Authors: Deborah Coonts
And so we danced, with me holding the boy tight to my chest, his legs around my waist, and his arms around my neck.
He hummed to the tune, exposing his father’s affinity for the song.
His breath soft on my cheek, his hands fisted in my Pahmina, he touched a side of myself I didn’t know.
A fluttering near my heart.
Something primal, deep … maternal.
Me.
The one who couldn’t be trusted with a pet.
As the last strains of music drifted around us, the boy tightened his grip, almost cutting off my air.
“Again!”
Ah, yes,
just
like his father.
Thankfully, Jean-Charles plucked the boy from my arms.
“
Non.
One is enough.
You must get to bed.”
Jean-Charles’s voice turned stern.
“And mind your
tante.
You leave without her again, and you will be punished.”
The boy knew when the battle was lost.
Besides, it was three adults to his one half. On a normal day, the adults probably still would lose, but today was far from normal.
Perhaps the boy could sense that in our faces and our voices. “Yes, sir.”
“How are you finding your accommodations at Cielo?” I asked Desiree.
“It is a lovely hotel.
So European in its refinement, in the special touches.
You have thought of everything.
It is a bit—how do you say it?—odd to be staying here alone. Last night, the building it makes noises,
oui?
Very late I thought I heard the elevator running.
My imagination, it plays tricks. I know there are guards and we are safe.
I am used to hotels being full of people and sounds.”
“The guards, they patrol,” I said.
“And tonight there will be some police here, watching.”
“As children, she never liked to be alone. She has not outgrown this.” Jean-Charles teased his twin.
“You’ll be all right tonight?”
I asked.
“Of course.
I have my nephew to protect me.”
She tickled Christophe and he squirmed in laughter, pretending to push her hand away.
With kisses and hugs in the dramatic fashion of five-year-olds we all said goodnight and bid Christophe
adieu.
“Come.”
Jean Charles extended his hand as he stepped around the bar.
“Now, about that party; you must be hungry.”
“Famished.” I let him lead me toward the kitchen.
Careful not to disturb the crime scene, we wove our way around the yellow tape to the stove.
I perched on the stool he pulled next to the stove, out of the way, but where I could be close and watch a master at work.
“The cops have released the crime scene?”
“
Oui.”
“So we’re waiting on the clean up,” I muttered to myself.
Given what Romeo told me, there wasn’t anything to be gained here.
Jean-Charles gathered food from the various refrigerators below the counter to his right, presenting a very fine French backside.
While I valued him for the intangibles, I wasn’t above enjoying the package they came in, so I took a moment to enjoy the view.
Arms full, he deposited his load on the prep table and set to work.
When it came to food, he had a single-minded dedication reminiscent of my own.
He cooked it, I consumed it—a great team.
“They dusted for fingerprints, took a few knives that my staff indicated Mr. Box had been using.
The staff was still prepping and serving the chilled appetizers.
The stove was not yet in use.
Holt worked over there.”
He motioned toward the prep area near the walk-in refrigerator with a wooden spoon dripping something dark that smelled delicious.
“We were not yet cooking, so they saw no need to keep me out of this section of the kitchen.”
I knew what he wasn’t saying, what he didn’t want to say—the cops didn’t find any blood here.
No blood.
I shuddered and closed my mind to visuals.
Teddie.
Watching Jean-Charles prepare dinner, I was glad there’d been no blood and the space had been cleaned back to its normal spit-and-polish perfection.
While he was occupied, I stepped over to the taped-off sections of the kitchen.
The pool of blood, now a dark maroon … almost brown in color, with tiny dark drips leading away.
The drips were elongated, the thin tail of them pointing toward the back of the kitchen.
My eyes followed the trail as I imagined a scenario, leaning so I could see the trail extending around the corner.
It looked like it disappeared through the hanging curtain of thick plastic vertical strips, into the refrigerator.
“Is the walk-in normally only covered with the plastic curtain?”
Jean-Charles didn’t turn to look.
“When we are cooking, yes.”
Someone could’ve waited for Holt Box in the fridge or near, stabbed him, then filtered into the flow of a still-new staff, and worked their way out of the kitchen unnoticed.
I’d love to know how my theory shaped up with the one the coroner would pull together—and how the timelines gelled.
Did I notice the man in the dinner jacket easing out of the kitchen at about the right time to have murdered Holt Box?
What time had it been?
All good questions with answers yet to come.
So now I went back to my stool and focused on my life, my chef, and our party of two.
Life gave us precious little time alone as it was.
Hard to believe it took a murder for this to be possible.
My life needing fixing in the worst way.
Wracking my brain, I searched for a happier topic—one that didn’t involve blood and knives and dead country-western singers … and implicated former lovers.
“I loved dancing with Christophe. I’m sorry he couldn’t have stayed a bit longer.”
The tension in Jean-Charles’s shoulders eased.
We’d both had enough murder for the evening.
“He is my life, but he had to get to sleep.”
“Then you’ll have to settle for me.”
“What is this ‘settle’?” he asked, his back to me as he lost himself in the comfort of cooking.
His flute was getting low; mine was dry.
So I went to the bar, filled an ice bucket, and grabbed a new bottle of Schramsberg.
After adding a dash of water to bring the temperature of the ice even lower, I nestled the bottle, knowing Jean-Charles wouldn’t want any more until he’d finished his preparations, and I could wait.
“Settling means you take a lesser option,” I answered, as I busied myself setting a table for two in the kitchen.
Jean-Charles glanced over his shoulder.
“You and Christophe would be the best choices.”
“So, not settling.”
I gathered knives, forks, and other utensils we might need, then paused.
“I really don’t want to eat in here.
Death is too close.”
He put his hand over his chest as he paused in his cooking.
“My kitchen is my heart.
Here is for family.”
He took a long look at me.
“But, perhaps you are right.
Tonight we will eat in the restaurant.”
“Thank you.”
I set a table for us next to the window.
When I returned, he motioned me next to him.
Busy with spatulas and spoons, he couldn’t hug me, so I looped an arm around his waist, settling my head on his shoulder, breathing him in.
“You, like Christophe, are my heart,” he said.
Simple words, such complexity.
“There’s room for both of us?”
Normally I could keep my vulnerability, my fears, at bay, but tonight had knocked me off-center.
“But, of course.
Powerful love, but different.
Sit.
You must let me plate this and serve you.”
He didn’t have to demand twice.
Over amazing food, we stayed on safe topics, repairing the day.
The Champagne gone, the food enjoyed, Jean-Charles leaned across the table presenting one last bite on his spoon—the dregs of a heavenly chocolate pot de crème.
Leaning back, I shook my head, my hand pressed to my stomach.
“I can’t eat another bite.”
He shrugged and, with a smile, licked the spoon clean.
“Chefs get very angry when their food is not finished.”
I leaned into him.
“And what is the punishment?”
“For you?
Very bad.”
Leaning in, he met me halfway.
The touch of his lips on mine still fired every nerve ending.
He deepened his kiss, consuming me, taking my breath, and stealing my heart.
His forehead on mine, his whispered, “Dance?”
I giggled and pulled back to get a better look at him.
“What?”
“I will make a plate for your friend, then I will put the pots to soak, and then we will dance.
It is life,
non?
”
“Indeed.”
Dane sat in a chair under the Van Gogh.
Two works of art—one a vision, the other a reality.
I wasn’t sure which was which.
I handed him the plate and some silverware still wrapped in a napkin I’d swiped off a table.
“You must be hungry.”
I pulled a fresh Bud from a hidden pocket in my dress.
“And thirsty.”
Dane took the plate and bottle with a smile.
“Thanks.”
“Peace offerings in a way.
I’ll only say this once, and I don’t want to discuss it further.
What you did was wrong, not only to me but to your wife.
I hope you’ve learned, and I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to fix it with her.”
Pain flashed across his face as he swallowed hard.
“Can I fix it with you?”
I’d thought and thought about that, and I still hadn’t reached a conclusion. “One step at a time, cowboy.
What do you say?
Friends?”
I figured I could get that far, even if trust remained an issue.
Hell, Mona was my mother and I didn’t trust her past noon.
Dane nodded, looking relieved.
“Friends.”
He tilted his head toward the interior of the restaurant.
“Lucky guy.”
“Nice guy.
Make sure no one gets to him or his family.
Once we leave here, I’ll have him covered.
Romeo is leaving a couple of guys here, in addition to your guards and mine so Christophe and Desiree should be good.”
Dane didn’t give me a leer, which was unusual.
Most of the time he was creepy that way.
“And he lives in an armed guard-gated community.
So get some sleep tonight.
Can you be ready in the morning to provide escort, should Jean-Charles decide to wander about?
Given the events of this evening, I have no idea what his plans are tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you’ll be working.”
So sure of that he didn’t even pause for confirmation.
“So give me a shout when you get ready to leave.”
“Will do.”
“I’m thinking I might get one or two other guys so we can tag-team a bit.
That okay?”
“Sure.
As long as they’re as good as you.”
“Better.
First one I’ll call is Shooter Moran, if that’s okay?”
“Shooter?
Sure, but remind him this is an ask-first-shoot-later kind of gig.” Shooter was an old Army buddy with a Pavlovian response when it came to his former Captain, Dane.
Shooter also had a twitchy trigger finger and an over-developed sense of loyalty.
But he was a good guy to have your back.
I left Dane with his food and his thoughts.
I owed a man a dance.
CHAPTER SIX
M
ORNINGS.
Like I said, we don’t get along too well.
But today, a certain Frenchman worked to improve my attitude.
Spooned in bed, one arm thrown casually across my waist, his breath soft on my cheek, I savored the heat where our skin touched.
Jean-Charles shifted.
His fingers brushed the back of my neck.
The warmth of his lips pressed to the exposed skin.
Soft, warm kisses sending warm shivers to my core.
“You are awake,
non?”
“No.
Dreaming.”
A warm chuckle as he nibbled on my ear, his hand drifting to my breast, teasing.
Reaching back, I trailed my hand across his skin, a light caress.
His breath caught.
Easing back, insistent, he rolled me over.
His mouth found my breast, nibbling, biting.
I arched into him, my hands fisted in his hair.
His need fueled mine.
His lips found the hollow in my neck, licking, tasting.
Want unfurled, a warm, desperate need.
His lips captured mine, his tongue plundering my mouth.
Tangling, wet.
Shifting his weight onto me, I opened to him.
My hand guiding, he pressed into me.
Taking, owning.
I moaned as he filled me.
My need joining his, a syncopated rhythm of desire.
Slow, tantalizing, he toyed with me.
Slipping in, then out, warm, slick.
Pleasure, a building need, drove me.
I wrapped my legs around his back, pulling him deeper, urging him faster.
Arching, open.
Waves of pleasure, building, consuming.
Head back, my breath caught, held.
Muscles tightened.
I exploded in shattering spasms.
With a groan, he pulsed into me, his body taut with pleasure.