Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) (8 page)

V
ienna was bustling
despite the fact that it was mid-week. The streets were crowded with people making their way to and from the city’s bars and restaurants, many of them housed in buildings dating before the second world war. Here it was commonplace to have drinks in an old university building, dinner in a palace that might have belonged to a Habsburg. The storied architecture together with the cobblestone streets and crowds moving leisurely through the city gave the night an air of celebration, and Charlotte had to work not to sink against Christophe’s side with a sigh. She wanted to give into the sensation, to let it overtake her. To stop thinking so hard and worrying so much.

She kept her back straight instead, moving through the city next to Christophe Marchand like they were soldiers with a common mission.

He didn’t speak as they walked, and she realized it was one of the things she enjoyed most about his company. He didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with mindless chatter. There were no uncomfortable silences, only the kind of peace felt between waves at the beach or when leaves fell silent between gusts of wind.

It was natural. Elemental.

They worked their way past dimly lit eateries and bars and the Karlsplatz and Kettenbrückengasse that was host to the city’s bustling street market. During the day, the boulevard would be crowded with stalls selling local meat and fresh-caught seafood, succulent fruits and earthy vegetables grown outside the city. Now the streets were scattered with nighttime revelers, and Christophe guided her expertly through the crowd until they came to a minimalist storefront crowded with people waiting to get in.

Christophe put a firm hand on her lower back and guided her through the doors. Her nerves zipped with the electric current of his touch, and she forced herself to focus on the people around her instead, the scent of cooked meat and something spicy and exotic that she couldn’t quite name.

When they finally reached the maitre d’, she saw that the restaurant was small and dark, hundreds of red lanterns hanging from the ceiling. They might have been next to the harbor in Hong Kong, the diners eating at outdoor tables instead of inside under the dim glow of the lanterns.

Christophe greeted the maitre d’ with familiarity that didn’t necessarily translate to warmth. She was becoming accustomed to his formal manner — the way he had of being both curious and interested without dropping the wall that was a fortress his inner world.

Or maybe he was simply a cold-hearted bastard. It was too soon to tell.

The maitre d’ led them through the crowd, but instead of seating them in the dining room, they descended a set of stairs to a lower level she wouldn’t have known existed. The basement was just as dark as the top floor, but here the dining tables had given way to traditional seating, each booth set back into the wall, sheltered from its neighbors by pagoda-style trim on the top and sides of the booth. Inside, there was a small table at the center, a low, built-in lounge on either side of it.

She’d seen this kind of seating in Tokyo, but she was surprised to find it in the heart of Vienna. She’d been expecting a five-star dining experience and was pleasantly surprised to realize Christophe had opted instead for something unique.

Perhaps there was more to the man than fine art, antiques, and a chilly, royal demeanor after all.

Christophe gestured to one side of the table. She sat, swinging her legs into the booth and folding her legs to the side as she faced the table. He followed suit across from her, and the maitre d’ disappeared without a word. They weren’t given menus, which meant the chef already knew what to prepare for them. Not unusual for a Michelin-starred restaurant: presumably more so for a tiny, Asian-themed hole-in-the-wall.

Charlotte looked at the space beyond their booth, watching as other diners lounged or sat cross-legged at their tables, eating and drinking, heads bowed together in conversation. The sight of them caused a flutter of nervousness to move through her stomach. Maybe she’d been wrong about the silences between her and Christophe. They’d been in the plane and car together, walking through the city with all its sights and sounds as distraction. But they’d never been so totally alone, face to face, with no distractions.

“Your mother was an actress,” Christophe said, breaking the silence.

She met his eyes. “You’ve been checking up on me.”

He gave a small nod. “I wouldn’t enter into an agreement with someone, travel with them, without doing my homework.”

She couldn’t bring herself to feel offended. She’d done her own low-cost version of homework armed with Google and her father’s computer, not that it had yielded much information. She imagined Christophe Marchand had employed a more thorough method. She wondered how much he knew about her.

“I can’t say that I blame you,” she said. “Although now I feel that I’m at a disadvantage.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when a kimono-clad waitress appeared with a small carafe of sake and two glasses. She set everything down on the table between them and retreated.

“I apologize,” he said. “It’s a kind of… protocol for me.”

“To investigate your travel companions?” Charlotte asked.

“To investigate everyone.” He poured sake into both their glasses. “Call it an occupational hazard.”

She had questions about his occupation. Questions about the hazards involved in such an occupation. But somehow they felt more personal than anything else she might have asked.

She nodded. “I understand.”

He lifted his glass. She did the same, and they touched their sake cups together, then drank. Her eyes watered as the warm, slightly sour liquid made its way down her throat.

“But it isn’t quite fair, is it?” he asked, refilling their cups.

She smiled. “Nothing about life is fair.”

Something sad passed over his eyes. “Perhaps this is one place where we can make it more so.”

“What are you suggesting?” she asked.

He leaned back in the booth, and she wondered how he managed to look so elegant even cross-legged on the cushion.

“That you ask me anything you like,” he said.

“Anything?”

“You may ask me anything.” He smiled. “Of course, I might refuse to answer.”

She laughed. “Ah, so there’s a catch.”

He shrugged, and she caught a glimpse of humor in his eyes. “As you’ve said, nothing about life is fair.”

She nodded, took a sip of sake as she thought about the proposition, wanting to make the most of it. “All right. Tell me about your family.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Going right for the throat, are you? No easy yes or no questions?”

“Yes or no questions are for the simple minded,” she said.

He laughed, and it was like feeling the sun on her face after a long stretch of cold and dreary days. “I quite agree.” He tapped his fingers on the table, as if he were formulating an answer. “My father lives at our house on Corsica. Our relationship is… not an easy one.” He hesitated. “I have a brother.”

“I take it your relationship with him is not an easy one as well?”

“An astute observation,” he said.

“What makes it difficult?” She regretted the question as soon as the words were out of her mouth. It was too intrusive even for Christophe’s “ask me anything” game of questions. “I’m sorry. That’s too personal.”

He met her eyes. “It is personal. But I don’t mind answering it for you.” She waited while he considered his words. “My brother is younger. We come from a family that holds rather old fashioned views about heirs. I’m afraid it has caused some friction between us over the years.”

She tried to imagine a younger version of Christophe Marchand. Was he carefree? Irresponsible in response to Christophe’s position as heir to the family legacy?

“I’ve always wanted a big family,” she said, wanting to eliminate the pained expression that had crossed his face. “It seems to be the most important thing in the world when you don't have much of one.”

“You aren’t close to your mother?” he asked gently.

She took a solid swig of sake, relieved when the waitress appeared bearing a large tray laden with food. She thought about Christophe’s question as she unloaded plate after plate of steaming food. When she was done, the space between them was crowded with tiny bowls of soup and steamed dumplings, sushi and skewers of tender meat and shrimp.

“This looks amazing,” she said.

“It’s one of my favorite places in Vienna,” he said.

She watched as he dished food onto her plate, giving her the choicest pieces of fish, the most succulent chunks of duck. Only when her plate was filled with food did he begin dishing for himself.

When he was done, he refilled their sake glasses. They toasted again, and he took a bite as she did the same.

He dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t think I would let you off the hook because the food arrived?”

She grinned at him across the table. “I was hoping.”

He returned her smile. “I’m afraid not. Although I take it now that your relationship with your mother is also… not an easy one.”

“That's one way of putting it.” She took another bite, carefully choosing her words. “My mother isn’t well suited to the life of an actress. Or perhaps she’s perfectly suited.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hollywood isn’t very forgiving to women.”

“I see.”

She was hoping he’d ask her something else. Something less loaded with emotion. But he simply gazed at her across the table like he was waiting for her to finish.

“Getting older has been difficult for her,” Charlotte continued. “She does what she can to stay — or at least feel — young.”

He nodded, and she saw understanding in his eyes. She was relieved when he switched topics, although the new one wasn’t much easier to navigate.

“And your father?” he asked.

“My father was married to the pieces in his shop,” she said. “He was a good man, but a distant one.”

“And yet you learned from him,” Christophe said. “And it seems you love many of the same things.”

“I didn’t plan for it to be that way. But when I went to school I found that I was drawn to the beauty of art and history.” She smiled. “He’d worked his magic on me all those summers in the shop after all.”

His eyes lit up. “It is magic, isn’t it? The way pieces have their own story to tell? The way one can feel it?”

She nodded. “I find them much more interesting than people, to be very honest.” She hesitated, meeting his eyes. “Most of the time.”

“I feel the same way.” A slow, sexy smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Most of the time.”

T
hey spent
the next hour and a half drinking sake, savoring the food between them, talking about various auctions and estate sales, high-end acquisitions to which they’d both been witness or party, pieces that had been lost and stolen along the way, their whereabouts forever a mystery.

By the time they left the restaurant, Charlotte was light-headed and a little sleepy. They took a cab to the riverfront, and Charlotte didn’t object when they emerged onto the windswept walkway and Christophe took her hand.

They walked in silence, and she allowed herself to fall more deeply into the moment. The crowds had thinned a bit — it was mid-week — but there were still a few people about, couples walking hand in hand, a handful of dog walkers, and one man in a tweed suite smoking a pipe near the water.

The air was warm, fragrant with the grassy smell of the Danube and the faint scent of the city’s bakeries, already setting their morning pastries to rise. They stopped to lean against the railing overlooking the river. Her arm brushed against his jacket, and she had to resist the urge to lean on him, to rest her cheek against the soft wool. She was looking out over the water, watching the lights play across its surface, when she felt his touch on her shoulder.

She didn’t dare look. Didn’t trust herself to turn her head, look into his fathomless eyes. Her breath caught in her throat as he traced a line from her bare shoulder down her arm.

“You’re cold,” he said softly.

He straightened, removing his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. She should look at him now. She should thank him for keeping her warm.

But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. She wasn’t ready it. For what might happen if she did.

He tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” she said, still looking out over the water. “I'm afraid of myself.”

He turned her to face him. “Fortune favors the bold.”

It was a quote from yet another old Latin proverb, and it did nothing to calm the waters of her fear. She was on the precipice of something big and dangerous.

A rogue wave that would leave her gasping for breath.

A strong wind that would send her over the edge of a cliff.

A fire that would burn her from the inside out.

But looking at him now, his face only inches away, his body so close she could feel the heat emanating from him, she knew it didn't matter whether she was afraid. She would give herself to him. She’d always intended to give herself to him.

He reached out to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand, and she was surprised to find that his skin was soft and warm. He lifted her chin, dropped his gaze from her eyes to her mouth. Then he was lowering his head, his lips touching hers so softly she wondered if the kiss would be chaste. If he would walk her back to the hotel, see her into her own room alone.

Be a gentleman.

She let herself sink into the softness of his lips. Then he parted her mouth with his tongue and she knew she’d been wrong.

There would be nothing gentlemanly about what he would do to her tonight.

She opened her mouth to him, arching her back as her arms snaked up his chest, around his neck. He held her face in his hands as he took the kiss deeper, tipping her head to allow him better access.

The plane of his body was hard and unyielding, and he moved his hands down to her neck, lingering there as he kissed her. The feel of his strong hands encircling the soft skin of her neck was erotic, and she whimpered when he moved them down her body, past her breasts, down her sides, like he was tracing her body with his hands while he learned all the dark secrets her mouth had to offer him.

She was breathless when he pulled away, her vision blurry. He lifted a hand, rubbed the fleshy pad of his thumb over her swollen lower lip.

“I’m going to take you to bed now, Charlotte.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

And then they were walking, Charlotte pressed tight against his side as they hurried toward the hotel.