The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (10 page)

Fabien
takes a step back, his jaw clenched, a vicious look in his eyes.

The
idiot had better run.
He
stands no chance against Hugo.

But
Fabien doesn’t run. Instead, he pulls something from his pocket and points it
at Hugo.

A
gun.

I
scream as the gun in Fabien’s hand makes a loud bang.

Hugo
wavers and falls to the ground.

I
rush to him.

Fabien
scurries away.

The
next few minutes are a frenzy of checking Hugo’s pulse and dialing the
emergency number with fingers that tremble so much I drop the phone twice. When
I finally manage to make the call, I bellow the address and beg the man on the
other end of the line to hurry as if he were the one to drive here. Then I lose
my grip on the phone again and it shatters. When I pick it up, part of the
glass screen falls out. I drop it and kneel next to Hugo, pressing my bunched
up scarf to his wound. My vision begins to blur with the horror of what’s just
happened.

Then
I hear a second bang and see Fabian in the distance. He runs away.

I
feel as though someone punched me in the stomach, really hard. Very quickly, a
burning sensation takes over. The world around me begins to disintegrate like a
cookie sinking to the bottom of a coffee mug. No booms or bursts, just a slow
and relentless crumbling away at the edges. Before it completely dissolves into
nothingness, an almost entertaining thought strikes me. My
superpowers—the ones Hugo laughed off—did do him in after all.

How
ironic.

It
must have been that night in Nîmes that tipped the scales.

But
hey, there’s a silver lining to this story.

The
superpowers that killed Hugo are erasing me from the face of the Earth, too.

*
* *

Seventeen

Everything
is drenched in light.

Paris
is enjoying its first sunny day in three weeks, and it’s unusually warm for
late November. People grab their morning coffee on terraces and turn their
faces to the sun. They’re soaking up as much of its goodness as they can before
they go inside and spend the next eight to twelve hours in front of a computer
or at a cashier’s desk.

A
dog sitter ambles around the square, pulled by an assorted pack of Chihuahuas,
beagles, and poodles. He stops every few steps so that one of his furry charges
can take care of business.

A
tall man in his forties speeds by on a skateboard. Two preteen girls on pink
scooters pant and try to keep up with him.

“Dad,
slow down!” the younger girl shouts.

“Come
on, munchkins, we’re almost there,” the man says without turning back. “This is
so freaking cool!”

He
has a huge grin on his face. His tongue sticks out a little as he pushes off
again. His tie flies over his shoulder and down his back, flopping in the wind.
The hems of his dark suit pants are polka-dotted with puddle water. But he
doesn’t seem to care.

He’s
fifteen once again.

I
shift on the bench, watching the three of them vanish from sight.

Hugo
puts his arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head.

Yep,
we’re both alive—even though not quite kicking yet.

For
once, statistics have worked for me. Hugo and I made it, like the vast majority
of gunshot victims do. We have Fabien to thank for it. I’m serious. His being a
lousy shot and mucking up his
crime of passion
was a key factor in our
pulling through. Besides, the ambulance arrived quickly, and the ER doctors did
a great job patching us up.

The
police arrested Fabien the next day.

It’s
been three weeks since then—one at the hospital and two at home. Claire
travelled to Paris to take care of me, and Yvette is staying with Hugo. Charles
calls every day and threatens to disregard his doctor’s advice and come visit
me.

A
nurse from the hospital has been coming by for outpatient procedures, and I
asked her to refer me to a good psychotherapist. I saw him three times already,
admittedly to help me with the PTSD. But he’s smart. Ten minutes into our first
session, he knew I was seeing him to get help for something else entirely.

The
shrink says I’m a challenge, considering the layers of fears, mental blocks,
and delusions I’ve wrapped myself in since childhood.

He
also says he enjoys a challenge.

Claire
has been cooking my favorite dishes and spending a lot of time in the armchair
next to the couch where I dwell by day.

Diane
has been camping on the floor at the foot of said couch every evening after she
gets home from her part-time cashier job. We watch a couple of episodes of
Game
of Thrones
, and then she “streams” her own entertainment program in the
form of witty banter. Yesterday I asked her about Darcy. She refused to give me
the lowdown, but said she wasn’t through with him yet. Worse still, she hinted
at some diabolical plan to punish him by “pressing right where it hurts.”

Should
I worry about him, too? But I can’t bring myself to do that right now. I don’t
even have the energy to worry about Diane or Claire or Charles. Hugo and I were
shot. We survived. To celebrate it, I’m taking a little vacation from worrying.
It’s my cheat month. I’m letting my family—because that’s what Claire,
Charles, and Diane are to me—look after me, and I’m basking in their
love.

And,
boy, it feels good.

Hugo
and I have been talking a lot over the last three weeks about work, Fabien, common
friends, and all sorts of things… except our future. We’ve been pretty good at
keeping a lid on that particular topic. It was easy when we were at the
hospital, surrounded by medical personnel and given painkillers 24-7. After we
were discharged, it became a little more difficult, although recovering in
separate apartments located across the city definitely helped.

But
with every passing day, it became harder and harder not to mention the elephant
in the room. So, when he asked me if I was feeling brave enough to meet him in
town today, I knew it was to talk about it.

As
a matter of fact, I don’t mind. Our elephant has regressed into a big hairy
mammoth in the meantime. We’d better acknowledge him before he turns into a T.
rex.

“So,
here’s the thing,” Hugo says. “We’re alive.”

“Really?”
I pinch my hands and cheeks. “You’re sure we aren’t ghosts who
believe
we’re alive? You know, like Bruce Willis in
The
Sixth Sense
?”

“Trust
me, we aren’t ghosts. And you know what that means, Chloe?”

“That
we can’t see dead people?”

He
smiles but then grows serious again. “It means your curse is kaput. Assuming,
of course, that it was real.”

“It
was,” I say. “I mean, it is… I think.”

This
is very confusing.

“Let
it go,
pichune
,” he says. “Let me love you.”

Yes,
please.

“I
can’t.” I wring my wrists. “I… What if…”

His
eyes are riveted to mine while I’m trying to put the biggest fear of my life
into words.

“Curse
or no curse,” I say finally, “how can you let another person in, knowing they
might leave you? And even if they don’t, you know it’ll all come to an end
sooner or later.”

He
shrugs. “You hope it’ll be later rather than sooner.”

“I
wouldn’t bet on it if I were me.”

“And
if you were me?”

I
chew on my lip.

“I
come from a long line of lucky bastards,” he says. “My parents have loved each
other for thirty-odd years. My maternal grandparents have been married fifty
years, and my paternal grandparents, sixty. I plan to beat their record.”

“Sixty
years, huh?”

“Yup.
Sixty
good
years.”

“It’s
just… my karma is a real bitch. I’m afraid it’ll trump your good luck.”

“I
doubt it. But even if it did, even if we had only twenty years of happiness
ahead of us, or ten, or five, just think of how beautiful those years would be.
Five years, that’s roughly…”—he closes his eyes and moves his lips
silently—“two thousand days of beauty. Isn’t that worth the risk?”

Two
thousand days of beauty.

Is
that what love is all about? Overcoming your fears to create something
beautiful out of the chaos and pointlessness of your life. Giving the universe
a meaning.

Will
that beauty be destroyed? Yes, eventually. Nothing is permanent in this world
except impermanence, as someone clever said. But as long as you breathe, you
can create more beauty.

And
that’s how you keep the chaos in check.

Suddenly,
my chest feels as if a weight was lifted off it. As if the curse is truly
kaput. Assuming, of course, that it was real. That it wasn’t just my
imagination weaving the random events of my life into a neat, albeit morbid,
story.

Whichever
it was, I’m through with it.

Good-bye,
Midas.

Thanks
for nothing.

Here’s
to a lifetime without you.

Here’s
to a lifetime with Hugo.

Even
if that lifetime turns out to be just a few years, or a few days.

Both
Hugo and I have looked deep inside our hearts and determined we’d rather have a
few more days together than endless years apart.

So
that settles it, then.

I
take his hand and gaze into his warm brown eyes.

“Hey,”
he says softly.

“Hi,”
I say.

And
then I fill my lungs with crisp autumn air and kiss him.

<<<<>>>> 

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Find You in Paris

(Diane
and Sebastian’s story)

If
there’s one man fledgling art photographer Diane Petit really, really, actively
hates, it’s fragrance mogul Sebastian Darcy who stole her father’s
company—and wrecked the man’s health in the process.

But
the arrogant SOB had better brace himself because Diane has vowed revenge.

And
revenge she will have.

Get Find You in Paris
now at a reduced preorder price!

Excerpt from “What If It’s Love?”

(Bistro
La Bohème Series)

When
the hottest man in Paris - Rob Dumont - shows interest in geeky, introverted
heiress Lena, she suspects something fishy.

And
so she should.

~~~

The
man, who spoke mostly Russian, had remained glued to his cell phone throughout
his meal. When he finished, he collected his change and placed a ten euro bill
on the table.

“
Merci,
monsieur
! It’s a very generous tip!” Rob grinned.

The
service being included by default in all checks in Paris, the locals tipped
scantily if at all. With the recession, even the tourists were beginning to heed
the advice of guidebooks and do like the French.

“No
trouble.” The man stood to leave, then turned to Rob, and said in unexpectedly
decent French, “Listen, would you like to make some extra cash?”

Has
God finally heard my prayers?
Rob tried to subdue his enthusiasm. “Depends . . . What’s the
gig?”

“Nothing
difficult. There’s this rich kid—”

Rob
shook his head. “Sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think I’m interested in hearing
the rest of it.”

On
second thought, maybe he should hear it—and alert the police.

The
man tut-tutted. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to interrupt people when they
speak? Let me start again. There’s this Russian kid—she lives in this
very building. Her father is my main competitor in business. I just want you to
make friends with her, be around her as much as you can, and keep me informed
of anything that may be of interest.”

“Like
what?”

“Like
when during his phone calls or visits they discuss something related to his
business. Or his travel plans. Or any kind of plans.”

Rob
furrowed his brow. “How often does he call her? And where is he?”

“In
Moscow. He calls her every day, and from what I’ve seen, they talk for at least
thirty minutes. She’s his only child, so my guess is he’s grooming her to join
the business.”

“What
business?”

“IT
services.” The man arched an eyebrow as if to say,
What did you expect?

Rob
glanced around the room. Things were slow this afternoon, and the other waiters
had the situation under control. But he had to get back to work.

The
man shrugged. “Basically, I’m asking you to do corporate espionage of sorts.”

“But
won’t this kid be speaking Russian with her father?” Rob’s asked. The gig
didn’t seem to be anything horrible like kidnapping, but it still didn’t sound
quite legitimate.

The
man smiled. “And you can understand it, can’t you? I noticed how you smirked at
some of my, shall we say, colorful expressions when I was on the phone. Are you
part Russian or did you learn it at school?”

Rob
sighed. There went his attempt at polite refusal. He might as well admit to
this observant captain of industry that he spoke Russian. “School and evening
classes. I’m a business student, so foreign languages are a big asset.”

“How
admirable. Do we have a deal, then? I’ll pay you decently, so you can cut down
your working hours and focus on your studies.”

When
the man told him the amount of the “commissions” for each piece of intel, Rob’s
mouth fell open.
Jesus
. If he delivered a dozen reports over the next
few months, he’d be able to pay the school fees in full before the end of
August.

And
get his MBA.

“Let
me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to spy on some chick in relation
to her father’s activity, right? Just pass on whatever I overhear from her in
this regard, and no funny business. I need to be sure of it.”

“That’s
right. I’m not a mobster, you know. Do I look like one to you? Where do you
think I learned my French? I’m an educated man and a respected businessman.”

Rob
raised his eyebrows, signaling he needed to hear more.

The
man curled his lip. “It just so happens that Anton Malakhov—that’s the
girl’s father—has been seriously hurting my business lately. He’s
determined to grow even bigger. And he plays dirty: dumping prices, stealing
clients, and so on. I’ll go bust if I don’t get my act together. And this includes
taking some . . . unorthodox measures.”

“Including
a little foul play of your own,” Rob said.

The
man nodded and held out a business card. “My name is Boris Shevtsov. Please go
ahead and look me and my company up.”

Rob
took the card. “Will do. I still have a couple of questions though. First, why
don’t you have someone spy on the girl’s father directly? Why this roundabout
approach?”

Boris
sighed. “Anton Malakhov is spy proof. He’s extremely discrete and not given to
excesses of any kind. No wife or known girlfriend. Very few friends. A
practically nonexistent social life.”

“Have
you tried through work? A mole intern is a textbook tactic.” Rob tried to hide
his sarcasm.

The
man raised an eyebrow. “I’m familiar with it, thank you. And yes, I’ve tried
it. But his people do advanced background checks on every recruit, including
interns. So I figured spying on his daughter was as close as I could get to
spying on him.”

“What
happens if the girl has no inclination to be friends with me? How long would
you want me to keep trying?” Used to girls seeking his attention, Rob wasn’t
sure how good he would be at making the first steps. Natural-looking first
steps.

Boris
smirked. “Trust me, you won’t have to try for very long. I’ve watched her from
afar for a week now. She’s always by herself. Doesn’t seem to have any friends
in Paris.”

“How
come?”

“She’s
new here. She’s shy. And here comes a handsome educated boy like you offering
friendship? Oh, I think she’ll be interested.”

“Give
me a day to think about it.”

Boris
nodded and pushed a photo in front of Rob. “Her name is Lena.”

Rob
looked at the picture, then at Boris. “That’s her? I’ve seen this girl down
here a couple of times, with her books and laptop.” He paused before adding,
“Are you sure it’s her?”

“Of
course I am.”

Rob
shrugged. “She just doesn’t look like a Russian
minigarch
to me. Where
are the oversized sunglasses, tons of makeup, extravagant shoes, and the flashy
Louis Vuitton handbag? She looks like the girl next door.”

“Must
be her Swiss boarding school education. Then again, Anton Malakhov isn’t your
stereotypical Russian
oligarch
either.”

*
* *