Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) (16 page)

C
harlotte scanned
the street as she sipped her coffee, watching the throng of people make their way to work. It was just after eight a.m., which meant that Peter Montoya should be arriving any minute. She looked at Christophe across the table, eyes trained in the other direction, and felt a rush of affection. He’d left their bed in the middle of the night, presumably to deal with business. The bed had been cold without him, and she’d happily nestled back into his arms when he returned. She didn’t like the idea of sleeping without him, and she liked the knowledge of this even less.

They'd spent the last three days following Peter Montoya, looking for an ideal place to have a conversation with him about the cross. He seemed to be fairly isolated, traveling mostly alone from the museum to his apartment and a few eateries in between. Occasionally he had lunch with a co-worker, which is why they’d opted to use the cafe instead; Peter Montoya went there every day for breakfast, arriving early enough to sit at one of the outdoor tables, enjoying his breakfast for approximately twenty minutes before he left for his job at the museum.

It wasn’t ideal. There was the possibility that he would make a scene, draw attention to them. But he lived in a secure building, and while Christophe hadn’t blinked at the idea of breaking in, Charlotte had drawn the line there.

The cafe would work. The outdoor tables were largely unoccupied during the week; most of the customers took their coffee and breakfast to go. She was confident they would make an appeal that would buy them at least a few minutes of his time.

Christophe caught her eye across the table, his nod barely perceptible. She followed his gaze and saw Peter Montoya swiftly approaching, head bowed as if against a strong wind despite the fact that the weather was sunny and warm.

She returned Christophe’s nod and took another drink of her coffee as Peter passed them on his way into the cafe. She watched him through the glass as he ordered, then exited the shop, taking his favorite table near the sidewalk. It was next to theirs by design, and Christophe kept his eyes on the newspaper in front of him as the other man settled himself with his coffee and breakfast sandwich, opening his phone as he had every morning they’d watched him, scrolling through his social media feeds as he ate.

Charlotte’s heart felt like it was beating too fast, adrenaline making her flushed and on-edge. She had no idea what to expect of Peter Montoya, but talking to him wasn’t illegal in and of itself, she reminded herself. The worst that could happen is that he would refuse to speak to them.

She glanced at Christophe and wondered what he would do then. Would he turn violent? It was still hard to imagine the refined man across from her as dangerous, but she forced herself to see it, to imagine him hitting Peter Montoya, bloodying his face until he gave them the information they needed. She hadn’t pressed Christophe about his business, but neither would she allow herself the luxury of avoidance. Still, the image in her mind did nothing to dull the complex swarm of warmth and desire she felt when she looked at him. What did that say about her?

After about five minutes, Christophe met her eyes. A few seconds later, she angled her body toward Peter Montoya.

“Good morning,” she said.

He looked up, surprised, then gave her a hesitant smile. “Good morning.”

“I ran into Anna Muller in Vienna,” Charlotte said softly. “She says to tell you hello.”

The man froze, then moved to gather his things as he stood.

“I don’t recommend that approach,” Christophe said. His voice was low and casual, with an edge that could cut steel. Peter hesitated, then sat down, his gaze scanning the crowd as if looking for assistance.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Anna told us about the cross,” Charlotte said. “She said you knew where to find it.”

His face turned red. “That’s not true. I… I don’t.”

“That’s not what we’ve heard, Peter.” Christophe’s voice was friendly, but his use of the other man’s name was no accident. Montoya looked stricken, and Charlotte could almost see the realization dawning on him. The realization that they knew who he was. That they probably knew where he lived and worked. That there would be no easy escape.

She bit her lip, stuffing down her guilt. This was about more than Montoya. It was even about more Stefan Baeder. More than the threat made against her in Paris and the people who had chased them through Vienna.

It was about the universal ownership of art. About a piece that belonged to everyone that had instead been appropriated for a select few. Maybe even a select individual. If Stefan Bader really had been onto the whereabouts of Tucker’s Cross, it would be a discovery for the whole world. A chance for everyone to have a small piece of history, if only for a few moments when looking at it in a museum or in a photograph.

“We aren’t here to hurt you,” Charlotte said.

“Then what do you want?” Montoya asked.

“We want the information you would have given to Anna’s friend, Stefan Baeder, had he come for it.”

“Why would you want that information?” Peter asked bitterly. “Look what happened to him.”

“It’s because of what happened to him that we want it,” Charlotte said. “Because he died trying to find it. Trying to give it back to the world.”

He looked nervously around. “That’s not my problem.”

“Maybe not. But you work at the museum. You’ve studied art. You must believe that a piece like this one belongs to everyone.”

He licked his lips, and she could see his resistance wavering. She took advantage of it by continuing.

“I understand. I work in a museum, too.” She saw Christophe’s jaw tighten as she revealed the personal information, something they’d agreed not to do. “I love beauty, too. I’m just… I’m trying to finish what Stefan started. Trying to bring something out of the shadows that doesn’t belong there.”

He fumbled in his bag, removed a pen, wrote something on a napkin. Then he stood. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow me or I’ll call the police.”

He hurried onto the sidewalk, merging with the crowd of people on their way to work. She reached across the table and picked up the napkin he’d left behind.

Randall Ayers. Los Angeles.

She recognized the name immediately from the research they’d done on Peter Montoya. Ayers was the actor that had been married to Montoya’s Spanish aunt. The one Randall Ayers had divorced fifteen years before.

She slid the napkin to Christophe. He read the words written on it, then looked at her.

“That’s how Montoya knows? Because his aunt was married to the man who owns the cross?” he asked.

“It’s possible,” Charlotte said. “I mean, I was expecting something more… revelatory. A connection to the black market fence who last sold the piece, someone working for the museum…”

Christophe shook his head, and she was surprised when he started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Fucking family,” he said. “They’ll screw you every time.”

C
harlotte set
her shoes on top of the other items in the suitcase, then walked to the closet to make sure she hadn't left anything behind. She hadn’t spent much time in this bedroom after the first day when she’d showered and dressed here. She’d slept with Christophe every night. Had showered with him, even taken a bath with him in the big sunken tub in the private bathroom on the other side of the suite. She would miss it.

She would miss him.

She shook her head, double-checking the bathroom for toiletries. He wasn’t gone yet, although she sensed that he wasn’t crazy about the fact that Montoya’s information led them to L..A. In fact, she was fairly certain Boston would have been the end of the road for them if it had been anywhere else. He was probably just looking to get rid of her now. She wasn’t a novelty anymore. Wasn’t a mysterious thing he longed to own.

He’d already had her. Probably thought he already knew her. L.A. was a convenient way to get her home without seeming too obvious about the fact that he was ready to move on from their fling.

She checked the drawers of the bureau, found a stray pair of panties, and dropped them into her bag. Then she zipped it closed and sat heavily on the bed. Is that what this had been? A fling? Every ounce of her body — her heart — told her it was more. But the heart was an unreliable observer, intent on sheltering the psyche from unpleasant truths. It had kept her mother in denial for the past twenty years. Had allowed her to believe men loved her when they’d done nothing but take her to bed.

She felt an unwelcome surge of sympathy for her mother. Was this how it started? How you sunk into the warm sea of denial? It was so much more pleasant than the truth, and life already held so much unpleasantness. Maybe denial was her mother’s brand of beauty — the thing that made her weak, the thing she wanted above all else, the thing she would fight to protect. The one thing for which she would sacrifice everything else.

She stood and pulled her suitcase off the bed. She wasn’t her mother. She didn’t deal in denial. She knew better. If the front row seat to her mother’s mistakes had given her anything, it had given her that. Ayers was a long shot, but she would go to L.A. with Christophe anyway. They would try to talk to Ayers, rule him out as someone who might own the cross.

Then she would say goodbye.

There would be no tears. No regrets. Christophe wasn’t the kind of man who belonged to anyone. She would willingly set him free. It would hurt. She was beyond denying that now. But she would do it anyway.

And she would be okay. She always was.

“All set?” Christophe asked, entering the bedroom.

She nodded, and he hurried toward her, removing the suitcase from her hand. He bent to kiss her forehead. “You’re far too beautiful to carry luggage.”

She laughed. “You’re spoiling me.”

“As it should be.” He looked around the room. “I’ll miss being here with you.”

She hid her surprise, not wanting to spook him with too much emotion. “I’ll miss being here with you, too.”

He hesitated a long moment, then looked into her eyes. “It’s time to go home though, yes?”

She answered around the lump in her throat. “Yes.”

Was it her imagination that he looked sorry? That she saw regret in his eyes?

“Good,” he finally said. “I’m happy I’ll get to see your home.”

She forced a smile. “Me, too.”

But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure it was true. Her little house in L.A. was one place she hadn’t been with him. One place unmarked by his gaze, his slow smile, his body on hers.

Now that would belong to him, too.

He held out a hand. “L.A. it is then.”

She took his hand and let him lead her out of the suite. She didn’t look back.

C
hristophe steered
the car up the winding hill, the Pacific stretched below them like a jewel. He was following the directions on the car’s GPS, wondering which was more compelling, the sea or the woman in the passenger seat next to him.

It didn’t take him long to decide it was no contest.

He glanced over at her, hair blowing around her face, the setting sun casting her delicate features in golden light. He hadn’t been lying; he was happy to be in Charlotte’s hometown. He had never been fond of L.A., but now he wondered if it held a clue about the woman who had captured his heart.

And he was no longer in denial about that fact.

He’d known it the moment he’d returned to bed after meeting with Julien in the hotel bar. She’d been sleeping soundly, hair tousled, her breath escaping like a sigh into the room. He’d stripped down quickly, sliding into bed next to her, pulling her into his arms and kissing the top of her head.

It had been like coming home.

Like returning to a home he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

“Where have you been?” she’d murmured softly.

“Shhhh,” he’d said against her hair. “Go back to sleep, darling.”

He’d lain awake until the darkness began to fade, the early morning sun painting the room blue. He’d run circles around the dilemma of the woman in his arms. Around the undeniable truth of his feelings for her.

Had it been less than two weeks since she’d appeared in his Paris study, beautiful and composed? He knew that it had, and yet it seemed impossible. His soul had connected to hers like the piece of a puzzle he’d believed to be complete. He’d occupied every inch of her body, had touched his lip to every curve and crease. He’d slept with her in his arms, had kissed her upon waking in the morning. They’d had countless meals and even more discussions, long walks and hot showers where he’d soaped her body, allowing his hands to travel over her smooth, slippery skin until he'd had no choice but to drive into her, desperate to mark her as his even as he tried to deny that it was what he wanted.

It had been a lifetime.

And not nearly long enough.

He wanted more. He simply wasn’t sure if it was possible. Wasn’t sure he was capable of loving her the way she deserved. Of opening up to her, sharing his feelings as seemed to be required of the men of his generation.

But even with all those questions, he wanted to know every part of her. They shared comfortable silences and just as many passionate conversations, but in many ways, she remained a mystery to him, her innermost thoughts and her life without him locked away behind the calm facade like the secrets of Mona Lisa.

“Right here,” she said, pointing to a small driveway halfway up a hill overlooking the ocean.

He turned, winding around the narrow drive until he came to a cottage set in a clearing. He pulled next to an older white Miata parked outside, then cut the engine.

She smiled at him. “This is it.”

He scanned the place through the windshield: the small white house surrounded by jasmine and brush, the porch trellis climbing with red bougainvillea, the relative isolation of it all. It was hidden and wild. Like her.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

They exited the car, and he removed their bags from the trunk. He’d sent Julien back to Paris on the plane with a long list of tasks. Christophe was still clarifying the threat against his organization, but if he was right, there was no time to waste. Julien would compile the information Christophe had requested, and they would compare it to data pulled from Farrell’s operation in London. His gut told him they were both under attack — and maybe other territories, too, although he had no idea who might be powerful and ballsy enough to stage a takeover of the organizations formerly run by the Syndicate.

He wasn’t looking forward to whatever would come next. He would have to make the most of his interlude with Charlotte, of this last leg of their mission to finish the work Stefan Baeder had begun.

He followed her up a set of wooden stairs, worn and bleached from wind and salt. The air was soft, fragrant with jasmine and the sea. He breathed it in and had a flash of Corsica. Of the secluded, pristine beaches and the cliffs that rose above them. Of the old house where he’d grown up and the lavender fields that had been so beloved by his mother. He suddenly wanted Charlotte to see it. Wanted to ride with her on horseback through the wide open spaces surrounding the property. Wanted to lead her into the ageless forests beyond them. Wanted to swim naked with her in the same surf he’d swam in as a boy.

She opened the door and held it open while he passed through with their bags. They emerged into a tiny entry, the living room and kitchen both visible from the door.

“This is it,” she said, sounding suddenly unsure as she looked around.

He set down the bags, let his eyes roam the small space. It was neat and clean, the furnishings surprisingly modern for someone who loved classical art.

“It must look so… bare,” she said, as if reading his mind. “After being at the museum all day, keeping things simple gives my mind room to breathe…” She trailed off, sounding embarrassed by her own explanation.

He stepped into the living room, pausing at the bookshelves against one wall, taking in the titles of the books there, a mixture of classics and contemporary literature, poetry and reference manuals on art and antiques. Through the big windows on one wall, the ocean stretched like a blanket of diamonds under the setting sun.

He turned his attention to the art on the walls, although he would have used that term loosely, and knew instinctively that it didn’t belong to her. It was too bland, too mediocre for someone with Charlotte’s taste.

“They’re not mine,” she said, following his gaze. “I rent this place from a friend of my mother’s in exchange for keeping an eye on the place. It’s the only way I can afford to live so close to the water. It didn’t seem worth it to replace the art.”

He turned to look at her, and his heart caught in his throat. She looked so small. The uncertainty on her face exposed a kind of vulnerability she hadn’t yet shown him, even when he was exploring her body, when he was inside her. This was a different kind of exposure. A window into her innermost world. Into a world she clearly didn’t share with many people.

He didn’t like what he saw.

It wasn’t the modern furnishings that bothered him, nor the size of the house, which seemed somehow perfect for her. It wasn’t even the so-called art, the one thing that Charlotte loved most relegated to the tastes of someone else so she could breathe in the sea.

It was the utter loneliness of the place that almost broke him, and the loneliness in her eyes as she looked at him. There was pride there, too, and he knew it would be a mistake to show her pity. Charlotte was better than that. She didn’t want his pity, and he wouldn’t offer it.

He knew then that he would offer her something else instead. That it was pointless to try and resist the deep well of feeling she had opened up inside of him.

He walked slowly toward her, touched her face. “It’s a lovely place.”

“Do you think so?” she asked.

He forced himself to nod. He would have to find the right way, the right moment, to tell her.

To ask her. Because of course, there was no guarantee that she would agree.

He lowered his lips to hers, lingered over the pillowy softness of them before dipping his tongue into the warmth of her mouth.

It took effort to pull himself away from her. “Do you have a bed in this house?”

He wanted her. Wanted to take care of her. Wanted to be inside of her. Wanted to know all of her.

Body. Heart. Soul.

She smiled. “I do.”

He lifted her into his arms. “Tell me where,” he said. “I want to make love to you with the windows open so we can smell the sea.”