Kissed in Paris (29 page)

It was Officer Laroche, the tall, lanky, black-haired police officer who’d been chasing me around the country. I’d been sitting alone in a dull white room in a police station in Lyon for the past hour until he came in and seated himself across from me, his expression stern and unmoving.

“Like I told you, I met him on Saturday night at the Plaza Athénée Hotel in Paris,” I responded, trying not to fidget.

“You are saying that you had never seen or spoken with him before that night?” he asked in his strong French accent, his beady black eyes boring into mine.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“As we discussed a couple of days ago, I understand your wedding is coming up this weekend. Lying about the circumstances under which you met Monsieur Dubois will not help you make it home in time.”

I gripped my knees with shaky palms underneath the table. I couldn’t let him see how nervous I was. Otherwise he really wouldn’t believe me.

“I met Claude on Saturday night. I’ve never even been to France before this trip.”

“And what was the nature of your trip to France, exactly?”

“I was here on business. I’m an event planner, and my firm was running a language teacher’s conference in Paris last weekend.”

“I see.” He jotted a few notes onto his pad before lifting his severe eyes back up to mine.

Each time he looked at me I wanted to shrivel up under the table and hide forever. This was terrifying. But I had to look him in the eye and keep my cool. After all, I
wasn’t
lying, so I had nothing to be worried about.

“And why did your boss send
you
at the last minute?”

How did he know that? Had they talked to Angela? Or, even worse, to
Paul
?

“She got really ill and couldn’t make the trip. I’ve been handling most of the details for this conference anyway, so I didn’t have a choice.”

“Even with your wedding coming up this weekend? Surely your boss would understand that you need to be home, preparing for your wedding day?”

Now he was starting to sound like Paul.

“Yes, but it was only supposed to be for the weekend. I was supposed to fly back to DC on Sunday, leaving me plenty of time to finalize the wedding details. Like I told you, Claude stole my passport, my wallet, my suitcase, everything. My boss obviously didn’t know that something like this would happen to me the week before my wedding.”

Officer Laroche lifted his bushy black eyebrows, his expression still cold, then scratched something down on his notepad.

“Tell me, Mademoiselle Turner, if you did not know Claude before your business trip, why is it that you are staying at his family’s vineyard with his brother, Julien, and running from the police in the process?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead my pulse sped up and heat blazed across my cheeks.

But as a look of satisfaction spread across his already smug face, I sat straight up in my chair and decided I wouldn’t let him talk me into a corner. I would explain everything, starting with the moment Claude slipped a drug into my wine.

***

Two hours later, after I’d told the entire story from beginning to end to both officers, I sat alone in the grim room, the uncomfortable chair digging into my back, hoping and praying that they would come in and tell me I could leave. That they believed me and that I hadn’t done anything wrong, and that they were sorry I’d gotten wrapped up in this mess in their country.
And
that they would give me a new passport and pay for my plane ticket home.

Okay, maybe that last bit was taking it too far. But I really wanted to get the hell out of there. I mean, I was in a police station in Lyon. A
police station
. And they were questioning me. Me! I wanted to yell at them and tell them that I was valedictorian of my high school class, that I’d graduated Summa Cum Laude from Princeton, that I was a smart, hard-working goody too-shoes from DC who would never,
never
dream of stealing anything from anyone, let alone get wrapped up in a mess with someone like Claude Dubois.

The reason none of that mattered though was because I
was
wrapped up in a mess with someone
like
Claude—his brother, Julien. The police knew about the stolen lingerie in Annecy, and from the looks on their faces whenever Julien’s name was mentioned, they knew
all
about his past.

But what could I do about any of that now? I told them everything I knew, and I was probably stupid to do any of this without a lawyer by my side, but what other choice did I have? I had to at least try to clear my name in the hope that I could get a flight out of France and make it home by Saturday.

I tapped my fingers on the metal table, suddenly envisioning myself locked up in some scary French jail, with no phone calls to make, no one at home knowing where I’d disappeared to, freaky cell mates trying to talk to me.

I shuddered and squeezed my eyes closed.
No
. I had to think positive. This would all work out. I shouldn’t have run from the police, I shouldn’t have stolen the lingerie, I shouldn’t have done anything I’d done over the past three days, but I hoped I’d explained the whole story well enough to the police for them to believe my reasons for following Julien and to let me go home.

But no matter how hard I tried to envision those two officers walking back into the room, smiles on their faces, telling me it was all just a big misunderstanding and that I could go now, the image just wouldn’t come. Who was I kidding? They weren’t going to do that. I’d found myself knee deep in a family of con-artists who the police were just itching to convict. What reason would they have to not throw me into the mix when it clearly looked like I was in on it too?

As I sank further into my negativity, my stomach turning sour and sweat rolling down my neck, the door swung open.

I expected Officer Laroche and Officer Fournier to be standing there with handcuffs, ordering me into a dark, damp jail cell.  

But instead, it was a younger man dressed in a black suit and a dark red tie, his light brown hair, hazel eyes and chiseled cheekbones taking a striking resemblance to another man I’d been spending a lot of time with recently. . . no, that was ridiculous.

Oh God. It was probably the French version of the FBI, coming to question me more. Or take me to federal prison. Or—

“Miss Turner,” he said as he approached the table.

“Yes?”

 He pulled a badge out of his coat pocket—a badge that looked all too similar to the fake one Julien had shown me in the hotel lobby the day before—and as he flashed it at me, my heart plummeted through my chest. This was it. I was officially done for.

“I am a special agent with the French government. I have reviewed the charges and—”

Oh God. No. “Please, you have to listen to me. I haven’t done anything wrong. I mean, yes, I ran from the police when I should’ve just talked to them. But I have nothing to do with Claude Dubois. I wouldn’t even know how to shoplift a pack of gum let alone pull the kind of fraud Claude has pulled on me. Please don’t take me to jail. I’m getting married Saturday! You have to believe—”

“Mademoiselle Turner,” the agent interrupted. “Please, calm yourself. I am not here to arrest you, or to question you further.”

I lifted my eyes to meet his, and it was then that I noticed the warm look on his face . . . and again, I couldn’t help but think that he looked
familiar
. “You’re not?”

He smiled. “No, I’m not. I’m here to tell you that you can go now. The investigation on you has been dropped.”

I stared at him incredulously. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

I stood from the table, not sure what to do or think. I did know one thing for sure—I wanted to fling my arms around this guy’s neck and plant a big fat kiss on his cheek.

I restrained myself though. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

My American politeness must’ve been a bit too much for him because he shifted uncomfortably and glanced toward the door.

“So I can leave now?”

“Yes, there will be no further questioning. Your bank at home will refund the money that is yours, and you are cleared to leave the country.”

I stopped before opening the door. “Agent, you never told me your name.”

He raised a brow at me. “I was wondering if you would notice. My name is Guillaume Dubois. I understand you have met
both
of my older brothers this week,
n’est-ce pas
?”

I nodded, unable to believe that my hunch had been correct. “So you’re the so-called
friend
Julien told me about, the one who cut him a deal to keep him out of prison? You’re the person he’s been in touch with this whole time? It was you who sent him the text message with my photo and told him to stop me from going to the police. You’ve been tipping him off about where Claude is running to next, and you’ve kept him safe because you needed him to find the painting too . . . for your family.”

Guillaume nodded. “Yes, that is all true. I am sorry you were brought into this mess, Miss Turner. It is the last thing Julien or I ever wanted.”

I couldn’t help but let out a snort. “Maybe that’s true for you, but I have a hard time believing that Julien gives a damn about what happens to me or any other woman for that matter.”

Guillaume took a step forward, his resemblance to Julien so strong, it took my breath away. “That is where you are wrong, Miss Turner. Did Julien ever tell you why he began running cons in the first place?”

“Does it even matter? What matters is that he stole from innocent women, ruined their lives, and taught Claude to do the same. I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him.”

“This much is true, yes. Unfortunately, Claude is much worse, and unlike Julien,
he
will never change. As for Julien though, he began running cons as a teenager, to make up for my gambler of a father. He gave the money to our mother to help sustain the land and the vineyard, to help her keep her home, and to help support me, my brother and my sister when we were very young.”

“Did she know how Julien was earning this money?”

“Not until two years ago when he was caught, no.”

“So coming from this family of gamblers and conmen, you logically became a government agent?”

Guillaume shrugged. “I found my own ways to cope with my father’s shortcomings. And I also believed, mistakenly, that I could watch out for my brothers in this way. Help them from the inside, and make sure they never got in too much trouble. But, as you can see, my plan did not work so well . . . otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. And after this point, as much as I care for my family, I am finished with all of it. I must take care of my own family, you see.”

Guillaume took another step toward me, laying his hand on my arm. It was then that I noticed a silver wedding band on his left ring finger. “I am sorry for all of the harm my family has caused you, Chloe. And I know you don’t want to believe me about Julien, but he is truly a different man now.”

“It doesn’t matter what kind of man he is, because I’m going home to my fiancé,” I said coldly. “Thank you for your help, Guillaume. Clearly the Dubois family did at least one thing right in you.”

I walked out of the stuffy little room and through the bustling police station, not even stopping to check if my two favorite officers were around. I didn’t want to give them a chance to change their minds.

As I pushed through the double doors of the station, I knew I should’ve felt as if a weight the size of China had been lifted from my shoulders. I was cleared to leave the country. I was going to get my money back. No more running from the police. No more lying. No more hiding. I was done. I could leave.