Rule: Paris Mob Book Three

by St. James, Michelle

  “I’m sorry, father.”

  HIs father waved away the apology. “I have the distinct feeling this isn’t your doing.”

  “Nevertheless…” He hesitated.

  “Is there something else?” his father asked.

  “I wanted you to know I’ve made provisions,” Christophe said. “For the estate — and for you — if something should happen to me.”

  “I would rather nothing happened to you.”

  Christophe wondered if it was his imagination that his father’s eyes were wet. “Hopefully it won’t, but if it should…”

  His father crossed the room, stopped in front of him, pulled him into an embrace. “Thank you.”

  Christophe was so shocked at first that he could only stand there, arms stiff at his sides. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been embraced by his father. A moment later, he put his arms around his father’s slender back.

  “Je t'aime, Papa.”

  His father pulled back, patted his cheek. “I love you too, my son.”

  Christophe stepped back, his throat tight, and hurried from the room.

  22

  Charlotte finished packing, then walked to the big windows that looked out over the fields. The sun had just set, the sky still indigo on the horizon.

  They’d been on Corsica for less than twenty-four hours, and she had the feeling that she was being pulled back into the parallel universe that seemed a hallmark of her time with Christophe. Back into a world where they were always on the move, always running from or toward something, always waiting for the next crisis to be over so they could start their lives together.

  What if there is no other life? What if this is what it is to be with him?

  She was tempted to banish the thought from her mind. She forced herself to face it instead. Was she really prepared to live this way to be with him? To be ready to run at a moment’s notice? To be a target because of the man she loved?

  Yes.

  The answer was yes.

  Perhaps she should have hesitated. Given it more thought. But the answer was there even before she’d finished asking the question.

  She belonged with him. Whatever the cost, she would pay it.

  She didn’t know where they were going next. Farrell had come into the house where he and Christophe had talked for over an hour about what to do next. There was a discussion about New York, about the possibility of going after Raneiro there. They talked about Nico and his wife, made arrangements for Farrell to contact him through previously established channels. They decided to consolidate their security by sending the women and children — Charlotte, Jenna and Lily, Luca’s girlfriend and her little sister — to Farrell’s estate in Tuscany where a small army was already amassed.

  The thought of it filled her with trepidation. She wasn’t used to being around other people. She’d always been solitary, even as a child. She had no siblings, few close friends. She wasn’t overly close with her mother, and she spent most of her time alone before meeting Christophe.

  He was the closest thing she had to a best friend.

  She didn’t normally give much thought to whether people liked her. To whether she fit in. She’d grown used to looking in from the outside. What others thought of her was irrelevant.

  But now she found that she wanted them to like her. She had the feeling that after Christophe’s father — and once upon a time, his brother — the people that had made up the Syndicate were the closest thing to family Christophe had. That made them important to him. And anything important to Christophe was important to her.

  “All packed?” Charlotte turned to find Christophe watching her from the doorway.

  “All packed.”

  He walked toward her, pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For putting you through this,” he said. “We’ve only just gotten here, and now I’m flying you to Italy.”

  “It’s not an unromantic detour,” she said.

  His expression grew serious. “It won’t be romantic.”

  She ran a hand over his forehead, wanting to smooth the furrows that arose there when he was worried. “I know. But it’s fun to think about.”

  He smiled a little. “I suppose it is.”

  “Will Nico come?” she asked.

  She didn’t know much about him, only what she’d been told by Christophe, what she’d overheard from Farrell and Luca. But she had the distinct impression that they needed him. That he was a kind of lightening rod they’d been missing since the fall of the Syndicate.

  Christophe set his mouth in a hard line. “He’ll come.”

  23

  Charlotte looked out the window as they traveled through the rolling hills of Tuscany. It was early afternoon, and the sun was high in the sky and casting gold light across the fields that seemed to stretch in every direction. Christophe reached over and took her hand as he drove. When she looked over at him, he flashed her a smile, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

  She returned his smile and he refocused on the road in front of them. She took advantage of the opportunity to take him in: the bare skin visible at the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, one strong hand on the wheel, his muscular thighs straining against his gray trousers. His dark hair was tousled by the open windows, mimicking the way it looked after a long night of sex. Just thinking about it made her wet, and she had a sudden memory of him kneeling between her thighs, his body a portrait of perfection as he prepared to drive into her.

  They’d spent the previous day and night in Florence. Charlotte had worried they couldn’t afford to lose the time, but Christophe explained that everyone else was still en route to Tuscany anyway. He wanted one whole day and night when they could pretend they were like everyone else. They’d spent the time sleeping late, indulging in copious amounts of rich food, walking the streets and wandering into old churches and eating gelato by one of the city’s many fountains. They’d finished their day with a late dinner at a little Trattoria near the river, and afterwards, a walk along its bank.

  By the time they got back to the hotel she was a little sleepy, but her tiredness quickly dwindled under Christophe’s hands, and he’d made love to her long into the night, rocking her body with orgasm after orgasm until she’d fallen asleep in his arms.

  It had been magical. Like being stranded on a deserted island with only Christophe and the finest food and art in the world. She wondered if their life together would always be like this — long periods of fear and action punctuated by moments of utter bliss.

  What a strange and mysterious life it would be.

  Christophe pulled his hand away. “This is new.”

  She glanced over as he pulled to a stop next to a control pad mounted with a security camera. A black iron gate loomed in front of them, jagged spires marching across the top. The camera moved side to side, taking in Christophe’s face. There was a short pause, and a moment later the gate swung silently open.

  They pulled through, and Charlotte watched in the side mirror as the gate closed behind them. She looked out the open window as they turned onto a gravel drive shaded with trees on either side. The car climbed a gentle slope, and Christophe navigated several twists and turns before they emerged into a clearing.

  Charlotte was momentarily struck silent by the villa at its center. It was like something out of a story book, with two stories and trailing vines climbing the stucco facade. Second-floor balconies overlooked a fountain at the center of the courtyard. It looked like it had been standing in this very place, in this very condition, for hundreds of years.

  “This belongs to Farrell?” she asked.

  “It does,” Christophe said, pulling next to a black Range Rover. “He has a thing for property.”

  She looked over at him. “Why is that?”

  He seemed to think about it. “It’s an occupational hazard for all of us: the desire for an escape should one be required. Although Farrell has taken the concept to new heights since
Jenna came back.”

  “She told me something about the two of them,” Charlotte said. “Something about them being on the run for a few months.”

  Christophe nodded. “I gave them safe harbor in Paris.” He laughed. “Farrell hated every minute of it.”

  “How could anyone hate Paris?”

  “It wasn’t Paris he hated: it was needing — and accepting help from me. He’s added two more properties to his portfolio since then even though I told him it was foolish. The first place someone looks for you is in your own home, or homes as it were. But he’s a madman when it comes to protecting Jenna and Lily, purchases his properties through multiple shell corporations under pseudonyms, fortifies them with the strength of a small army. Which is why we’re here.”

  “What about you?” Charlotte asked. “What do you do if someone comes for you?”

  “If they come for me, I fight.” His expression darkened. “If they come for you, I kill them.”

  The words should have frightened her. The look in his eyes — the cold fury — should have given her pause. Instead she felt the unmistakable crackle of desire under her skin, felt herself grow wet. He was a warrior hidden under a refined veneer.

  A man who would fight for what was his.

  And damn if it wasn’t a turn on.

  He reached up, touched her face. “Let’s go, before I get sidetracked kissing you.”

  She smiled, leaned in to touch her mouth to his before stepping from the car. He got their bags and they made their way to the front of the house. They were just beginning to climb the wide steps when she caught movement in the corner of her eye.

  She paused, turning her gaze to the tree line beyond the sweeping lawns. It was quiet except for the distant laughter of a child, the bray of an animal that sounded like a goat.

  “What is it?” Christophe asked.

  “I thought I saw something,” she said. “Over there.”

  He followed her line of sight. “You did.”

  Taking her hand, he started up the stairs.

  “I did?”

  “You did,” he confirmed.

  She laughed. “Well, what was it?”

  “Security.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

  They reached the top of the landing and stopped in front of the big double doors at the front of the house. He turned to her.

  “I told you Farrell is obsessive about security. This place is surrounded — not just by the fence we passed through, which is new — but by a number of guards.”

  She looked back at the woods. “They hide in the forest?”

  “They’re not hiding,” Christophe said. “Farrell keeps them out of sight as much as possible for his daughter. Jenna insists.”

  She looked harder, trying to see the men stationed in the trees. But it was no use. Every time she thought she saw something resembling a human being, the foliage shifted and everything morphed back into a canvas of green and brown.

  “They just… stay out there?” she asked. “All the time?”

  “More or less,” he said. “They rotate, and many of them live on the property. It’s why we’re here.”

  Now she understood; they hadn’t just agreed to bring the women and children to Tuscany for consolidation — they did it because it was fortified. Because it was the safest place for them to wait out what was coming.

  Christophe kissed her head. “I know it must seem like a strange way to live, but trust me when I say this will be the safest place for you.”

  “I trust you.”

  “Good.” He turned to the door and knocked. It was opened a moment later by a woman with graying hair gone askew, her sweater hanging lopsided from her round frame.

  “Yes?”

  “Christophe Marchand,” Christoph said. “And this is Charlotte Duval. We’re guests of Farrell.”

  “Of course.” The woman opened the door and they passed into a spacious foyer. The walls were warm and textured: plaster, Charlotte noted, either original to the house or perfectly replicated. “Please leave your bags. I’ll have them taken to your room.”

  Christophe dropped the bags on a rustic bench near the wall.

  “I’m Mrs. Pendleton.” The woman spoke with a British accent. “I take care of the children, god help me.”

  Charlotte smiled and held out her hand. “It’s a noble undertaking.”

  The woman snorted and shook her hand. “So I'm told. Come along. I’ll take you to Ms. Carver.”

  They followed her down a long hall and Charlotte looked around, taking in the warm wood moldings, the rough-hewn furniture, the beautiful but unrecognizable art and wrought iron candlesticks that stood as high as she was tall.

  They were halfway down the hall when something nudged Charlotte from behind. A moment later, a flash of color sped past her.

  “You’re it!”

  She was looking after the little girl racing down the hall, dark hair flying behind her like a glossy banner, when a small boy hurtled past in her tracks.

  “I’m going to get you!”

  “Children! Go outside!” Mrs. Pendleton called after them before muttering under her breath. “Little beasts.”

  They reached the end of the hall and stepped into a spacious kitchen. Dark wood beams stretched across the high ceilings, the plaster walls colored a soft yellow. The afternoon sun streamed in through the open doors that appeared to lead to a wide terrace. On one side of the kitchen, a slender woman stood in front of a commercial range, stirring something in a large pot.

  “I’m not sure this is thickening right, Mrs. Pendleton. I tried…” She turned around, her eyes widening. “Charlotte!” She stepped around a large kitchen island covered in tile and flung her arms around Charlotte. “You’re here!”

  Charlotte smiled. “I’m here.”

  Jenna pulled back to look at her. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye in Paris. Farrell thought it best that we leave you and Christophe alone.”

  “It’s all right,” Charlotte said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to thank you again for being there.”

  Jenna smiled, the gap in her front teeth making her look both youthful and strangely sultry. It wasn’t at all hard to imagine Farrell Black being captivated by her.

  “This will be the perfect chance to catch up,” Jenna said. “We’re working on dinner now.”

  “I’d be happy to help.”

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth when the little girl who had passed her in the hall came tearing into the kitchen, this time with another little girl in tow.

  “Wait!” Jenna said, holding up her hand.

  Both little girls came to a sudden stop.

  Jenna placed a hand on each of the girl’s shoulders. “This is my daughter, Lily,” she said, looking one of the girls. The resemblance between them was obvious in the little girl’s high cheekbones, the glossy chestnut hair, although Charlotte also thought she caught a hint of Farrell’s defiance in the girl’s eyes. Jenna turned her attention to the other girl, this one with a cascade of raven curls. “And this is Sophia. She’s Isabel’s little sister. Say hello to Charlotte and Christophe, girls.”

  “Hello,” the girls chorused, their body language making it clear they were already itching to get away.

  “Hello,” Charlotte said.

  Her eyes were pulled to the terrace doors as another woman stepped through them. Charlotte was momentarily struck silent by the other woman’s beauty. Small and voluptuous, her big eyes were rimmed with lush black lashes, her hair spilling in dark curls down her back.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She had a slight accent that Charlotte would guess was Spanish. “I didn't mean to interrupt. I was looking for the girls.”

  “You’re not interrupting at all,” Jenna said. “In fact, you’re just in time to meet Christophe Marchand and Charlotte Duval. Christophe and Charlotte, this is Isabel, Luca’s girlfriend.”

  She extended her hand. “It’s very nice to meet
you. I apologize for my rambunctious little sister.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Not at all. It would be a sad state of affairs if one couldn’t be rambunctious in a place like this.”

  Isabel’s smile was warm. “That is true.”

  “It’s time to feed the goats their lunch!” Lily proclaimed.

  “Oh, yes,” Jenna said. “We wouldn’t want to keep the goats waiting.”

  “Anthony and Lessa are already there,” Lily said.

  Jenna smoothed her hair. “All right then. But please put on shoes before you go in the barn.” She looked at Mrs. Pendleton. “Could you…?”

  “Of course.” She held out her hands and the two little girls obediently took them. “Let’s go, girls. Shoes first. Then goats.”

  They left through the terrace doors, and Jenna turned to Isabel. “Would you watch the sauce for a few minutes?”

  “Of course.” She moved to the stove and picked up a wooden spoon from the counter.

  Jenna turned to them. “Farrell will be back soon. Let me take you to your room.”

  24

  “Where do we stand?” Christophe asked Farrell.

  They were in the library on the first floor of the estate in Tuscany. Jenna had taken Christophe and Charlotte to their room where Charlotte had opted for a bath and a rest. Christophe had been walking the perimeter of the property, assessing the security, when Farrell returned with Luca in one of the black Rovers.

  “Marco and Elia on stand-by in the States. Nico on his way,” Farrell said from one of the overstuffed chairs near the sofa.

  Christophe nodded. “How are things looking on the ground?”

  “Same,” Farrell said. “Except my sources inside the police department have gone dark, so I have limited information about what’s going on there.”

  “Think they know something’s coming?” Luca asked.

  “That would be my guess.”

  “So they’re waiting it out,” Christophe said. “Waiting to see who the winner is before they take sides.”

  Farrell nodded. “It looks that way.”