Eternal (London Mob Book 3)

by Michelle St. James

  “What is this?” Jenna asked.

  “This is where your pillow awaits, Mademoiselle.”

  They got out of the car and walked through a diminutive iron gate and up a pathway lined with lilies, sunflowers, and lavender. Farrell opened the front door without knocking and they stepped into a formal entryway where they were greeted by a balding man whose face broke into a wide smile the moment he saw Farrell. Affectionate embraces were followed by an enthusiastic exchange in French that Jenna had no hope of following. When it seemed they’d caught up, the man turned to Jenna.

  “And who is your lovely companion?” he asked in accented English.

  “Jenna, this is Louis, an old friend,” Farrell said. “Louis, Jenna Carver.”

  The man took her hand, lifted it to his lips. “Enchante, Mademoiselle. It is Mademoiselle, is it not?” he asked, inspecting her hand for a wedding ring.

  Jenna laughed. “That’s right.”

  “Ah, still time to steal you from this brute,” Louis said.

  “Over my dead body.” There wasn’t an ounce of humor in Farrell’s voice.

  “Perhaps I can tempt you,” Louis continued to tease. “I offer fine wine, excellent food, and lovely scenery.”

  Farrell took her hand. “That will be enough of that. I’ll take my usual room.”

  Farrell pulled her toward a narrow staircase, and they ascended to the second floor with Louis’s laughter at their backs.

  “… insufferable,” Farrell said good-naturedly under his breath as they made their way to a door at the end of the second floor hall.

  They stepped into a surprisingly large room papered in a delicate blue floral. The ceiling was painted blue and just low enough to make the room look like the inside of a jewelry box, and the window was open to a sweeping view of the old town of Arbois.

  “This is lovely,” Jenna said, running her hands along the fluffy white duvet on the big bed. Her eyelids felt heavy just looking at the pillows stacked near the headboard, but she didn’t want to give Farrell the satisfaction of being right.

  He set their bags near a mahogany writing table with graceful legs and pulled her into his arms. “It’s all right, you know.”

  She looked up at him, surprised by his serious tone. “What is?”

  “That you’re tired and I was right in the car.”

  She laughed, giving him a playful punch. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “And you’re beautiful,” he said. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Now you’re reaching,” she said.

  “It’s the truest thing I know. You’re the truest thing I know.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m going to run you a bath. Then you’re going to sleep.”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I’ll sleep, too.”

  Even if he were telling the truth, she knew he wouldn’t sleep for long. She would wake to find him working, or maybe even watching her like she might disappear into thin air. But he didn’t need to know that she knew that.

  “A bath sounds nice,” she said.

  “Good.”

  She dug through her bag, then walked into the bathroom where a giant claw foot tub was filling with water hot enough to make steam rise into the air. He kissed her gently on the lips, then left her to get undressed.

  She stripped off her clothes and sank into the water with a sigh, dropping lower until she was covered to her chin. She thought about the last twenty-four hours, about Alain and his father and all the other people who would be at risk if the virus were unleashed. She was here in this lovely bath in this lovely town, and somewhere out there someone was plotting to kill millions of innocent people for reasons they hadn’t yet deciphered.

  It felt crazy, and she had the sudden urge to step out of the tub, throw her clothes back on, take the next step in finding out who was behind it all. Sleeping seemed like a sacrilege under the circumstances.

  But she already knew Farrell wouldn’t allow it. He knew her limits — and his own — better than anyone. They’d been up all night, had driven nearly five hours across France. They needed sleep and proper food. Only then would Farrell make his next move.

  It brought her comfort. He knew what he was doing. He always knew what he was doing. He would listen to her. He would consider her advice. But she never had to worry about the weight of being wrong, because he would always do what he thought was best.

  And he would nearly always be right.

  She sighed and closed her eyes, ran her hand down her belly, imagined it was Farrell’s hand as it snaked between her thighs.

  “Starting without me?”

  The sound broke her from her reverie and she yanked her hand back with a splash, her cheeks burning. “Only because you’re not here.”

  His chuckle had a dirty little edge to it, and a needle of desire shot through her sex as he stalked toward the tub. “I’m always here, Jenna.”

  He reached into the water and lifted her, dripping, into his arms as she squealed. “You’re going to get wet!”

  He held her against his body as he carried her into the bedroom, then dropped her onto the bed. He smiled as he pulled off his shirt, and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the perfect chest, the big arms that knew both how to hurt a man and how to hold her and Lily so tenderly.

  “You’ve got that wrong,” he said, unbuttoning his pants. “You’re the one who’s going to get wet.”

  A few seconds, he pounced on her, his mouth closing on hers. And he was right.

  She did get wet.

  Twelve

  Eight hours later, they were sitting outside a small cafe in the heart of the city. Farrell had taken her fast and hard, and she’d fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep. It was afternoon when she opened her eyes, a lovely golden light flooding the room as if filtered through the white grapes that had made Arbois a haven for wine lovers. She hadn’t been surprised to find Farrell sitting at the small writing table, laptop open, jaw set in concentration. The man seemed to need no sleep at all. Half the time she thought he got into bed with her only to make sure she slept. She would wake to find him dressed as if he hadn’t slept at all, watching her or working or on the phone with Leo.

  She watched as he ordered food for both of them — salads with smoked local ham, boiled eggs, and walnuts, and smoked pork with potatoes and mustard sauce — along with two glasses of vin juane, one of the region’s most celebrated wines. He was as beautiful as ever in a white shirt unbuttoned just enough to give her a peek at the smooth chest she’d licked hours before, and his eyes were shielded by aviators that made him seem all the more enigmatic. Would she ever really know him? Would he ever allow it? She hoped so.

  She wanted to know him. Really know him.

  Wanted to give him a place to lay down the burden of his rage at the world.

  She swallowed against the tenderness rising in her throat. She loved him. Truly. Deeply. Madly. She’d wasted so much time fighting it, and she hated herself for every moment she’d ever spent away from his side.

  “Something on your mind, love?”

  She smiled. “You’re the one who was working while you were supposed to be sleeping.”

  His laughter sent a vibration of pleasure through her chest. “I slept.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  The waiter came back with their wine, and they clinked glasses, then lifted them to their lips. Jenna took a drink, delighting in the nutty, almost heavy taste of it.

  “Mmmmm. That's good,” she said.

  He nodded his approval. “It is.”

  She leaned back in her chair, letting her eyes roam the picturesque street as the wine seeped into her bloodstream, warming her skin, loosening the tension that was still riding in her shoulders after the break-in at CBT the night before. It was a bucolic little town, the buildings made of stone that had probably been queried in the Jura valley hundreds of years before. Many of the windows were dotted with flower boxes, their conte
nts spilling over like an Impressionist painting, and the street still retained its old cobblestone. It would have been nice to visit under different circumstances. To walk the streets hand in hand, ducking into the little wineries and patisseries, strolling the fields that hugged the town like a warm embrace.

  But that’s not why they were here. She turned her attention back to Farrell.

  “Tell me.” He lifted an eyebrow, and she continued. “We both know that while I slept, you investigated H. Chevalier and the vineyard that was the source of the IP address Alain found.”

  “Alleged source,” Farrell corrected her. “Like Alain said, it’s possible there are more layers to the onion. The vineyard is just the last layer we were able to find.”

  “Okay, alleged source. Now what did you find?”

  He smiled. “La Maison des Chevalier is registered as belonging to H. Chevalier.”

  “No first name?” Jenna asked.

  “None that I could find. In fact, I couldn’t find much on him at all, but the vineyard’s Chardonnay won an award at Concours General last year.”

  “And that is?”

  “It’s a respected wine competition. Goes all the way back to the 1800s.”

  She smiled, somehow not surprised he would know about something most people would consider obscure. “And award winning wine made by a reclusive vintner? Sounds interesting.”

  "I thought so, too,” Farrell said. “Although I suppose it’s not that crazy. Most likely the vineyard’s day-to-day operation are run by staff. It wouldn’t be difficult to stay behind the scenes.”

  “Okay, what else?” she asked.

  “Nothing else.”

  He leaned back in his seat, his posture that perfect mix of slouchy and alert that was uniquely Farrell. It was the posture of someone so confident in his physicality, he wore it like a second skin. The posture of someone who could go from zero to I’m-going-to-kill-you-with-my-bare-hands in under five seconds. The knowledge sent a storm of lust through her body, and she was immediately ashamed. What was happening to her?

  “Nothing?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Isn’t that… odd?”

  “I think odd is a good word for it, although to be honest, I’m looking at it from the perspective of someone who actually lives in the modern world.” He looked up, scanned the stone buildings that surrounded them on the quaint little street. “Maybe it’s still possible to live your whole life off the record in a place like this.”

  His tone was more musing than convinced. Jenna didn’t think he believed it any more than she did. Which meant that H. Chevalier was a wildcard.

  He returned his eyes to her. “At least I didn’t find any obvious ties between the vineyard and Bernard Morse, Alex Petrov, or Adam.”

  She looked for a flicker of emotion when he mentioned the best friend he’d shot in Cornwall. The best friend he’d killed to protect Jenna and Lily. His expression remained unreadable.

  She nodded. “That’s good, I suppose.”

  The waiter returned with their salad, then left them to enjoy it. Jenna picked up her fork, took a bite of smokey ham and greens.

  “What now?” she asked.

  Farrell dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, and she had the sudden image of his lips clamped around her breasts, his body between her thighs. It was only a flash, but it was enough to send a swell of moisture between her legs.

  “It turns out The House of Chevalier offers wine tastings,” he said.

  She smiled. “Is that right?”

  “It is.” He took a bite of the pork on his plate, finished chewing, then continued. “And they’re open until seven.”

  “What will we learn by showing up and pretending to be wine connoisseurs?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it seems like a better opening move than asking to see the proprietor and then interrogating them about why his vineyard is the source of a wire transfer used to fund research on a deadly bioweapon.”

  “Point taken.”

  “So… more wine?” he asked, lifting his glass.

  She touched her glass to his. “More wine it is.”

  Thirteen

  Farrell navigated the Saab away from the center of town, wishing they had come to Arbois for another reason. He and Jenna had never been away together, he realized. The closest they’d come had been the twenty-four hours they’d spent in Madrid before all hell broke loose.

  And it hadn’t exactly been relaxing since then.

  He wanted to lay next to her on a beach somewhere. Wanted to make love to her with the smell of the ocean and suntan lotion on her skin, to sit across a table from her in a place scented with coconuts and sand. He wanted to bring her to a town like Arbois for no other reason than to walk the streets with her hand in his, to laugh over glasses of wine, to sleep late and fuck her senseless in the morning with nothing more on the itinerary than more hours of the same.

  It would have to wait, but when this was over, he would give her all of that and more. He wasn’t like Nico Vitale. He would never turn away from his business, from the life of savagery to which he belonged. But he would treat Jenna like a queen, would give her everything her heart desired, including the safety for Lily she valued so highly. He would show her the world. Maybe even visit Nico on that isolated beach where he’d been living with Angel and their daughter since the fall of the Syndicate. He vowed to make it happen, to get them to the other side of the conspiracy that had stolen their life, their daughter.

  They left behind the stone buildings of the city for the verdant fields that criss-crossed the region. Farrell looked over at Jenna, her hand out the window, riding the cool breeze that blew in off the vines. His heart caught in his throat at the sight of her. She looked like she’d been poured into the slim fitting black trousers she wore with boots, and the green sweater she wore made her eyes look like shimmery chips of emerald. Her hair, lit gold and bronze by the setting sun, blew around her face like strips of silk let loose in the wind. Her lips were turned up into a faint smile, but he resisted the urge to ask what she was thinking. She was happy, and he didn’t want to steal even a moment of it from her.

  By the time they reached La Maison des Chevalier, the sun had sunk lower in the sky. They followed the GPS and turned up a gravel driveway that wound around a series of fields lined with neat rows of grape vines. After about half a mile, trees appeared at the sides of the drive, casting the car in shadow as they continued toward a large stone building beyond the circular driveway. According to the information Farrell found online, the vineyard was two hundred acres, including the main house and tasting room, a separate barn and pressing room, a small bottling facility, and a cellar that held the barrels of fermenting grapes.

  The place looked deserted, and he parked in a small turnout and turned off the car, then surveyed the building in front of them through the windshield. He was trying to shake the feeling of dread that had lodged itself like a stone in his stomach. It was a beautiful property, but he had the sudden feeling that they shouldn’t be here. That he should turn the car around and go back to Arbois. Rethink their strategy, or at the very least get Jenna somewhere safe while he came back to investigate.

  He discarded all the possibilities almost immediately. They’d been in Paris for nearly two months. This was it — their one clue. He still didn’t know who was behind the bioweapon, but he had the distinct feeling that the clock was ticking to find them and stop the havoc that would ensue if they were allowed to disperse the virus on an innocent population.

  And Jenna wouldn’t be as safe anywhere as she would be with him. That was even more true now than it would be under normal circumstances, and he believed completely that it was true then, too.

  This was it. It was probably nothing. Most likely, the funds that had been transferred through CBT originated somewhere other than the Chevalier winery. Like most of the remaining bosses, he kept coders and hackers on staff to keep tabs on the Darknet that was n
ow part of business for organized crime all over the world. It wasn’t his specialty, but he knew enough to know it was possible to hide an IP’s origin under layer upon layer of shadow. This was probably just another layer, but they had to rule it out before they could leave Arbois.

  “Looks empty,” he finally said.

  Jenna’s eyes were on the main house. “It does.”

  He looked at her. “Shall we?”

  “I was promised more wine.”

  They made their way toward the house, then followed a series of small wooden signs pointing them to the Salle de Dégustation. Under the French word, it was written in English: TASTING ROOM.

  The path led around the side of the building, past a series of lush gardens just beginning to fade. They wound around the back of the house and emerged onto an expansive stone terrace overlooking the fields. The air was cool and heavy, the smell of fermenting grapes like the lingering scent of a woman’s perfume. It was fall now, and the vines looked barren without the fruit that had probably only recently been plucked from the plants lined up like soldiers in the distance.

  “Pretty,” Jenna said.

  Farrell nodded, then turned his attention to the two wooden doors that stood open under a sign that read BIENVENUE.

  WELCOME.

  He looked around for some kind of attendant, then led Jenna inside.

  The room was dark and cool, with stone floors and walls that made it feel more like a cave than a famous winery. A large fireplace reached almost to the ceiling, a fire burning low and warm from inside the hearth. On the opposite wall, a long, wooden counter stretched from one end of the room to the other, separated from the fireplace by a handful of bistro tables. Beyond the counter, a doorway seemed to lead back under the house.