Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) (10 page)

C
hristophe looked
out over the city as he sipped from the cup of steaming coffee. He liked the china at the Ritz. It was heavy and fine, as flawless as Charlotte’s skin. The thought of her sent a shock of lust roaring through his body. His cock was immediately hard, and he was graced with the image of her naked body as it had been the night before, soft and magnificent, spread out and open for him as he took possession of her.

No, not possession. That’s not what this was. Possession implied permanence, and as tempting as it was to own Charlotte Duval, body and soul, that was something he would never allow to happen. Women were weakness. He knew that firsthand. It was a weakness he would leave to his father. His place was to rebuild the Marchand legacy.

To put it back together.

A woman — and all the feelings she was destined to bring with her — would be a distraction. Especially this woman.

What had happened between them last night had been a different kind of distraction.

A temporary one.

Still, he allowed himself the luxury of replaying the feel of her body under his hand, the taste of her sex on his tongue, the tight, pliancy of her pussy when he drove into her. He wasn’t a small man, but she’d taken every inch of him. Had welcomed every inch of him with nothing but cries of pleasure.

Like she’d been made for him.

But she hadn’t been made for him. She’d been made for someone else. Someone who would appreciate her elegance and grace and could allow her into their heart. Someone who wouldn’t mind losing everything to her.

Because he had no doubt that any man who let down his guard with Charlotte Duval would swiftly find his heart in her gentle hands.

“Good morning.”

He turned to find her crossing the living room of the suite. Her dark hair was tousled around her lovely face, her eyes slightly smudged with mascara. One of the hotel bathrobes was loosely knotted at her waist, revealing a glimpse of cleavage, a sliver of her smooth stomach. She folded herself loosely into one of the chairs at the table in front of the window and helped herself to a strawberry brought up with breakfast from room service. Everything about her screamed sex, and it took all of his willpower not to go to her, untie the robe, lift her naked body into his arms until she wrapped her legs around his waist, sink into her welcoming warmth.

“Good morning,” he said.

She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep well?”

He nodded. “And you?”

“Like the dead.”

She surveyed him over the cup of her coffee, and he wondered if she would make an issue of their night together. If she would ask what it meant or comment in a way that would force him to clarify its meaning. It wasn’t something that would normally give him pause. Clarifying the meaning of a sexual encounter was easy when it meant nothing. So why did he feel hesitant at the thought of doing so now?

“Today we go to Baeder’s, yes?” she asked.

He sat across from her, looking at her more closely. “Yes.”

“Good.”

She took a bite of the strawberry, her lips lingering around the ripe fruit. She closed her eyes and emitted a little moan that sounded all too familiar after their night together. He swallowed hard and shifted in his seat.

When she opened her eyes she seemed surprised to find him staring at her. She passed him the bowl of strawberries.

“Would you like some?” she asked, her eyes wide and innocent.

He cleared his throat. “No, thank you.”

“Do you think it will be dangerous?” she asked suddenly.

“Do I think what will be dangerous?”

“Going to Baeder’s today,” she said. “Is it possible his murderer will be watching the house? Or that the police will wonder why we’re there?”

“Everything will be fine,” he said, anxious to turn his attention away from her effect on him. She was an enchantress. Completely without guile and yet with the power to render him speechless, helpless to do anything but want her. “I’ve called ahead. His butler is still at the house seeing to the dispersal of Baeder’s things. He’s agreed to see us.”

She nodded, clearly relieved. But as he watched her take another strawberry, lift it to her full lips, he couldn’t help thinking there were far more dangerous things in store for him.

And they all had to do with Charlotte Duval.

J
ulien was waiting
for them in front of the hotel in a sleek, black Jag. Charlotte expected him to open the back door. Instead he handed the keys to Christophe.

“It’s all yours,” he said. “You sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

Christophe shook his head. “It's not necessary. I’ll keep you posted.”

Julien seemed to hesitate, and for a split second, Charlotte had a glimpse of the friendship between the two men. Julien clearly didn’t want to leave Christophe unprotected. But Christophe was clearly the boss, which left the other man little choice but to follow orders. She was suddenly curious about the big man named Julien. What did he do when he wasn’t working for Christophe? He had traveled with them to Vienna, then disappeared. Was he staying at the same hotel? How did he know when Christophe required his services?

Julien nodded. “Left you a present in the glove box.”

Christophe nodded and opened the passenger door for Charlotte. She slid into the leather seat. He closed the door, and she watched as he bowed his head toward Julien. They exchanged words she couldn’t hear from the muffled confines of the car, but a moment later, Christophe came around to the driver’s side.

He got into the car and reached for his seat belt. Then they were pulling out of the hotel, Christophe expertly navigating the morning traffic as they headed for Stefan Baeder’s home in the 4th District.

He manipulated the car as expertly as he’d manipulated her body the night before, and her gaze was riveted to his hands on the wheel. They were big hands, with long, elegant fingers. Fingers that had stroked her fevered skin until she’d been desperate to have him fill her. Hands that had moved against all the secret parts of her until she cried out against him again and again.

“Everything all right?”

She blinked to find him looking at her, and had to swallow against the need in her throat. She was grateful for her sunglasses. Grateful she could hide behind their dark lenses when all she wanted was to lean across the seat, slip her hand between his thighs, feel him grow hard against her palm.

“Of course,” she said.

He turned his eyes back to the road, and she looked out the window. She turned her thoughts to Stefan Baeder. That’s why she was here. Not to sleep with Christophe. And certainly not to develop feelings for him.

She had no expectations for the visit with Baeder's butler. The dark substance stuck in the ring wasn’t necessarily blood, and there was no guarantee he’d even known the ring was stuck in the drawer. It was much more possible that he’d placed it in the desk sometime since its purchase and forgotten it was there when it fell behind the drawer and got stuck.

But even as she thought it, she knew it was a long shot. A serious collector like Stefan Baeder didn’t misplace his treasures.

And he probably didn’t hide them unless he had a good reason.

Charlotte scanned the streets as they entered the 4th District and the neighborhood known as Wieden. It was the kind of neighborhood that existed only in Europe, old architecture and homogenous modern buildings co-existing alongside the chic bistros and funky cafes that indicated a Renaissance in the making. They were neighborhoods that predated every World War. Neighborhoods with old palaces and museums that had somehow remained standing as office parks and restaurants sprang up around them. Many of the oldest buildings were turned into historical sights or small museums. Some of the grand old homes remained privately occupied, though not often by heirs to the original property. And everywhere she looked, people went about their modern business, walking dogs and pushing strollers and drinking coffee, seemingly unaware of the past.

But Charlotte could see it, lurking underneath the sights and sounds of Wieden, like an original drawing covered by a fine overlay, only to be revealed when the tissue paper on top was lifted.

They pulled off the main road and onto a smaller side street. Old homes lined either side, a few mature trees still looming over the sidewalk. Christophe slowed down, then stopped in front of an old home that looked like a mini palais.

“Is this it?” Charlotte asked, peering at the beautiful building through the window.

It was two stories tall, with a wide staircase leading to a large, partially glassed-in porch. Above the first floor, Doric columns lined tall, narrow windows.

“This is it,” he said. He got out of the car and came around to her side to open the door. “Do you have the ring?”

She slipped a hand into her pocket, felt the cool metal against her fingertips. “Yes.”

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

They walked up the steps side by side. Charlotte wasn’t surprised to find that they were marble. The house was well designed, probably built for someone important in the eighteenth century. When they got to the door, Christophe rang the bell. He was lifting his hand to ring again when the door suddenly opened.

“May I help you?” The man was tall and lanky, his face angular, cheeks hollowed out.

“Christophe Marchand and Charlotte Duval,” Christophe said. “I believe Mr. Weisman is expecting us.”

The man’s gaze swept them both. A quick assessment was clearly conducted in the moment before he stood back to open the door. “Please come in.”

Christophe gestured for Charlotte to enter, then stepped into the foyer behind her. The man closed the door and turned to offer his hand. “I apologize for my hesitation. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit spooked. I’m Michael Weisman.”

Christophe took his hand. Charlotte did the same, and the man looked into her eyes. “You’re Edgar’s daughter.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” he said.

“I’m sorry to hear of yours.”

He gave her a small nod. “Thank you.” He hesitated. “Your father was a good man with a good eye.”

“You knew him?” she asked.

He nodded. “Stefan had been working with him for some time. In fact, your father made several house calls to show him photographs of important pieces before the internet made it so easy to send them online.”

She smiled. “He did used to do that.”

“It was very kind,” Michael said.

“He always wanted to find the best homes for his pieces. He must have thought Mr. Baeder offered one.”

He nodded. “Indeed he did.” His gaze slid to Christophe before returning to her. “Please follow me.”

They trailed him into a parlor off the entry. Unlike so many old houses, this one had retained its original bones, its rooms small and high-ceilinged, each one cut off from the others. There was no “open floor plan”. No great room or big, modern windows. Instead the parlor looked much as it would have three hundred years earlier. The draperies were thick, heavy velvet, hanging deep enough on either side of the glass to block out much of the sunlight. There were floor to ceiling bookshelves, and old oil paintings dotted the walls between the original moldings. A large frayed rug dominated the room under the old and obviously fine furnishings. At one end of the room, opposite the sofa, a beautiful table was surrounded by carved chairs. The table’s surface was covered with boxes, some of them taped, others half full. The room was obviously in the process of being packed. The thought made Charlotte sad. Baeder hadn’t been unlike her father; both men had devoted their lives to the care of forgotten things. But when it was all said and done, those things went on to live a hundred more lives while the people who shuttled them through the ages became nothing but dust.

Perhaps that was the point.

“Please.” Michael gestured at the sofa. Christophe and Charlotte sat. “May I bring you coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Charlotte said. “We don’t want to trouble you.”

“It would be no trouble.” He looked around the room, and an expression of sadness passed over his features. “I should have made it before you arrived. I must confess to being a bit scattered these past weeks…”

Charlotte gave him a gentle smile. “Please don’t worry about it. We’ve just come from breakfast.”

He nodded, then took a seat in one of the high-backed wing chairs opposite the sofa. “I must confess I was surprised to hear from you,” he said to Christophe. “You were not a regular client of Stefan’s.”

“No,” Christophe said. “Although I ended up with one of his pieces through Edgar Duval.”

Michael Weisman’s face lit with interest. “Really? Which one?”

“The sixteenth-century Spanish desk,” Christophe said. “I’m very happy to have it. It looks a lot like something that once sat in my childhood home.”

Michael tipped his head. “It’s a lovely piece. One of my favorites. You must have had a lovely childhood home.”

The familiar pained expression passed over Christophe’s features before it was shuttered. Charlotte wondered if she would ever find out what it meant.

“That’s why we’re here actually.” Charlotte reached into her handbag and withdrew the ring. “Did this belong to Mr. Baeder?”

Michael’s face turned ashen when he took the object from her hand. “But… where did you get this?”

He was on the verge of anger now, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Charlotte hurried to explain.

“It was in the desk he sold to my father,” she said. “Stuck behind one of the drawers.”

He shook his head. “But that’s… that’s impossible.”

“I was surprised by it, too,” she said. “I was preparing the piece for Mr. Marchand when I noticed one of the drawers didn’t sit right in the desk. When I removed the drawer, I saw that it was obstructed by the ring. I looked up the inscription online and came across a mention of its purchase by Mr. Baeder at auction some years ago.” She hesitated. “There’s something in the filigree. I wondered if… well, I wondered if it might be blood. I thought I should return it to you.”

She didn’t want to say anything about the men who had threatened her for the ring. Not yet. Michael Weisman was obviously in shock. She should give the poor man time to process this new information.

“It was Stefan’s,” he said, turning it over in his hand. “I thought it had been stolen.”

“Why did you think it had been stolen?” Christophe asked.

Michael looked at him. “Because Stefan was wearing it when he was killed.”

“Do you know how it ended up in the desk?” Charlotte asked.

“That is a very good question,” Michael said. “I presume he put it there.”