The Paris Secret (8 page)

Just then a couple with their two kids and dog entered the square.

“Come on. This isn’t the place to talk about this.” He took my hand. “I know somewhere we should be safe for tonight.”

Simon took me to a tiny apartment over a café in Montmartre belonging to his best friend, Max, a performer on a cruise ship who was out of town. Simon insisted we walk to Montmartre separately, in order to blend in with the tourists, which was fine for him since he was in such great shape. I, on the other hand, was sweaty and out of breath by the time we climbed the steep and sloping cobblestone streets to Montmartre. The turtleneck clung to the sweat on my back. I had to hurry to keep him in my sights so I wouldn’t lose him. Each step took us closer to the white domed cathedral of Sacré Couer. I wondered if I should stop in there to say a prayer for us but, realizing it meant climbing more than one hundred steps, quickly put it out of my mind. Once he had safely deposited me in the cramped studio apartment, Simon told me to make myself at home, donned a baseball cap and sunglasses and went to get us some food.

When he’d gone, I moved a pile of clothing from a black lacquered futon with a yellow-and-red flowered mattress and sat. I gingerly rolled up my pant leg to examine my skinned knee. The fabric of the pants had stuck to the dried blood. I held my breath and tugged it free, causing it to bleed a little. I fished out the first aid kit in my bag and squeezed on some antiseptic gel before covering it with a large square bandage. Afterward, I started to nose around. The pile of clothes I’d moved was all women’s clothes. I’d assumed Max was a man but the high-heeled shoes and lacy underwear strewn all over the floor proved I had been mistaken. Was Max the redhead in the picture I’d found?

I got up and went into the tiny bathroom and stripped off my clothes. I took a long hot shower, lathering my body with the lemon-scented body wash I found in the bathroom cabinet.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom wrapped in Max’s red silk robe, Simon had returned and was laying out food on the table in front of the futon. When he spotted my still-damp body wrapped in the clinging robe, he smiled. I avoided his eyes and sat, careful to keep myself covered. He told me what he’d found out about Vincent Garland over hot croque-monsieur sandwiches, cucumber salad, chocolate éclairs and wine. Who says fugitives can’t eat well? But unlike the food, what he told me was not good. Not by a long shot.

According to Simon’s source at the DCPJ, Vincent Garland had only been in Paris for several months. And had recently been caught up in a scandal involving his girlfriend, an ex-beauty queen and aspiring actress named Shannon Davies, who went missing during a visit to Paris just a week ago. Garland says they argued and she packed and left. Yet there’d been no activity on her passport or credit cards. She had yet to contact her friends and family and they were all pointing the finger at Garland, insisting he’d been abusive and must have done something to her. No charges against him had been filed. And as if that weren’t bad enough, what Simon told me next practically made me choke on my food.

“You mean he was waiting for me at the police station that night?” I exclaimed.

Apparently, according to Simon’s source, the night of Juliet’s murder, while Bernier and Bellange were questioning me, Vincent Garland showed up to explain my rights to me under French law. He claimed the American Embassy sent him. He’d waited around for two hours but since technically I hadn’t been arrested, they wouldn’t let him into the interrogation room. He had left in a huff. No wonder the man had smelled like the police station when he was at Versailles.

“He was going to kill me that night, wasn’t he? Whether I’d had the crucifix or not, he’d have killed me. That’s why he followed me to Versailles the next day. I bet he was outside my hotel all night waiting for me to leave.”

Simon slowly nodded while I digested the fact that I had dodged a very big bullet not once, but twice. Garland must have been the person in the mysterious green Peugeot that night. If Monsieur Marcel hadn’t shown up, I probably would have gotten into Garland’s car if he’d claimed to be from the American Embassy. He could have killed me and dumped my body someplace, and no one would have known a thing. But that wasn’t all. Vincent Garland had a serious gambling problem and had racked up a lot of debt to some very scary people in Paris.

“That explains why he was trying to get his hands on the Moret Crucifix. If he used it to find the
Aurum Liber
he’d be set for life.” I took another sip of wine.

“But he’d have had to be damned certain it even existed.”

“I think he was certain. And I think he found out from Juliet Rice.” I retrieved Juliet’s flash drive from my purse and tossed it across the table at Simon. He caught it with one hand.

“I found this hidden inside my digital camera’s battery compartment. It’s Juliet’s. She must have hidden it to keep it from Garland. Check out the back.”

Simon examined the pendant and when he saw the tiny Society of Moret symbol his head jerked back in surprise.

“It’s a flash drive, see?” I reached over and pressed the symbol and watched the USB prong pop out.

Simon’s eyes glinted devilishly and he quickly pulled a black laptop from his backpack.

“Don’t bother. It’s encrypted. I already checked.”

“
Merde!
” he exclaimed, then his face lit up. “Not to worry. I know someone who can help us out.” He fired up his laptop and logged onto a wireless connection.

He plugged in the flash drive and emailed the data to [email protected].

“You’re sure this Francoise can break the encryption?”

“
Absolument.
It should be a slice of cake, you’ll see.”

“You mean a piece of cake, right?” I laughed.

“Slice—piece—makes no difference. Francoise will take care of it. So stop worrying,
d’accord?
” He grinned and shoved an entire éclair into his mouth.

We were finishing up our food when Simon suddenly became serious. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“When we were at Dr. Hewitt’s and she was talking about that nun, Sister Louise-Marie, and how she’d been sent away by her family after her birth, why were you so upset? I could tell it bothered you a lot.”

I had been holding my breath as he spoke and now I let it out slowly. “Because I understand what she must have gone through. We both had mothers who didn’t want us. She grew up in a convent. I grew up in foster care. I never knew my parents, either. I guess you could say I felt a kind of…I don’t know…kinship, or whatever you want to call it, to poor Louise-Marie.” Hearing about Louise-Marie’s love affair gone wrong made that connection feel even stronger. The silver ring on my finger was suddenly warm. Simon poured us each another glass of wine.

“Have you ever thought about looking for your birth mother?”

“Why? If she didn’t want me when I was born, why would she want to see me now?” I used to fantasize about meeting my mother when I was a little girl. But I wasn’t a little girl anymore and I couldn’t go through another rejection from her. Tracking her down was not an option.

“You’d rather go through the rest of your life not knowing why she gave you up? I don’t understand.”

“If I ask
you
something, will you tell me the truth?” I asked quickly to change the subject. Only it wasn’t just a move to distract him. There really was something that had been bothering me, ever since the police were outside Luc’s apartment.

“Depends on what it is.” He licked chocolate from his fingers. He was smiling until he saw the look on my face. “What is it?”

“The police had my prints on file because I’m a suspect in Juliet’s murder. Why do they have yours?”

I could tell I’d caught him off guard. He stared off into space for a long time, his brow creased in concentration. Then he stood and began picking up our dinner containers. A grim expression marred his handsome face and I was afraid to hear what he might tell me.

“Simon?” I grabbed his hand and gently pulled him down beside me. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

He shrugged. “I assaulted a cop, broke his nose.”

“Oh.” I took another big sip of wine. “I take it that’s why you’re not popular with the police, then?”

“I was at a student protest trying to conduct an interview with the head of the student union when things turned violent. This cop body slammed a girl to the ground. She was pregnant. I just snapped, went berserk, grabbed him by the throat and started pounding him. The next thing I know, I’ve got his blood all over my hands. I got tasered and woke up in jail. A week later I was reassigned to our bureau in Hong Kong where I’ve spent the last two years.”

“Hong Kong? You weren’t convicted?”

“Other witnesses backed-up my story, and the cop had a history of using excessive force. And,” he said quietly, “I think they cut me some slack because they knew…” His voice trailed off and he looked away.

“About what?”

He pulled a picture from his wallet and tossed it on the table. It was a picture of him with the same striking redhead from the picture I’d found at Luc’s place. Simon was sitting in a chair. The woman was behind him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Her long, curly hair fell onto Simon’s cheeks. Simon beamed into the camera. She was laughing. They looked so happy.

“Who is she?” I asked, still looking at the picture.

“My wife…Justine.” His voice was low and slightly hoarse, like it took everything in him to speak her name. “My late wife,” he added, like he’d just remembered she was gone.

“Oh. I’m sorry. What happened?”

“She was a freelance photographer and had gone to London for a job shooting some actress for a magazine article. While she was there her rental car broke down and she got on the tube to get back to her hotel. That was on July 7, 2005, the day of the terrorist bombings in the London Underground. She was twenty-eight years old and…five months pregnant with our first child.”

“Oh my God,” I said softly. “Simon, I’m so sorry.”

He went over to the trashcan. I got up too, and when he turned around. I put my arms around him. It was
supposed
to be a supportive hug from one wounded person to another. But his eyes held so much raw pain in them that I kissed his cheek, then his other cheek, then his chin, and his forehead. Simon’s hands pressed me against him. I could feel their warmth through the thin robe. He buried his face against my neck and his lips blazed a moist trail along my collarbone, his stubble was rough against my skin. I should have pulled away. Hadn’t I promised myself not to go down this road again? But who the hell was I kidding? I’d wanted him since the day I’d spotted him on the bridge and gotten caught in the high beam stare of those green eyes of his.

The red silk robe fell open. Simon pulled it roughly off my shoulders and it fell to the floor. Our mouths met, tongues intertwined. He tasted like chocolate, smelled like soap. He only took his hands off me long enough to take off his shirt. I tugged on his belt, unbuckled it and unfastened his pants. I slid my hand down inside his black boxers and grasped his rock hard erection. Simon gasped as my thumb encircled the engorged tip. I stroked his smooth head and his breathing became louder. I let my hand slide down the thick shaft of his penis to the base. I tightened my grip and slid up again.

His head fell back and he let my fingers work him for another minute or so before he pushed my hand away. He reached into his back pocket and hastily pulled a condom from his wallet. But he was taking so long to open the damned thing that I snatched it out of his hands and ripped it open with my teeth. A little of the lubricant got into my mouth. Yuck! Simon roared with laughter at the face I made but went silent as I gently rolled the condom onto his erection, letting my fingers caress him.

He groaned then tugged his pants down around his hips and lifted me up so my legs could wrap around his waist. Pushing me into the corner next to the bed, he entered me so roughly I gasped. The pain was exquisite and intense, laced with pleasure. My nails dug into his shoulders. Each thrust pushed me closer and closer to the edge.

This wasn’t about love, or tenderness, or even friendship. This was a pure, raw need for release. I started to whimper and moan and he quickened his pace until I was practically coming apart at the seams. I cried out and buried my face against his neck. He groaned once and his body jerked then relaxed. Still inside me, and with my legs still wrapped around his waist, he turned and gently lowered me onto the bed and lay on top of me, breathing heavily while I stroked his back.

“Don’t move,” he whispered as he hastily removed his pants all the way and retrieved another condom.

“I’ll let you open that one,” I told him as he climbed back into bed.

He smiled and kissed me deeply as he entered me again. Pinning my arms above my head, he started moving his hips, thrusting very slowly and gently while whispering French words in my ear. He could have been calling me everything but a child of God but it sounded damned good and felt even better. Sweat beaded our bodies as he continued his maddeningly slow rhythm. He let go of my hands and I pushed his head down toward my breasts. He fastened his hot mouth on one nipple, flicking the hardened tip with his tongue for several long minutes and then sucking hard, before turning his attention to the other. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please, Simon,” I moaned, grinding against him.

He shifted positions, slid his hands under my thighs and gripped my hips, pulling me to him as he sat back on his heels and quickened his pace. I pushed forward to meet each hard stroke.

“Faster,” I whispered as I got closer.

The sound of our heavy breathing filled the room. I could feel the intensity building as each thrust sent him deeper and deeper inside me until finally my hands clutched the sweat dampened sheets and my back arched as a near scream escaped from my lips. Simon looked down at me, watching—waiting—before groaning loudly and lying on top of me. When his breathing returned to normal, he rolled to his side, propped himself up on one elbow and smiled at me. I kissed him and traced the outline of his lips with my fingertip and he bit it playfully.