The Paris Game (10 page)

“No.” She moved from his embrace.

He dropped his arms and stepped away. “That’s it?”

She swallowed, watching as he crossed his arms over his chest. She softened her tone. “I’ll manage.” She found her shoes and slipped them on, pushing her bare feet into the cool patent leather pumps. He grasped her hand, tugging her towards him again.

“I don’t mean forever.” At her raised brows, he chuckled. “I’m only in Paris for a few weeks.”

“Then what?”

“You need money, I want a companion while I’m here. We both win.”

“How often would I see you?” She let him embrace her again. His lips brushed hers and she returned his kiss.

“As often as you’d like, but a few times each week. After your work, if you’d prefer.”

“How much is it worth?” She needed to know. She couldn’t agree if it meant being at his beck and call.

“How much do you need?” He shrugged. “Whatever we can decide on, within reason, of course.”

“€600 a week?” she estimated.

“And you promise three nights for me? Or more?”

“I will. Three nights.”

“Then we’re agreed.” He began to undo her buttons. “Stay.”

Chapter 6

The burnished nameplate of
Perron et fils
glinted as Marc pushed open the heavy outer door. Once a dark warren of small rooms, he’d made the executive decision for an overhaul. His uncle had passed—and good riddance—and the firm was his to do with as he pleased. He walked into a bright and modern reception with sleek mid-century modern chairs that sat gracefully on the pale floors; floors that didn’t creak under his feet as they used to do.

The receptionist, Aurore, a pleasing young woman who took calls, managed appointments and greeted clients, gave him a smile as he walked in. She stood behind a desk made of steel and glass. The firm might deal in antiques, but there was no need for the office to showcase the castaways of poor auction purchases. Aurore leaned on the counter to talk to Guillaume Fournier, the man who hoped that one day the firm might be his to run. Unlike his father and uncle, Marc had no illusions about legacy-building. He had no family to bequeath the firm to, and as much as he enjoyed his work, he wasn’t as sentimental about it as he had once been. He had told himself once that it was noble to give up the Sorbonne for the good of the family business, but the allure of the auction world had faded and he’d stopped believing in that empty platitude.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Perron.” Aurore greeted him cheerfully as he came to the desk. Fournier turned, giving him a welcome nod. Marc’s gaze flicked over Fournier’s latest ensemble: a pale lavender shirt under a striped waistcoat, paired with a dark violet blazer. The man never ceased to amaze him, but for whatever reason, none of the clients ever seemed bothered about his gaudy style.

“Any calls?” Marc rested an elbow on the counter, enjoying his view of Aurore’s cleavage as she bent to gather several slips from her desk along with a small stack of mail. He had hired her partly for her looks, as he’d found her pale hair and green eyes striking. She wore delicately colored dresses that made her appear ethereal, and Marc rather liked the idea of clients wondering if she were a fairy illusion behind all that steel and glass.

“Only a few this morning. Monsieur Richard called again about your finds in Amsterdam. I think he’s hoping that you’ll discover an obscure work that turns out to be an unknown Vermeer. He’s been quite persistent.”

Marc took the mail and call slips from her, idly flipping through the envelopes.

“Anything else?”

“We were just talking of the theft at d’Orsay,” Fournier said and glanced at Aurore. “I’m assuming you heard?”

“I saw the note in the paper,” Marc replied. “What of it?”

“My cousin Jacques got a job as a security guard at d’Orsay,” Aurore explained. “He was training when the art was stolen. He had to stay in the museum for hours while the police asked questions.”

Marc paused and glanced up from the mail. How much did the police know?

“Really? What bad luck on his part. Did he tell you what the thieves took?”

“It didn’t sound like much,” Fournier remarked.

“Only two sketches,” Aurore said. “Jacques said they were in one of the smaller rooms that doesn’t have much traffic.”

“And they got away!” Fournier sounded as if he could hardly believe it. “What’s the point of security systems and staff if things still get stolen so easily?”

“It’s not the first theft from d’Orsay. All museums have had something stolen,” Marc said. He looked at Aurore. “Have they posted a reward for any information? I’ve always thought that a bit more of a bribe would help get things moving.”

Aurore shrugged. “Jacques didn’t say. But the police recovered one of the works. He said the thief dropped it trying to get away, but the head of restoration nearly had a fit when he saw how crumpled it was.”

“What a waste.” Marc shook his head. Claude and Michel would pay for that loss.

“I hope they find those bastards,” Fournier said. “Doing that to a Degas—even a sketch—is disgraceful.”

Marc leaned over the counter and pulled a slim silver letter opener from a container of office supplies on Aurore’s desk. He set the stack of mail down on the counter and began opening the envelopes as he continued to listen to Aurore and Fournier.

“So does the museum have footage of the thieves?” Fournier asked Aurore.

“Of course. But lots of men wear hoodies and jeans. Jacques said that they were having trouble even tracking them through the museum because of it.” She paused and leaned in. Marc stilled his work. “Jacques said that at least one third of the cameras weren’t working at the time of the theft.”

“The minister for culture is going to have a fit when he hears that.” Marc sliced open another envelope, unable to help a small flourish. The cameras were a stroke of luck. He drew out a letter of request from an old friend of his father’s and set it aside.

“Of course he will,” Fournier said, “but what will it do? The museum will just make their usual excuses. Not enough money, no one to fix the cameras, blah blah blah.” He waved his hand.

“The police think it might be an inside job. Jacques told me,” Aurore said in a hushed tone. “That’s why they kept everyone for questioning so long.”

“Did they find out anything?” Marc asked.

“Nothing yet.”

Marc gathered up the mail and held out the letter opener for Aurore.

“I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”

“Oui, monsieur. Would you like an espresso?” Aurore inquired.

“Merci, Aurore, I would.” Marc glanced at Fournier. “What is your schedule for today, Guillaume?”

Fournier took an exaggerated look at his watch. Marc had ceased to care that Fournier liked to flash his expensive new toy—the watch was garishly gilded with gems; small diamonds around the face, and a different colored stone for each of the cardinal points—but it did suit him, especially with today’s striped waistcoat.

“I have an appointment with Rousseau the bookseller in half an hour at his shop on the rue de Tournon. He said he’s met an old widower who wants to sell some of his library for a bit of extra cash.”

“I’m sure Monsieur Rousseau will be looking to expand his own collection as well,” Marc replied. “Just don’t pay too much, Fournier.”

Fournier laughed. “Of course not, Monsieur Perron.” He gave them a jaunty wave. “À bientôt!”

Marc and Aurore watched him go.

“Do you think he gets dressed in the dark?” Aurore asked, trying to stifle her laughter.

Marc chuckled. “Sometimes I think he must be colour-blind, except that he has an eye for decorating, so he can’t be. As long as he brings in the clients, I can overlook that striped waistcoat.” He turned to head to his office. “I’ll be catching up on paperwork, Aurore, so no calls for the next while, s’il vous plaît.”

Marc’s office was tucked into the far corner of the firm, as far from the reception as possible. He preferred to work without interruption and Aurore respected his wishes, running interference for him with clients and Fournier, who tended to let his gregarious personality flood the office.

He opened the door. Unlike the rest of the firm’s offices, his was done in a more dramatic style, with dark floors and stark walls. Behind his desk, which had been his uncle’s, and before that, his grandfather’s, and so on back to the beginning of Perron et fils, hung a large tapestry. It had been one of his uncle’s favourites and its age and quality always impressed clients sitting across from him. The far wall was covered with glass-fronted shelves. Most held books on art, architecture, design, and history related to the business, but two recesses held some of his most recent finds—an Edvard Munch lithograph and an impressive copy of Degas’s work ‘L’Absinthe’, a painting he’d always admired for its composition of café tables creating a dynamic diagonal movement.

Though the office was done up to his personal taste, Marc didn’t spend much time here. He far preferred to be off traveling and attending auctions, searching out that one item a client would pay thousands for. Little held him here in Paris; he had no family left, and few close friends. Only work. This would be the last time he’d fall in with Royale’s company, he thought, before shaking his head. No, it wouldn’t be. Once in, he would never be out.

Marc sat in his chair and tossed the stack of mail down next to a pile of invoices waiting for his approval.

His uncle had shown him, his nephew and heir, how to do it—how to get the contacts, to arrange the theft, to sell on the goods. The old reprobate had considered it a side benefit to the legitimate business, a way for him to afford to indulge in his other vices. It wasn’t cheap to keep a string of mistresses happy. Eventually one of them had been the death of him; his uncle had a heart attack while in bed with Blanche, a lithe girl almost forty years his junior.

If Marc’s parents had been alive, they would have been horrified at the possible scandal, though his mother might have laughed. In private, for she never would have let on to her husband that she was more amused than furious. For Marc, it meant the firm was his alone, a consolation prize since the Sorbonne and a musician’s career were out of his reach. Hardly worth it.

He gritted his teeth and stared at the tapestry. He was too old to go back, to make it his life’s work. His uncle’s contacts were now his, and they demanded their due. Leaving the firm to Fournier might be the best thing he could do, but not just yet. He would see this through and then decide. He could travel the world, live out of a suitcase. Or he could search out a school that didn’t mind his age, perhaps attain the degree, even if he couldn’t go further. But why bother if he couldn’t follow that dream to its conclusion? He sighed and pulled the stack of invoices to the centre of the desk, where the blotter hid the worn varnish. He had work to do.

Marc’s mobile phone buzzed against the desk, interrupting his perusal of the final invoice to be sent out. He placed it on the pile and picked up the phone.

“Monsieur Perron?” It was Royale’s secretary.

“Oui.”

“Monsieur Royale will see you in one hour at Le Chat Rouge.”

“I’ll be there. Merci.” Marc hung up and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. He stopped at Aurore’s desk on the way out.

“I have a meeting.” He checked his watch. “I doubt I’ll be back this afternoon, but the invoices are on my desk.”

“I’ll send them out today.” Aurore smiled. “Have a good afternoon, Monsieur Perron.”

“À bientôt, Aurore.” He gave her a wink and she blushed. Sometimes he considered breaking his rule of no personal relationships at the office, but he knew he’d tire of Aurore as he had tired of all the others. Still, it was too easy to picture Aurore bent over her desk with her skirt piled around her waist, her blonde hair strewn across her papers, watching him as he took her from behind.

He took a quick turn to the left before he exited the office, walking down the hallway to the door at the end. He let himself in to the bathroom facilities, locking the door securely behind him. At this moment he was glad he had insisted on a full renovation; the new powder room, as Aurore called it, had a comfortable yet sleek leather chair in one corner, a smaller version of the ones in the reception area.

He sank into the chair and opened his pants, imagining Aurore cheerfully bending over her desk and spreading her legs. His breath hitched and he closed his eyes. Aurore looked back at him from her exposed position, but her hair wasn’t blonde anymore, and her smile had become the look of anticipation that Sera always wore when he was about to enter her. In his vision, he thrust into her and she gave that gasp of pleasure. He closed his eyes more tightly, but Aurore had been replaced by Sera, crying out his name as he came inside her.

Marc spilled over his hand and onto the leather chair. Even when she wasn’t there, Sera wasn’t far away.

Jean stood on the step at Le Chat Rouge, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his tie draped around his neck.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” He held the door open for Marc and followed him into the club. The lights were on and an older woman with a dented metal bucket and a mop slowly washed the floor. Except for a small patch, the floor gleamed. Marc heard a muffled coughing. “Royale has company.”