Charlotte nodded, her mind swirling with this new look into the lifestyle led by Christophe’s colleagues and their families.
“There you are.”
Charlotte looked up as Farrell stepped through the door, marveling that so large a man could approach so quietly. He crossed the room and bent to give Jenna a kiss. His entire expression changed when he looked at her, and Charlotte felt suddenly voyeuristic, like she was seeing something she shouldn’t be seeing.
He turned his attention to Charlotte. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Ready for this to be over.”
“That’s understandable. I thought it might be comforting for you to have some company.”
She smiled. “I appreciate that.” She glanced at Jenna. “I hope I’m not taking you away from your daughter.”
Jenna laughed. “It’s a welcome respite. I love the little beast, but I’ll never turn down a chance to come to Paris, even for a day.”
“Do you live in London?” Charlotte asked.
“For now,” Jenna said.
There was something cryptic in her voice, but Charlotte didn’t have time to read between the lines.
“We’re heading out,” he said. “I’m leaving four men with you — two out front, two in back.” He reached behind him and withdrew a gun, then handed it to Jenna. She took it without hesitation, and Charlotte marveled that it looked perfectly natural in her hands. That she looked more than capable of using it. “Keep this with you anyway, just in case.”
Jenna nodded, setting the gun on the table next to the sofa. “We’ll be fine.”
Farrell looked at Charlotte. “We’ll bring him home.”
For the first time, she really believed it.
7
Christophe was in Bermuda when the first gunshots rang out. He’d been thinking about the night he’d made love to Charlotte on the beach. The way her skin had looked like porcelain in the moonlight, the taste of salt on her nipples when he’d taken them in his mouth.
He had gotten used to sleeping in his chair, living in the twilight state he occupied more often than not since he’d been kidnapped. He wasn’t asleep. Not exactly. But he wasn’t totally conscious either. The gunshots had pulled him from the memory, and he was suddenly back in the dank gray room, the smell of his own sweat mingling with the damp that permeated everything around him.
He forced himself to concentrate, to ignore the throbbing of his swollen hands, the dull ache around his eyes from the bruises that never had time to heal before the man named Rudy started in on him again.
It was suddenly quiet, and he wondered if he had imagined the noise. He’d barely considered the possibility when a volley of gunfire erupted outside the room. He sat up straighter, listening to the exchange, trying to isolate how many men were on each side.
Seven on five? Maybe seven on six?
He pulled against the zip ties wrapped around his hands behind his back. They were as tight as ever, and he quickly turned his attention to the room. He’d dreamt of this moment, imagined it countless times. Now all he could do was listen.
Listen and wait.
There was a scurry of feet outside the door to his room, and he had a moment of panic when he wondered if they would move him. If they would get him out of the room before anyone could come for him. How long would it take to get back to Charlotte then?
He breathed a sigh of relief as the footsteps scurried past his door. They didn’t have enough men to move him. He’d counted five during his captivity — Rudy and an assortment of others who took him to the restroom and brought him food in between Rudy’s beatings. It told him that he was a low-level concern for Raneiro. That he had other plans in the works for rebuilding the Syndicate with the territories currently controlled by Christophe, Farrell, and the others.
Christophe was already looking forward to the moment when Raneiro would realize his mistake.
Another round of gunfire erupted outside the room, this time closer. It was followed by shouting, then a crash of metal on metal. Footsteps shuffled outside the door, a shadow darkening the sliver of light leaking through the crack at the bottom.
Frustration welled up inside of him. He couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t move. He was as helpless as he had ever been, and he pulled against his restraints again, trying to break the zip ties through sheer force of will. The warm spread of blood leaked onto his wrists as he roared his anger.
He stopped as more gunfire sounded, this time in the hall outside his room, the explosion ringing through his ears and bouncing off the metal walls that had long made him believe he was in some kind of industrial building or shipping container.
Now the volley was more sporadic. Two or three shots, a pause, one or two more rounds.
A gunfight between two people outside his room.
He waited, listening, nearly holding his breath in anticipation.
Shots rang out again, and this time when it grew quiet he heard someone running down the hall, making their way toward his room. A single shot was fired. It was followed by the sound of collision — an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. He heard a grunt, and then the wet thwack of fists on meat, the occasional crack of a foot connecting with bone, a continuous assault against a human body that was all too familiar.
Farrell.
Adrenaline flooded Christophe’s body, impossible to assuage tied to the chair. He wanted to tear free, push his way into the hall, release the fury that had been building in him since the day they’d taken him on the street.
He looked up, eyes on the door as shots sounded from outside the room. They were followed by a fleshy collision with the floor.
Then, voices.
The door, flying open so hard it tilted on its hinges.
A massive figure standing in the doorway, blocking out the weak light seeping into the room.
“Marchand?”
It was Farrell.
“Yes,” he croaked. “It’s me. Get me the fuck out of here.”
Farrell advanced into the room, recoiling from the smell. “Jesus,” he said, pulling a knife from his belt. “They don’t have showers in this place?”
“I asked for the seaweed wrap and massage, but they denied me that, too,” Christophe said as Farrell cut him free.
“Uncivilized bastards,” Farrell said, helping him to his feet.
He hated leaning on the other man. Hated needing him. Hated that he’d had to wait to be rescued like a damsel in distress.
“Where is everyone else?” he asked as they shuffled toward the door.
“Holding down the fort,” Farrell said, helping him step around the body lying prone near the doorway.
“Wait,” Christophe said, tipping his head to get a better look at the man on the floor.
It was Rudy. His tormentor.
And he was blinking.
“He’s alive,” Christophe said.
Farrell handed him a gun. “Make it quick.”
Christophe took hold of the gun, wrapped his swollen fingers around the trigger as he looked down at the man on the floor. His eyes were cold, his expression impassive. Christophe didn’t feel a moment’s guilt or mercy as he pulled the trigger.
The sound echoed through the narrow hall as a hole opened up in the center of Rudy’s forehead, blood seeping neatly over his skin.
Christophe handed the gun back to Farrell. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
8
Jenna paced the parlor for what felt like the hundredth time, marking her path from the sofa to the window and back again.
“What’s taking them so long?” she asked as Jenna returned with a fresh pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches.
Jenna set down the teapot. “These things take time. I’m sure they’ll back soon.”
It had been three hours since Farrell and the others left, purposefully trickling out the front of the house in pairs to avoid the impression of a coordinated operation should Raneiro Donati’s men be
watching the house in Saint-Germain.
“It’s interminable,” Charlotte said.
They’d spent the first hour talking to pass the time. Jenna had told Charlotte how she’d met Farrell, how she’d left London when she found out she was pregnant with Lily, their daughter. The Syndicate had already collapsed, Nico Vitale long gone with the woman who had precipitated the end of it, when Jenna returned to London for her father’s funeral. To hear her tell it, there had been no hope of her denying her feelings for Farrell. Even after they’d been mixed up in some vaguely worded incident that had made them fugitives, forcing them on the run, away from their daughter, Jenna had known it was pointless to fight her feelings for the man who would happily kill anyone who tried to hurt her.
Charlotte immediately understood. The story held shades of the same inevitability she’d felt since she met Christophe. The same sense of destiny that seemed to be at work in bringing them together. They’d been separated by Bruno’s attempt at killing Charlotte, by the kidnapping of Christophe.
And yet here she was, waiting for him to return, just like Jenna was waiting for Farrell. Charlotte knew now that she would always wait. That she would do whatever she had to in order to be with him.
Jenna held out the plate of sandwiches. “You should try to eat something.”
Charlotte shook her head. “ I couldn’t.”
Jenna set down the plate. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Charlotte drew in a breath. “You’ve been lovely. I’m sorry. I feel like I can’t breathe.”
“I understand. I - ”
Jenna stopped talking as the sound of the back door opening made it’s way to the parlor. They froze, looking at each other as voices moved into the house.
Then Charlotte was moving for the hall.
Jenna caught her hand. “Maybe we should wait.”
Charlotte pulled her hand away. “I’m not waiting.”
She hurried into the hall and was met with the wall of Farrell’s torso. He took her gently by the shoulder.
“He’s okay.”
“Where is he?” Charlotte tried to see around him.
“He needs a shower,” Farrell said. “Give him some time to clean up.”
She shook her head. Was he crazy? Christophe needed her.
Now more than ever.
She slipped around him. “Christophe!” She hurried down the hall toward the back door.
“He’s upstairs,” Farrell said, resignation heavy in his voice.
She headed for the back staircase off the kitchen. The stairs were narrow here, winding upward in what had probably once been a servant’s staircase. She emerged into the upstairs hall, the walls painted a deep purple over the thick moldings, and hurried past several guest bedrooms on her way to the lavish master suite near the front staircase. Her gaze went past the giant four-poster bed to the half-open door leading to the bathroom, the sound of running water leaking into the bedroom.
She walked slowly toward it, half-afraid of what she would find there. Was he really all right? Would he be happy to see her or had Farrell been right? Was it better to give him time alone?
She had to know. If he didn’t want her there, she would leave. But she had to know he was okay, and she had to make sure he knew she was there if he needed her.
“Christophe?” She pushed open the bathroom door. The shower was empty but running, steam rising into the room, swirling in the air like smoke. She looked for the only thing that mattered.
Him.
He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his head in his hands. Even from the door she could see that his shirt was torn and stained, his fingers bruised and swollen in his hair.
She walked slowly toward him, her heart beating faster when he didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge her. Sinking to the floor in front of him, she lifted her hands tenderly to his face.
He didn’t move, and she held still, giving him time to adjust to her presence. She had no idea how long he’d been held prisoner. No idea what they’d done to him. But she was surprised to feel something new moving beneath her skin. Something dark and dangerous.
Fury.
She wanted to hurt the people who had done this to him. She wanted to see them dead.
He looked up slowly, his battered face revealing itself an inch at a time. When he was finally looking into her eyes, it wasn’t the bruises she saw, not the split lip or black eye. She had a flash of him on the beach in Bermuda. The memory of him saying he saw past her to her soul.
That’s what she saw in him now. His soul.
He reached out, cradled her head in his hands. “Is it you?”
“It’s me.”
He swallowed, licked his lips. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “What on earth are you sorry for?”
“I wasn't here.” His voice was hoarse, and she wondered how long it had been since he’d really talked to someone. “I wasn’t waiting for you.”
She kissed him carefully on the cheek. “It doesn’t matter. I was waiting for you.” She stood. “Come on, darling. Let’s get you into the shower.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want you to see me this way.”
She bent down, looking him in the eye. “I want to see you every way. Now lift.”
He hesitated, then winced as he lifted his arms. She carefully pulled the filthy shirt from his body and tossed it aside, then took his hands to help him to his feet.
He rose, and she unbuttoned his jeans and slid them from his hips along with his underwear. He’d lost weight since she’d last seen him, but she was relieved to see that he was still muscled and substantial. Relieved they hadn’t taken his strength along with his dignity.
She took his hand, led him to the shower. He hesitated in front of it, and she quickly removed her clothes, then stepped under the warm spray and lifted her hand. He took it and stepped in after her.
Standing back from the spray, she gently maneuvered him under the water. For a long moment he simply looked down at her, the water spilling over his hair, dripping onto his face. She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face to his chest. A few seconds later his arms came around her body, strong and sure as ever. She didn’t know how long they stood there, the beat of Christophe’s heart under her ear, before she finally stepped back.
She handed him shampoo, and he went to work on his hair, grimacing as he lifted his arms over his head. It was difficult not to stare at the patchwork of cuts and bruises on his body. Difficult not to step from the shower, dress, flee onto the streets of Paris in search of the men who did this to him.
It wouldn’t do any good. She knew it intellectually, but that didn’t stem the tide of purpose urging her to move. To act. To damage the way he’d been damaged. To hurt the way he’d been hurt.
She turned her attention to him instead. He washed his hair twice more, and she picked up the soap and lathered it in her palms before pressing her hands against his chest.
“Does this hurt?” she asked as she moved gingerly over his bruised flesh.
“No.”
His voice was gruff, heavy with either pain or emotion. She spread the soap over his body, picking it up time and again, rubbing her soapy hands over his still-muscled chest, the strong arms that she knew had been bound from the red cuts around his wrists, his strong hips. She knelt in front of him to lather his thighs, leaner but still sculpted from the finest marble.
She ignored his cock, rigid in front of her, trying to see it as an extension of the body that needed not sex, but loving care. He’d been alone far too long. The physical response was natural, but not what he needed from her.
When she was done, she stood, replacing the soap, using her hands to wipe him clean as the water washed over him, the soap swirling down the drain at the center of the giant tiled shower.
When he was clean, she turned off the water. “Wait here.”
She stepped from the shower and pulled a thick towel off the shelf again
st the wall. She wrapped it quickly around her body, then grabbed another one.
“Come, my love.”
He stepped from the shower, following her instructions like a child. She dried him carefully, avoiding his wounds. When she was done, she dropped the towel on the floor and took his hand.
“I want to brush my teeth,” he said.
She nodded. “I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
She left him alone and crossed the vast master bedroom to the bureau against one wall. She found underwear and a pair of sweatpants, socks and a soft T-shirt. She was setting them on the edge of the bed when he turned off the light in the bathroom.
“I found you some things to wear,” she said. “They should be soft against your skin.”
He captured her hand, looked into her eyes. “The only thing I want against my skin is you.”
She hesitated, then nodded, dropping her towel to the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed and lay back, lifting her arms to him. “Then let me feel you.”
9
He unfastened the towel, then sat next to her, testing the bed’s weight as if the feel of it was foreign. As if he didn’t trust it. A moment later he leaned slowly back, sinking into the big pillow with a sigh.
“Come here,” he said, opening his arm to her.
She scooted in, careful not to lean too heavily on his chest as she settled into the crook of his arm.
“I won’t break,” he said, kissing her damp hair.
“I know.” She turned her lips to his chest, kissed an expanse left unmarred by his captivity.
He stroked her hair with one hand, stroking her back with the other. The sensation of his body against hers, solid and firm, was intoxicating, taking her back to Vienna, to Boston, to Malibu. Taking her back to the hours she’d spent naked in his arms.
Her body responded in spite of her determination to be chaste. To help him get well. Moisture rushed to her sex, and she forced herself to lay still, to turn her thoughts away from the feel of him inside her.
His hand moved lower on her back, stroking the top of her ass, moving down to trace the curve of her cheek where it met her thigh. His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling as his other hand traced a line down her bare arm.
Rule: Paris Mob Book Three Page 3