Oh, God…
It’s been four days since he walked in my office in LA. Six days since I met him.
The thought of them together makes me queasy – but it’s when Grant told her he loved her that makes me almost vomit.
While we make love.
Just like him and me last night.
My earlier thoughts echo in my brain, distorted and frantic:
Did he mean it?
Or was he just saying it because we were in the heat of the moment?
He did the same thing with Dominique that he did with me.
The exact… same… goddamn thing.
I don’t mean to, but I know I betray my distress by the expression on my face. She sees it, and exults in it… savors it.
Then she lands the widowmaker, the blow that nearly kills me.
“He leaves me three months later,” she says quietly.
The floor shifts underneath me, and my knees buckle.
Three months.
Is that all I have left?
…or is it less?
She smiles. I can’t tell if it’s a triumphant smile, or bitter. Maybe it’s both. “He leaves me a letter when he goes. Would you like to hear? I have read it so many times I have memorized it.”
“No,” I protest, but she ignores me completely.
“‘Dear Dominique: I have loved you passionately, but we are different people. We lead different lives, and while I am grateful those lives intersected for this brief moment in time, I have to go my own way, and let you go yours. Part of me will always love you – the wild, untamed side of you I recognize in myself. Never let that part of you die. With my deepest regrets… Grant.’” She gives me a strange look – one that doesn’t seem calculated – of both hurt and wistfulness combined. “He tells me he loves me en français…but he tells me adieu in English.”
I have loved you passionately.
Part of me will always love you.
The wild, untamed side of you I recognize in myself.
Grant’s words… not to me, but to another woman.
And he told he loved her after only one week…
…while he was making love to her.
I want to scream, to break something, to run away. I want to tear the world apart.
But I keep it under control. Unlike before, I make my face a mask of stone.
But I’m going to hurt the bitch for trying to hurt me.
Trying, and succeeding.
“If he wrote you that letter, why were you so happy to see him?” I ask in an icy tone of voice. “Was it his money?”
She shoots daggers at me with her eyes. “No.” Then she looks me head to toe like she’s inspecting something vile. “I am not like some women. I actually love a man for who he is, not his silver and gold.”
You fucking WHORE.
“Then why were you so happy to see a man who dumped you in a letter?” I sneer.
I expect her to lash out, to curse me in French – but instead, she gives me one of the most heartbreaking looks I’ve ever seen on a human being’s face.
“Because I loved him then, and I love him toujours. Always,” she says miserably, and turns away.
If it’s a performance, it’s flawless. Oscar-worthy.
If it’s a tactic, it’s brilliant. A Machiavellian coup de grace.
But instead, I think she’s totally sincere.
I stand there for a second in uncomfortable silence. Despite all the horrible revelations of the last five minutes, part of me wants to comfort her – until I remind myself that this is my romantic rival.
I leave her sitting there and return to the bedroom, afraid to see the man inside.
Afraid of what else he might say that he’s already told another woman.
31
When I walk back in the bedroom, Grant is awake.
He sees me and smiles sleepily. “There you are. I was wondering where you got to.”
“Just getting breakfast,” I say, and smile nervously. I sit down next to him in bed, placing the plate between us.
He rolls over and takes a strawberry. “Mmm… thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He frowns the tiniest bit. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You seem… I don’t know, upset.”
“No,” I answer a little too quickly.
A cloud passes over his face. “Was last night… too soon?”
The question is like a punch to my stomach. Because of my fear of losing him, I let down my guard – and for the first time since I’ve entered the room, I sound genuine. “No – no, not at all. I just…”
I can’t tell him about what Dominique said. I just – I can’t. Not right now.
So I go with what I was most worried about when I first left the room.
“…I just wanted to know if you meant it. If it wasn’t just something you were saying because we were… you know.”
He grins. The cloud has passed. “Oh, I meant it, alright.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief and smile. “Good.”
“Why, didn’t you mean it?”
“Yes. Totally and completely,” I say, and suddenly I am afraid again. I remember standing on the beach in the darkness, telling myself I cannot afford to give this man my heart.
This man who told an impossibly gorgeous woman that he loved her after only one week, while they made love… then left her three months later.
“Then why do you look like somebody kidnapped your new puppy dog?” Grant asks.
I answer honestly. “Because I’ve never felt this way before… and now I’m afraid of losing it,” I whisper. “I’m not going to lose you… am I?”
He stares at me… and then he moves across the bed and kisses me passionately.
Despite everything I heard in the other room, I can’t remember it now. There is only the feel of his lips, the taste of strawberries on his tongue.
He pulls away and looks me deep in the eyes. “I love you. Never doubt that.”
“I don’t,” I say, and it’s true.
But that’s not what I fear.
What I fear is losing him.
And I notice he didn’t answer my question.
32
He wants to make love again – I know he does. I can tell by the way he touches me (and by the way the sheet is slowly lifting off his lap).
But my heart isn’t in it right now. I don’t think I can do it without him knowing I’m only going through the motions.
I consider for a brief second being completely honest – of telling him about the entire conversation with Dominique – but I am saved by the bell.
Well, actually a knock at the door, if you want to get technical.
“Yeah?” Grant calls out.
“You are not fucking, are you?” JP asks on the other side of the door.
“Not now that you’ve killed the mood,” Grant gripes.
I smile in spite of myself. Also out of relief that I don’t have to act happy and turned on.
JP opens the door and sticks his head in. “We should talk about not being caught by the police, oui?”
“You couldn’t have waited until after we finished?” Grant asks dourly.
“I have heard you last night. You have had enough of the fucking, I think.”
Grant grabs a pillow and throws it at JP, but the Frenchman is gone before it slams against the door.
He turns to reach for me… but I’m gone, too.
33
The four of us gather in the kitchen and drink more freshly-made coffee. Turns out JP went down to the corner bakery and brought back a bag of warm, fluffy croissants and pain au chocolate – pastries with chocolate baked into the middle. I tear into mine with abandon.
“Well,” Grant says, “we didn’t wake up to any cops, so I guess we survived the night.”
JP doesn’t look amused. “For now, oui, but I think it is best if we leave. Je sais, je sais,” he says, anticipating an argument, “I hav
e called my friend le policier, but he is not answering. I am worried.”
Grant nods. “Eve and I were talking last night, and… we agree. Moving somewhere else would be safer.”
JP sighs and leans back like a weight has been taken off his shoulders.
Dominique, on the other hand, gets a pissy look on her face. “Oh, the lovers talk, and now we do what they decide?”
Bitch.
But I don’t dare say anything. Part of me is afraid she’ll reveal what she said to me earlier, and I sure as hell don’t want that.
Grant throws her a sideways look. “You’re welcome to stay here, but JP, Eve, and I think it’s best if we move to another location. That’s three to one.”
“Oui – c’est democracy, n’est-ce pas?” JP quips.
Dominique crosses her arms and just scowls.
“I have une bonne idée,” JP says. “There is a place in Montmartre – Canard et Couteau? The restaurant of Marcel?”
“Marcel still owns that joint?” Grant marvels. “Is he still running his fencing operation out of it?”
“Oui, bien sûr.”
I frown. “He swordfights?”
Grant grins. “Not that kind of fencing. He buys and sells stolen items. Diamonds and gold, mostly.”
“Oh.” DUH.
“He will take us in, I am confident,” JP says enthusiastically. “There are rooms above the restaurant. We can stay there.”
“Alright… fine,” Grant relents. “In the meantime, wrap up with the gun guy and let your mole in the police force know how to find you.”
“I need to take the laptop with us,” I say. “But I want to check a few things first, in case we’re away from an internet connection for a while.”
Grant nods. “Sounds good. Let’s aim for an hour from now, guys.”
We break up and go about our separate ways in the apartment.
34
I’m working on the laptop, checking to make sure I’ve completely covered my tracks, when I run across something really, really weird.
It’s way too complicated to explain what I was doing when I found it, because it involves the deep web, proxies, and a bunch of back doors to servers in Hong Kong.
Long story short: a little black box with white text appears on my screen.
Now, because this is one way Epicurus has contacted me in the past, it freaks me out at first – but I realize within seconds that it’s not someone messaging me directly. It’s more of a tripwire somebody left along a path I normally travel. I only use this particular path when I don’t have access to my normal bag of tricks, and I do it only because I memorized the thirty-digit access code…
…back in high school.
Which means whoever left it for me knows something about my hacking methods.
I know last night was you. Contact me the old school way. We need to talk.
Signed ‘M.’
My heart freezes for an instant.
…Mailin?!
My high school best friend / kinda-sorta platonic wannabe boyfriend?
The one who got caught hacking, and got blackmailed by the FBI to work for them in lieu of a prison sentence?
I don’t know if this is good or bad.
Actually, he works for the FBI, and I assume he’s talking about the Interpol hack. So I’m going with ‘bad.’
BUT… he didn’t mention Interpol by name… which means he’s trying to be vague and sneaky, in case somebody is watching.
Like Epicurus?
Except Mailin doesn’t know about Epicurus. Nobody does except me, Grant, JP, Dominique, and a handful of other people.
So… could the message be from the NSA?
One thing about Mailin is he never ratted me out to the FBI when we were teenagers. He could have named me and probably reduced his sentence – I was a way more dangerous hacker than he was. But he kept me safe.
I’m guessing this is his way of keeping me safe now, even though he obviously wants to talk.
When he says ‘old school,’ there can only be one thing he means. But before I can start, JP freaks out.
“Euh, everyone?” he says shakily as he hangs up the cell phone. “I think we have a problem.”
35
“What is it?” Grant asks.
“I call my police friend again, he does not answer. Then I call Luc – the contact for the guns – but he does not answer, either.”
Grant shrugs. “Maybe he got drunk last night. Maybe he’s sleeping it off somewhere.”
“No. I call the cousin of Luc, who works with him selling guns. He tells me Luc is dead.”
We stare at JP.
Besides obviously being bad news, the timing is a little too coincidental.
“…quoi?” Dominique asks in disbelief.
“There are men now in Paris searching for illegal gun sellers. These men find them, ask questions, torture them, sometimes kill them.” JP pauses, then says shakily, “They killed Luc.”
Grant stands up. “Shit – did Luc know where you live?”
“Non.”
“Anything else about you they could have gotten out of him?”
JP looks stricken. “He has my phone number.”
“Shit,” Grant mutters, then turns to me. “If they have JP’s phone number, what’s the chances they can find us?”
I hesitate. “If they have any sort of law enforcement connections, then the chances are pretty good.”
“They’re torturing and killing gun merchants. I doubt they’re law enforcement,” Grant says. I can tell he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince me.
“I’m including the NSA.”
“The NSA doesn’t torture people.”
“No, but Epicurus does, and he’s mixed up with them somehow.”
“…shit.” He knows I’m right. “Alright, we’re out of here in five minutes. JP – your guy on the police force – do you think whoever’s behind this could have bought him off?”
JP shrugs. “C’est possible.”
Grant points at me. “Can you break into the French police department servers, and fast? We need to talk to JP’s mole.”
“No, there’s a language barrier.”
“Shit…”
“Why don’t we just call his home?” I ask.
“I do not know his number,” JP says. “It is unlisted. He does not want people to know it.”
“Give me his full name,” I order.
Sixty seconds later, JP is dialing the home phone of his mole. He listens for a moment. When he finally speaks, he speaks in French – but it sounds like he’s talking to a machine, not a human.
Suddenly he stops talking and looks relieved. “Ah, enfin – Gérard?”
The voice is faint on the other end, but I can hear, “Oui.”
JP frowns. “Si tu es Gérard, où sommes-nous allés à l'école ensemble?”
I have no idea what he just said, but it must have been some kind of test, because JP hangs up the phone immediately.
“That was not my friend,” he says, panicking.
“Okay, we’re out of here now,” Grant says. “Get your stuff.”
Mailin will have to wait. I unplug the laptop, then stuff it and the power cord into the backpack, the one with the rest of our money.
Suddenly there is a loud chime from the bank of computers against JP’s wall.
All of our eyes are drawn immediately to the monitors and the security footage they show.
At least fifteen masked men with guns are on top of the roof, in the hallways of the apartment building, and outside in the street.
“Knock, knock,” an all-too-familiar voice says over the computer’s speakers.
36
“I’m sure you already know my men are here for you, Grant,” Epicurus says. “Congratulations – you have one advantage, and one advantage only: they’re going to capture you alive so I can take my time with you later. Fair warning: no such directive extends to the other members of your pa
rty. By the way, passable alarm system you created, Monsieur Durand.”
I’m assuming ‘Monsieur Durand’ is JP. So much for ‘no last names.’
“Not good enough to stop me, but not ENTIRELY pathetic.”
JP looks bewildered – like, Is this guy for real?
“Get her out of here!” Grant orders JP, who clamps onto my hand and pulls me after him.
I resist and look back in a panic at Grant. “What about you?!”
“We’ll meet you at the place we discussed!”
“Run, little pigs! Run from the big, bad wolf!”
Grant snags the assault rifle off the table and Dominique grabs a pistol.
The last thing I see as I pass the computer monitors is security footage of five men rappelling onto the balcony outside the apartment.
JP is hustling me into his bedroom when I hear gunfire and shattering glass.
“We can’t just leave them here!” I cry out.
“We must,” JP says, locking the door behind us. “Unless you are good with a pistolet.”
He approaches a massive wooden wardrobe and opens the door. One thing I’ve noticed is that France isn’t really big on closets; they tend to put everything in wardrobes.
Inside the piece of furniture, shirts and jackets dangle from hangers. JP reaches through them, presses three spots on the wooden back, and it swings inward.
Impossible – the wardrobe is standing against the wall. Which means the wardrobe’s back compartment is opening into the wall.
“Is that a secret compartment?!”
“Oui. Go, go!”
I step up into the big wooden box and then stumble through the rear, the backpack dangling off my shoulder. I feel like Lucy from the book The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe. Except I don’t think I’m going to be meeting any fauns on the other side.
Maybe serial killers, though.
Just past the wardrobe’s secret doorway is a four-foot-square ledge cut into the limestone walls of the building. That’s what I’m standing on right now.
Where the ledge ends, an empty shaft stretches all the way up to the roof fifteen feet above us, and descends into blackness below.
The Billionaire's Redemption (The Billionaire's Kiss, Book Five): (A Billionaire Alpha Romance) Page 10