Kissed in Paris (23 page)

“This friend of mine is taking my word for it that you are not involved with Claude’s scams. That does not mean that he can just tell the police that you are innocent. They must run a complete investigation first. Plus, he cannot tell them that he is in contact with me, tipping me off about where Claude is. He would lose his job if they knew, since I’m not supposed to be messing with Claude’s case at the moment. But, once you are back in the United States, he can help clear your name, and then only your bank at home will be handling the situation. And once your name is cleared here, your U.S. bank will have no reason to question you. You will tell them your card was stolen and they will refund you the money.”

My head resumed its spinning as I tried to make sense out of all of this madness. “You said there were two reasons I shouldn’t talk to the police. What’s the second one?”

“The first one is not enough for you to believe me?” Julien asked, a smirk spreading across his face.

“Yes, I’d say the first one is enough. But I want to know everything. I don’t want to be running around following you with no clue about what’s really going on.”

“Fine. If you talk to the police, besides making it difficult for you to get home in time, it will make it next to impossible for me to get the painting back. You will provide new evidence as to Claude’s whereabouts, and once they clear you, which like I said, will take some time, they will have enough evidence to finally convict Claude. And if they find him and take him in
before
I get to him and find the painting, my family . . . they will lose everything. But if I can find Claude first, get your passport and find out what he did with the painting, we can both get what we want. And then the police can have him.”

Julien placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Do you understand everything now? Do you believe me?”

Just as I was opening my mouth to respond, Julien grabbed my hand and started running.

“What—” I began, but as I whipped my head around, I spied the two police officers rounding the corner where we’d just been standing. They shouted something in French and took off after us.

My heart hammered in my chest as I picked up the pace, running as fast as I could alongside Julien.

We turned the corner, and without warning, Julien pulled me into a skinny alleyway. We ran single file between two tall stone buildings until Julien pulled me into a tiny, hidden alcove.

As we scrunched into the cramped space together, Julien pulled out his cell phone and tapped away on the keypad.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“I am telling Camille to come to this street to pick us up.”

I realized then that it was official.

I, Chloe Turner, the girl who’d never done anything wrong, who’d never cheated or skipped a day in school, who’d never stolen so much as a cotton swab belonging to someone else, who’d never bagged out on her responsibilities to her family, her fiancé, or her job, was a wanted suspect running from the police.

Fourteen

Five minutes of tense silence later, Julien peeked out into the alley. “Stay here,” he told me as he crept toward the street, checked both ways, then motioned for me to follow him.

When we emerged, a cherry red Smart car screeched around the corner and came to an abrupt stop in front of us.

Julien opened the door, revealing a petite girl with tanned skin and shoulder-length chestnut hair—the exact color of Julien’s—tucked behind her ears, a few light strands dangling over her high cheek bones.

“Camille,” Julien said, his tone razor sharp. “Why did you bring this car? I told you I have Chloe with me.”

Camille’s eyes danced as she shrugged back at him. “
Maman
wouldn’t let me bring her car. You know she hates driving the Smart.”

Julien peered down the road. “There is no time to argue. We must go.”

Julien climbed into the passenger’s side while I stood on the sidewalk, staring into the smallest car I’d ever seen, wondering if Julien really expected me to: a) continue to follow him after all of the crazy information he’d just revealed to me, and b) sit on his lap.

Maybe they thought I’d fit in the trunk? Did this thing even have a trunk?

Julien reached for me. “Come. I know you’re not happy, but we have no choice. You’ll have to sit on my lap.”

I glanced up at the sky, hoping for an answer, for some guidance. Should I keep following this guy? Keep running from the police? Was he finally being honest with me now? Could I really trust Julien?

I squeezed my eyes closed.

“Go.”

My eyes popped open, searching for the woman who’d just whispered
go
in my ear, for that familiar voice that sounded so much like . . . my mom.

But all I found were Julien and Camille’s intense stares shooting me down from inside the miniscule car.

Julien squeezed my hand. “Everything I just told you is true, Chloe. I promise I will help you make it home. You have my word. Now, come. Get in the car.”

Oh, God.

Camille bit her bottom lip as she watched me climb into the car, bump my head on the ceiling three different times, and finally settle onto Julien’s lap.

“Sorry,” she said to me with non-apologetic eyes. Then she turned to Julien as she started the car. “I don’t think the seat belt will stretch that far to hold you both in. You have to hold on to her, Julien. We’re going for a ride.”

Julien wrapped his arms around my waist, and as my neck curved at an unhealthy angle, I had no choice but to press my cheek into the top of his head and rest my entire body against his. And just as Camille took off down the road and ripped around a corner, I spotted the two police officers running down the street. Camille took another sharp left as Julien gripped my waist, making sure I didn’t fly into his sister.

“Do you think they saw us?” I asked as a bead of sweat slid down my forehead.

“No, they were looking the other way. As long as we get out of this city now, I think we will be safe,” Julien said.

Camille rolled down the window, letting the warm summer breeze whip through the car. She turned to Julien. “Nothing with you is ever safe.” And with that, she clamped down hard on the gas, leaving the enchanting town of Annecy in her wake.

***

As Camille ran two red lights, whizzed around four tight corners and made at least seven illegal passes all within the first fifteen minutes of our car ride, it became clear to me that erratic, dangerous driving ran in the family.

At least when I’d ridden with Julien I’d had my own seat and a seatbelt. This time I was smashed between Julien’s rock hard body and the all-too-low ceiling of a Smart car.

If Paul could see me now, he would die. He would just die.

“How long is the drive to Lyon?” I asked, praying that it was a short ride away.

“An hour and a half,” Julien answered, his grip tightening around my stomach as Camille took another sharp turn. “But with her driving, it will be less.”

I didn’t know if my neck could survive another five minutes at this angle, let alone an hour and a half.

“Can I just . . .” I began as I attempted to shift my butt off Julien’s thigh so that I could lower my head and straighten my neck out.

“Here, let me.” Julien grabbed my hips and shifted me further over onto his right thigh. “Did that help?”

“Not really. My neck is at a really bad angle.”

Julien swiveled his face toward mine, making our noses touch. “You can relax your head and let it rest on me. I don’t mind.”

My face heated up as Julien held my gaze for a second before fixing his eyes on the road.

I hesitated, not wanting to give in, but as each bump produced a neck spasm, I decided to take him up on his offer. I was already smashed up against him with his arms wrapped around my waist. And it’s not like Paul was in the car watching me. He couldn’t have fit if he tried.

With my head now resting on Julien’s shoulder, I eyed Camille. A light gray T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans covered her thin, elegant figure, and a silver cross dangled from her neck. Lengthy eyelashes framed her deep brown eyes, and a dab of lip gloss shimmered on her thin lips. She stretched her left arm out the window, clipping the wind as it flowed between her fingers.

“Do you think Claude knows we’re looking for him?” I asked.

Camille shot Julien a sideways glance.

“She knows,” Julien said.

Camille lifted a brow in Julien’s direction. “What do you mean,
she knows
?”

“I told Chloe about the painting. About everything. So you don’t have to hide anything in front of her.”

Camille whipped her head toward Julien as a shrill voice escaped from her lips.
“
Pourquoi t’as fait ça? T’es dingue? Tu ne la connais même pas!
T’es vraiment stupide, Julien.
”

All I could catch from Camille’s sudden rampage were the words for “why” and “stupid.” I really needed to buy a dictionary for moments like these, but I could guess that she was asking Julien why he’d told me and then calling him stupid for doing so. Unless she’d been calling
me
stupid, which really wouldn’t have been fair seeing as how she’d known me a whole ten minutes.

Julien’s voice boomed into my ear.
“
Ouais, je la connais. Et elle a ses propres problèmes! Elle se marie dans une semaine, donc elle a besoin de son passeport. Tu vois? Elle s’en fiche du tableau.
”

“
Alors, pourquoi tu lui as dit
?” Camille demanded.

“
Elle voulait savoir la vérité, et j’ai confiance en elle.
Donc, pourquoi pas
?”

I tried my best to piece together what they’d just said. I thought Julien had responded by saying something about how I have my own problems—like getting my passport back and getting married. Then I heard him say something about the painting. Maybe something like why would Chloe care about the painting when she had her own problems? Yes, that must’ve been it. Then Camille asked him
why
again. She was probably wondering why Julien needed to tell me about the painting if I had my own reasons for needing to find Claude. Then he’d said the word
confiance
, which, if I remembered correctly, meant “trust.” So maybe he’d said he trusted me.

Hmmm. I was remembering more French than I thought I would, which was making the car ride a lot more interesting. Of course I could’ve been completely wrong about all of it. I tuned in again to see if I could pick up anything else, but now Camille was firing so rapidly at Julien that I couldn’t decipher a single word. Julien shot in and yelled something back, and after this went on for another few minutes, a hammer pounding away at my temples, I decided I deserved to know what exactly they were discussing.

“Hey!” I yelled. They both stopped shouting and stared at me. “What the hell is going on?”

Camille’s brown eyes flashed angrily as she turned back toward the road and continued yelling at Julien.

“She is upset that I told you about the painting,” Julien said over Camille’s high-pitched voice. Then he switched into French and snapped back at Camille. I wasn’t able to pick up anything they were saying at this point. It was all going too fast.

“Speak English, Camille,” Julien demanded. “It is rude to keep screaming in French when Chloe doesn’t understand.”