Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) (3 page)

H
is English was perfect
, his accent almost imperceptible. When she turned to face him, he was standing, and she was surprised to realize he was a big man. Most elegant men weren’t. But he was as tall as the men who had greeted her in the entry. His shoulders were broad, and she had the sense that he was fast and strong under the perfectly tailored suit, an instinct that was validated when he stepped around the desk, his movements as languid as a mountain lion.

“Yes.” She forced the words out of her mouth, forced herself to hold out her hand. “Charlotte Duval.”

He took her hand in his, held it a beat too long. “Charlotte.”

Her name was a caress in his mouth, and she was aware that her breath was coming too fast. Too shallow. He was close now, only two feet away. She could smell him — wool and rain and the faint, bitter tang of coffee. It was a heady mix, and she had to resist the urge to grab a nearby chair to steady herself.

“Joelle calls me Charlie,” she explained. “I apologize for the confusion.”

He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushed his lips across the back of her hand. “No apology necessary.”

She felt his breath on her skin. “I have the…” She sucked in a breath. What was wrong with her? “I have the desk.”

He lowered her hand gently, as if it were made of glass. “Yes, Claude informed me it had arrived.”

She straightened. It was easier to get her bearings now that he wasn’t touching her. She forced her voice steady. “Would you like it in this room?”

“That’s right.” His face was perfectly impassive, not an ounce of emotion in his features, his eyes.

She nodded and was relieved when she heard movement outside the door. It opened a moment later, and Abel stepped through it with his assistant, the two of them moving the blanket-wrapped desk into the room. Charlotte stood to the side, waited as they set it against the wall indicated by Christophe Marchand. They unwrapped it and stood back, waiting for further instruction.

“You may go,” Christophe Marchand said.

The two men headed for the door while Charlotte removed the delivery confirmation from her bag. “I’ll just need you to sign this.”

“I didn't mean you.”

She met his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I told the men to go. It wasn’t an instruction meant for you,” he said.

She nodded, hating herself for the flush that rose to her cheeks. “Yes, well, I will need you to sign the delivery confirmation.”

She held the piece of paper out to him, but he walked past it to the desk. She turned the ring over in her pocket. Should she give it to him? It had come with the desk. She tried to imagine what her father would have done and decided he would have kept it. She still had questions. She wasn’t ready to relinquish it.

Christophe ran a hand over the top of the writing desk. He lowered its apron to reveal the drawers, then pulled them out, one by one and peered inside. When he was finished, he closed the front of the desk and stood back to admire it from a few feet away.

“Did you restore it yourself?” he asked without looking at her.

“Most of it was done by the time I got to Paris.” She was hyper aware of her voice, the way it had always been an octave too low, slightly hoarse. As an adult she had been told it was sexy, but she’d been teased about it when she was a child and had never quite become comfortable with it.

He turned to meet her eyes, his gaze direct and unflinching. “By your father?”

She nodded.

“I was sorry to hear of his passing,” Marchand said. “He was a good man with a good eye. I trusted him, and I don’t trust many people.” She was still trying to come up with a response when he turned his eyes back to the desk. “You’re from America.”

“Yes.”

“New York City?”

“Los Angeles,” she said.

He looked at her again, this time taking his time, sweeping her body with his eyes. She was suddenly glad she’d chosen the white Chanel shift that had been a splurge the last time she was in Paris. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I went to university in New York City.”

He nodded. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” she asked.

“You don’t look like someone from California,” he said. “You don’t speak like someone from California either.”

She felt a smile spring to her lips. “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

He looked into her eyes and acknowledged her question with a small nod.

She was caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, unable to look away from eyes that she now saw were a deep brown with the faintest hint of moss. It was like staring into a fast moving river, the water clean and cold, rocks shimmering below the surface.

She thrust the delivery manifest toward him. “I will need you to sign for the delivery.” She drew in a breath, silently scolding herself for being so gauche. She worked with fine art nearly every day at the Getty, interfaced regularly with modern artists on their way to becoming the next Picasso or Renoir, discussed the finer points of antique furniture with some of the most discerning collectors in the world. But all of her expertise, all her experience, seemed to disappear under the scrutiny of Christophe Marchand’s gaze, the pull of his body. “Assuming it meets your approval, of course.”

He held her gaze. “It does.”

Had he smiled even a little, she might have thought he was flirting with her. But there was nothing playful about the hunger in his eyes, no message in the still expression that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face. She was simply another beautiful object in a household of beautiful objects.

Something else to admire, to acquire.

She nodded. “Good.”

His fingers grazed hers as he took the paper. She thought she was prepared for it. For the schoolgirl zing of electricity that would validate her obvious attraction to him.

But it was nothing so sweet. Nothing so familiar.

Instead her body registered the warmth of his skin on a visceral level, and she was flooded with a powerful instinct to grasp his hand in hers, to pull it toward her body, lay it against the bare skin showing near the top button of her blouse, close her eyes as he slid it over her breast, lowered his lips to the nape of her neck.

He walked to the desk and bent to sign the manifest. She took advantage of the opportunity to berate herself for being foolish. She was twenty-six, not eighteen. She’d been with her share of men. She might even have loved one or two. But she was emotionally vulnerable. Feeling more lonely than usual — and that was saying something. It was perfectly normal to seek comfort in the face of her loss, perfectly normal for her psyche to turn toward a physical encounter that would distract if not exactly soothe.

He straightened and turned to face her. He held out the folded manifest. “Thank you for seeing to the delivery.”

“Of course,” she said, careful not to let her fingers touch his when she took the piece of paper and slipped it into her bag. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

He regarded her like a curiosity he couldn’t quite define. “Time will tell.”

Three words. Three little words that sent a shiver through her body, that felt like a promise despite the fact that she knew she would never see him again.

She turned away, headed for the door. She had her hand on the knob when he spoke behind her.

“What will you do?”

She faced him. “Excuse me?”

“About your father’s gallery.”

“I don’t know. I… I work in Los Angeles. At the Getty actually.” She looked down, needing space from the intensity of his gaze. “I suppose I’ll go back.”

“That is a shame,” he murmured.

She swallowed around the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. Then she got the hell out of there, still trying to figure out what he meant.

C
hristophe urged the horse forward
, leaning over the animal’s sleek neck as it raced across the field leading to the chateau. The air was warm, the slightly medicinal smell of lavender drifting in from the acres of it that grew on the property. He slowed as he came closer to the stables at the back of the house. His head was almost clear of her.

Almost.

It had taken a flight from Paris to Monte Carlo followed by a trip across the water in the chopper, a night that would have been rendered sleepless if not for copious amounts of wine from the family cellar, a morning swim in the warm waters of the Mediterranean, and a ride on Beau, his championship stallion. But he’d almost managed to forget Charlotte Duval’s mysterious eyes, the smoky quality of her voice, her glossy auburn hair.

It was a foolish distraction. There was no shortage of beautiful women in Paris. He was simply intrigued by Charlotte Duval’s novelty, the way he would be with any fine thing. It was important to remember that lust was a physical reaction, a normal one for a man his age. It didn’t mean anything, and it certainly wasn’t worth putting his fortune — or anything else he’d built — at risk.

As if in silent answer to his inner thoughts, he caught movement from the terrace of the house and turned to see his father — the cautionary tale himself — raise a hand in greeting. Christophe turned back to face the stable, swinging off the horse in one easy movement.

A boy appeared, and Christophe handed him the reins, then gave Beau a gentle rub on the neck, leaning in to nuzzle his elegant nose.

“Thank you for the ride,” he said.

“Will there be anything else, Monsieur Marchand?” the boy asked in heavily accented English.

The staff on Corsica catered to his desire to speak English in spite of his father’s pronouncement that it was absurd. Christophe appreciated the effort.

“Merci, non,” he said.

The boy nodded and led the horse into the stable. Christophe watched them go, then turned toward the house with a sigh. The fact that the house on Corsica was a package deal that involved his father — and often his father’s most recent gold digger — was a continual source of frustration. He’d grown up at the chateau until he’d been sent to boarding school after his mother’s death when he was fourteen. Paris was his home, but Corsica had a more elemental hold on his heart. He could still see his mother here. Sometimes he had to blink when staring across the fields, almost certain he’d caught her walking among the lavender, her laughter carrying across the fields.

He’d poured considerable resources into returning the property to its former glory, reintroducing the stable and horses, installing a firing range and a movie room, updating the kitchen and recovering many of the antiques that had been sold by his father along the way. But coming to Corsica meant dealing with his father, and it was a trade-off he never quite reconciled.

He made his way up the steps of his terrace, studying his father’s body language for clues about his state of mind. The hat and sunglasses told Christophe his father was hungover, his sprawling pose at the iron table a clue to the apathy that often sat in after an abandonment.

“Bonjour,” his father said as Christophe took the seat across from him.

“Good morning.” Christophe poured himself a cup of coffee and reached for a piece of baguette.

“Pourquoi dois-je parler anglais dans ma propre maison?”

Christophe leveled his gaze at his father. “But this isn’t only your home, Papa. Have you forgotten?”

His father’s mouth flattened into a thin line, and Christophe felt a moment of shame. He didn’t like holding his financial stake in the chateau over his father’s head. Women were his weakness, and they'd cost the Marchand estate virtually everything in the years before Christophe came of age and began insisting on prenuptial agreements, in the years before he’d joined the Syndicate and began putting their legacy back together piece by piece.

Christophe reached across the table, squeezed his father’s hand. “Je suis désolé, Papa.” He looked down at his plate. “English is how I remember her.”

“Remembering her is painful,” his father said.

“Yes,” Christophe acknowledged. “But not as painful as forgetting.”

Christophe wasn’t surprised when his father didn’t reply. Nothing had eased his suffering in the sixteen years since Veronica Marchand’s death. Not money. Not booze. Not the endless string of young women he’d brought back to the chateau.

But that didn’t stop his father from trying.

Christophe didn't bother. Nothing had been the same since his mother’s death. She’d been the wildflowers to his orchids, the storm-tossed sea to his father’s placid lake. Christophe hadn’t fully realized her influence until she was gone. Until he — and his father and brother — had been forced to live without her. She took with her all their laughter, all their hope. Without her, the color seemed to drain out of the island property, the three men left stunned by her absence.

There was no help for it, but Christophe had vowed early on not to make his father’s mistakes, the first of which was to fall so deeply in love that life seemed meaningless without the person of your heart. The second was to try and fill the hole in his soul with a woman.

They were too unpredictable. Impossible to trust.

He filled his time with work instead, with rebuilding the legacy of the Marchand name and seeking out the beautiful objects his father had sold along the way, filling in with new acquisitions when necessary. It wasn’t exciting, and that was the way he liked it. Exciting was dangerous. Exciting meant you were carried away by emotion.

And emotion was not to be trusted.

He turned back to his father. “How have you been, Papa?”

HIs father waved the question away, poured himself more coffee. “Fine, fine.”

“And Tiffany?” Christophe forced himself to say the words. He couldn’t have cared less about his father’s latest woman, an aspiring actress nearly three decades his junior. But he had learned that it was more prudent to swallow his distaste in an effort to maintain a handle on his father’s personal situation. Doing so allowed him to head off trouble at the pass.

“Gone,” his father said, drinking from the steaming mug.

“For good?” Christophe asked, forcing himself to keep a note of hope from creeping into his voice.

“They all leave for good eventually.”

“I’m sorry,” Christophe said.

“No need to lie,” his father said.

Christophe sighed. “I’m not lying, Papa.”

He wasn’t. He was sorry. Sorry for the loneliness lurking in his father’s voice if not for the fact of Tiffany’s absence. She hadn’t been horrible, simply young and ambitious, hoping marriage to a French Duke would somehow advance her in life. Americans were particularly vulnerable to the outdated title represented by his family name. They’d read too many fairy tales and not enough history; titles were meaningless in modern day France, any money or property once held by the estate long since sold off. The Marchands were lucky to have retained the estate on Corsica, the house in Paris. They would both be gone if not for the massive influx of cash afforded them by Christophe’s business interests.

“You didn't like her,” his father said. “And you brought up your loathsome prenuptial agreement last time you were here.”

“I didn’t dislike her,” Christophe said. “And the agreement is always for your protection. You know that.”

“You scared her away.” His father had turned petulant. “We hadn’t even finalized a wedding date.”

“The right woman will not be scared off by a prenuptial agreement that protects your interests, Papa.”

“So she was after my money?” His father’s words were laced with bitterness. “Haven’t you forgotten? I don’t have any. It all belongs to you now.”

Christophe felt the familiar surge of anger rise in his chest, then tamped it down, forced his voice calm. “That’s not true. My money belongs to me. Money I have earned. Money I have used to restore the houses, refinish them, staff them. Money I use to maintain this property so that you might still live here, so that Bruno may still call it home. Nothing was stolen from you by me.”

His father’s eyes flashed, and Christophe watched as he struggled for an argument that made sense. He settled back in his chair with a sigh a moment later. There was no argument, and they both knew it. Christophe spoke the truth, however distasteful it might be to his father.

“How is Bruno?” his father asked, changing the subject.

“Fine, as far as I know,” Christophe said. “I saw him two days ago, although I don’t see him often these days.”

“How are the restaurants doing?”

It took a moment for Christophe to backtrack through his memory, lay his hands on the story Bruno had told their father some months ago about investing in a number of restaurants in Nice. It was a lie, of course. Bruno made most of his money siphoning business from Christophe, a pursuit Christophe only allowed in the name of family. Still, he always covered for Bruno, allowing his brother to save face with their father by claiming to have his own business interests rather than riding on the coattails of Christophe’s.

“I’m not sure,” Christophe said. “We didn’t talk about it. But he seems well.”

His father nodded. “Good. And you?”

“What about me?” Christophe asked.

“How are you?”

Christophe looked out over the fields. “Fine.”

“You need a woman,” his father said.

“A woman is the very last thing I need.” His father didn’t answer, and Christophe turned to face him, wishing he would remove his sunglasses so Christophe could see his eyes. “A woman isn't the answer to everything, Papa.”

“I disagree,” his father said. “In fact, I would go so far as to say there is no ailment, no trouble, no problem in the world that can’t be solved by the right woman. Or at least made more bearable.”

That’s what got you into this mess.

He held back the words. “I’m too busy for a woman,” he said instead.

His father lowered his sunglasses, looked at Christophe over the dark rims of the Versace frames. “That’s only because you haven’t met the right woman.”