She watched Christophe approach the man on the floor as if in a dream, watched him put his foot on the man’s arm as he reached for the gun, watched in slow motion as he fired into the man’s back until he was finally still.
She forgot all about Bruno until she felt the edge of his knife against her neck.
He realized his mistake as soon as Felix went still.
But it was too late.
He turned in the silence to find his brother behind Charlotte, the blade of his knife pressed against the flesh of her neck.
He hadn’t been worried about Bruno. The other men had guns. They would be able to cut Charlotte down in an instant. His brother would use his knife if he would use anything, and it would take time for him to cross the room. Until Felix had reached for the gun, Christophe had been standing in front of her. Bruno would only have gotten to her over Christophe’s dead body.
And there was something else in the back of his mind. A kind of certainty that was probably naive. A belief that whatever their differences, Bruno wouldn’t kill him. Wouldn’t kill Charlotte if she meant something to him.
They were brothers. It meant something.
But he’d been wrong, and he shouldn’t have left her. Not even to stop Felix.
“Drop the gun,” Bruno said.
Christophe held his gaze. He didn’t dare glance at Charlotte, not even for a minute. If he did, the rage simmering in his bloodstream would turn into a full-fledged boil. He might do something stupid then, and she couldn’t afford for him to be stupid.
He focused on Bruno instead.
She held still, not wanting to take any chances with the knife biting into her skin. She felt her weakness acutely. She was only flesh and bone. One quick movement by Bruno Marchand and she’d be dead.
She watched Christophe turn toward his brother and understood when he avoided her eyes. Their feelings for each other were a distraction. Setting them aside was the wisest course of action, and rather than being offended, it gave her a kind of peace. If she had to put her life in someone’s hand, she would put it in his a million times over.
She tried to distance herself from her body by thinking about her mother. She hadn’t said she loved her the last time they’d talked in Boston. She’d been too annoyed by her intrusive questions, by her neediness. Now she regretted it, and she wondered if her mother knew that she was loved by her daughter.
Charlotte hoped so. She saw her mother with more clarity all of a sudden. Saw that she’d been a victim of beauty, too.
“You don’t want to do this.” Christophe couldn’t help the steel in his voice. There was no way to speak to his brother without wanting to tear him apart. Not while he manhandled Charlotte, one arm around her stomach, the other hand holding the knife at her throat.
“You don't know what I want,” his brother said.
“Maybe not. But I know what I want; I want us both to walk out of here alive. I want us both to live another day. To work out whatever this is between us.”
“It’s too late for that,” Bruno said. “I don’t care what you want anymore.”
Christophe heard the note of certainty in his brother’s voice and finally understood something: his brother was speaking the truth. Whatever love he’d had for Christophe had long ago morphed into something mean and ugly. Something that only wanted to destroy him — even if that meant hurting the one person he cared for most.
“I don’t care what you want anymore.”
As soon as Bruno said it she knew what Christophe would do. She saw it in his eyes, in the flicker of fear she recognized from that moment on the beach when he’d told her he wanted to be with her. From the moment she’d stood before him when he’d seemed stricken as he took in her naked body. He’d known then what she hadn’t.
There would be no going back for either of them.
Ducunt volentem fata.
The fates lead the willing.
It was okay. She trusted him.
He met her gaze. She closed her eyes.
He saw her close her eyes and knew that she was giving herself over to his care in the most fundamental of ways. He registered it all with something like awe.
And then he raised the gun and fired.
His brother screamed, falling to the floor, blood seeping through the fabric of his pants near the knee.
Charlotte’s eyes fluttered open, like she was waking from a long sleep.
Like she was surprised to be alive.
He stalked toward her, noting the trickle of blood at her neck with a roar that temporarily blocked out all other thought. She moved quickly out of the way, and he dropped to the floor over his brother’s body. The knife had fallen out of his reach, and he grabbed his knee with both hands, rocking in agony as it bled.
Christophe didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the woman Bruno had almost taken from him. He lifted his fists and punched over and over again, his hands meeting the flesh and bone of Bruno’s face with a satisfying crunch that didn’t begin to assuage his need for blood.
He forced himself to stop while his brother was still conscious — not for himself and not for Bruno, but for the old man on the terrace in Corsica who had already lost too much.
He hoisted Bruno to his feet. He could barely stand, and he slumped to one side in the moment before Christophe shoved him toward the terrace door.
“You have five minutes before I call the police,” he said. “Better start moving.”
Charlotte watched dispassionately as Christophe beat his brother to within an inch of his life. Her body was numb, her mind still lost to white noise as Christophe pulled his brother up, sent him careening across the floor.
He fell once, then struggled back to his feet, his leg bleeding through the fabric of his pants. It seemed like forever before he stumbled out the terrace doors, leaving her and Christophe alone with the two dead men. She was only dimly aware of the banging from behind the door with the housekeeper, not because of the blood slowly dripping down her neck. Not even because of the two dead men that lay on the floor not twenty feet away.
It was the painting over the fireplace that got her attention, and she blinked, wondering if she was imagining it, taking in the striking, dark haired woman with flashing eyes. It was an old fashioned oil portrait, if not a very good one. In it, the woman gazed seductively at the camera, her breasts straining against the neckline of a green gown.
But it was the necklace strung around her neck that held Charlotte captive. The chain was visible, but the pendant at the other end was mostly hidden in her dress — all except for a tiny portion of it.
A portion that looked like the top of a gold cross, the faintest glint of an emerald barley visible.
Christophe had frozen next to her, his gaze drawn to the direction of hers.
“Do you see what I see?” she asked him, still looking at the painting, afraid to take her eyes off it in case the image disappeared.
“I think so,” he said. “Unless I’m dreaming.”
“I don’t think you’re dreaming.”
He took her hand. “I don’t think so either.”
45
He set her down on the sofa, opened the doors to the balcony, and went to the kitchen where he unearthed what looked to be a very old bottle of brandy. He poured a healthy dose into two glasses, downed one of them, then leaned against the counter.
They’d called the police from Ayers’ house phone and left quickly. It was the only way to avoid questions about why they had been there, and while there were people in the States who would help him if he called, he was eager to avoid scrutiny of his business interests.
This was cleaner, smarter.
The only one who had seen them was the housekeeper. The police would rescue her and Ayers and process the bodies of Bruno’s men like any other home invasion. He was concerned about the security cameras, but there had been no help for it; they would have to hope Bruno had done the work of disconnecting the feed before they got there.
>
But none of that was eating away at his gut.
It was something else that was killing him. Something he’d known since the moment they’d walked into Randall Ayers house and he’d seen his brother.
He refilled his glass and tried to swallow the sadness welling up inside him. He’d put Charlotte at risk. She could have died. Could have been brutally murdered in front of his eyes. But as horrific as that knowledge was, he understood now that what had happened at the Ayers house was a prelude to something else.
Something bigger.
And Bruno was involved.
He didn't know how. Didn't know how the disruptions in his business — in Farrell's business — were connected to the cross. But they were. He felt the gossamer ties that bound them even if he couldn’t see them. Bruno had no interest in art. No interest in stealing anything that was too difficult to sell. Too high profile.
Bruno was about easy money. About skirting attention that might bring the law to his door. It was why he liked to use Christophe’s business. A shield of sorts. He knew Christophe was careful and that if something happened, Christophe would see that it was resolved.
So why risk everything for a piece of stolen art that would be next to impossible to fence? And what had he meant when he’d told Leo in London that he didn’t know who he was messing with?
“Is everything all right?” Charlotte asked from the living room.
He took a deep breath before he answered. The sound of her voice hurt him.
The knowledge of what he would have to do threatened to destroy him.
He picked up the two glasses and returned to the living room, the evening sun casting a soft glow over the small room.
“Everything's fine," he said, handing her one of the glasses. “It took me awhile to find the brandy.”
She took a healthy swallow and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” he asked.
“A first aid kit?” Her eyes were glassy, and there was something faraway in her expression that made him think part of her was still back at the Ayers house.
Still being held at knife-point by his brother.
He realized he’d made his hands into fists, and he loosened his fingers, then gently touched the area around the dried blood on her neck. “We should clean this up.”
She took another drink. “In the bathroom. Under the sink.”
He stood, went to the bathroom, pulled a clean washcloth off the shelf. After running it under warm water, he retrieved the kit, then returned to the living room.
“Let me know if this hurts,” he said, touching the washcloth to the wound on her neck.
She didn’t flinch, and he let it sit on her skin for a minute, loosening the blood so he wouldn’t have to rub. When he removed the washcloth, he was relieved to see that the cut was small.
“It’s smaller than I expected,” he said. “Does it hurt?”
She shook her head and took another drink.
“Good.”
He didn’t want her to hurt. He wanted to shield her from anything that could ever harm her or make her sad. Instead he’d led her to danger’s door.
He carefully patted antibacterial ointment on the cut. “It’s not bleeding anymore. Do you want me to put a bandage on it?” he asked.
“No.”
“All right.” He set the first aid kit on the coffee table and sat back on the couch, pulling her into his arms. “What can I do?”
She didn’t speak at first. Then she lifted a hand to his chest. “Just… be with me.”
He held her closer, breathing in the smell of her, savoring the soft weight of her against his side. “I’m here.”
She ran her hands against his chest. He stroked her hair, and her breath quickened. God help him, he wanted her. He knew she was vulnerable and probably in shock. That she needed him to be solid and steady beside her. But what he really wanted was to be inside her. To reassure himself that she was alive and well by cloaking himself in her body.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and clear. “Take me to bed.”
“That’s not a good idea,” he said. “You need to rest.”
“No, I don’t. I need you.”
“Charlotte…”
“Stop,” she said. “Just stop. You asked what you can do. This is what you can do; take me to bed.”
He nodded, then stood and swept her into his arms. She kissed his collarbone, and he felt her tongue against the flesh at the base of his neck. It sent a trail of heat up his spine, and his cock lurched to attention. Ready for her. As always.
He set her gently next to the bed, then opened the windows. The ocean breeze rushed into the room like a sigh, the briny air clearing the last of the fog in his brain. He wouldn’t think about the future. Not right now.
Tonight she was his.
He walked slowly back to the bed, trying to memorize the sight of her standing in the soft glow of the sun, slowly beginning to set over the Pacific. When he reached her, she lifted her hands to his shirt and began to work the buttons. He forced his hands to remain at his side, letting her finish. It was only when she reached for his belt that he took her hands in his.
“Not yet, darling.”
He tucked her hair behind her ear, tracing the perfectly sculpted shell with his finger, then running it along her jaw until he reached her lips. They were parted as if in anticipation, and he rubbed his thumb against the cushiony lower lip, just like he had that first night in Vienna.
He wanted to kiss her, but he wanted her naked first. Wanted to feel the press of her nakedness against his chest as he slid his tongue into her mouth. He reached for the tie at the side of her wrap dress and pulled. It opened easily, her body bare between the folds of fabric except for a dainty lace bra and the slip of fabric covering her pussy.
He pushed the dress off her shoulders, then wrapped his arms around her and pressed her close to him. Her hair smelled of jasmine and the sea. He breathed it in, wanting to remember, wrapping his arms around her until she was enveloped against his chest.
Her hands stroked his back, light as a feather, and the softness of her stomach against him made his cock throb. She turned her face to his bare skin and kissed his chest, lightly at first, and then with increasing urgency, her hands moving up to his shoulders, her breath raspy.
“I need you,” she said. “I need you inside me.”
He pulled back, angled his mouth over hers and swept her lips into a kiss that threatened to ignite his body in a firestorm. Her mouth was familiar to him now, but that only seemed to make him want her more. To revisit the heat of it, the slide of her tongue on his. To remind him that she had belonged to him. That he had once known every inch of her.
She pressed against him, her hands sliding into the hair at the back of his head as she met his demands. As she made demands of her own. He explored every corner of her mouth like it was the first time, his hands cradling her head, tipping it up so that he could own her mouth the way he was going to own her body.
One last time.
She broke their kiss first, gasping, and kissed her way down his neck. Then looked up at him. Her chest was rising and falling in time with his own, like they’d both spent a lifetime running toward this moment.
“It’s time for you to fuck me, Christophe.”
46
She’d never wanted him so badly. Maybe it had been her brush with death. Maybe it was something about the way he was looking at her. Like she might disappear. Like he might disappear instead.
Like they were on borrowed time.
She didn’t know. But she was ravenous for him. She wanted his body and his mouth and his hands. She wanted it all. Wanted to blot out everything that had happened and the looming feeling that it wasn’t over yet.
He reached for his belt, held her gaze while he pulled it out of the straps. He dropped it on the floor, then unzipped his pants and dropped them until he was standing in front of her in all his naked glory
.
Her breath quickened further as she took in his cock — swollen and hard. Ready for her. An answering wetness blossomed between her legs, and she felt the beat of some primeval instinct at her center.
Something older than art and beauty and time itself.
She reached for him, taking the engorged member in her hand, wrapping her palm around it and squeezing until he shuddered. He shoved her back on the bed, his eyes molten with need.
She propped herself up on her elbows as he climbed his way up her body, brushing his nose against her thighs, her stomach, her chest. He stopped at her neck, kissed her tenderly near the place where Bruno had cut her. She turned her head, wanting to give him better access. Wanting to feel his lips. Wanting him to heal her.
His cock brushed against the crease between her legs, and she wrapped one leg around his hips, wanting to pull him in closer. He let her have her way, nestling his rod between her folds as he looked down at her. Watching her expression as he slid in between the petals of her sex. She moaned, her back arching as his tip hit her clit.
“Please,” she gasped.
He lowered his mouth to hers. “Please?” he said against her lips.
“Please fuck me,” she said.
He chuckled. “Soon, darling. Soon.”
He touched his tongue to one of her nipples, then sucked the areola into his mouth. The warmth of it combined with his cock, still tucked into the folds of her pussy, almost sent her over the edge. She slid her fingers into his silky hair and moved her hips as he lapped at the nipple.
Then the pressure of his cock was gone as he worked his way down her stomach, pausing between her legs to lay the flat of his palm on her stomach. His expression was reverent, and she held still, letting him worship his way.
When he was done, he pushed her legs open and spread her pussy wide. “You’re a work of art, Charlotte. The finest I’ve ever seen.”
Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) Page 18