Not yet, she should have said. “No, I’m not married.” Tell him about Marc, she ordered herself sternly. Say thank you very much and get rid of him.
It had been so long since she’d spoken to anyone but Marc. So long since she’d heard the blessedly flat vowels of an American accent. Surely she could indulge herself for just a short while?
“My name’s Claire,” she said, deliberately omitting her last name. She wasn’t sure why she did—it was just an instinctive gesture of self-protection. She stopped, and he took his arm away from her slender shoulders and shook her proffered hand. There was just the right feel to it, not too soft, not too rough, not too squeezing, not too limp. He was harmless, she told herself. A fellow American, and someone to talk to.
“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you know the French words for coffee ice cream?”
* * *
Malgreave slammed the book shut with a nasty curse. His English wasn’t bad, better in conversation than in literature, but this book, for all the effort he was putting into it, wasn’t proving any help at all. He glared down at it. He’d gone to a great deal of trouble to get it. It was the latest American best-seller, chronicling the history of several of the copycat killers in the last decade. And there was absolutely nothing of value for his current case.
He leaned back on the uncomfortable, overstuffed sofa that Marie had banished to the back bedroom, the room they now called his office. It had been Margritte’s room, until she got married, and for almost a year Marie had refused to change anything. But now Margritte was about to give birth to their first grandchild, an event Marie clearly anticipated and dreaded. On the one hand Marie loved babies, she loved Margritte, and she looked forward to having a new little one to dress up and play with.
On the other hand, being a grandmother meant getting old. And he knew very well that Marie had no wish to get old.
She’d lost weight recently. She’d been going to a health center and exercising, and her waist had come back. She no longer bought sweets, and she scarcely touched her morning roll. She was wearing more makeup now, and her hair had lost the becoming silver. No, she didn’t want to get old. But was her sudden youthfulness for her own sake, or his? Or someone else’s?
Margritte wouldn’t be coming home now, and the spare bedroom was simply going to waste. And if Louis was going to bring his work home with him and smoke those nasty cigarettes, then he needed a place to work, she said. She wasn’t going to give up her television programs because he wanted to concentrate. God knows, she said, she had little enough to entertain her these days.
She was going to leave him, he knew she was. And while the thought ate away at his soul like acid, there was nothing he could do. If he said anything, there would be no turning back. So he just plodded onward, his head in the sand, hoping she would change her mind.
And in the meantime, the weather forecast was for three days of rain.
Rocco Guillère strolled down the narrow street, away from the park, his cruel dark eyes following the old lady’s elegant pace. He hated women like that. They looked like they had a broomstick up their ass and they’d rather die than admit it. Tall, straight, born rich and she’d die rich.
Sooner than she’d like. He looked up into the clear blue sky, peering into the fleecy white clouds scudding along. When he’d been a boy and lived outside of Paris he could tell what the weather would be from the clouds. He’d forgotten all that—now he only knew the weather from what landed on his skin. He’d wait, he had to wait. He’d promised, and promises like that couldn’t be broken.
In the meantime, he knew where she lived. It wouldn’t take long. Early spring was one of the rainiest times of the year. All he had to do was be patient and hope that fool Malgreave didn’t realize he had anything to do with the two bodies found floating in the Seine last night.
He didn’t have anything to worry about. The police didn’t fuss too much about dead drug dealers, as long as they weren’t part of a gang war. This way he had the money, the drugs, and Giselle had been able to enjoy herself, the greedy bitch. And in a few days, as soon as the rains came again, he’d get his reward.
Marc came up behind her, snaking his arms around her waist and pulling her pliant body back against his. His warm, damp mouth nibbled her neck, and his narrow hips pressed against her buttocks. He was aroused, and she waited for an answering surge of heat in her own body. It came, obediently enough, but it took a moment.
“Did you miss me while we were at grand-mère’s?” he murmured in her ear.
She didn’t move. There was absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, she told herself for the twentieth time. All she did was share a park bench and an hour’s conversation with a fellow American. And a coffee ice cream cone that was sinfully delicious.
It had been nothing. Just a sharing of idiotic things. Where they went to college. Where they’d worked. What pets they’d had when they were young. The miserable weather, and yes, the tragic deaths of the old ladies. The kind of conversation strangers had. And that’s all she and Tom Parkhurst were. Strangers who would be unlikely to meet again.
So there was no need to tell Marc, was there? He was flatteringly jealous, but it wasn’t a game Claire cared to play. There was no comparison between the two men. Marc was heat and passion and dark, mysterious depths. Tom was about as mysterious as a teddy bear.
No, there was no need to tell him. “Of course I missed you,” Claire murmured, turning in his arms and pressing her hips against his. “Do I get to go next time?”
He smiled at her, his dark, dreamy eyes level with hers. “Not next time, darling,” he murmured, his hands deft with her zipper. “There wasn’t time to bring up the subject. But soon, I promise.”
She felt the coolness of the air against her skin as the zipper parted company, and she squashed down the sudden surge of disappointment. She’d been looking forward to meeting Nicole’s beloved grand-mère. Anything to break out of her seclusion. Marc would have no reason for keeping them apart, unless … “She does speak English, doesn’t she?”
Marc’s expressive face was answer enough, it didn’t need his words. “I’d been hoping you wouldn’t ask. Not really, darling. But I’m sure Nicole will translate for you.”
“But she just spent almost a year in Los Angeles …”
He shrugged. “You will find that Harriette Langlois does not do anything she doesn’t care to do. And she doesn’t care to learn a language she considers an abomination.” The dress slid to the floor, a pool of silk at her slender ankles. “Don’t worry about her, darling. As long as we have each other we don’t need a disapproving old bitch like her. Let Nicole have her.”
“But …” Her mouth was silenced, swiftly and effectively, by his. And Claire, thinking of Tom Parkhurst and guilt, kissed him back.
Harriette Langlois was washing her own dishes. She hadn’t yet arranged for her cleaning lady to come back, and in truth, she didn’t mind doing the dishes for a change. It helped her think.
But even giving her Limoges the care it deserved didn’t take enough time. She scrubbed the wooden counters, threw out the leftover bread, and turned off the light, moving back into the airy, delicate living room that she’d missed so desperately when she’d been on her self-imposed exile.
The room was almost English, she had to admit it, much as she hated the English. The comfortable chairs and sofa were covered in a pink chintz, the watercolors were of the Lake District, the curtains were Irish lace. Well, even the worst abomination of a country could have its merits.
She moved slowly, carefully across the room to the little table that held her precious store of cognac. She poured herself a small glass and took a deep, warming sip. By this time of night she began to get a little weary, she had to admit it. But there was always one thing that could manage to give her energy.
The photos were arranged on the baby grand piano, each in its silver frame. Nicole, solemn, dignified as only a too-serious five-year-old could be, even in happ
ier times. Isabelle, her mother, Harriette’s only daughter, with her too-large nose and her laughing eyes that were now forever closed. Jacques, Harriette’s husband, a man with too little imagination and too much morality, but a good man, nonetheless.
And Marc Bonnard. Handsome, charming Marc Bonnard, in a matching silver frame. He’d been startled when he’d seen it, and professed himself flattered. Harriette had only smiled sourly.
She moved to the piano and stared down into Marc’s wonderful eyes. “You bastard,” she said, the words a ritual, “you murdered my daughter. And I will make you pay for it.” Holding her glass of cognac in a silent toast of vengeance, she drained it.
And ten blocks away, Claire shivered in Marc’s arms.
CHAPTER 4
There was rain that night. Claire lay on the too-soft bed, clutching the freshly laundered sheet in desperate fingers, digging her feet into the mattress. Marc’s slender, delicate hands held her hips, allowing her no movement, as he used his mouth on her.
He was very good with his mouth, but tonight he was inspired. No matter how she writhed and struggled he wouldn’t let her go, and she knew she’d have bruises on her hips tomorrow. She was sweating, aching, desperate, as he slowly, carefully brought her just to the point of orgasm. And then he backed off, just long enough for her to regain a small portion of her self-control, only to begin the slow, maddening process all over again.
He was relentless, indefatigable, and Claire was weeping, helpless, her heels drumming against the bed as she sought a release he refused to grant her. She bit her lip, hard, to keep her pleas from bubbling forth. It would do no good, it would only incite Marc further, and besides, she didn’t want to risk Nicole hearing. She suffered in silence, her body convulsed in tiny spasms of useless reaction as he took his time in a ritual he had long ago perfected, but this night brought to astonishing heights. That it was closer to torture than to love occurred to her when her mind was too clouded and aching to block out the disloyal thought.
“Marc,” she moaned, unable to help herself, “please …”
But it was endless long minutes before he finally took pity on her and ended her torment. As he gathered her trembling, weakened body into his arms she had the brief, unpleasant thought that tonight his lovemaking had been rather like a cat playing with a succulent mouse. And the tiny death it had ended with was unpleasantly like a real death.
Her shaky muscles tightened as she rejected the thought. Marc’s body was dry and hot, wrapped around her, and belatedly she realized she hadn’t been allowed to touch him at all.
“Marc,” she whispered, her voice raw, “don’t you want me to … ?”
“No need, darling,” he murmured, biting her ear. He always bit just a little bit too hard, and once more her muscles screamed in tension. “You were so exciting that things just took care of themselves. Do you know how exquisite you look when you struggle against me?”
There it was again, the unpleasant image of an animal caught in a trap. She turned to look at him, and his eyes glittered in the darkness, his mobile, handsome face wreathed in tenderness. He could convey emotions so well with just the slightest twist of that face.
Claire was still shaking inside. She didn’t want to kiss him, didn’t want to taste her desperation on his smiling mouth. So she merely smiled. “I love you, Marc,” she murmured, trying to believe it.
“I know you do, chérie.” He lay back, keeping possessive arms around her. His body was a furnace, hot and dry and perfectly relaxed. “I have a wonderful idea,” he said, his hand trailing through Claire’s flowing hair. “Tomorrow let’s take the day for ourselves. We’ll send Nicole to see her grandmother and you and I will just spend the time together. I have to leave Monday, and I’m going to miss you terribly. I want to go with the memory of a perfect day between us.”
Slowly the trembling had stopped, slowly the sweat had begun to dry on her body as she relaxed beneath his soothing hand. She was still too hot, but these moments, the gentle, comforting, loving minutes after they made love, were the most important to her. It made the darkness and the pleasure that was uncomfortably akin to pain worth it. “That would be wonderful, Marc,” she said, pressing her face against his smooth chest, rubbing like a cat.
“I’ll take Nicole to Harriette’s,” he murmured, “and then I’ll come back and join you in bed. Then we’ll find a wonderful café for lunch, and go for a long walk in the afternoon. I know how you love long walks.”
“That would be heavenly.” She was very drowsy, and her doubts and distaste had vanished into a haze of satisfaction.
“I’ll take you someplace you’ve never been before.” His voice was a soporific litany, lulling her to sleep. “A wonderful park where the old people go, and they sell the best coffee ice cream in Paris.”
It took every ounce of strength and determination she possessed to keep from panicking. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach stayed there, and the sweat on her body turned chilly. “That would be heavenly, darling,” she whispered in the darkness, keeping her muscles relaxed, feigning a sleepiness that had now vanished.
And Marc Bonnard, his hand still possessively smoothing Claire’s red gold hair, smiled into the dark, rainy night.
Yvon Alpert lay awake, listening to the rain. He’d been awake since three, since the rain started. Jeanne had left sometime after five, oblivious to his dark mood. She’d chattered on and on about how nice things would be next month, when they were married and she didn’t have to rush home to change her clothes before work. He’d suggested more than once that she could bring things over, but Jeanne was a good Catholic, with a strict sense of propriety. Each time she spent the night she had to allow herself to be persuaded, had to convince herself that she was swept away by passion and emotion and it wasn’t her fault. If she’d done anything as calculated as bring a toothbrush she could no longer believe in her own essential purity.
Yvon had been patient, understanding, but just before dawn on a rainy night it took all his willpower to keep from screaming at her. She left, with a saucy bounce of her narrow hips and a cheerful wave, unaware of the torments her fiance was suffering.
He didn’t get out of bed to watch her walk down the street, as he did on other nights. He should get up, make some coffee, ignore the rain, and act like it was any other day. He stayed where he was.
The sheets smelled like sex. They smelled of Jeanne’s middle-class perfume, and sweat, and that faint, ammonia-like odor of semen. He should get up, wash, and face the day. He didn’t move.
He had no reason to be tormented. His job at the ministry was a good one, with ample money to support him. Jeanne was a good woman, affectionate, sexually inventive, and if she was a bit too Catholic he could overlook it, as long as she didn’t try to drag him to mass. He hadn’t been to church since he was nine years old and the orphanage had burnt down, and he knew he could never go again.
There were times he missed it. Times when he longed for confession and absolution, longed for a penance to wipe some of the evil from his tainted soul.
But then the sun would shine, and he would put such dark memories behind him and think ahead to the good life that awaited him. He would marry Jeanne next month, and they’d have children, lots of children. He was in line for a promotion—with luck they might be able to afford a small house in the suburbs, one with room for the children to play.
But there’d be no garden.
He still couldn’t walk into a formal garden without feeling nauseated. It was the smell of roses that got him, he realized. The sickly sweet scent of pink roses in summer that reminded him of pain and fear and death. And the stench of flesh burning his nostrils.
The roses had burned along with the orphanage. Everything had been destroyed by the fire—he could remember the blackened timbers of the old wooden building that had been his home for three years, the skeletal branches of the rosebushes, pointing at him, the ashes of the gardener’s shed in one corner of the decimated garden. With the
remains of the gardener lying there in the embers.
Grand-mère Estelle had been found in the basement of the main building. The authorities had decided she’d fallen through when all the debris from the upper floors had collapsed. There was no need for Madame Marti to be in the cellar of the building. It hadn’t been difficult to identify her—who else would be found dead in the orphanage she’d run for more than forty years? What remained incomprehensible, and was finally dismissed with a Gallic shrug, was the peculiar condition of her body. It had taken a strong-stomached employee of the district three days to find all the pieces of Mme. Marti. They never did find her feet.
Yvon sat up, nausea churning in his own stomach. He hated remembering, hated the sick, dark clouds that beat around his head. If only Jeanne had stayed, her incessant chatter could have drowned out the steady beat of the rain against the windows. Could have drowned out the things he didn’t want to remember, drowned out what he had to do.
He moved over to the window, looking down into the wet, dirty streets. Maybe if he quit his job, moved to the country, maybe somewhere in the south. His employers thought highly of him—they’d write him a good letter of recommendation and he’d be able to find something suitable. In the south, in a climate where it seldom rained.
But he knew he couldn’t do that. It would follow him, the memories, the nightmares, the pledge he’d made so many years ago. The longer he delayed the worse it got. There was no sleep for him on rainy nights.
And every now and then, when he least expected it, he’d catch the faint, inexplicable scent of pink roses.
The rain turned to spring snow flurries that scattered in front of the fierce wind. The sun was bright yellow in a clear blue sky, and the puffy white clouds scudded along, carrying the smog with them. It was a glorious day, Claire thought as she heated the milk for Marc’s coffee. Surely nothing terrible could happen on such a beautiful day.
Nicole sat in silence, sipping at her hot chocolate, her small, spotless hands careful around the Limoges cup. Claire had wanted to get her something less fragile, but Marc had refused. “She must learn to eat and drink like civilized people, darling. It will do her no good to coddle her.”