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By the stunned expression on her face he could tell it didn’t help calm her hormones much either. Good, he thought with a certain savage satisfaction. “Just that,” he said huskily. “Go on in.”
She went, quickly, without a backward glance. He stood there in the rain, watching her go, and then looked up at the elegant old building. Someone had been watching them from the first floor, probably some curious old biddy. A curtain moved, falling back into place over a window, and Tom felt little shivers of disquiet along his backbone. At least he knew Bonnard’s apartment was on the second floor of the old building. It must simply be a curious neighbor.
But as he walked back through the rain, he couldn’t rid himself of the memory of that curtain falling into place. And he wondered if he were being ridiculously paranoid, or far too trusting.
CHAPTER 11
Claire ran up the steps to the second-floor apartment, her mouth burning. She’d asked for it, hadn’t she? She’d been waiting for it, wondering what had taken him so long. If he’d made his move earlier, when they were lying curled up in bed, she wouldn’t have stopped him from doing anything he wanted.
Thank God he hadn’t. She suspected it had crossed his mind, but he’d deliberately waited until they were on safe, neutral territory. And the kiss had been just right. No overwrought pawing, no chaste salute, it was a simple, effective, surprisingly arousing statement of intent.
Having made that statement, would he continue to allow her to hide from the electricity that was generating between the two of them, hide in her worry and panic? Somehow she didn’t think so.
She rummaged in her purse for the heavy set of keys, then began unlocking the three complex locks Marc had insisted upon, her mind still abstracted. She’d actually told him about the accident. Not in detail—that could, and she had no doubt would, come later. But she’d actually spoken the words and he hadn’t drawn away from her in disgust. That was probably half the reason for her current, irrational feeling of mild euphoria.
The apartment smelled slightly musty, and the scent of long-dead roses lingered in the air. She shut the door behind her, wishing it were warm enough to open the windows. She hated the smell of this apartment in the rain.
Dumping her wet raincoat in the hall, she slipped off her high heels and headed back toward the kitchen and a much needed cup of coffee. She should be feeling depressed, she thought, filling the kettle and reaching in the freezer for the coffee beans. She should be making feverish plans to escape. Instead she was humming under her breath, dreaming of a shaggy giant of a man with an endearingly clumsy body and deft hands. She was a hundred times a fool.
Madame Langlois, for all her dire warnings, hadn’t been very helpful about Nicole’s future. She’d made it quite clear she couldn’t take her granddaughter in, and that she expected Claire to be responsible for her. But what possible good could Claire be against the superior legal and moral rights of a stepfather?
But Harriette Langlois had been curiously adamant on that issue. And until Claire figured out what to do with the child, she couldn’t leave Paris.
Well, to be perfectly honest, right now she didn’t want to leave Paris. She didn’t want to leave Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst. Fool that she was, she was doing exactly what she had sworn she wouldn’t, falling in love with a new man before the old one was gone. When would she ever learn from her mistakes?
But it was hard to believe that trusting Tom was a mistake, that any kind of involvement with him should be avoided. He was worth ten of Marc, worth twenty of Brian. Maybe she’d finally developed some taste in her old age. Even if the timing was all wrong, the smartest thing she could do was accept it, rather than jeopardize the best chance she’d had.
It was quarter past four. Nicole would be back in less than an hour, and Claire had better pull herself together, not sit around mooning like a love-struck teenager. She’d change into something more comfortable, rummage in the freezer for something to eat, and put up with an evening of incomprehensible French television.
She headed for the sink, setting her empty mug down. And then she stopped, a cold, bitter bile settling in her stomach. Six hours ago, when she and Nicole had left the rambling apartment for Madame Langlois’s house, the shattered remains of a Limoges tea cup sat in the sink. Now every trace was gone.
Once more she searched the apartment, every room, every closet, searching for a sign, a trace, for Marc himself. Nothing. The now spotless confines of the old apartment yielded not even the faintest clue. For all anyone could tell, Marc hadn’t been near the place in more than two weeks.
But who else could it be? Claire thought, shivering in the dimming afternoon light. She pulled off her rumpled silk dress and threw it on the floor of her closet, instinctively reaching for another formal dress. And then she st
opped herself, grabbing her jeans and heavy sweater, frowning in disgust. She wasn’t going to play these games anymore. If it was Marc he could show himself. For all Madame Langlois’s dire warnings, she knew he wasn’t dangerous. If he didn’t trust her, didn’t like the way she kept the apartment or herself, he could come back and tell her.
But even the heavy cotton sweater couldn’t keep the chill away from her body. She moved over to the window, staring down into the street below, and for a moment she thought she could smell the faint trace of cologne Marc favored, the bitter almond scent that seemed part of his skin. Leaning forward, she saw the place where Tom had held and kissed her. And she began to shiver.
Rocco stopped long enough to have his big black boots shined. His large, dirty hands were trembling slightly as he lit a Gitane, and he stared at them in surprise. He simply couldn’t remember ever being nervous in his life. Not since he was thirteen years old and living in the Marie-le-Croix orphanage.
It had been so long since he’d seen him, since he’d seen any of them. It had been part of their pact, that they’d never be in touch. That they would read in the papers, and know, and that would suffice.
Of course, he’d seen his photograph in magazines. He’d stared at the grainy images for long minutes, looking for traces of the boy he once knew beneath the full-grown man and the passage of twenty years, stared until that nosy Giselle had questioned him. It was hard to see anything beneath the whiteface.
And then there was that idiot, Yvon. The picture of his corpse, spread-eagled against the garbage cans, hadn’t given anything away. Even in childhood he’d never been able to do anything right—it was no wonder he bungled it with the old woman. Messy, Rocco thought, tossing the cigarette out and reaching for his gold toothpick. Very, very messy.
He headed down the street, his black leather jacket shedding some but not all of the rain. It had probably been a waste of time having his boots shined when they had to wade through this slop, but he didn’t regret it. As long as he had a shine on his shoes he could face Marc Bonnard with his bravado intact.
It hadn’t taken Hubert long at all to arrange a meeting, but then, Hubert knew everything there was to know in Paris, or knew someone else who had the information wanted. In an hour it had been set. Rocco had to admire the choice of meeting places. The small park where the old people congregated was a wonderfully ironic spot for the two of them.
He wanted to be late, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He found he was hurrying through the streets, shoving people out of his way in his haste to make it to the park on time. He only hoped they wouldn’t be too noticeable on a stormy day like this one.
But Marc must have taken that into account. Marc always took every possibility into account, and just as he had twenty years ago, Rocco would follow blindly.
The notices were still up at the entrance of the park, warning the old people to be on their guard. Against him, Rocco thought cheerfully. The rain had slowed to a steady mist, and while a few damp pedestrians were taking a shortcut through the park, the benches were deserted. All except one.
Rocco recognized the set of his head, the line of his jaw, the elegant nose. He always was a handsome fucker, he thought, even as a child. It had helped him get what he wanted back then, when the others had been hard pressed to protect themselves. He would always remember that summer morning, with Marc sitting on Grand-mère Estelle’s desk, his high, well-bred little voice calmly outlining his plan.
