Just as I was trying to figure out a plan for how to get the hell off this vineyard and to a U.S. embassy, a red flash caught my eye.
It was the Smart car, all two inches of it, parked right where we’d left it.
I threw on my jeans and T-shirt, then flipped open Julien’s computer and Googled the Dubois family vineyard to find out where in the hell I was. After clicking through a few links, I nearly fell off my chair when I found the name of the town I was trapped in.
It was called Saint-Julien.
Seriously?
I looked up directions from Saint-Julien to the U.S. embassy in Paris and found that it was about a four hour drive. I jotted down the directions on a clean sheet of paper, then searched around Julien’s room for money, a credit card, anything. I didn’t want to run out of gas on the way up.
I ransacked every drawer, every crevice, but found nothing. I sighed in exasperation, considering just leaving so as not to waste any more time, and then stealing gas at a gas station if worse came to worse, but then I realized I hadn’t checked the tiny drawer in Julien’s nightstand.
Inside, Julien had placed the same black wallet he’d been carrying around since I met him. I flipped it open, pulled out the blue credit card I’d watched him use to pay for our hotel, our breakfast, my shoes and my clothes, and as I turned the card over in my hand, I gasped. The name printed on the front wasn’t Julien’s. It was Claude’s.
This whole time, Julien had been using a stolen credit card. His own brother’s! Clearly there was no family loyalty left between the two of them. Why was I even surprised?
Since the one person I had no qualms stealing from in this whole scenario was Claude, I stuffed the card in my jeans pocket and decided I would drive to Lyon instead, then take a train from there up to Paris.
After tucking the wallet back inside the drawer and looking up a new set of directions to Lyon, I grabbed the paper where I’d scribbled Claude’s license plate number and ran downstairs to the foyer. There, on a side table, were the keys to the Smart car, lying in the exact spot where Julien had thrown them the night before.
The shiny silver car keys taunted me as my blood ran marathons through my veins. Could I do this? Could I really steal their car?
I was just taking it to Lyon, which was only forty minutes away. I could figure out a way to let them know where I’d left it if I really wanted to, so I wasn’t exactly stealing. And if I wanted to get out of here before they got home, I didn’t have another second to waste.
I grabbed the keys, jogged out to the tiny car, and for the first time since this whole mess had begun, I climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and took off by myself.
***
Speeding down the hilly country road, my hands shaking at the wheel, the wind whipping my hair in circles around my head, I realized why Julien and his brother had a thing for stealing. There was a certain exhilaration that came along with doing something forbidden. It was a feeling I’d never experienced before the past two days with Julien, and at the current moment, it was a feeling I hoped I’d never have to experience again once I left France for good.
I focused my eyes on the winding road ahead and forced myself to stop thinking about the fact that I was stealing this car from Julien’s family. It would be okay. I would figure everything out when I got to Paris.
And just as the trembling in my hands began to calm and the feel of the smooth steering wheel on my palms became comfortable, a navy-blue car that had just sped past me going the other direction pulled a u-turn and raced up behind me.
I floored the gas and checked the rear view mirror to see if I could make out a face.
As soon as I saw the messy brown hair and the cigarette dangling out the window, I knew exactly who it was. Damn.
I flicked my gaze back to the road but gasped when a razor-sharp curve snuck up on me and Julien’s horn wailed behind me. By the time my foot hit the brake, I was already barreling down a grassy hill. I closed my eyes as a willow tree trunk plunged into the front of the car and the airbag inflated in my face.
After a few moments of listening to the sound of my own breath grazing over the airbag, I realized I was still alive. I lifted my aching head to find steam billowing up from the hood of the tiny car. The tree trunk was now only two feet away from my head.
So much for my big, brave escape plan.
Footsteps pounded down the hill and before I could even turn my sore neck, Julien peeled the door open and lifted me out of the car. He set me down on the soft grass and sat across from me, his breath heavy and fast.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I rubbed the back of my neck, my hands shaking, my chest pounding. “I think so.”
“Good,” he said. Then he stood, walked calmly over to the crumpled car and pounded the roof with his fist. “Putain!” he shouted, then fisted the car again.
He turned to me, his eyes full of rage. “T’es dingue? What were you thinking?”
I stood on wobbly legs as I narrowed my eyes at him. “Oh, sure. You can teach your slimy brother how to manipulate women and ruin their lives, but I can’t even steal a stupid Smart car and get away with it!”
“What are you talking about? Teach my brother?”
I let out a snort. “Guess who made a surprise visit to the vineyard this morning while you and your family were out doing God knows what?”
Julien’s brown eyes widened. “Claude was here?”
I nodded. “Yup, and you know what else? He doesn’t have my passport.”
Julien’s hands flew into the air. “Your passport? Your passport! Putain! Is that all you can think about? Where is he?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “He’s gone.”
“What? You let him leave?”
“What was I supposed to do? Hold him down? Or even better, slip a drug in his drink and seduce him like you’ve probably done to hundreds of women?”
Julien rushed toward me, his eyes flashing with anger. “Why was he here?”
“He left your mom a note on the kitchen table. Horrible handwriting—I couldn’t make out a word.”
“What did he say to you? Did he give you any idea as to where he was going?”
A dry laugh escaped from my lips. “Are you kidding me? Claude actually tell someone where he was going next?”
Julien made an angry grumbling sound with his throat, then pounded his fist on the car yet again. “Le salaud!”
I jumped backward, not used to seeing him so furious.
Julien turned to me, his expression crazy with rage. “How long ago did he leave?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a half an hour.”
He marched past me up the hill. “Come on!” he shouted over his shoulder. “We can’t waste any more time. We have to go after him.”
I planted my feet into the ground. “I wouldn’t bother. He said the painting is gone.”
Julien flipped around. “That means nothing coming from him. He is a liar and a thief.”
“Funny, he said the same thing about you,” I replied coolly.
“He would.” He turned and continued climbing up the hill.
I wasn’t going anywhere with him. “So it’s true then,” I yelled. “What Claude said. You taught him what he knows? How to steal?”
Julien’s voice boomed over his shoulder. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Just answer the question!”
He snapped his head around, his eyes burning right through me. “Yes, it is true.”
I stared at Julien, wanting to run up to him and pummel his chest with my fists. “God, how could I have been so stupid? I’ve wasted the past two days listening to you, following you, talking to you about my relationship, when all along, you’re just like him. You’re just like the man who put me in this horrible situation in the first place. I suppose you’ve been lying the entire time about working for the government as well?”
Julien kicked a clump of dirt and stormed back down the hill to
ward me. “Two years ago, when one of our cons went bad, and something terrible happened to that woman I told you about, Valérie . . . I quit after that. I was finished. But my friend, the one who is high up in the government, cut me a deal. If I went undercover and helped them bust other conmen, I could stay out of prison. I am not proud of my past, Chloe. But I am a different man now. I understand the hurt I have caused others, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it.”
“And what exactly did you think you’ve been doing by lying to me this whole time? Helping me? And to think I was actually beginning to . . . to feel bad for you. Well, you know what? I couldn’t care less what happens to you or to your vineyard. You deserve whatever you have coming to you.”
Julien flinched, and for a second, I caught a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “It is not just my vineyard. It belongs to my family, to my mother. And I will not let her lose it. I am leaving now. You can either come with me, and I can help you get home, or else you are on your own.”
“I don’t need your help getting home.”
Julien stared over at the Smart car, steam still sizzling up from the hood, then returned his deadpan gaze to me. “Suit yourself.”
He turned on his heel and headed back up the hill without looking back.
I closed my eyes as a spasm shot up my neck. Shit, shit, shit.
“Wait!” I called after him.
Julien didn’t slow down. I rushed to catch up with him, and as I joined his side, he didn’t look at me, didn’t even acknowledge my presence.
We climbed into the car together, the silence so thick it was suffocating.
“When we get back to your house, I’ll find my own way home. I don’t want your help,” I told him.
Julien shifted the car into gear, the veins in his forearms bulging, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. “Fine,” he said.
“Fine,” I spat.
But, as he sped down the road, a gut-wrenching feeling of dread gripped my stomach. What in the hell was I going to do?
Seventeen
“Where is Claude’s note?” Julien demanded as he slammed the car into park and shot out of the car.
“On the kitchen table,” I told him. “Oh, and you might need this.” I climbed out of the car and tossed Claude’s credit card across the hood.
“What—?” he began, but when he reached for it, his eyes widened. “You stole this? From my wallet?”
“It’s not like it was even yours to begin with.”
He shook his head at me, his mouth twitching, his brown eyes frantic, then tucked the card into his pocket and ran up the stairs to the house.
I searched the rolling countryside that stretched for miles around me, the rows upon rows of vines, hoping a solution would pop out at me. Something I’d missed. Some magical way I could work out making it home in time for my wedding without telling Paul or the rest of my family what was going on. Without having to speak to the police. Without worrying about the fact that I officially had no passport.
But there was nothing. No sudden light bulb. No magical solution.
Suddenly every muscle in my body ached. Cramps gripped my calves, my head pounded, and my breathing quickened. I braced myself on the side of the car, feeling like I might pass out. Something Julien had said to me the day before rang loudly in my ears.
He’d said that this whole situation could ruin me. That it could ruin my life.
Blackness closed in around me as my chest struggled to take in air.
No. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.
I opened my eyes and forced the air into my lungs. I didn’t need Julien’s help. I just needed to use a phone.
***
“Parlez-vous anglais?” I said into the phone, cupping my hand over my mouth to muffle my voice.
“Un moment, s’il vous plaît,” said the woman who’d answered the emergency police line.
While I waited on hold, I stretched the ancient corded desk phone across the downstairs office and peeked down the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. Julien had been up in his bedroom, yelling on his cell phone when I came back into the house moments before.
I listened for a moment and jumped when I heard his voice still booming upstairs. Closing the office door, I sat down at the desk and spread Claude’s license plate number out before me.
The numbers blurred beneath me. This would either be my ticket back home, or my ticket to jail. But I had to take a chance. I couldn’t leave things in Julien’s hands anymore.
A gruff voice spoke into the phone. “I understand you requested an English speaker.”
“Yes, Officer. I’d like to report a theft. A couple of them actually—all by the same man. Claude Dubois. He just left, and I was able to get his license plate number.”
“You said Claude Dubois? Is this correct?”
“Yes, Officer. That’s correct.”
“Hold for one second, please.”
I tapped my fingers on the cool wood, my mind running a mile a minute, hoping I was making the right choice.
The officer’s voice came back over the line. “Madame?”
“Yes?”
“I am going to transfer you to Agent Bertrand Martin. He will be able to help you, and he speaks English.”
“Thank you.”
Within seconds, the line picked up.
“Hello, Miss. This is Agent Martin.” His voice was deep and throaty, and he spoke with a thick French accent. “I am a government official in Paris. I understand you have information pertaining to the whereabouts of Monsieur Dubois, and that you would like to report a theft.”
“Yes, I do. And that’s thefts. Plural.”
“Of course, Miss. But first, tell me your name.”
A bead of sweat rolled down my temple. I wondered if some kind of siren would go off at the sound of my name. What if this guy was just waiting for me to say “Chloe Turner” before sicking the entire French police force on me?
There was no other option though. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
“My name is Chloe Turner.”
“Thank you, Miss Turner. Have you just seen Monsieur Dubois?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t sound at all interested in me. “Yes, in Saint-Julien, at his family’s vineyard near Lyon.”
“Yes, I am familiar. And the license plate number?”
“MT-541-RW.”
“Color and make of the car?”
“It was a gray Renault Twingo.”
“Thank you, miss. And quickly, please explain the thefts.”
“He stole my passport, my wallet, and a valuable Manet painting from his family’s home.”
There was a pause on the other line. “A Manet?”
“Yes, officer, that’s correct.”
“When did the thefts take place?”
“He took the painting maybe about a week ago, and he stole my passport and wallet on Sunday, at the Plaza Athénée Hotel in Paris.”
“I see.” Another long pause followed, then he cleared his throat. “Thank you for calling, Miss Turner. I will need to speak with you again and with a member of his family regarding the painting. Is there a number where I can reach you?”
Before I had a chance to answer, the office door flew open behind me. Julien towered in the doorway, staring me down.
I slammed the phone back into the cradle.
“What were you doing?” he asked
“I . . . I was just trying to call home. No answer though.”
Julien eyed me suspiciously. “Tell me the truth.”
When I didn’t answer, Julien glanced past me to the desk.
And then I remembered, Claude’s license plate number was lying there. Shit.
I tried to scoot so he wouldn’t see it, but it was too late. He reached over my shoulder and snatched it off the desk. “This is Claude’s?”
I nodded.
“Did you give this number to the police?”
I couldn’t lie an
y longer. Julien wouldn’t believe me anyway. I stood up and faced him straight on. “Yes, I called the police and gave them his license plate number. Isn’t that what you would do if you were me?”
Julien paced back and forth around the small office. “No, that is not what I would do. You are not thinking clearly. The police are after you, and me. We have been running from them. They will be coming here. We have to leave. Now.”
“I’m not going anywhere. The way I see it, I haven’t done anything wrong. Well, besides running from the police. This was all Claude, and I have no choice but to talk to them if I want to get home. Now that we know my passport is gone, do you see that I have any other choices here? Because I’d love for you to enlighten me with more of your con-artist wisdom if you do.”
“Merde,” he said with a shake of his head.
I remembered that one from French class. It meant “shit.”
“Merde yourself,” I said, pushing past him.
“If you want to talk to them, go ahead. Like I have said, it will not go well. I will not be here when they arrive. It is not an option for me at this point.”
“Where are you going?”
Julien walked past me in the hallway, grabbed his car keys and opened the front door.
“Where are you going?” I called after him.
“It will be easier if I don’t tell you. That way you cannot tell the police.” He climbed into the car and skidded out of the driveway, just as his brother had done earlier this morning.
I couldn’t believe he’d just left me here. Alone, again, at his family’s vineyard. Where the hell were his mother and Camille? Before I had a chance to think about it another second, a different car pulled into the driveway.
This one was black and white and had a siren on the top.
Julien was right. It hadn’t taken them long at all.
***
“Let’s try this again. When did you first meet Claude Dubois?”
It was Officer Laroche, the tall, lanky, black-haired police officer who’d been chasing me around the country. I’d been sitting alone in a dull white room in a police station in Lyon for the past hour until he came in and seated himself across from me, his expression stern and unmoving.
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