Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) (12 page)

“
S
he sent Baeder to Boston
," Charlotte said to Christophe as they made their way through the museum complex. “Or she told him about a contact in Boston. I suppose he didn’t have time to pursue the lead.”

“Is this contact someone who knows about the cross?” Christophe asked.

“She didn’t say exactly, and she was so skittish I was afraid to press her for more information. But it sounds to me like the contact in Boston knows something about it.”

Christophe shook his head. “That would be… remarkable.”

Charlotte knew what he meant. Tucker’s Cross had been missing for over sixty years, and while it was presumed someone, somewhere knew something about its whereabouts, it was still difficult to imagine a real person out in the world with knowledge of its whereabouts.

They exited the museum and made their way out onto the busy street. It was late afternoon, and the sidewalks were scattered with people doing midday errands. Charlotte thought about Stefan Baeder as they walked in silence toward the car park where they'd left the Jag. Has he really been close to a tip on the cross? And how did Anna Muller know someone who knew something about it? Was it possible that a woman who visited The Kiss every Thursday at two p.m. had inside knowledge of a piece that had been lost to the art world for over fifty years? Charlotte wished she’d had more time to talk to the other woman. She would have liked to learn more about her.

But Stefan Baeder and the cross weren’t the only things on her mind; she couldn’t help wondering what this meant for her.

Did she and Christophe go back to Paris now, resume their lives like Vienna hadn’t happened? They’d left the ring with Michael Weisman. It had been the right thing to do given his relationship with Stefan Baeder.

And that meant that technically, her arrangement with Christophe was concluded.

She glanced up at him as they entered the garage and was surprised to feel the pain of regret. They’d only had one night together. She didn’t try to pretend it had been a simple one night stand.

She didn’t like to lie to herself.

The truth was that it had been life-altering in the way something is when it opens a door you didn’t know existed. That’s what sleeping with Christophe had been: like a strong wind blowing open a door to a world of feeling and sensation she hadn’t known existed.

It had been more than the sex, which had been mind-blowing in and of itself. It was the way he touched her. Like she was something precious. Something to be treasured. It had been the way he’d melted into her.

No walls.

No barriers.

There had been no self-consciousness. None of the self-awareness she usually felt when she slept with someone. She’d been… present. Present in a way she’d never experienced. And she’d felt his presence as well. Like he’d been right there with her, immersed in their union and the pure magic of it.

None of which meant anything, of course. It was sex. No declarations had been made. No promises. For all she knew, Christophe was ready to end their liaison, return to Paris, move onto the next beautiful thing.

And isn’t that what she wanted, too? Because the alternative was something she didn’t dare consider.

They had almost reached the car when she noticed Christophe’s footsteps had slowed. It was almost imperceptible, but she noticed it, noticed the space between his footsteps grow slightly further apart.

She glanced up at him, and when he looked back at her, she was glad he’d removed his sunglasses in the dimness of the garage. Because now she could see his eyes, and she knew something was wrong.

But there was something else in his eyes as well.

A warning.

She didn't know what it meant, but she knew instinctively that asking would be a bad idea. She listened instead, tried to still the thoughts racing through her mind as she got a handle on their environment.

And then she heard it: a faint shuffle in the shadows, the soft footfalls of someone trying to be silent in the concrete garage.

Someone was following them.

Or waiting for them.

She saw Christophe’s hand move closer to his jacket, realized he was looking for the weapon he’d left in the glove compartment of the Jag. He locked his hand in hers and squeezed, his eyes on the car, now only about twenty feet away.

She understood. He thought they had a chance of making it to the car. It made sense. Whoever was following them would want information on the cross — information neither of them could offer if they were dead.

The car was closer with every step. Fifteen feet. Ten. Five.

Christophe approached the passenger door. She could feel the tension in his body next to her. Could feel what it was costing him not to hurry to the safety of the car. It was because of her. HIs face was angry, his mouth set into a grim line, and she suddenly had no doubt that his concern was only for her safety.

Christophe Marchand wasn’t a man who cowered from other men. Who hoped for the best. He was a man who cherished beauty — and destroyed ugliness. The men who followed them, the one who had invaded her father’s store, were ugly men with ugly desires. If they wanted the cross, it was for no good purpose.

He was protecting her. She felt it in the gentle pressure of his hand over hers, in the way he stepped in front of her as he opened the car door, shielding her body from view as much as possible.

“Buckle up,” he murmured as she slid into the car.

She followed his instructions, then opened the glove compartment while he made his way around the back of the car. Even this was unusual — he typically crossed in front of the car after getting her settled — and she knew he was using the vehicle as cover.

She removed the gun from the glove compartment. It was heavier than it looked, the substantive weight of it not unwelcome in her present circumstance.

He got behind the wheel, and she held out the gun. She saw the surprise in his eyes as he took it, but it was fleeting. There was no time for anything else. He set the gun on the console between them and started the car.

They pulled out of the parking spot, then began the descent to the ground floor. They’d rounded the first corner when she heard the screech of tires behind them. She glanced in the side mirror and caught sight of a blue sports car rounding one of the concrete pillars.

Christophe accelerated, hands firmly on the wheel. She kept her eyes on the car in the mirror, watching as it came around each corner behind them, picking up a little more speed, moving a little bit closer. Their pursuers weren’t being subtle. By the time they reached the second floor of the garage, the car was only two lengths behind them.

Christophe glanced at her. “Is your seat belt secure?”

She checked it, just to be safe, then nodded.

He turned his eyes forward. “Hold on.”

They rounded the last corner, the ticket window in sight. But instead of slowing down as he approached, Christophe accelerated. Charlotte placed a hand on the door to stabilize her body as the car sped forward toward the wood arm closed over the exit.

She didn’t have to ask what he was going to do.

She looked in the mirror and saw the car behind them accelerate to match their speed. When she turned her eyes back to the windshield, they were only feet away from the exit. Christophe punched the gas, the car quickly accelerated.

The distance between the ticket booth and car rapidly closed. Charlotte braced herself for the crash of the wooden ticket arm as they flew threw it and was surprised to find that it was quieter than she’d expected, its destruction muffled by the sealed interior of the Jag.

They bounced into the street, and Christophe made a hard right. The car responded smoothly, with only a slight squeal. They straightened out, and the car in pursuit appeared in the mirror, the back end of it fishtailing as it fell into line behind them.

Christophe increased his speed, the car jumping quickly from 48 KPH to 100 KPH as he weaved in and out of the late day traffic. Other than his eyes, moving between the road in front of them and the rearview mirror, he looked completely relaxed, and she realized that other than asking about her seat belt, he hadn’t spoken at all since he’d started the car.

The car behind them picked up speed, narrowing the distance between them. Christophe accelerated in response, narrowly missing another car as he weaved in and out of the increasingly tight traffic.

“We have to get off this street,” he said. “There’s too much traffic to lose them.”

He pulled a hard left onto a slightly smaller street. The other car bounced into the road behind them with a screech of tires, and Christophe made a last minute right into an alley flanked by old buildings. The road through it was narrow, cluttered with dumpsters and pallets loaded with boxes.

“Fuck,” Christophe said.

Charlotte followed his gaze and saw the trash truck at the end of the alley, its blinker on, obviously waiting for the chance to pull into traffic on the busier street at the other end of the alley.

Charlotte reached out, her arm reflexively bracing her body against the dash as the trash truck loomed in front of them, approaching with startling speed as Christophe sped through the alley toward it.

But there was no going back. The other car was still in pursuit behind them.

The trash truck inched forward in front of them amid a cloud of black smoke, lumbering slowly into the street. Charlotte watched as a tiny space, not nearly big enough for them to make it through, opened up behind the truck.

They were moving too fast, getting too close, the truck moving too slowly. They weren’t going to make it, and Christophe showed no signs of slowing down. She gripped the dash tighter as the truck inched forward, and they glided through the minuscule opening as shots rang out behind them.

She ducked instinctively, then turned around in her seat, wanting to see for herself if the other car made it through. Frustration surged through her body as the car emerged onto the street behind them. She turned back around.

“They shot at us,” she said.

Christophe reached for the gun on the console. “We have to lose them. Put your hand on the wheel, Charlotte.”

S
he looked
at him like he was mad.

“What are you talking about?”

“I need you to drive while I get rid of them.” He tried to speak calmly. He had put her at risk by coming to Vienna, by allowing her to pursue the lead given to them by Stefan Baeder. He’d gotten her into this. It was his job to get her out alive.

Then he would make the bastards behind them, whoever they were, pay for targeting her, not once, but twice. Because there was little doubt in his mind that they were the same people who had threatened her in Paris.

“No. I… I can’t do that.” She glanced at the street in front of them, loaded with commuters heading home after work. “There’s too much traffic. We’ll crash.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Christophe said. “We aren’t going to lose them in this kind of traffic.”

“There are too many people,” she said. “Someone will get hurt.”

He felt his heart soften in spite of the circumstances. They were being pursued through Vienna by someone who obviously meant them harm, and she was worried about the people in other cars, the ones walking on the street.

“No one will get hurt.” It sounded like a promise, and he quickly amended the statement, because even now he knew he wouldn’t lie to her. “No one who doesn’t deserve it anyway.”

She hesitated, looking from the traffic in front of them to the car behind them.

“You can do this, Charlotte,” he said. “I know you can.”

He believed it. She was stronger than he knew. He’d seen it in the resolute way she'd talked about her past, the way she'd insisted on coming with him to the Belvedere, not knowing what might await them.

She looked into his eyes for a split second before slipping her leg over the console and reaching for the wheel. He waited for her to slip into his lap to inch out from under her, and the car slowed a little as he maneuvered into the passenger seat. The blue car gained on them, and Christophe rolled down the window.

“Are you all right?” he asked Charlotte.

“I think so,” she said. She accelerated a little, as if to prove the point.

“Good. Keep moving. Change lanes as often as you can to keep some distance between us.”

“Which way do I go?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter. We just need to get to a quiet street so I can get a clear shot.”

He hadn’t driven this part of Vienna often, but he trusted her. She was one of the most intelligent women he knew, and far more capable than she realized. She would read the signals, keep her eyes open, get them where they needed to be.

He turned in the seat, keeping his eyes on the blue car, trying to get a glimpse of who was behind the driver’s seat while he waited for an opportunity to stop them. But he couldn’t make out the features of the person behind the wheel. There was only the impression of bulk and dark hair, a white face intent on their pursuit. Somewhere in the distance, police sirens had begun to wail.

Charlotte made a hard left, then another right. “How is this?”

He glanced through the windshield and saw they were on a straightaway just outside the city center. There were still a few cars, but they were sparser and more spread out here.

“This will do,” he said. “We’ll need to let them get close.”

He positioned himself at the window as she slowed down a little. The blue car pulled closer, and he leaned out the window, breathing, taking his time as he zeroed in on the tires of the car behind them. The sounds of the city faded into the background. There was no traffic, no distant police sirens. Just the smooth metal in his hands, the car behind them gaining ground.

Closer… closer…

He fired and hit the bumper of the car, then took another breath, retrained his eyes and fired again.

This time he heard the pop hit something soft, and the car behind him pulled to the left, careening into a delivery truck parked at the curb.

“Did you get it?” Charlotte asked.

“I got it. Keep moving. And get us off this street.”

The police sirens were louder now, and she accelerated, maneuvering around the other cars at a pace that wouldn’t draw attention to them but would get them out of the area quickly.

His mind was reeling, trying to put together the pieces as she navigated out of the city. He was still brooding when she pulled into the parking lot of a grocery and cut the engine to the car.

The sudden silence was deafening, and Christophe noticed distantly that the sky had darkened, the sun casting orange and gold light over the landscape as it began its descent.

“What now?” Charlotte asked.

Christophe thought about it. First and foremost, he wanted to keep Charlotte safe. That meant getting her back to the States. But he had a feeling she wouldn’t go quietly — not after all that had happened. Which meant he would have to maneuver gently.

He looked at her. "How do you feel about Boston?”

She smiled. “I love Boston.”

He nodded, his mind working the problems. Because now there was more than one, something he’d realized when he caught a glimpse of the driver’s face in the blue car as they’d pulled away; it was Felix, Bruno’s right hand man.

Which meant that somehow, his brother was involved in the killing of Stefan Baeder.

And the threat against Charlotte Duval.

And the last was something he could not let stand.