Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) (11 page)

“
S
tefan was alone
when it happened,” Michael explained. “I always went to the market on Mondays and Thursdays, but I can’t help wishing something had stopped me that day.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Charlotte said, wanting to ease the anguish on the other man’s face. “If you’d been here, you might have been killed, too. I can’t imagine Mr. Baeder would have wanted that to happen.”

Michael Weisman had introduced himself as Baeder’s valet, but it was obvious their relationship went beyond professional bounds.

“Yes, well, we’ll never know, will we?” His words were bitter, and he stood, pacing to the fireplace. He studied the ring in his hand. “I assumed the men who killed him did so for the ring, although it never did make sense.” He looked around the room. “There are so many valuables in plain sight. Why not take something else as well?”

“Forgive me for asking,” Christophe said, “but was there enough time between the assault on Mr. Baeder and his death for him to hide the ring?”

Michael seemed to think about it. “I’m not sure. The police have established a time of death, but it’s hard to say exactly how long he was injured before he… succumbed. But I was gone for nearly two hours. If the men arrived as I was leaving, I suppose he would have had time to hide the ring.”

“Can you think of a reason he might have done that?” Charlotte asked.

Michael put the ring in his pocket. “Perhaps he was trying to tell me something.”

“What might he have been trying to tell you?” Christophe asked.

Michael seemed to hesitate in the moment before he crossed the room, removing a set of keys from his trouser pocket. He flipped through them, then went to a large box on one of the bookshelves and unlocked it. When he returned to the sofa, he was carrying a folder full of paper.

“I suspect it might have something to do with this.”

He set the folder on the low table that sat between the sofa and chairs. Charlotte reached for it, then drew in a breath when she saw the picture on top of the other papers.

“Tucker’s Cross?” Charlotte studied the picture — a gold cross studded with seven emeralds. The edges of the piece were elaborately detailed, and a small pendant hung from either arm.

“It was something of an obsession for Stefan,” Michael said. “He’d been looking for it since it was reported stolen.”

“I can’t help wondering about the connection to the ring,” Charlotte said. “How would you have connected it to Stefan’s hunt for the cross?”

“The ring had been stolen once, too,” he said. “Stefan looked for it for nearly ten years before he found it, although it was not nearly as valuable as Tucker’s Cross. He had a particular interest in lost and stolen artifacts.”

“But surely he never found the cross?” Charlotte asked.

She couldn’t imagine it. Tucker’s Cross had been found in a Spanish shipwreck off the coast of Bermuda in the 1950s. It was put on display within a museum in Bermuda run by Tucker and his wife. The theft was only discovered when the piece was being readied for a visit from Queen Elizabeth the Second and was discovered to be a fake. The original was never found.

“Sadly, no.”

Charlotte sensed something left unsaid.

“But?” she prompted.

He sighed. “He had a contact. A woman he’d been meeting who said she knew someone who might know the location of the cross.”

“And you think she had something to do with Stefan’s death?” Charlotte asked.

“I think what Mr. Weisman is saying is that he believes someone else might have gotten wind of Stefan’s progress,” Christophe said.

Michael nodded. “It is possible. And it would explain why nothing was taken when he was killed. Stefan’s papers on the cross were kept in the locked box on that shelf.” He gestured to the bookshelf behind him. “It would have been impossible to locate quickly in this house unless his murderers knew exactly where to find it.” He looked up, letting his gaze sweep the room. “There are many treasures here. Too many to search in the brief window they would have had before I returned from the market.”

“How far had he gotten in his search for the cross?” Christophe asked.

“I don’t know,” Michael murmured. “It was a very… personal search for Stefan. He didn’t like to discuss the details. It was an obsession, and a private one. I knew only about his meetings with the woman at the Belvedere.”

“Do you think Stefan gave the killers any information?” Charlotte asked.

“I would bet my life he didn’t,” Michael said. “It was in many ways his life’s work, and Stefan valued art above all else. He saw its protection as his sacred duty.”

Charlotte flipped through the papers in the folder. There were old news clippings, printouts from the internet, pictures of the cross and the shipwreck where it was found. Some of the information went all the way back to the 1950s. Michael was right; Stefan Baeder’s imagination had been captured by the theft of the cross since it had been discovered all those decades ago. What she wouldn’t give for a few hours to explore the information he had spent his lifetime collecting.

She reluctantly closed the folder, held it out to Michael. “Thank you for allowing me to look.”

He held up a hand. “Why don’t you keep it for now?”

She met his eyes. “But… are you certain? Surely Mr. Baeder would want you to have it.”

“Stefan would want it passed to someone who might finish what he started.”

Charlotte hesitated. “I’m not sure I can do that. I work in Los Angeles…”

He gave her a knowing smile. “You can return it to me whenever you like.”

Charlotte drew the folder back into her lap. She wasn’t at all sure she could finish what Stefan Baeder had started, but the mystery intrigued her.

“Do you think this woman would meet with us?” Christophe asked. “Tell us what she told Stefan before his death? If so, we might be able to find the men who killed him.”

“I don’t know. But it’s Thursday, and that means she’ll be at the Belvedere in…” He looked at his watch, “two hours.”

“Today?” Christophe asked.

Michael nodded. “Every Thursday. In front of The Kiss at two p.m.”

C
hristophe pulled
up in front of the hotel, already anticipating Charlotte’s objections. They’d had time to kill, and they had passed it with a long lunch overlooking the river. He’d never known a woman who knew so much about art, who could discuss something like Tucker’s Cross, its origins, its discovery, its theft. In fact, most of the women he dated — and he used the term “dated” loosely since they never lasted long — were models or actresses, women he chose to excite his body. That there was a woman in the world who could stimulate both body and mind was a revelation.

And a warning he felt deep in his bones.

“What are we doing?” Charlotte asked as he stopped the car.

He waved away the doorman who moved to open Charlotte’s door. “
We
aren’t doing anything.
You
are staying at the hotel while I go to the museum.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “We’re in this together. I’m going, too.”

“No, you are not,” he said, gripping the steering wheel. “You’re safety is my responsibility. Or did you forget that’s why you came to me in the first place?”

“No, I did not forget,” she snapped. “But we’re not in Paris. It’s perfectly safe to go to the Belvedere in broad daylight to stand in front of one of the most famous paintings of all time. We’ll hardly be alone.”

“Be that as it may,” he said, keeping his tone formal, “this is how it will be.”

“I think you may be confused.”

He looked at her. “Confused?”

“Yes,” she said. “About our relationship.”

“Our… relationship has nothing to do with this,” he said.

“I think it does,” she said. “Because clearly you think you’re in charge. That you’re calling the shots and I’m following them.”

“There is no confusion on my part,” he said. “That’s the way it is."

Because that’s the way it always was with his women. The way it had always been. Their interest in his wealth outweighed his interest in their bodies. That meant the balance of power was with him, and if they didn’t like it, he would be all too happy to show them the door.

She laughed a little, shook her head.

“Do you find something funny?” he asked.

“Actually, yes,” she said. “I find it funny that you think I’m here to follow your orders. We came to Vienna to find out more about the ring together. As partners.”

“Partners?” He didn’t have partners. He had employees. And he had very few men — like Julien — he trusted enough that some might call them friends. He had his father. His brother.

There were no partners in the mix.

“Yes, partners,” she repeated. “When two people work together to the same end?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I know what a partner is. But I don’t have any.”

She sat back in the seat, looked out the windshield. “You do now.”

He took in the stubborn tilt of her chin and was surprised to feel not annoyance but admiration. The sensation was immediately followed by something too close to fear to be called anything else.

Fear that something might happen to her. That someone might snuff out the light that emanated from her like his own personal sun.

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, and she startled in her seat.

“It’s dangerous, Charlotte.”

“No more so for you than for me.”

“I can protect myself. You want me to protect you as well?” He hated himself for the anger in his voice. It was a front. A cover for his fear and the knowledge slowly seeping through him. The knowledge that he would happily protect Charlotte Duval from any and all threats. That he would happily kill anyone who tried to harm her.

All of which spoke to some kind of attachment.

He didn’t do attachment.

“I’m not asking you to protect me,” she said. “You can do what you must. But I will be going to the Belvedere. With or without you.”

He sat back in the leather seat, opened and closed his fingers around the steering wheel as he weighed his options. He only had two: force her out of the car and risk having her show up at the museum alone and unprotected, or allow her to accompany him.

He looked at her, eyes flashing fire across the car’s interior. She was a woman who moved through the world with rare grace. And yet he was beginning to understand that it would be a mistake to underestimate her. That her refined veneer hid something steely and resolute. She was a woman who might allow him to have his way, but when it mattered, she would not be moved.

Perhaps they had even more in common than he first realized.

He sighed and started the car, then pulled out of the hotel parking lot without another word. He would have to choose his battles with Charlotte Duval.

And something told him this might be the first of many.

T
he Belvedere was actually
a series of buildings encompassing two historic palaces, the orangery, and the palace stables. Having undergone several periods of destruction and restoration, the entire complex was now perfectly restored, set on a broad parcel of land with sweeping lawns, fine gardens, and several fountains and reflecting pools.

Charlotte walked next to Christophe through the halls of the museum, her heels clicking on the tile floor. They were early by design. Christophe thought it wise to arrive at the Klimt gallery ahead of their contact. Charlotte didn’t disagree. It was possible the woman wouldn’t come alone. It was possible she wouldn’t come at all. Being there first gave them an advantage. They would be able to observe as she entered — if she entered. They would be able to assess the security of the situation, determine if approaching her was a good idea.

The gallery displaying Gustav Klimt’s most famous works was nearly empty. Charlotte had expected it to be crowded, like jockeying for position at the Louvre to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa or Monet’s Water Lilies. But it was mid-afternoon on a Thursday in May. The tourists were just beginning to arrive in the city for summer, and Vienna’s art lovers were likely at work.

She glanced at her phone.

1:45 p.m.

Fifteen minutes.

They strolled in front of the other pieces. The Portrait of Fritza Riedler, her stern expression managing also to be slightly dreamy. The defiant stance of Mada Primavesi standing in contrast to the innocence of her white lace dress. Christophe didn’t speak, and when she glanced over at him, she found him staring intently at Altar of Dionysus, the naked woman draped across a divan, eyes hooded with either desire or boredom.

Charlotte turned her attention to the painting, wondering what Christophe saw when he looked at it. She was surprised to realize she wanted to ask him. Would they ever get a chance to stroll hand in hand through a museum, pausing in silence, commenting quietly on the pieces that moved them, those they found over-hyped, those that were under-appreciated?

Did she want to do those things with Christophe Marchand?

She pushed the thought aside. This wasn’t a romantic lovers afternoon in Vienna. They were here to find out about Tucker’s Cross. To find out if Stefan Baeder’s search for it had cost him his life, and if it had anything to do with men who had threatened her in Paris.

Besides, she didn’t want to be another trophy for someone like Christophe Marchand. Another thing to add to his collection.

Sex was one thing. Her heart was something else entirely.

They stopped in front of the portrait of Margaret Stonborough. It ran perpendicular to the black wall where The Kiss was hung, and Charlotte pulled out her hand mirror, checked her lipstick, then tilted it so she could see The Kiss behind them.

Christophe made a small sound of understanding, and she glanced at him, surprised to find something like appreciation in his eyes.

Returning her eyes to the mirror, she saw only two people in front of the famous painting — an elderly woman with a large, floral handbag and a young man carrying a sketchpad. She immediately marked him as an art student. Could the woman be the one that had been collaborating with Stefan Baeder?

“Wait.” Christophe touched her arm gently, as if she’d spoken aloud.

As if he knew what she was thinking.

The touch was a brand through the silk of her blouse, and she had a memory of his hands on her breasts, his body between her legs. The memory was physical, and she remembered the sensation of his cock rubbing against the inside of her thigh, his hair brushing against her skin as he took her nipple in his mouth.

She had to swallow against the heat that rushed between her legs. Had to hope the flush in her cheeks wasn’t visible.

A faint clicking got her attention just beyond the gallery. She paused, training her ears to the sound, and realized it was the sound of another woman in heels.

And she was coming closer to the Klimt gallery.

Charlotte glanced at Christophe before turning her eyes back to the portrait in front of them. A moment later the sound moved into the room, the woman striding purposefully toward The Kiss behind them.

Charlotte waited a few seconds, then casually lifted the mirror to her face, pretending to check her lipstick as she tilted the mirror for a better view of the woman who had entered the gallery.

She was tall and slender, wearing a beautifully cut shift, a silk scarf tied around the Chanel bag in her hands. It was difficult to tell her age from behind, but her blond hair was pulled into a neat chignon at the back of her head, and her posture spoke of someone who might once have been a dancer.

Charlotte lowered the mirror, let her eyes slide to Christophe. He gave her a small nod, then shifted as if to move. She put a hand on his arm, closed the compact mirror, and moved in the direction of the woman, stopping for a few seconds to gaze at the other pieces on the wall. When enough time had passed, she moved next to the woman and focused on the painting.

It was breathtaking, the woman in gold disappearing into the mosaic of her lover’s robe, their bodies melting together in a tapestry of saturated color. It radiated light, and Charlotte felt it reach to her beyond the years, a beacon to something gentle and warm.

Ageless.

A sigh escaped her lips, and the woman glanced at her with a smile. “I know just what you mean.”

Charlotte met her eyes, saw that they were a vivid blue. Her face was nearly unlined, but there was something in her eyes that spoke of joy and pain, of miles traveled and challenges met. It was impossible to tell her age. She might have been forty or sixty.

“I forget how lovely it is,” Charlotte said softly. “I haven’t seen it in some time.”

“You’re American,” the woman said. Her accent suggested she was Austrian, or perhaps German.

“Yes.”

The woman nodded. “Of all the wonderful reasons to come to Vienna, she is the best.”

Charlotte smiled. “I quite agree.”

“Are you an art lover then?” the woman asked.

“Oh, yes,” Charlotte said unable to contain her enthusiasm despite the fact that this was no everyday encounter. “I work at The Getty actually.”

The woman looked at her with renewed interest. “How fascinating. In what capacity?”

“I’m a Curatorial Associate. I’m just starting out, but my father owned an antique shop in Paris before his death, so I have an affinity for furniture as well.”

The woman seemed to grow still. “A gallery? In Paris?”

Charlotte kept her eyes on the painting, let the warmth soothe her rapid heartbeat. “Yes.”

“I quite enjoy the galleries in Paris. May I ask which one?”

“Of course,” Charlotte said. “He owned the Galerie Duval. It’s a small shop.”

And now she knew it wasn’t her imagination. The woman had gone very still, shoulders square as if she were bracing herself for a strong wind.

“I’m sorry,” she said, moving to leave. “I don’t know it.”

“Michael Weisman sent us,” Charlotte said quickly. “We’re trying to find out more about Stefan Baeder’s death.”

The woman reached into her handbag and removed her sunglasses. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I think you do,” Charlotte said. She reached out, gently touched the woman’s arm. “We mean you no harm.”

“We?” She turned to scan the gallery. It was nearly empty now, only a couple walking hand in hand among the paintings, stopping barely long enough to take one in before moving onto the next. They would be in front of The Kiss in moments.

Her gaze came to rest on Christophe, still facing the portrait. From behind he was simply a man in a suit, but Charlotte could see why the woman might be frightened.

“I found a ring in a piece that was sold to my father,” Charlotte said, hoping to draw the woman in before she bolted. “It belonged to Stefan Baeder. Mr. Weisman tells us he was working with you to find Tucker’s Cross before his death.”

The woman looked around, clearly shaken. “Are you a fool? You’re going to get us both killed!”

The words froze Charlotte’s blood, and she followed the woman’s gaze, half expecting someone to appear out of the shadows. But there were no shadows. The gallery was flooded with sun, the paintings carefully curated and displayed to insure the focus remain only on them.

“Who would want to kill us for talking about Tucker’s Cross?” Charlotte asked.

The woman pulled her arm away. “You are making a grave mistake.”

She started for the doorway leading to the rest of the museum. Charlotte hurried after her. “Please, a man has died, and you were one of the last people to see him alive.”

The couple, now standing in front of the Klimt, looked their way before returning their eyes to the painting.

“That isn’t my fault,” the woman hissed. “None of this is my fault. I simply want to be left alone.”

She sounded desperate and afraid. Shame heated Charlotte’s face, and she glanced at Christophe, who had turned and looked to be seconds away from intervening. She shook her head and looked back at the woman.

“No one will ever know you told us anything,” Charlotte said. “You have my word we won’t tell anyone. We’re simply trying to find out what happened.”

“To Stefan or to the cross?” The woman’s eyes were piercing.

Charlotte hesitated. “Both,” she admitted. “Stefan Baeder may have died looking for it. It was his life’s work to find it, and while I didn’t know him, I don’t think it was for money or fame or any other reason except to see it returned.”

“How do you know I care anything about that?” the woman asked. “How do you know Stefan wasn’t simply paying me for information?”

“I don’t,” Charlotte said. “But you come here every Thursday to view The Kiss. I think you love it because it moves you. And you wouldn’t be able to do that if it were hidden away in the darkness, property of a private collector who doesn’t care whether we get to stand in this gallery and be carried away by it.” She paused, struggling to find the words she needed, the truth of why it mattered that art be preserved for everyone to enjoy, that it not be hidden away for the enjoyment of a privileged few. “Isn’t that true of all art? That it belongs to every one of us? What’s the point otherwise?”

The woman glanced around, clearly still nervous, but maybe the slightest bit relieved by the emptiness in the gallery. “Were you lying about the Getty? About being Edgar Duval’s daughter?”

Charlotte reached into her handbag, withdrew her business card from the museum and handed it to the woman. She looked down at it.

“My father died two weeks ago,” Charlotte said. “His death had nothing to do with this. To be honest, we had a… complicated relationship. But he taught me to treasure history and beauty, to honor it and pass it along, one person to the next. That’s what I do.”

The woman looked around one more time before speaking. “There’s a research specialist at Gardner Museum in Boston named Peter Montoya. Tell him Anna Muller sent you to ask about the cross.” She put Charlotte's business card in her handbag, then snapped it shut. “And for god’s sake, never contact me again.”