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“Oh?”
“Sleep with her. ”
CHAPTER 6
It was an incredibly busy day.
One ridiculous meeting after another.
It was nearly two o’clock, and Ann had not had time for so much as a cup of coffee.
At two, she dropped the sheets of meeting memos on her desk, rose, grabbed her purse, and marched out to her secretary’s desk. “Henriette, I’m going for coffee. I don’t care who calls. I have to have a break. ”
“Of course—I will fend off all demons!” Henriette, pretty, young, and loyal to her boss, declared with the strength of a lion.
Ann smiled at her and hurried down to the ground level, then outside and across the street. She walked to the counter of the little cafe and ordered coffee and a croissant, though it was late and only one was left, and it was probably stale. The woman behind the counter was busy, and tried handing her everything at the same time while she was still struggling with her wallet for her money. She was startled when a man at her side suddenly helped out, taking the coffee and the croissant.
“Merci,” she murmured.
She was startled when he answered with an accented, “de rien. ” She glanced at him, but then found herself staring.
He was tall, blond and handsome, with a charming smile. Her hand froze in her purse.
“You looked as if you needed a little help,” he said in English. “I’m sorry—do you speak English?”
“Yes, I speak English very well,” she said with a smile. “And thank you, thank you very much. ” The woman behind the counter cleared her throat impatiently. Ann shoved francs into her hand, then accepted the coffee and croissant from the American.
“That’s my table—there. There are no more empty. Perhaps you’ll join me. ” She had intended to take her coffee and croissant back to the office. No longer. Now, she was going to take her full ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
“Thank you. ”
He pulled the chair out for her. She sat, extended a hand to him, “Ann DeVant. Thank you for your help, and for sharing your table. ”
“Rick. Rick Beaudreau. My pleasure, mademoiselle. I’m sorry, is it mademoiselle? I’m terribly rude, I guess. I’m sorry, I just saw you standing there . . . and . . . ”
“I’m not married,” Ann told him. “So, you’re obviously a visitor in Paris. Though your name is French. ”
“I’m Cajun,” he told her. “From New Orleans. ”
“Ah. ”
“Please, enjoy your croissant. ” He indicated the food she hadn’t touched. She nibbled a bite. She’d been starving. And now . . .
His smile deepened. He was a very handsome man. Striking blue eyes went with his blond hair. She hadn’t met anyone so attractive since . . .
Willem.
She felt a surge of temper. For a moment, it included all men. Well, this one was just a tourist But he was nice, and attentive. And very appealing.
“I’m not married either,” he told her.
“You’re on vacation—I assume. ”
He shrugged. “In away. I’m in the midst of a healing process, you could say. ”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been in Europe quite a while. In fact,” he said ruefully, “my French should be much better. I was in an accident a while back. A terrible fire. I’m still doing a bit of recuperating. ” He leaned toward her.
“Paris seemed the place to be right now. I came to . . . look up some people. But now . . . well, I think I was just maybe called to be here for much more. ”
His appreciation of her was definitely a line. But a good one. And he was polite, his admiration in his eyes, and in his tone.
“You’re very flattering,” she said, forcing her tone to be dry. She was French after all, and not in the least naive.
“But truthfully,” he said, “you’re just—beautiful. ”
She laughed. “Thank you. ”
“Truly, my pleasure. ”
She stared at him, nodding with a wry smile still in place. Then she glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go— I’m afraid I’m not on vacation. But it was lovely to meet you. ”
“Do you come here every day?” he asked, catching her hand.
She glanced down. He had great hands. Big. Slightly calloused. She could imagine . . .
“Sometimes. ” She didn’t want to pull her hand away. She wanted to linger. She sighed inwardly. She had to get back to work. She grinned suddenly, forcing herself to extricate her hand. “I go out at night sometimes, too. Tonight. With my cousin. An American. I believe we’ll be going to a place called La Guerre. ”
With those last words, she pulled away, hurried out.
Though she was tempted to do so, she didn’t look back. Her cheeks, she realized, were flaming.
So much for her sense of sophistication I No, she would not look back, and she would force the flush from her face.
He knew where she would be. If he was interested, he would be there.
Back at her desk, she started to work, then felt the presence of someone at her door. Willem was there.
Tall, suave as ever, perfect in a designer suit. Her heart leaped. He had been there a while, she thought with amazement. There had been a time when she would have known the second he had arrived. And now . . .
She thanked God for the American. He had returned her confidence to her, and her poise. She was able to remain seated. She stared at Willem, without moving.
“I’m not in the office,” he told her.
“What do you want?”
“Forgiveness. ”
She shook her head. “I never forgive, and I never forget” She tried to look down. But there was something about him. There always had been. She looked back up.
“I love you,” he told her. His voice was husky and thick. His expression was pained, so much so that she nearly jumped out of her seat to go to him. Somehow, she remained seated. “I don’t know. . . what I was doing. Maybe I was afraid at how deeply I cared about you. Or maybe I resented the fact that you’d see me, but you’d never bring me home, you didn’t involve me with your family, with your life. I’ve tried so hard to do what you wanted. I knew I was wrong. But since we’ve been apart . . . Ann, I know. I want to marry you. ”
She stared at him, shocked. Just a little more than a week ago, such words would have had her in a swoon, shaking, delighted, on top of the world.
And now . . .
What a strange day. The American in the cafe, and now Willem . . .
“Ann?”
“I don’t know. Let me think. Maybe we’ll talk later. ”
She looked back down. The words on the page before her blurred. She fought hard not to look back up.
“When?”
“I don’t know. ”
“Tonight?”
“No, I have plans with my cousin. ”
“Your American cousin? Whom I’ve not met. ”
The resentment was there. Maybe she had been too mistrustful. Maybe she owed him.
He’d cheated on her!
“In a few days, perhaps, we’ll talk. ”
She felt it when he left her doorway. She heard him walk to her secretary’s desk. They talked casually about a publication schedule.
Ann bit her lip hard. She wanted to stand, and race after him. No! Tonight, she was going out with Tara.
And perhaps she would see the handsome American again. And then, perhaps, know herself better.
Know what she really felt, and at the least. . .
Pay Willem back for what he had done.
Dubois was infuriated.
The police could be so incredibly annoying, especially Inspector Javet. The man apparently thought he was some kind of a solid wall of testosterone with the right to meddle in things that he knew nothing about.
For the third time, he was questioning Dubois. This tim
e, Javet had come to his house. The last time they had spoken, he had been down at the station. Then, he had been introduced to special crime scene detectives from Paris who explained to him that his dig site would be closed for some time. Well, he had simply exploded.
Javet had patiently explained that a man had been killed.
Dubois had simply blown up. “You fools! This is history. This is a find in the scientific world, a find that is far greater than the loss of one man! Do you think Howard Carter never lost a worker when looking for the tomb of Tutankhamen? You can not, must not, stop my work!” He shouldn’t have blown up. He went on to say how very sorry he was about Jean-Luc. But it was too late. The gentlemen began to question him again.
Then, of course, he had tried to make them see that they were harassing the wrong man. They should have been after the American, Brent Malone.
“Naturally, we are keeping up on his whereabouts, but I don’t believe that your worker can tell us anything more than he has already. ”
“Surely, if he had murdered the man, he would not walk in and tell you so!” Dubois was impatient that the police seemed like such fools.
They’d had little to say. They had been entirely cordial. They had excused him.
And now, Javet was here. Dubois didn’t ask him to sit, nor did he ask if he would like wine, water, or anything. He barely let him through the doorway. Again, Javet seemed impervious to his rudeness and the blunt fact that he didn’t want the inspector in his house.
“Professor Dubois, I think you can give us a great deal of help with knowledge you may not even know that you possess. We’d like to see all your notes regarding the dig. And especially, we’d like to know about anyone you approached for assistance in financing, anyone to whom you might have suggested that the dig could provide incredible treasures with a current high monetary value. ”
“My notes . . . ” He frowned and hedged. “Inspector, I made quite a large contribution to the present St.
Michel to be granted the right to the dig. And my work . . . no, no, I’m sorry. You cannot have my notes.
My work is private. My work is like an artist’s canvas. I allow no one to view it until it is complete. ”