Juliet crossed over to the desk and touched the telephone. “Line one is an internal line and will ring downstairs. Line two is an external line. The wireless password is recorded here.” She pointed to a piece of paper on the desk.
“Thank you,” Acacia murmured.
“The dining room is downstairs, and dinner will be served at seven o’clock. Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
“No.”
Juliet gestured to a doorknob that seemed affixed to the wall near to the bed. “The bathroom is behind that wall. Just turn the knob.
“Rest well.”
Acacia thanked Juliet again and watched as she exited and closed the door soundlessly behind her.
She heaved a sigh of relief, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of service.
She removed her jacket and walked out onto the balcony. A trellis, covered with vines, climbed the outside of the balcony. She tested its strength. It wasn’t clear it would support her weight, but it was the simplest way of escape, should she need it.
She surveyed the grounds before she went inside and closed the door. She locked it and pulled the curtains. It was a shame to block such a view, but she needed darkness in order to sleep.
The room was very large, with cream-colored walls and heavy, blue damask curtains. An expansive rug that matched the window dressings covered the parquet floor.
The furniture appeared to be antique. The bed had a high, tufted, blue velvet headboard. Something resembling a crown was situated above the bed, from which blue damask curtains fell, draping to the floor in two large swags.
The bed coverings were blue silk, and at the foot of the bed was a small, backless couch with rolled arms, upholstered in blue velvet.
Acacia was admiring an antique gold clock on top of the marble mantelpiece when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she called.
Gretle, who appeared to be in her early twenties, entered the room carrying an elaborate breakfast tray.
Acacia greeted her with a smile. “Thank you. If you’d just place it on the table.”
Gretle nodded shyly and completed the task before she withdrew.
Finally left to her solitude, Acacia yawned. She was exhausted, but not too tired to make sure her room was secure. She checked all the windows to ensure they were locked, and she locked the door to her room and braced the desk chair under the door handle.
Satisfied that anyone wanting to get in would find it difficult, she opened her laptop and connected to the wireless network. She typed a short, polite email to Monsieur Roy, copying the Human Resources department, which stated that she was ill and wouldn’t be at work that evening.
She wondered what kind of reaction that would elicit.
She texted Kate and told her she was in Cologny and provided her with the telephone number she found printed on the house telephone.
Luc had left more than one message. In each, his voice grew increasingly alarmed. Acacia felt a pang of regret at worrying him, but only a pang. Her safety was her chief concern.
She typed out a text and sent it to him.
I needed a break from everything.
I’ve left Paris for a few days.
Acacia knew he’d call her as soon as he received her message, so she switched off her phone.
She regarded her breakfast. There were eggs and toast, fresh fruit, chocolate, and a carafe of coffee. Acacia skipped the coffee and drank the orange juice, but she only nibbled the food. It was possible, she reasoned, that the items had been tampered with.
Afterward, she began unpacking. She retrieved Marcel’s journal from her briefcase and looked around, trying to find a hiding place. Eventually, she lifted the mattress and placed it on top of the bed frame. The mattress would hide the journal well enough.
She needed a shower.
In Brazil, it was common to shower several times a day. Acacia averred that Brazilians were probably the cleanest people on Earth.
She reached for the doorknob, which turned easily in her hand, and a door swung inward.
Acacia stepped into a bright, white marble bathroom with a spacious, modern shower.
“Heaven,” she whispered.
For the moment, at least, she was safe.
Chapter Twenty
AT TEN MINUTES TO SEVEN, Acacia left her room.
She assumed Nicholas dressed for dinner but was unable to do so herself. The contents of her rolling bag had been gathered in a panic and were entirely haphazard. She had underwear, but only the bra she was wearing; cosmetics, but no shampoo. For dinner, she opted for black jeans and a black T-shirt, since they matched.
She hadn’t slept well. In her dreams, she’d been chased through the streets of Paris and had hidden inside a darkened corner of Notre-Dame. Her attackers found her and dragged her outside. She’d woken up only to fall back to sleep and suffer a variation of the same dream—faceless men chasing her on foot through the Latin Quarter of Paris.
Acacia was halfway down the stairs when she realized she’d forgotten her purse and her cell phone. She quickly returned to her room.
She opened the door and stepped through it. Light shone from the enormous windows that looked out over the terrace, the curtains opened wide.
It took a moment for her to realize it was not her room.
This room was larger and sat on the corner of the second floor. There was a large canopied bed, a desk and a chair, a couch, and an easel that sat near the balcony door.
Acacia approached the easel. A half-finished watercolor of Mont Blanc looked back at her. Palettes of paint and a series of brushes had been carefully placed on a nearby table.
The room was clean, and the bed was made. Open books sat on the desk where a cluster of Post-it notes decorated the wood. There was a framed photograph of two teenagers, a girl and a boy, dressed in white tennis outfits. The boy was tall and gangly, his arm around the girl’s shoulders. Acacia recognized his unscarred face.
She stepped back in dismay, realizing she was in Riva’s room. A portrait of her hung over the fireplace—a smiling woman with dark red hair and brown eyes.
A throat cleared nearby.
Juliet stood in the doorway, wearing a severe expression. “Excuse me, mademoiselle. This is one of the family rooms.”
“Of course.” Acacia approached the housekeeper, flushed with embarrassment. “I opened the wrong door by mistake. I’m so sorry.”
Juliet waited until Acacia had passed into the hall before closing the door firmly.
“I need to get my purse.” She glanced around the hall, confused. She wasn’t sure which room was hers.
Juliet slipped past her and opened a door. “Nicholas has requested that dinner be served on the terrace. I can escort you.” Her face was decidedly unfriendly.
“Of course. One moment.” Acacia entered her room and quickly switched on her cell phone before she put it in her purse.
“Thank you for waiting.” She re-entered the hallway and closed the door to her room.
“This way, please.” The housekeeper gestured to the staircase, and they began their descent.
Over the railing, Acacia saw Gretle carrying a large tray. The young woman paused before a closed door and vainly juggled the tray in an effort to reach the doorknob.
“Wait.” Nicholas’s long strides crossed the cavernous hall. He opened the door and held it as Gretle passed through.
Acacia regarded the scene with interest. As Monsieur Breckman, Nicholas had been abrupt and demanding. Now…
As if he’d heard her thoughts, his eyes strayed upward. He straightened and gave her an appreciative look.
He’d shed his tie and was clad in the purple shirt and black suit. He met her at the base of the stairs and extended his hand. “Did you rest well?”
“Yes, thank you.” Acacia allowed him
to assist her down the remaining stairs. She eyed Juliet, hoping she wouldn’t mention her mistake with the rooms.
Nicholas nodded at Juliet. “I’ll escort mademoiselle to the terrace.”
“Very good.” Juliet turned and disappeared through another door.
Acacia’s shoulders relaxed.
She turned to Nicholas and whispered conspiratorially, “Do you always wear black suits?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not always, no. But in my opinion, gray or navy suits look inferior.”
Acacia shook her head.
He gestured to the door through which Gretle had entered and held it open. Acacia accompanied him through an elaborate sitting room and dining room before they exited through a set of glass doors.
The terrace was situated under the balcony to her room. She recognized the vine-covered trellis that climbed skyward.
From the terrace they could see the great expanse of green lawn that disappeared into a copse of trees. Above the forested area, the snow-covered Alps were visible, including the awe-inspiring Mont Blanc.
What a beautiful place to grow up, Acacia thought.
A long table had been set for two. A bar was situated next to the doorway with a bottle of Pastis and a silver pitcher of water at the ready.
Nicholas pulled out her chair. “I hope you don’t mind dining outside. It’s a warm evening, and the view is incomparable.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I asked the chef to create something special—an homage to Guy Savoy, because I recalled you hadn’t had the chance to visit his restaurant. We have weighty matters to discuss, but at least we can have an enjoyable meal.” Nicholas crossed over to the bar. “Can I offer you an apéritif?”
“Please.”
He poured Pastis into a tall glass and added water before handing it to her. It was customary to enjoy the spirit mixed with cold water on a very hot day.
Gretle appeared with another tray. When she saw Nicholas at the bar, she grew flustered. “I’m sorry, monsieur.”
“I decided to serve myself, Gretle. Not to worry.” He gave the young woman a smile and filled his own glass.
When he returned to his seat, he lifted his drink. “To alliances.”
Acacia lifted her glass in return. “To safety.”
Pastis was an acquired taste, but Acacia liked it. She sipped her drink and noticed the bar was stocked with several bottles of wine.
“My parents have an enviable wine cellar.” Nicholas’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Are you sure they won’t mind?”
Nicholas was quiet while Gretle served the amuse bouche and waited until she left the terrace before he spoke. “My parents are seldom here. The staff aren’t used to the house being occupied.”
“It’s a beautiful home. Has your family lived in it long?”
“The house was built in the nineteenth century by one of my ancestors. Cassirers have lived here ever since.”
At that moment the chef appeared in his white coat and hat. He introduced himself and said a few words about the evening’s menu before wishing them bon appetit.
After his departure, Acacia turned to her host. “I’m grateful for your hospitality, but I have questions.”
“Ask.” His unruffled response surprised her.
“Cassirer is a German name.”
“Someone has been doing research.” The edge of his mouth turned up. “We’re related to the more famous branch of the family, but my ancestor quit Germany in the 1860s and settled here. My father was born in this house.”
“You don’t live here?”
“I live in Zurich.”
“Why didn’t you take me there?”
“Someone in search of both of us would scour Monaco for Pierre Breckman. If they uncovered the link between Breckman and me, they’d travel to Zurich. We’re at least two steps ahead of them by being here, and the security is better. In addition…” He paused and broke eye contact. “We’re chaperoned.”
Acacia felt the sudden urge to laugh, but caught herself.
His eyes met hers. “Perhaps I’m old-fashioned.”
“It’s very thoughtful of you,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Working nights takes its toll. I find it difficult to sleep during the day.”
“You’re a strong person, Acacia. But I’m conscious of the fact your experience at the hotel this morning was traumatic. I should have asked if you needed a doctor.”
Acacia was dumbfounded. She hadn’t expected this level of consideration.
Her thoughts strayed to Luc. She squirmed. “No, I don’t need a doctor. The man who grabbed me frightened me, but I’m not hurt.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” Nicholas’s tone was genuine. “If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to show you my family’s art collection after dinner.”
She smiled. “I’d like that, monsieur.”
“I think we’re passed the formality of titles.”
“Very well, Nicholas.”
“Rick tells me you’ve trained in martial arts.”
Acacia tasted her amuse bouche, which she found delicious. She avoided Nicholas’s eyes.
He persisted. “What forms of martial arts do you study?”
“I started in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. When I moved to France, I changed to karate.”
Nicholas hummed. “I began studying martial arts a few years ago.”
Acacia lifted her head. Her host was a man of many layers. “I want to know more about the meeting Marcel was arranging.”
Nicholas rubbed his chin. “I believe I answered this question before. Marcel set up a meeting between me and one of his contacts who was interested in selling a painting.”
“What painting?”
He finished his amuse bouche and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “The details weren’t revealed. You don’t announce that you have a stolen painting for sale; you make it known that a rare work is available and wait until you find an appropriate buyer. That’s why we use intermediaries—someone has to vouch for both parties. Names are rarely exchanged.”
“Have you discovered who attacked me at the hotel?”
“Two Bosnian men.”
Acacia nodded. The man who attacked her must have muttered in Bosnian, which was why she hadn’t understood.
“Who were they working for?”
“I’m still looking into it.” He gestured to her empty plate. “How was it?”
“It was delicious.” She sipped her apéritif as Gretle appeared and removed the used plates.
She served the appetizers and presented a bottle of sherry to Nicholas, who perused the label and nodded. She opened the bottle and poured a glass for the two guests, then placed the bottle on a nearby table.
Acacia waited until Gretle was out of earshot before she continued. “Is this sherry?”
“Yes. The chef recommended it to pair with the gazpacho.” Nicholas lifted his small glass in salute.
Acacia mirrored his actions. It was theater of the absurd to sit in such a beautiful place, drinking and eating expensive delicacies while her attackers roamed free. Or perhaps Nicholas knew more than he’d revealed.
“I have a theory about why Rick remained in Paris.”
“Oh, really?”
“When I left the hotel this morning, Rick had one of my attackers on the ground. I doubt he released him.”
“I don’t deny it.” Nicholas tucked into his gazpacho.
“Did he turn the man over to the police?”
“No.”
She rested her spoon on the edge of her bowl. “Why not?”
“Because I ordered his release.”
“Good God, why?” Acacia wrung her hands.
“So he would deliv
er a message to his superiors. The men who attacked you are one rung in a ladder. We want the message to climb higher.”
“What message is that?”
“Anyone who fucks with you, fucks with me.”
Acacia’s eyes widened. His sudden and forceful profanity surprised her.
Aside from a look he exchanged with her, Nicholas appeared unperturbed and continued to eat his soup with gusto.
She took hold of the edge of the table. “I thought you used aliases in order to avoid detection.”
“Once Rick was seen at the hotel, Monsieur Roy would have pointed the assailants in Breckman’s direction. I thought it important to send a message.”
“As soon as I return to Paris, I’ll be in danger again.”
“You don’t know anything damaging. As long as you stay away from the Victoire, I expect you’ll be forgotten.”
Acacia thought of the journal hidden under her mattress upstairs. The people who wanted it weren’t going to give up so easily. “They may have forgotten me, but they won’t forget Breckman.”
Nicholas lifted a shoulder. “If they dig any deeper, they’ll discover Breckman is an arms dealer. That should give them pause.”
Acacia went very still.
Nicholas continued eating his gazpacho, oblivious to her reaction.
“The BRB must have looked into you.” She held her voice steady.
“Did your boyfriend tell you what they found?”
Acacia opened her mouth to correct him, but thought better of it. “The agent who interviewed me seemed very thorough.”
“Yes, but evidence that Breckman is an arms dealer was planted today, after you were attacked.”
Acacia stared. “Won’t that ruin your alias?”
“Silke ruined it already by placing herself in the tabloids.” His tone was subdued.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes bored into hers. “Don’t be.”
“I saw the photographs. What she did was disgusting and cruel.”
Nicholas looked away. “We didn’t have a traditional relationship. No doubt I’d shock you if I described what we really had.”
“I don’t shock easily.”