Bruno’s face hardened, and Charlotte tried to reconcile his similarity to Christophe against their differences. There was Bruno’s face, reminiscent of Christophe’s but rounder and softer, an eerie juxtaposition with the eyes, brown like Christophe’s but with none of their depth. None of their inquisitiveness.
That he was slightly shorter than Christophe gave her little comfort; Christophe was a big man. The two inches he had on Bruno didn’t make his brother less of a threat, and where Christophe’s muscle was lean and sculpted, she had the sense of raw power in Bruno, of meaty bulk that might have a momentum all its own.
“Doivent toujours être le patron, ne vous?” Bruno asked.
Always have to be the boss, don’t you?
Christophe shrugged. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
“Speak fucking French!” Bruno screamed, his face transformed by rage, spittle flying from his mouth.
Charlotte startled, forced herself not to look at Christophe, not to ask the question on the tip of her tongue.
Why are you baiting him?
She saw their history in the way they studied each other, their eyes probing for weakness. She was an only child. She didn’t know anything about siblings. But she knew that familiarity could be more dangerous than any mystery.
“We’ll speak English or not at all,” Christophe said, voice hard as granite.
Bruno began to pace, touching his finger to the blade of the knife in his hands. The broken glass on the ground crunched beneath his boots.
“Did you think you would take this from me, too?” he asked in accented English.
Christophe shrugged. “I’m simply here to talk to Ayers. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bruno pointed the knife at Christophe. “You know, brother. You know.”
“Why don’t you enlighten me?” Christophe asked.
“The cross!” Bruno raged. “Where. Is. It?”
“I thought it was here.”
She was shocked by the calm in Christophe’s voice. She was trying to hold very still, to keep her body from shaking with fear. To avoid looking at the men still pointing guns at them. At the knife in Bruno’s hand. A knife that had once dug into the flesh of her neck.
“Well, it’s not.” Bruno paced. “Not that we can find.”
“I take it the upstairs looks like this room?” Christophe asked.
Bruno narrowed his eyes. “We’ve looked there, yes.”
“And Ayers?”
Charlotte held her breath.
“He’s alive. For now.”
Banging started from behind the door where one of the men had shoved the housekeeper. It sounded like feet slamming against the wood, and in the background, muffled moans like someone with a gag in their mouth or with tape over it.
The taller of Bruno’s men pointed his gun at the door and fired. The sound was quieter than she expected, a dull thud into the wood, which splintered on impact. The banging from inside the room stopped, and Charlotte said a silent prayer that the bullets hadn’t hit Ayers or his housekeeper. That they’d opted to keep quiet out of self-preservation.
“Then I don’t understand.” Now Christophe was pacing, too. He stayed near her, crossing in front of her body every few seconds, but she saw it for the distraction it was. The men with guns had to follow his movements, and that meant taking their eyes off Charlotte, or taking their eyes off Christophe to keep watch over her. “An artifact like the cross will be very difficult to fence. There are easier ways to make money. Help me understand what you’re doing here, brother.”
“Oh, now I’m your brother.” Bruno’s laugh was harsh.
“You’ve always been my brother, Bruno.” Charlotte was surprised by the softness that had crept into Christophe’s voice. “You know that.”
“What I know is that you’ve always thought you were in charge. And Papa let you think it. Let you have your way.”
Christophe shook his head. “I’ve never had my way. Not really.”
“What do you call it?” Bruno spat. “Deciding what to do with Corsica, taking over the house in Paris, making decisions for both Papa and me.”
“The house in Paris was crumbling when I took it over,” Christophe said. “As was the property in Corsica. Everything I have done, I have done for the family. For the Marchand name. You know this, Bruno.”
He sounded tired. Like it was an argument he’d had with Bruno before. Charlotte wanted to help, to find a way to get them out of the mess, but she had the sense that Christophe was working some kind of plan. She understood suddenly that this was what he did best. She was in his world now. It was only right that he would lead.
“That’s just what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night,” Bruno said, eyes flashing. “But it doesn’t matter. Everything will be different soon. You’ll see.”
Christophe stopped pacing. “What does that mean?”
“That’s my business,” Bruno said.
Christophe seemed to hesitate, weighing his brother’s words before he spoke again. “Be that as it may, it seems we’re at an impasse. What do you suggest?”
Bruno shook his head. “I don’t need to suggest anything. In case you haven’t notic
ed, I’m the one with the men. With the guns.” His eyes skipped to Charlotte. “Although it seems you’ve brought a little something of your own.”
Christophe stopped in front of her, momentarily blocking her view. There was a moment of suspended silence. A moment when the whole world seemed to pause.
Then Christophe reached into his jacket and everything happened in a blur.
44
He'd known as soon as Bruno turned his attention on Charlotte that he would have to take control of the situation. There were many things he would tolerate from his brother.
Hurting Charlotte — even thinking about hurting her — wasn't one of them.
He saw the look of surprise on Felix’s face when he pulled the gun from the holster at his side. It only lasted a moment — long enough for Christophe to get off a couple of rounds that hit the other man square in the chest.
He toppled backwards, crashing against one of the bookcases against the wall, and Christophe quickly turned his gun on the other man standing across the room. Christophe couldn’t remember his name, but he was still lifting his weapon when Christophe put a bullet between his eyes. He slumped to the floor like an imploding building.
Christophe was turning toward Bruno when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Felix, stretching for the gun that had fallen out of his hand when Christophe had shot him.
Charlotte was still in shock when the second man hit the floor. It had all happened so fast: the deafening noise of Christophe’s gun exploding into the room, the crash of the man against the bookcase before he toppled to the floor, more gunfire that she could only assume came from Christophe since he was still blocking her view.
There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch and expand, like someone had pushed Pause on a recording for what might have been five seconds or thirty. When everything started moving again, Christophe was rushing across the room toward one of the men on the floor, reaching for his gun. She wanted to help, but she was frozen in place, her limbs weighted with lead, her mind crowded with static that made it impossible to think.
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