The Paris Game (11 page)

“As I expected.” Marc drew out his cigarette case, tapping a cigarette against the silver lid idly before putting it to his lips. He lit it and strolled across to the rail, looking out into the club while he waited. At night, the place had a simple and almost elegant look, but under the harsh lights it was tawdry, worn and dirty, no matter how many times the floor was mopped. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he let it ring as Royale came into view, rounding the side of the bar with a lumbering slowness. Compared to the man following him, Royale was unkempt and classless in his rumpled brown suit. Marc suppressed his disgust. Showing any aberrant thoughts to Royale was dangerous. As they drew closer, he recognized the other man. Sera had singled him out as her admirer. He dressed well, in a smart grey suit and crisp shirt, and was tall, a few inches more than himself. He had no idea what Sera saw in this man, and had no desire to spend time with someone who’d been with her. The man didn’t deserve her.

“Perron, this is Jeremy Gordon.”

Marc held out a hand and he and Jeremy shook briefly. He noticed the purposeful firmness of Jeremy’s handshake and the quick once-over. So be it. This might very well turn into a pissing contest.

“He’s the artist you mentioned?” Marc asked.

The remark brought a smirking grin to Jeremy’s mouth before his expression faded back into a studied calm.

Royale grunted. “As I said. A pity those two did so poorly, Perron. Gordon should be able to assist you.” The jangling ring of his mobile phone interrupted his next words and he fumbled in his pocket, digging it out. “Oui? Merci, Françoise.” He snapped his phone shut. “You’ll have to excuse me—I have another engagement. Gordon, I’ll speak to you later.” He turned to Marc. “And if you can work something out for the wife...”

“Of course,” Marc agreed.

“Good.” Royale returned to his office. Jean followed, and Marc and Jeremy were left alone.

After a short silence, Jeremy remarked, “What are you needing done?”

“Royale didn’t tell you?”

“No.” Jeremy leaned against the rail, his fingers tapping the wood.

“I need you to find someone for me. Two someones.” Marc pulled a folded sheet of A4 from the inner pocket of his jacket and passed it to Jeremy.

Jeremy scanned the sheet. “And then?”

The last time he’d dealt with incompetence on this scale, Marc had the thief run out of Paris. It worked, but not for long. The man had ended up dead in one of the seedier parts of the city after a fight gone wrong. Or so the police had thought.

“If they leave Paris, that would be enough.”

“Really?” Jeremy laughed. “That’s a waste of my abilities. I shouldn’t even bother.”

“If they won’t go, then by all means, use other methods,” Marc continued. Murder would never be his first choice, no matter Jeremy’s opinion. He wouldn’t stoop to that level; his hands were dirty enough.

“That’s more like it.” Jeremy folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll take €2000 up front and another €2000
if I have to kill them.”

Marc’s profit on the sketches shrank with every misstep the Girards had made. He knew he’d be lucky to break even. “Fine.”

“You can send the money to my hotel if you don’t have it on you.” Jeremy’s smirk returned. He stood casually, but he took Marc’s measure.

“Why not here?”

“I don’t need Royale trying to take a cut. He already thinks everything belongs to him.” Jeremy’s expression changed, becoming more of a grimace. Marc watched with a newfound wariness. Jeremy was starting to embody the temperament of an artist. And what Marc didn’t need was a hit-man with the emotional instability of Toulouse-Lautrec.

“How do you know Royale?” Marc knew he should have asked Royale the same question about Jeremy before the meeting.

“Mutual friends,” Jeremy said vaguely. “I don’t need to ask the same of you—Royale’s already been singing your praises. You’re his favourite dealer.”

“How flattering.” He didn’t think of Royale in such terms. Rather, the man was an unfortunate side effect of his uncle’s legacy.

Jeremy looked as if he would say something more, but thought better of it. “I’ll be in touch,” he said instead.

“How long will it take you?”

“That depends on the targets. They won’t get a chance to rat you out, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know, given how protective you French are of your art, I’m surprised you do what you do.”

Marc didn’t bother answering the patronizing remark, though he would have liked to reply with a fist. A man like Jeremy Gordon wouldn’t understand family loyalty. He lit another cigarette.

“A bit glamorous though, isn’t it?” Jeremy continued, as if he hadn’t noticed Marc’s reticence. “Probably attracts the ladies—the big, bad art dealer.”

Marc shrugged. “If you say so.” He moved towards the door, pushing it open. “Let me know when it’s done.” He stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He drew it out and listened to his voicemail. It was Sera. His heart stopped. He didn’t even bother to listen to the rest of the message, he rang her straight back.

“Marc—I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. So will you come?”

“Where?”

He heard her laugh.

“To dinner, of course. Didn’t you get my message?”

“I didn’t listen to it, I just noticed you had called.” He turned off the boulevard St. Germain and onto a quieter side street.

“Dinner at my place tomorrow. Since I have the evening off, I wanted to invite a few people.”

“Who else?” He hoped it would have been an intimate dinner.

“The usual crowd.”

“Only them?” He wondered if she’d invite her new flirtation. Did she have any idea about him? “If Colette is going to be there, I won’t be,” Marc told her. “That woman never ceases to be irritating.” Sera’s best friend had judged him lacking, and she never let him forget it.

“Jerome, Anna, Edouard, and Colette. But that’s too bad then. You’ll miss Sophie.”

“I will?” The likelihood of getting Sophie alone in such a gathering would be almost impossible, but he ought to be there. “I suppose I could tolerate Colette for the length of a meal.”

“Don’t get your hopes up about Sophie. I still don’t think you’ll manage.”

“You never know.”

“D’accord. Can you bring wine? If you can be there around seven, that will be perfect,” Sera said.

“Bien sûr, ma chère. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Chapter 7

At six-thirty sharp, Colette bustled in, all perfume and scarves, her gold bracelets tinkling. She embraced Sera heartily, her curly red hair brushing Sera’s cheek.

“Something in your bag is pricking me,” Sera said, moving away. Colette laughed.

“It’s the artichokes,” she replied, opening the tie to show Sera eight of the dark green vegetables. “They were on special at the market today and I couldn’t resist.”

“They’ll be a perfect appetizer.” Sera took the bag from Colette and went into her small kitchen. She upended the bag onto the counter. “I hope I have a pot big enough.” Already a large pot of savory stew sat simmering on the tiny stove.

Colette leaned on the door frame and took a deep breath. “It smells wonderful,” she said as Sera prepped the artichokes for the pot, cutting off stems and clipping the spiky tops from the leaves. “Is there wine?”

“On the table,” Sera replied. “And pour me one as well, s’il vous plaît.”

Colette returned with two tumblers of wine. “That bottle won’t last long.”

“Marc’s bringing more, don’t worry.” Sera didn’t need to look up to know that Colette wore a moue of distaste.

“For someone you broke up with years ago, he’s still around an awful lot.”

“We’re friends,” Sera said. More than friends, she amended silently, though she didn’t know how she would define their relationship.

“I can’t imagine being friends with my exes,” Colette replied.

“I can’t imagine it of you either. Once the thrill is gone…”

“I can’t stand a bore. But enough about me. You’re looking well,” Colette remarked. “So obviously he hasn’t been bothering you too much. When I saw you last, you looked exhausted.”

“I’ve been feeling better.” She didn’t have to worry about Royale’s demands for several weeks—that alone was enough to let her relax.

“Any particular reason?”

“I did meet someone,” Sera replied. Colette cackled.

“You’re so coy. Details, details.”

She couldn’t tell Colette everything. The less she knew, the better. They were friends, but this was different. Colette would be furious that she hadn’t come to her for help. “I met him at the club; he’s tall, rather handsome, well-dressed...”

“Sounds promising. Is he coming tonight?”

“I only just met him—it’s a little soon, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. I wanted to see Marc’s face when you were all lovey with a man that wasn’t him.” Colette’s amusement had no bounds.

“Maybe next time.” Sera pulled a large pot from the lower cupboard and set it in the sink, turning on the tap. What would Jeremy have done if she’d invited him? It would have been awkward at the very least. But she’d see him tomorrow after work, as he’d promised, and he’d give her the first payment. She set the pot of water on the stove to boil.

“Does Marc know?” Colette looked smug. “I’d love to be the one to tell him.”

“No, and you won’t mention it,” Sera said. She took her tumbler and they went into the other room. She’d readied her old Formica table for dinner, but couldn’t help adjusting the dishes again, just so.

“Well, I’m glad for you,” Colette said, ensconcing herself on the divan. “Now if only Lise were in town. Did you invite anyone new tonight, someone I can flirt with while I miss my lovely Lise?”

Sera settled on the divan across from Colette. “Edouard is coming with a new girl I introduced him to.” She related her first meeting with Sophie and Sophie’s reaction to Edouard, but she didn’t say a word about her wager with Marc. Colette wouldn’t approve. Not of Marc, not of the wager, and certainly not of playing with someone’s emotions.

“She sounds lovely. And he’d do well to be with someone as little like Paula as possible.”

“Unfortunately Marc’s taken a bit of a liking to her as well,” Sera replied, her tone low, as if she were telling Colette a secret. She might not tell Colette everything, but Colette’s enmity of Marc would come in handy. “We’ll need to keep some space between them so Edouard isn’t upstaged.”

“You’re not sitting me next to Marc, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Colette said immediately.

“I can’t put him between Anna and Jerome. You know how Anna hates to be separated from her husband.”

“Yes, it’s very sweet.” Colette sighed, sounding put upon. “All right, if I must.”

“Thank you.”

The door buzzed and Sera rose to answer. Anna and Jerome came up the stairs, followed closely by Edouard and Sophie. Anna went straight into the kitchen with her salad and Jerome gave Sera a kiss on the cheek before moving to the table to pour himself a glass of wine.

Sophie staggered up to the top step, breathing hard. Edouard was just behind her, a long baguette in each hand.

“You didn’t tell me Sera lived on the top floor,” Sophie accused Edouard between breaths. Her smile belied her stern tone.

“I must have forgotten to mention it when I challenged you to race,” Edouard replied, keeping a straight face.

“In with you.” Sera nudged Edouard into the apartment. “Are you all right, Sophie?”

“I will be.” She followed Edouard into the apartment.

“Did you enjoy your afternoon?” Sera asked.

“It was lovely. We went to d’Orsay, and then the Rodin museum.”

“There’s extra security at d’Orsay though,” Edouard said.

“As if the thieves would go back in,” Colette scoffed. “Edouard, come introduce me to your friend.” Sera gave her head a small shake and Colette rolled her eyes.

“Not my type,” Colette mouthed.

Sera poked her head into the kitchen. Anna was shifting items in the fridge to make room for her salad.

“Will it fit?”

“It should,” Anna replied. “I ought to have brought wine for Jerome—he’ll drink your stash dry.”

“Marc’s bringing more, so it doesn’t matter,” Sera said. Anna looked at her watch.

“He’s late.” She closed the fridge door. The water on the stove behind her steamed.

“Time for the artichokes.” Sera moved to the counter. If she kept busy, she wouldn’t have to think of him. The door buzzer went again.

“I’ll put them in,” Anna told her. “You go answer that.”

“Merci, Anna.” She stepped out the door and leaned over the railing. Her hands tightened on the banister at the sight of the top of Marc’s dark head. He was here. “You’re late,” she called down to him. He laughed. She watched him wind his way up the staircase, taking his time. The moment stretched and she shifted her feet.

“Jerome’s drunk all the wine already, has he?”

“He had the last of it.”