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The shopkeeper was at his desk peering down at a ledger, a pair of spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He was not at all as ancient as she expected him to be. He wore a blue denim shirt and a fraying grey sweater and looked every bit like a man who spent his every hour surrounded by books. A least two dozen, maybe as many as four dozen, were stacked beside him on his desk, rising in two columns that ended above his head.
“Sir?” Laney spoke quietly, as if this was a sacred place—in her mind it was.
The shopkeeper didn’t look up. Had he not heard her? She was only several paces away. And the door did have its jangling bell. She moved a little closer. “Sir?”
Finally, the man stirred. He took off his glasses and rubbed his one eye, then peered at her with the same careful scrutiny as he did his ledger.
“Qui vous est?”
“Laney. Laney Priestly.” She stepped closer.
He cocked his head as if trying to place her.
“Je vous sais?” he said.
“Non. Parlez-vous l’anglais?”
“Ah, oui! What you want?”
She sighed, a bit relieved. This was one possible barrier that she hadn’t expected to breach so easily. She tried smiling to ease the tension, but the man wasn’t very friendly.
He was, however, quite striking, now that she could actually look at his face. Not handsome, not in any typical way. He was in his forties she guessed. He had short black hair and deep lines in his tanned face. But it was a face with character and strength and surprising determination that astounded her, not what she expected in a French shopkeeper, and man of books. And the eyes, oh, how the eyes assaulted her, even held her in place. She was actually beginning to shiver under this brief inspection. His gaze moved from her face to survey the rest of her and she felt stripped.
Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of the bracelet, which she’d originally intended to hide. Coming into the shop, however, that scheme had been forgotten and now she was moved to back up in fear; he must have recognized what it was she wore. His initially curious look turned into a glare, then he abruptly stood up and moved around his desk, grabbing her high at the arm and pulling her through tall shelves of books to the back of the shop, where they slipped through a drape. The storeroom on the other side was packed with more bookshelves, dozens of boxes, huge packing crates and one empty corner with nothing but a small white chair. He pushed her into the chair and glared down at her dazed expression.
“Sir, please, I…” Heart racing, she backed up in the seat as far as she could go, which was an empty attempt since there really was nowhere to go with the small chair tight against the wall.
He slapped her face.
“Sir!” She tried to stand up and he pushed her back down
“You know better than to walk in my front door.”
“No! No, I don’t,” she rushed in. “I see that you recognize the bracelet. That is why I am here.”
His anger briefly abated. And he looked back at her, baffled.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Laney Priestly, from the United States. My husband gave me this bracelet before he died. I’ve come here to find out about it.” She took a breath.
“If you know nothing, then you should have it removed.”
“I don’t want it removed. And I do know what it means. I’ve gone to great lengths to come here, to find you. Please. If you could only give me a few answers, I won’t waste your time.”
The sound of the shop’s bell rang through the heated air, and the man turned immediately. “You stay. I come back.” Then he disappeared though the drape and Laney heard the sound of voices. They were speaking French too fast for Laney to catch what was being said, but she assumed this was a customer.
Her heart stopped racing after several minutes alone, although she could still feel the sting of the shopkeeper’s hand against her face. Alex Greenwood’s warnings came back to her—she had no reason to assume that the Marquis’ agents, his masters, would be kind, or even sane.
She could see through the maze of packing boxes that there was a door in the very back of the storeroom. Light seeped from around the frame—she could escape. But then what would she gain? Before she could reach a decision, however, the Frenchman came through the drape, his attitude as assailing as before.
He looked at her, and the bracelet again. “Let me see it.”
She held out her hand, which he took in his warm one. He held the band, reading the inscription.
“I’m looking for the Marquis,” she explained.
“Hush!”
