“What do you know that’s not for sure?” she asked.
He turned away, walked to the window, his eyes focused on something outside. “There is some chatter,” he said. “We’ve picked it up through the cyber lab, on the streets through some of our informants.”
“What kind of chatter?” she asked.
He seemed to hesitate, then turned to meet her eyes. “We think we know where he is.”
Something lifted inside her, like an anvil being raised off her chest. “Then what are you waiting for?”
4
Christophe opened his eyes with a start, lifting his head and looking around the room. He’d been dreaming of Charlotte, and he clung to the image of her face as it began to dissipate from his waking mind.
They’d been walking through the fields in Corsica, the breeze fragrant with lavender and the sea. They didn’t speak, but he’d felt her presence so completely, her grace filling him up as she folded her hand in his. He’d just turned to kiss her, had been tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear, trailing his knuckles along the smooth skin of her cheek, when he woke.
He closed his eyes, willing himself back into the dream. He had no idea how long he’d been in the room, but it seemed like an eternity. He fought daily against the possibility that he had been forgotten. That Julien and the others thought he was already dead. Charlotte was his only respite from the cold grayness of the room that had been his home since they’d thrown him into it after ambushing him on the street.
He replayed the scene for the hundredth time, trying to imagine a different outcome, one in which he’d been able to fight off all five of the men. One in which he’d been able to escape. To meet Charlotte when she arrived in Paris. To take her to bed and hold her close against his unbruised body.
But there hadn’t been a way out of it. Not without Julien or anyone else to back him up. Four men? Maybe. It was the fifth that had made it impossible. That and his lack of a bodyguard, which was probably why they hadn’t taken Farrell, too. Still, he didn’t regret leaving Julien in L.A. with Charlotte.
He knew now what it meant to love someone more than himself.
He silently cursed his brother. Fucking Bruno. He hadn’t been there when Christophe had been taken, but there was no doubt in his mind that his brother was still working for Raneiro Donati. That he knew Raneiro was keeping Christophe prisoner.
His previous sins had been unforgivable, his move to harm Charlotte the final straw in their relationship. But this — taking Donati’s side over his own blood, keeping Christophe from Charlotte — this would be punishable by death.
He turned his attention to his body, cataloging his injuries. So far he had all his fingers and toes, although Rudy had taken a hammer to his thumbs the last time he’d been in the room. He could still see out of his swollen eyes, and he’d almost grown accustomed to the tightness of the skin on his face after each new beating. He was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, and he’d long since stopped noticing the various sore spots when he moved. It was only when they came for him again that he winced against the coming onslaught against his already ravaged body. He was sure he smelled — he hadn’t been allowed a shower and was only taken to the bathroom twice a day under heavy guard — but he could no longer smell anything but the damp in the room.
He closed his eyes, wondering what Charlotte was doing right this moment. Had she gone back to L.A. when she hadn’t been able to reach him? He hoped so. She would be safer there, although he assumed Julien would keep her protected either way. He hoped she was able to get back the little house in Malibu. That she was walking on the beach, looking out across the water, forgiving him for not being in Paris when she arrived.
For not showing up.
Most of all he hoped Julien had kept his word. That he hadn’t told Charlotte he was missing. He didn’t want her further drawn into the ugliness of his world. It was one thing when he had been there to shelter her from it. When he could protect her. Love complicated matters in their business — but it was possible to sustain when you had the time and resources to prepare for every eventuality. He knew Farrell had made extensive preparations for Jenna and their daughter Lily. That they would be safe and well cared for if something happened to him. He assumed Luca had done the same for Isabel and her little sister.
And Nico. God help anyone who came for Angel.
Christophe hadn’t had time to do any of it. He’d barely arrived back in Paris when he’d been surprised by Raneiro’s men. He’d only had time to issue instructions to Julien about how to manage Charlotte if something should happen to him.
But it had been precautionary. Less a result of any credible threat against him and more an acknowledgement that his business — his life — was inherently dangerous. There was no financial provision. He hadn’t even had time to write a letter for Julien to give her in the event of his death.
The unrealized plans caused a rallying surge of anger inside him, and he forced his eyes open, surveyed the room for what felt like the thousandth time. Planning his movements for when Julien and the others came for him.
And they would.
They were competitors, but in a strange kind of way they were brothers, too. They would come for him, and when they did, he would be ready.
He heard Rudy’s footsteps approaching his room. Metal scraped against metal, the lock retracting as he inserted the key, and a moment later the steel door swung open. He was backlit by the light in the hall, but it didn’t prevent Christophe from seeing the hammer in his hand. Christophe’s fingers throbbed in anticipation.
He lifted his head, grinning through his swollen lips. When the time came, he would kill this one first.
5
Charlotte slid on her coat and picked up her bag, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
“Where are you off to?” Joelle asked.
Charlotte composed her features and turned to face the other woman. “Meeting a friend for dinner.”
Joelle lifted her eyebrows and grinned wickedly. “A friend?”
Charlotte shook her head. “A female friend.”
Joelle’s expression softened, and she set down the cloth she’d been using to rub an Art Deco curio cabinet and slid up onto the worktable. “In my experience — and I have a lot of it in this department — the best way to forget one guy is to find a new one.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I’m not ready for that yet.”
She’d told Joelle about her time with Christophe, leaving out the parts about the stolen cross that had brought them together, the threats to their lives, the fact that Christophe was a criminal. But she’d stopped short of telling Joelle about Christophe's disappearance. To do that she would have to tell the truth about his business, and then she’d have to explain why she didn’t care. Why she loved him anyway. She didn’t have the energy for it. Not right now when she was struggling to get through every hour, wondering where he was, if he was hurt or worse, if Farrell and the others would be able to find him.
“Is there anything I can do?” Joelle asked.
The question made Charlotte smile. Joelle was two inches shorter than Charlotte and sporting a magenta pixie after growing tired of an electric blue bob. She was like a tiny manic fairy, always moving and always talking. She could almost always get Charlotte to crack a smile — even now — which was all the more reason to keep her out of the situation with Christophe.
“No, but thank you,” Charlotte said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Will you at least let me get you drunk this weekend?” Joelle asked.
“We’ll see.” God willing, the raid Farrell and the other men had planned for tonight would be successful and Christophe would be back by then. She would have to come up with a story for Joelle about the sudden turn of events, but she would happily do it if it meant having him back safe and sound. “Can you lock up when you leave?”
“You got it,” Joelle said, sliding off the table and leaning toward the curio cabinet. She was already los
t in her work by the time Charlotte left the room.
She made her way through the overflow room, then through the showroom. When she’d first arrived back in Paris, she’d thought it had been a mistake. She’d been sure Christophe had abandoned her, and his ghost had been around every corner, in every piece of furniture and work of art that was brought into the shop. She’d been assaulted by images of him — his eyes full of emotion as he moved over her naked body, the way he’d looked as he navigated the boat through the crystalline waters off Bermuda, the hope in his eyes at the airport in L.A.
Now she was glad she was here. Was glad she’d gone to Saint-Germain again as if propelled by some primal instinct.
As if she knew something was wrong.
She stepped onto the street, her eyes drawn to the man on the corner. He nodded, and she turned toward the subway station that would take her to the house in Saint-Germain. Farrell didn’t like her taking the tube — had said Christophe wouldn’t like it either — but everyone agreed she had to keep to her routine. She couldn’t be seen getting into a car when she’d been walking the city on foot and taking the subway for over a month. They had no way of knowing if Raneiro knew she was important to Christophe, but she’d been safe so far, and that led Farrell to believe they either didn’t know, or they weren’t sure enough to make a move.
Luca had suggested she go back to L.A., or even New York where his girlfriend was under guard with her little sister. Charlotte had immediately vetoed the idea. She belonged here. She would be the first thing Christophe saw when he came home.
And he would come home, she told herself. They would find him tonight, in the abandoned warehouse where he was rumored to be held. He would be back in her arms in just a few hours.
She would be waiting. She would always be waiting.
6
She approached the house through the alley, inserting the key Julien had given her into the lock on the iron gate. They’d arranged for her to enter and exit the house through the back entrance, not wanting to tip off anyone that she was important enough to be allowed access to Christophe’s private residence. Jean-Luc, the man following her, had her cell phone number and would call if he spotted another tail, alerting her to an alternate route. It had only been three days since she’d found out Christophe had been kidnapped, and so far she’d been in the clear.
She closed the gate behind her and caught a glimpse of her tail as he made his way to the front entrance. There were other men there. Other bodyguards. But Julien had explained that they were expected. Raneiro was undoubtedly watching the house, trying to gauge the potential response from Farrell and the others. They’d made a point of keeping their movements cryptic surrounding Christophe’s rescue, and an elaborate plan was in place to ditch Raneiro’s men on their way to the warehouse where they believed he was being held.
She made her way through the lavish garden and up the terrace steps at the back of the house. The sun had nearly disappeared beyond the city’s horizon, and the sky was dark, the bitter air seeping through her coat as she approached the French doors off the kitchen. She knocked, then peered through the glass. She was surprised to see a woman make her way toward the door. A moment later it opened to reveal a tall, leggy brunette.
“You must be Charlotte,” the woman said with a crisp British accent. She opened the door wider. “Come in out of the cold.”
Charlotte hesitated, then stepped into the welcoming warmth of the house. She felt suddenly out of place, like she was a guest in the house she’d come to think of as an extension of Christophe.
“I’ll put on some tea.” The woman smiled, a slight gap between her front teeth making her seem youthful and endearing. “You must be freezing.”
Charlotte moved farther into the kitchen, her gaze traveling to the hallway. Where was Farrell and Luca? Where were the other men that had been planning Christophe’s rescue for the last three days?
She looked back at the woman. “I’m sorry… Who are you?”
“I take it Farrell didn’t tell you I would be here?”
Charlotte shook her head, and the woman laughed. “Typical!” She set the kettle to boil on the big stovetop and came around the kitchen island. She held out a hand. “I’m Jenna Carver. Farrell thought you could use some company tonight.”
Charlotte shook her hand. “Are you…”
“Farrell’s wife?” Jenna asked. “Not officially, though I suppose you could say it’s as good as done.”
So this was her — the woman who had tamed the ferocious Farrell Black. The mother of his child. Charlotte couldn’t help being surprised that the beautiful, refined-looking woman in front of her could manage such a task.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Charlotte said, unbuttoning her coat. “Where is Farrell?”
Jenna waved in the direction of the hall. “Preparing with the others. They’ve gone over the plan more times than I can count and have inventoried their weapons at least as many times, but I think it’s a kind of bonding ritual for them.”
“Should I…?” Charlotte began.
“Oh, no!” Jenna said. “You’re under enough stress right now. Listening to their plans will only make you worry more. They have it well in hand.” She removed the whistling kettle from the stove and poured hot water into two cups. “I think you need a nice cup of tea.”
Charlotte would have preferred coffee, but Jenna was probably right; tea would be more calming for her nerves.
Jenna handed one of the cups to Charlotte and picked up the other one. “Let’s take these into that lovely room in the front. The one with the beautiful mural.”
“It’s a Hiler," Charlotte said automatically.
Jenna lifted an elegant brow. “A Hiler?”
Charlotte laughed nervously. “I’m sorry. It’s a bad habit. I was a curatorial assistant at the Getty. I sometimes blurt out random things about art.”
Jenna smiled, her eyes crinkling a little at the edges. “How lovely. You’ll have to tell me about this Hiler. I’m afraid I’m woefully under-cultured. Too much time working for the mob and raising a child whose biggest passion is feeding goats.”
Charlotte was still picking apart the statement when she followed Jenna into the hall. She worked for the mob? Was that how she and Farrell had met? Despite her self-deprecating humor, she seemed far too cultured to work for a crime syndicate. What had she done for them? What did she do now?
Charlotte felt a pang of longing as they passed the closed door of Christophe’s study. She’d spent many hours there in the three days since she’d found out he’d been kidnapped. It was where she sensed his presence most strongly, and while she sometimes fell onto his bed upstairs, breathing in the scent of him, she always returned to the study where he spent most of his time. It was there among the antiques and books, the papers still on his desk, his Mont Blanc pen on top of them, that she was most sure he was alive. Even without him, the room vibrated with his singular presence.
They entered the parlor and situated themselves on the sofa. Charlotte had a flash of Christophe the morning she’d asked for his help with the ring. He’d sat right here, right where she was sitting now, looking at her with hungry eyes while she explained her discovery of the piece that would ultimately bring them together.
“Tell me how you’re feeling,” Jenna said. “You must be terribly anxious.”
Charlotte nodded. “I just… I hope he’s alive.”
Jenna looked surprised. She reached out, squeezed Charlotte’s free hand. “Of course he’s alive.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Because Farrell wouldn’t go after him if he wasn’t. He’s not sentimental enough — not about things like this — to risk the lives of other men to bring back a dead body.” Charlotte winced, and Jenna’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. It’s meant to offer you comfort. And it’s true. They wouldn’t be going tonight if they weren’t very sure Christophe was alive.”
Relief washed over Charlotte. He was ali
ve.
He was alive.
“Will they be able to get him out?” she asked.
Jenna took a sip of her tea. “If they can’t, no one can.” Charlotte stared at her, trying to read between the lines of her words, and she continued. “I don’t mean to be flip. But there’s no one I would trust more in this situation. No one. Farrell takes these things personally. And as much as I hate to say it, he enjoys doing it.”
“Why do you hate to say it?” Charlotte asked. “I’m sorry. That’s very personal, isn’t it?”
Jenna smiled. “It’s all right. We’re family of a sort now.” She looked down at her tea, her expression growing contemplative. “It took me a long time to reconcile Farrell’s business with my own morality. It took me even longer to reconcile his innermost self, the fact that he needs violence to feel whole. That it’s a kind of therapy for him. Not a very productive one, I know. But there you have it.”
Shame colored Charlotte’s cheeks. Moral compunction had never been an overriding concern for her as it related to Christophe. She’d simply wanted him. She hadn’t cared what it meant for her morality.
She still didn’t.
“Does that surprise you?” Jenna asked.
Charlotte shook her head. “I was just thinking that you’re a better person than me. I never gave much thought to Christophe’s business. To what it meant for anyone else in his path. I never cared.”
Jenna laughed. “Love will do that to you. Our daughter made the question more complex, but the truth is, I don’t care much now either. Farrell has proven time and again that he’ll move mountains to keep us safe. It’s become the only thing I care about. I try to do good where I can to make up for the other side of his life — volunteer on several charitable boards, donate money — but I’m under no illusion that it excuses my willingness to overlook that side of him. The truth is, I don’t have a choice.” She shrugged. “I love him. I belong with him. The rest are details I manage.”
Rule: Paris Mob Book Three Page 2