Page 80 of Dagger’s Shield

“That is not comforting, Killian.”

I turned and nuzzled her neck. “It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be true.”

She was quiet for a while. “If Géraud does show up, how do I stop myself from killing him?”

“Remind yourself he might not be the man at the top. We want to know who Vasiliev worked for or with. The best way we can do that with the information we currently have is to get as much out of Géraud as we can while he’s still useful.”

“And when he no longer is, then I can kill him?”

I smiled against her hair. “Yes, mon feu.”

She fell asleep holding my hand.

By noon the following day, the cuverie was unrecognizable. Marthe ran three crews and put me wherever lifting was required. Chantal took Maëlle somewhere after lunch, and I didn’t see her again until seven.

“In position since nineteen hundred,” Preacher said in my ear while I knotted my tie. “This winery is colder than Vaduz.”

“It’s called a cuverie, and put on a jacket,” Maëlle said, smiling as she fastened an earring.

She wore a dark-green dress that hugged her curves so perfectly. I wanted to call off our appearance, strip her naked, and fuck her senseless. That, sadly, would have to wait.

At half eight, we crossed to the cuverie and stood beside Bertrand and Chantal as requested.

Chantal kissed cheeks, laughed in all the right places, and even when she wasn’t laughing, her smile never left her face.

Families whose names were printed on half the labels in Burgundy came through the doors, and every one of them had known Maëlle since before she could walk. Without fail, they mentioned it had been too long since she’d last been home and how pleased they were to see her. And, as they walked past her “friend from London,” both the men and women looked me up and down.

Bertrand shook every hand and said all the right things while looking over the shoulder of whoever he was speaking to, clearly watching for his guest of honor.

By a quarter past, no one else came through the doors. Bertrand remained where he was, waiting.

Chantal put her hand on his sleeve. “You should make an announcement.”

He let her take his arm. Twice on the way into the room, he turned and looked at the doors over the head of whoever was speaking to him.

I stayed where I was and listened through the comms when Maëlle followed her father.

“Papa?”

“Chérie.”

“What about your special guest?”

“He hasn’t arrived.”

“Who is he?”

“Aristide Géraud,” he said. “He’s with Maison Fontenay. Our biggest customer. Not only Valais’, but all of Burgundy.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“Oui. Come with me. We’re celebrating anyway.” Bertrand stepped around her, went to the middle of the room, and motioned for me to join them.

When he raised his glass, all conversation stopped. “I’d planned to keep this until midnight,” he said, “but I find I cannot wait any longer.”

Several servers walked through the room, carrying trays of champagne. They arrived far too quickly for an idea he’d had that moment.

“Clearly, he had no intention of waiting until the stroke of twelve,” I muttered.