Walking The Edge: A Romantic Suspense/Espionage Thriller (Corpus Brides Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

He’d been with her before; this much she knew. Why didn’t he acknowledge it? Unless her vision had been a figment of a drugged mind. Yet, how had she conjured him up so easily? The details on the planes of his face matched those of her dream. Hell, even his voice had the same low tone, with that husky, raspy accent teasing his English vowels.

She closed her eyes. How could she recall all that if she didn’t know him?

He still owed her an explanation. Assault also being no way to treat a woman, he owed her an apology, as well.

With determination straightening her spine, she picked up her handbag, which lay at her feet, and stepped out of the alley. People walked about, yet no one gave her a second look. She glanced to the left and spotted a lone figure walking off into the dark. The denim jacket moved with the man’s easy swagger.

He disappeared around a corner, and she set out after him. She’d follow him until she could catch up.

As she left the golden glow of the streetlamps and moved into the dark back streets where he led, her steps slowed. Without realizing why, she stuck close to the walls, in the shadows, moving with a careful tread to make no sound on the pavement despite her hard boot heels.

He walked on for what seemed like ages, before stopping in front of the large, grey door of what looked like a garage. He reached into his jacket pocket, probably to retrieve a key, then he suddenly froze, his back going stiff.

He turned in her direction. She pressed herself against the wall, letting the shadows cloak her. Did he know she followed him?

*

Gerard took a step away from the door. He could swear he’d heard a sound, like the crunch of a foot accidentally landing on a pebble. He paused, letting his senses tune in to his surroundings. The area he lived in formed part of the
beaux quartiers
, one of the most affluent
arrondissements
of Marseille, but no one said crime couldn’t come here. One always had to be on the lookout for anything unusual.

Tonight is too quiet
. Something hung in the air, a sort of expectancy that made the hairs on his nape stand up.
Not a good sign
, his cop’s instincts screamed. He reached for the gun he kept in the shoulder holster on his left side, pulled out his Sig Sauer, and kept the firearm close to him, finger on the trigger.

As he turned to scan the other side of the road, something—or someone—lunged at him and knocked him into the solid garage door. Reflex kicking in, he took a deep breath to fortify himself against the stinging pain in his body. Honing his senses, he lashed out on the side from which his opponent had assaulted him.

His fist connected with a jaw and he heard a grunt. Male. So not the woman from the bistro. Could she have sent someone after him? He had no time to ponder—a heavy booted foot collided smack into his stomach and sent him to his knees. The gun dropped from his hand. He could barely see the man kick the Sig away.
Now’s the time to hit him.

But he wasn’t fast enough. The thug smashed a hard blow to Gerard’s temple. Black dots danced before his eyes.

It would take more than this to knock him out, though. He looked up and staggered an exhale—he’d be no match against the gun his assailant yanked from inside his jacket. A weapon with a silencer screwed on. Definitely a man out for a kill.

Time stood still while he tried to breathe and remain conscious.

And then something happened so quickly he had trouble grasping it. The guy howled and went down, his free hand clutching his neck as Gerard caught sight of a cherry-red flash.

The thug lifted and aimed his gun. Another red burst haloed the first.

Two shots rang, and the man slumped.

Gerard moved his gaze to where the flashes had appeared. His Sig lay in the hands of the one who’d saved him.

Legs braced, back straight, she held the gun in both hands, the left cupping the right. Wisps of smoke gently drifted from the barrel.

He blinked when he focused on her face.

It can’t be.
The same woman who’d met him at the bistro. Yet, at the same time,
not
her. Her features looked different, harder, and, he realized with dread, completely focused yet expressionless.

Something told him to take another look. She hadn’t dropped the gun, and for an insane moment, he wondered if she’d aim it his way and shoot. There had been no hesitation in her two shots, and, as his eyes took in the way she held the Sig—one hand curled around the grip and the other anchoring it—realization clattered in his brain.

She held it like a professional, and
merde
if she hadn’t shot like a professional, too.

Finally, she lowered the weapon and stepped up to him.

From his previous deduction, he hadn’t expected her to be trembling or bumbling her way about, but still, the efficiency with which she sidestepped the body and crouched at Gerard’s side sent warning bells off in his head.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, aware the thought had made it into words.

Chapter Four

Marseille.
Quartier de Saint-Giniez
in the
8ème arrondissement

Saturday, December 15. 10.15 p.m.

That’s what I’d like to know, too.
But she didn’t reply even as the thought crossed her mind.

Not the time to look for answers.

Instead, she raked her gaze over him, stopping at the trickles of blood oozing from his lip and the gaping cut along his eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Just—” he winced as he tried to move, “—help me stand up.”

She held his elbow and braced her arm around his waist.

After leaning against the wall, his breathing hard and laboured, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile, punched in a number, and waited.

“Rashid, it’s me. Take some men and come to my place. And call the coroner. One man was shot.”

She understood his French as he talked. What the hell...? And what to make of the inert body on the asphalt? She’d killed that man...

Flashes of light captured her attention, and she glanced up, finding people silhouetted against previously dark windows. Some ground-floor occupants had stepped out; a few of them called to Gerard. He reassured them he had things under control.

Yeah, right.
He’d taken a beating, and the hiss that escaped his lips as she pressed a little too hard onto his side told her he’d been badly hurt. “You should get checked by a doctor.”

“No need,” he grumbled.

Typical man; thought himself invincible.

“I can make it,” he added and gently shrugged her off.

She let him go. He wanted to act tough?
Be my guest.

With stumbling steps, he moved to the large door where he’d stopped a few minutes earlier. He tried to lift it, and grunted in pain. Reflex pushed her to his side where she reached out to help, only to be shooed off again. So he’d treat her like a fragile female now? After she’d brought down and killed a veritable gorilla back there?

About that...
her mind prodded, but she slammed the lid onto that line of thought. Not for the here and now.

A couple of neighbourhood men came up and helped him open the shutter-like door, exposing a lived-in garage behind the panel.

His residence? And a garage, in such a posh area? Curiouser and curiouser.

The sounds of police sirens soon blared through the air. Minutes later, uniformed and civilian-clothed officers swamped the area, flashing colours from their vehicles’ strobes sending eerie lights like a laser show onto the smooth walls of the surrounding buildings. A medic with a stethoscope around his neck converged onto her and escorted her to an ambulance a few feet away.

On the way, she caught the eyes of the man who’d bumped into her at the station. He halted at the sight of her—or so she assumed—and then, immediately swooped in on the
commissaire
. Besson spoke with the handsome, Mediterranean-looking guy, and both men turned towards her. Across the distance, and with the surreal lights, she couldn’t make out their words, but she’d bet they talked about her.

*

Who is she?
Gerard kept his gaze on her where she stood across the road.

“What’s
she
doing here?” Rashid asked. “I thought she was a honey trap you didn’t want to fall into.”

Something about this woman didn’t add up... “Look at her and tell me something,” he said. “What do you think has happened to her?”

Rashid shrugged. “She looks annoyed, as if she’s stuck in this place and would rather be anywhere but here.”

Gerard nodded. “My thoughts, too. Do you think this is how a woman who’s just run into a fight, picked up a gun, aimed, shot, and killed a man, would look?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Rashid’s face echoed the disbelief in his words.

“No, I’m not.” He shook his head. “It’s thanks to her I’m alive. The guy was about to shoot me down.”

Rashid’s mouth hung open. “You’re telling me this scrap of a woman brought down a thug that size?”

“Yes.”

Who could she be?

She had retreated into a corner, her intense eyes seeming to capture every detail of all the activity around her. A guy from the SAMU, the French emergency service, went up to her and placed a blanket around her shoulders while the doctor questioned her. She nodded in Gerard’s direction after a few seconds.

She’d killed a man barely half an hour earlier,
bon sang
; yet, she stood quiet and unruffled, still with her wits about her while the chaos of police investigation buzzed all over the place. She should’ve been trembling and even hysterical. Not so calmly detached.

Again, he couldn’t help but think she must be something else than what he’d initially thought her to be.

Come to think of it, he didn’t know who and what she really was. He’d believed her to be a lure—his mistake.

“What are you going to do about her?” Rashid asked, breaking through his thoughts.

Gerard watched her for long seconds. “You know, they say you should keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

“Is she a friend or an enemy?”

He didn’t know for sure. Something told him she wasn’t the enemy because she’d killed that guy without a second thought. The enemy wouldn’t decimate its own side.

But what if it all amounted to a ploy, to win his trust?

He didn’t know, and couldn’t know, really. Somehow, she held the key—the way she’d shot meant she couldn’t be any regular lure sent to honey-trap him. He’d have to figure out what part she played, and if she even represented part of the whole scheme.

And the thug sent to kill him? Who, and why? Could it be pure luck she’d been around to help at that precise moment?

The questions rolled in his head, adding pieces to an already complex jumble.

Something bigger than a gang of casino robbers must be at work here, for why else would these petty thieves send a killer after him? They amounted to the only case he worked on at the moment. How did he connect the dots? A lure he could understand, acting as leverage for blackmail purposes, or to get information out of him. But to order his death at the hands of a hit man?

And what of the woman in all this?

His gaze locked with her blue eyes. Without breaking eye contact, he walked up to her. Every step hurt, but he paid the pain no heed. Too much going on to bother with a little niggle.

He stopped inches from her body. She lifted her face to his, and he brought his hand up to graze her cheek with his knuckles.

Why did he do that? He had no clue, and he couldn’t stop himself before he’d made contact with her creamy skin.

She blinked under the touch, and her lips parted.

“
Pardon, Commissaire. Nous devons interroger la dame
.”

The voice and the inopportune interruption of one of his officers startled them both out of the hypnotic tension that had settled between them. She glanced at the officer, before her gaze returned to him.

He nodded towards the police van. “Just give your statement, and after you’re done, I’ll take you home. I think the two of us need to talk.”

Ha! Understatement of the year.

The officer left and she took a step to follow.

“Wait,” Gerard called out. She turned to him. “Thank you.”

She nodded, the hint of a smile touching her lips, and then disappeared in the crush of police uniforms. Before he lost sight of her, she’d looked...familiar.

But he didn’t know her...

Gerard took a deep breath and winced when too much air entered his lungs, making his ribs hurt.

Dead. He’d be dead right now had it not been for her. Before the night drew to a close, come what may, he’d find out her true identity.

*

In the end, she didn’t go to the police van. The officers led her into the garage Gerard had opened. She settled on a drab, threadbare couch and recounted in English, to a cop who spoke the language, what had happened. She wouldn’t play the hand of knowing French just yet; she also didn’t trust herself to be fluent out of the blue like this. Their questions came like gunfire from a machinegun. She needed all her wits about her to get out of this tricky setup.

No, she didn’t know the identity of the dead man, and she came here because she had personal business she needed to attend to with the
commissaire
, she repeated over and over.

What kind of business, they relentlessly asked. She doubted she could tell them their superior officer had been her lover.

At last, Gerard stepped in and said he’d handle things from there. They had the information they needed for her statement.

She peered up at him. He had changed, dressed now in clean jeans, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. The reddish hue of injured skin from the blows he’d taken looked clearly visible on one side of his face, and a small butterfly dressing covered a stitch on his cut eyebrow.

She then perused the room. The officers were finally leaving, clearing the area and allowing her a good look around. Definitely a garage. A big Peugeot 407 saloon car sat parked a few feet away. A metal staircase caught her attention—it led to a mezzanine where a big, rumpled bed sat. Looking back down at the ground level, she caught a glimpse of a kitchenette off to one side.

“This is your place?” she asked.

He nodded. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

A man of little words, always getting to the crux of every matter, she’d bet.

She stood, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. She had ditched the blood-and grime-covered coat when she came in. At the sudden cold air brushing the naked skin of her arms, bare under the strappy camisole, she shivered.

He paused, his gaze narrowing on her. “What’s that on your arm?”

She looked down, her gaze encountering the large and darkening, yellowish bruise from Peter’s rough handling. “An unfortunate accident,” she fibbed.

Did he buy her lie?

He took a few steps away, then returned and handed her a suede blazer. “It’s cold outside. Wear this.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she shrugged into it.

Still, despite the additional clothing and the heat he blasted on full when they got into the car, she shivered. A chill permeated her whole body, and she couldn’t find enough warmth to ward it off.

What on earth had happened in the past few hours? She didn’t recognize herself all of a sudden...even more than her current amnesia warranted. She had killed a man...

How come?

And why did it not faze her beyond a tiny twinge in her chest?

***

Marseille.
Corniche
JF Kennedy

Saturday, December 15. 11:40 p.m.

Gerard glanced away from the windshield and at his companion as he steered the car along the icy roads. She was trembling, imperceptibly, but trembling nevertheless. Delayed reaction. So not as much a robot as he’d thought.

Not a robot
, his mind screamed.
A killer.

He didn’t want to think of that possibility. He had to keep the notion at the back of his mind, but he needed to get closer to her to find out the depths of the whole mess. Too coincidental he’d been working on a case suddenly gone cold, and the same day, a woman accosted him
and
a thug tried to kill him.

At a junction in town, he asked her where she lived.

“I checked in at
Le Chaland
.”

Another red flag.
Money involved.

The drive to the hotel turned out silent. He left the car in the visitors’ parking area and escorted her inside.

As he passed through the foyer, he noticed a young man at the front desk. Marcel, the boy he’d scraped off the streets a few years ago and whom he’d gotten accepted at a hotel school, worked reception that night.
Good
. He had a contact in.

He returned his attention to the woman with him. She’d grown remarkably silent. Too quiet, almost withdrawing. In the closed confines of the lift, she huddled into herself, and a strange grip squeezed his chest at the dejection on her face. What could be going on inside her head?

*

Lost. Adrift. No anchor...

Nothing made sense in her mind. The shivers racked her with more intensity. The only way she could prevent herself from shaking like a leaf amounted to pressing her arms to the sides of her body and trying as much as possible not to move.

Thoughts swam in her head. The only conclusion she came to stated that her body and mind had switched onto automatic pilot when she had seen the man assaulting Gerard. She’d known without the hint of a doubt that she had to get in and hit the guy. She’d also seen herself, as if from afar, reach for the gun, hold its cold weight in both hands, aim for the man’s heart, and shoot. Twice. The first shot had detonated with a backward push through her whole body, but her legs had been braced, so she’d absorbed the recoil and hadn’t lost her focus.