Yearnings: A Paranormal Romance Box Set (79 page)

He turned a corner. She did as well, puttering up a hillside pathway. Grant looked up, recognizing what he saw. Montmarte, in all its steep, lush glory. The dome of the Basilique de Sacré Couer, he realized, poked the sky. Something in him urged him up that hill, toward that church. He resisted it. He needed to get back to the apartment.

Duchesse attempted another launch into his arms. This time, he couldn’t bear seeing her hit dirt. He caught her. He gave up resisting. Without any notion beyond his gut urging him there, he headed up the hill’s path. Grant walked onward, breathing hard, his thighs aching with each step.

What had he done, where had he been in the hours of darkness? What horror was his mind trying to recapture?

The hooves, occasional motorcar, and noise of the morning’s traffic faded below and behind him. A strange quiet grew around him. Lilacs shivered in the breeze. He stopped. Tree leaves danced and whispered above. They sounded like hope. He shouldn’t—didn’t want—to hope, but he did. Over what? For what?

“
You know I can’t keep you, don’t you girl?” She licked his face. What choice did he have? He walked on.

Duchesse ignored him.

“
Fine, fine. But just for now. Then we’re returning you home.” To that alleyway. If he could locate that same alleyway again. And what? Go knocking on every door? Grant sighed.

His guts cramped with hunger and trepidation. As his mind cleared, new fears pushed to the surface. What if this time had been far more than hours, more than days? Could he change for months? Years? What year was it?

1930.

Yes, that’s right. Tristan would be nine now. A wave of nausea overcame him. Oh, God. His nephew, Tristan. They’d come to Paris to find his missing nephew. Not physically here, though. Something here in Europe to help them search.

His heart squeezed. The Sacré Couer’s—the Sacred Heart’s—domed roof came more fully into view. The cross stood high in a rather cerulean sky this spring morning. He adjusted Duchesse under one arm when she wiggled. His panic faded, but the pain of Tristan’s disappearance welled up, replacing the empty space.

Unforgivable.

He shouldn’t be here, yet he couldn’t leave if he wanted to. Artists, young and old, dotted the landscape like sentinels along the
Montmarte
hillside, guarding spring’s green inspiration, dabbing strokes aspiring to Monet’s and Manet’s Impressionism.

Seeing the door, and compelled to move toward it, he set Duchesse on the ground. “You’ll have to wait here, girl.”

She scampered away, taking to sniffing a patch of neatly trimmed grass.

Grant entered the domed church, breathing hard from the walk. He half expected filled pews, heads turning to witness the abomination that was his presence here. Understanding slowly lit his mind.

“
Beatrice,” he breathed.

There, turning his way, was Beatrice. His sister. He remembered now. Meeting her here. News. She had news. About Tristan.

She rose to meet him, and even from the few feet she rapidly closed between them, he saw a fire in her eyes. Hope bloomed inside him against his will. She reached him, arms extended, her rosewater scent reaching him first. The idea of her clean, pressed clothing touching the vagrant’s made him recoil. He took her hands rather than enter an embrace.

“
Grant,” she said, squeezing his raw hands. “Thank you for coming.” She paused, looked around, and lowered her voice. “Not here. Outside, alright?”

He wasn’t late? She wasn’t worried, didn’t see the blood on his hands, or notice his clothes? Grant’s feet grew leaden. He didn’t want to follow, or to know what news she had. Yes. She must have real news if she didn’t notice his appearance. He feared that kind of news.

Sometimes, he wished for the worst just to get closure. Not for his sake.

For hers.

How many times could she grasp new confidence, then suffer its destruction before heartbreak ruined her completely? Glancing to see if the smattering of people around them stared, Grant followed his sister through the church to a side door, hating her determined stride. Only a lone young woman kneeling in a middle pew looked up, her eyes so green that they startled him.

The woman’s eyes bulged before she lowered her gaze, verifying for Grant just what a sight he looked. A sight Beatrice had uncharacteristically overlooked. Outside, Beatrice located a marble bench and sat, settling her hands on her lap. Unwilling to sit down, he braced himself for what she had to say.

“
I spoke with Nick yesterday,” she said and gestured for him to sit. “I asked him not to come today. I wanted to speak to you first.”

“
Oh? And how is Nick?”

She gave him a slightly baleful look. “If you mean, ‘is he ruffled by your accusations yesterday,’ he isn’t.”

It wasn’t what he’d meant, although now that she said it, he vaguely recalled arguing with the investigator. “Thrilled to hear it.”

“
Grant,” Beatrice warned. “As I was saying, I asked to speak with you first.”

“
He wanted to speak to me instead?”

“
No. He wanted to speak to you
with
me. He finally came out with it and admitted he doubts you’ll take me seriously. I let him know that was ludicrous, that you always take me seriously, and that you know how much this trip means to me.”

He’d feel better if she were able to stop looking everywhere but at him. Duchesse trotted past, collar jingling. “Ah, so Nick doesn’t trust me. Is that it?”

Beatrice huffed, finally meeting his stare with her own. “No. He doesn’t. But I do.” She took a deep breath. “Grant, I’ve found a witness.”

His jaw involuntarily clenched. “A witness?” Impossible. There was no witness. Unless one of the men who took Tristan that night, leaving Grant to bleed out, had come forward. “How?”

“
What do you mean how? Shouldn’t you be asking, who?”

Years later and a continent away, a witness? Again, impossible. “You’re right. Who?”

“
Her name is Leigh Hamilton.”

He shook his head. “A woman?” Now he knew he was right. Not possible at all. The only woman from that night three years ago was the one who saved him, Lijuan.

Beatrice’s hand went to her pearls. “I thought you’d be happier.”

“
Happier?” How could he be happy ever again with Tristan gone? “I’m sorry, Bea. There is no other witness.”

The fire in her eyes faltered. “I know you believe that, but if you give me the chance to show you, I swear to you, you will understand.”

“
This isn’t about understanding, Bea.” He spoke softly. He didn’t want his words to hurt. “I know what happened, and who was there.”

“
Fragments. You’ve said so yourself.”

“
Afterward, yes. I only recall fragments.”

“
Aha. Then how can you be so sure?”

The truth of her words hit him, welling memories up from the inky dark. Grant shoved them back down. “I recall enough to knowno other person saw what I saw. None.”

When she looked back up at him, her renewed determination alarmed him. What was she after?

“
Nick ran an inquiry on Miss Hamilton. I asked him to. And, I’ll have you know that at Nick’s insistence, I spoke with her directly. She knows things, Grant. Specifics that only you—,” Beatrice gasped. “Grant, what happened to you?” She stood up. “Oh, God. It’s happened again, hasn’t it?”

He stepped away as she reached for him. She captured one hand, anyhow.

“
When did it happen?” she asked.

He hated that she knew. “Last night. A few hours at most.”

“
You don’t know how many?” She examined his hand, his face.

“
Three or so.” A white lie. “I’m fine.” He pulled his hand free. “Truly.”

“
You’re covered in blood. That does not equate to fine.” Her hand went to her forehead. “How did I not see it?”

“
You have a lot on your mind.” Guilt stabbed at his heart. “And I’m pretty good at distracting you by now. Bea, hey. It’s over now. I’m safe.”

She smoothed her upswept hair. “This time, you’re safe. And what about the next? And the next? What triggered it?”

Grant shook his head. “I don’t know. Stress? Traveling so much? The full moon?” he joked.

His joke fell flat. “I should have let Nick come as well.”

Yeah. That would help. As much as the man had helped in the last three years. Three years? The number hit him like a sharp uppercut. “No. You were right. It’s better that we talk alone.” He could not swallow past the tightness. “You said the witness knew specifics. What specifics exactly?”

She looked at the sky and sighed. She retrieved a piece of paper from the folds of her skirt and handed it to him. “This symbol.”

Grant stared at the paper. The image the inky strokes created had already been branded into his mind. He had to stop himself from crushing the paper. “I don’t believe it.”

“
You weren’t there. You didn’t hear her. Nearly word for word, Grant, as your own account of that night.”

Suspicion snaked inside him. “How did you and Nick find this witness, exactly?”

She gave an empty sort of laugh, and her hands fluttered in the air. “Complete, random luck. One of his leads combined with a hunch. Whatever it is you want to name it finally bore fruit.”

Comprehension sank in. “Beatrice, no.”

“
What do you mean, no?” She kept her face smooth, even smiled. “I’m not asking you to believe me. Meet her yourself. I brought the symbol. Nick hoped that would be enough. It isn’t, though, is it?”

He heard no actual question. “Bea, where did Nick find the witness?”

“
Grant, please.”

“
Bea.” He blamed running as the wolf for the obviousness of it taking so long to sink in. He sank down to the cold marble bench. “We agreed, no more smoke and mirrors.”

“
What smoke? What mirrors? I am giving you a witness with concrete specifics, Grant. Details only you could know.”

“
Bea. How many times are we going to tread down this path?”

Her lips thinned a moment. She regarded him. “As many as it takes.”

“
You swore to me. Nick swore to me after London’s debacle. Only factual evidence. Only actual, physical leads.”

“
He has a lead.”

Fragmented memory or not, it couldn’t be. The men who stole his nephew were the only witnesses besides him. He took her hands in his. “No more spiritualists, Bea. No more would-be mediums.”

She yanked her hands away and stood up, shoulders stiff. She shook her head at the ground, then spun on him. “I am not here for your approval, Grant. We will finally find Tristan.” She touched her heart. “I can feel it. I am here for your cooperation. I want my son back.”

At what cost? In what condition? But three long years...Grant shook his head. Nick swore, no more. “What does Levitt think of this witness?”

“
He believes her. As do I. As will you.”

“
If only Nick Levitt being convinced gave me confidence. Two years ago, possibly. Even one, maybe.” He paused, regretting his harsh words. “How did you find her?”

“
A lead.”

“
What lead?”

Beatrice clamped her mouth shut and glared.

“
Bea, I need evidence.”

“
We have evidence. What is a witness if not proof?” She jabbed a finger at the drawing he still held. “What is that, if not evidence?”

“
Does it matter? Truly, does it?” Her eyes grew glassy. Her voice quavered. “Does being right matter so much that you won’t even hear me out?”

She swiped at tears and folded her arms. Grant didn’t have words. She was right. Of course she was right. Santa Barbara. New Orleans. Atlanta. Olympia. Charleston. New York. London. Marseilles. $10,000. $25,000. $5,000. On and on. None of it mattered. If only the money could create some measure of progress.

Frauds, shams, smoke and mirrors.

Yet Beatrice was right. He had to listen even if everything in him knew he was the only living witness. And he had done so from the brink of death, his body beaten bloody and left in a gutter to die.

The small bundle of white fur scampered to a tree nearby her carefree sniffing a painful juxtaposition to his reality. This morning, last night, the black out, the last three years bore down on him. He sank to the bench, joining her.

“
Fine, Beatrice.” Grant focused on the way the sun made her hair glow like copper. “Fine. What does this witness—this medium—see?” He forced the last word out.

“
She described you, actually. And the events of that night. As I said, in the same terms that you have described it. If only Nick Levitt being convinced held weight with Grant. Two years ago, maybe. Not now.”

Chills coursed over his skin from bone-deep foreboding. Grant rubbed at one arm, then pulled away from the stiff, dirty fabric. He longed to shed these clothes. As much as he’d like to deny it, no logical reason came to mind to explain away the details. If a medium truly saw these things, there really could be hope. Realizing he’d been clutching it, he handed Beatrice the paper.

Beatrice’s gaze followed his hand. She took the drawing. Her spine straightened. “All I ask is that you meet her.”