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Overhearing me, Cress says, “They were together for eight years.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have secrets. I think his good-old-boy façade hides a much darker interior.”
Max drops one bag and slips a finger under his glasses so he can rub his eyes. “I’ll see if Jarvis can assign someone from the team once we check in. With this flap on, it’s all-hands-on-deck, and I’m not sure who’ll be available.”
I let out a hiss. “Not acceptable.”
“Unfortunate, but I can’t promise anything, and I can’t contract it out. You can hire someone on your own dime if that helps.”
“Non. The fewer people involved, the better. Can’t Jarvis look into it?”
“He’s too bloody busy to look for Sam. I know this is urgent, but he’s doing the bulk of the recoding.”
“All right. Let’s see what looks workable. Just don’t give him the details,” I warn.
“Cool down, JL. This is bollocks. How the bloody hell do you expect him to find anything without the details?”
He’s right but I’m a boiling kettle. Cool and down aren’t helpful words. Max and Cress forge ahead, probably worried I might lose control completely. Under my breath, I curse. “Osti de tabarnak de sacrament, de câlice de ciboire de criss de marde.” I chant it over and over until we reach the GSU limo that will take us to the hotel.
The hour-long slog into Paris feels like a lifetime. As soon as we reach the Place des Vosges, I’m out the door and into the square, where I do a lap around the arcaded walkway to retrieve my equilibrium, dodging the flâneurs. When I reach the entrance of Le Pavillon de la Reine, I rush through the gates and into the secluded courtyard. Micki is standing there waiting and as soon as I drop my bag, she jumps into my arms.
I press my lips against her neck in a soft kiss. “I’ve missed you so much. I was in agony the whole time.”
“So glad you’re here,” she whispers between kisses all over my face. When I put her down, Kurt comes over.
“All quiet?” I ask.
“Yeah. Ms. Press and I went on a Bateau-Mouche dinner cruise, but otherwise she stayed in her room. We had someone outside the door all night.”
“You did a dinner cruise with Kurt?” I look at her with mock outrage.
She shrugs. “I had a ticket, but I couldn’t go without my bodyguard, so I bought him a ticket, too.”
I focus my death-ray glare at Kurt. “You should have put it on expenses.”
“Sorry, Boss. We were rushed, and I didn’t think.” His rough voice heightens his German accent.
Scowling, I turn back to Micki. “Give me the receipt. You shouldn’t have to pay for him.”
Max comes over with Mason. He was a burr up our butts in London, followed us to Scotland, and now here he is in Paris. Not even trying to keep the irritation tamped down, I grouch. “Tabarnak. Can’t we have a few minutes alone?”
“I know it’s cobblers,” Max says with a drawn-out sigh. “Needs must. Cooperation with French security and MI6 is essential, so suck it up, mon vieux.” He turns to face Allan, who introduces Inspector Poulliot.
“We’ll meet you in the café in an hour. Nice to meet you, Inspector.”
The cop slopes off to smoke while we make our way to the registration desk. I’m in Micki’s room, so they just hand me a key and we leave Max, Cress, and Allan to their fate.
An hour isn’t nearly enough time, but it will do as a stop gap. This is our first time in bed together and I wanted to take it slowly and savor every minute, but we don’t have time. We just cuddle, touching and kissing with abandon, then share the magnificent shower, washing each other, getting to know each other’s bodies. Tonight, we can abandon ourselves to pleasure.
When we reach the lobby, Max and Cress are waiting on one of the deep sofas. “About time you got down here,” Max calls out when he sees us exit the elevator. René has replaced Kurt.
I clap him on the shoulder. “Salut, René. This is Michelle Press. She’s a most precious jewel, so guard her with your life.”
René St-Pierre is a tall, middle-aged man with a youthful, reddish complexion. A neatly shaved fringe of white surrounds his bald head. Face creased into a broad smile, René takes Micki’s hand. “Enchanté, Madame.” He bows and kisses her knuckles.
“Not part of the training,” I tell him.
“We French are trained in how to greet a woman,” he says. “You Canadian pretenders have no manners.”
