Walking The Edge: A Romantic Suspense/Espionage Thriller (Corpus Brides Trilogy Book 1) (10 page)

He nodded. Some things had started becoming clearer. “They hadn’t banked on their man, Baroš, being identified or even killed, my murder supposed to be a hit-and-disappear thing, made to look like a random street fight gone wrong.”

“So now we link Stepanovic with this case.” Rashid paused. “It makes sense, you know. Seven months ago, the guy just ups and leaves, and then the robberies begin a few months later. Could’ve given him time to prepare the whole operation.”

Gerard acquiesced. “We have to look into it. Cannot afford to let any trail go cold or be discarded.”

“Right. I’ll have the file on your desk ASAP,” Rashid said, turning to leave.

“Wait.” He stared at his friend for a long moment, debating whether to trust him with the other matter occupying his thoughts. He reached into his pocket, where he fingered the business card he’d taken from Amelia’s purse.

Pulling the small stiff rectangle out, he threw it another look, then held it out to Rashid. “Off the record. Find out what you can about this guy, and the company.”

Rashid took the card and stared at it, before he lifted his dark head. “Personal?”

“Yes.” He didn’t want to divulge his game yet, not even to his right-hand man.

The other officer nodded. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

He left the office, closing the door behind him. Gerard heaved a sigh. Rashid was the best snoop he knew—he’d find anything to be found on that man.

Left alone in the big room, he stood and walked to the window.

So it hadn’t simply been a gut feeling—Stepanovic could indeed be connected to the casino robbers’ gang. Why would an arms dealer lower himself to mastermind petty thievery, when he had bigger fish to catch?

Something didn’t click here. He rubbed his hand over his face, suddenly wary. Nothing made sense. First meeting Amelia, if that was even her name, then the would-be killer, and finally...Mirka.

As his gaze lost itself in the view of the
Vieux Port
, he allowed his mind to travel to that fateful day so many months ago.

He had gone to their usual meeting place, a dilapidated apartment in a run-down building in the working class area of
La Castellane
. He’d grown up there, and he knew every nook and corner of the
cité
like the inside of his pocket. It represented his territory, one where nothing untoward would really happen to him, or to those whom he’d come to care about.

She’d been sitting on the rickety bed, the curtains drawn. This single fact alerted him that something wasn’t right. She usually loved light to bathe every corner. Her choosing to remain in the semi-darkness proved so uncharacteristic, it sent warning bells ringing in his mind.

“What?” he’d asked as soon as he crossed the threshold and found her there, dressed in torn jeans and a pale T-shirt too big for her. Mirka always appeared perfectly groomed, the image of the affluent girlfriend who lived off her hefty cash supplies. These clothes screamed something must be off.

“I’m leaving,” she’d answered, knocking the breath out of him.

“Stepanovic?”

She’d nodded. “And everything else.”

He’d gone to her side, for the first time hesitant and afraid to touch her. Usually, he had no qualms about holding her and making her succumb to passion, but that day, he couldn’t; a line had been crossed, the consequence irreversible.

He’d done, and said, something he hadn’t thought he’d ever do. “Come with me.”

She’d brought her hand up and touched his cheek so softly it had hurt.

“I can’t. You don’t understand,” she’d whispered.

“I can protect you.”

A sad smile had graced her lips. “No. You can’t.”

“I’m with the police.”

“I know.”

With these two words, she’d sent his world reeling, but he didn’t know she had something more devastating in store for him.

“Stay,” he’d asked softly.

“I’ve had enough of living like this. You won’t get it, so let it be.”

“Why not? Tell me why you’re doing this. It’s good you’re leaving that bastard, but everything else?”

She’d stood, taking a few steps away. “You don’t
understand
. There’s,” she’d paused, “someone else.”

His world had shattered upon her confession, and he’d stepped back and let her leave.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said when she stopped beside him, but she didn’t wait for his reply, nor did he give her one.

He’d come back to the
commissariat
, and in his then-position of
commandant
, the one who directed the field operations, had thrown all he had into preparing the raid scheduled on Stepanovic’s biggest warehouse the following day.

He’d received a message the morning of the raid.
Don’t come. He knows
, the unidentified female caller had asked the operator to tell him. He’d been certain it must be Mirka, and despite his first urge to brush her words away, he’d paid her heed and gotten his
commissaire
to remove their men from the operation.

He’d been right to listen to her, for the warehouse had blown up minutes after the other teams’ officers had gone in. The raid had been a planned operation involving several
commissariats
, not just his. They’d walked into an ambush, and the result had been five men dead and a dozen others seriously injured.

He would’ve been one of those if it hadn’t been for Mirka. She’d saved his life.

Like Amelia had saved him the previous night.

Gerard’s eyes flew open when he thought of her. What did he make of her? Still more grey areas than anything else surrounding her, and the sooner he could shed some light on them, the better.

An officer bringing in the Stepanovic file interrupted him, and the next hours passed in a blur of telephone calls. His superiors had heard about the attempt on his life, and they all wanted progress reports on the matter. They asked if he had any leads as to what that act could be connected to, but he kept mum on the direction his investigation was taking. He needed more information, and he didn’t want to tell anyone about the strange coincidence of Amelia making him think of Mirka, a woman they didn’t even know had existed.

Thinking of Amelia again made him itch to be out of the office with its numbing phone calls. He threw a glance at his watch—close to noon. Marcel could have already dropped the room key off with Sami at the bistro.

He also needed to go talk to her, whoever she really was. He wouldn’t achieve more within these four walls. With his team currently working on the case, he might as well make better use of the time ahead of him.

A turn by the bistro found him pocketing the envelope containing the key, and shortly after, he stood on the threshold of her room. Silence came from the other side of the door, and he knocked. Getting no response, he used the card and let himself in.

The interior still lay cloaked in relative darkness, the midday sun blocked by the half-drawn drapes at the terrace door. He glanced at the bed, where he encountered her sleeping form.

She’s still asleep?

Going to the windowed wall, he pulled the curtains open. Light bathed the room, falling like a golden glow on the pale sheets and highlighting her delicate, ethereal-looking skin.

Back by her side, he sat down on the edge of the mattress. She stirred, and her blue eyes flew open, the sultry gaze landing on him.

“Hey,” she drawled, and smiled.

The first time he’d really seen her smile, and
merde
if the sight didn’t tear at his gut. How could she affect him so much when he didn’t know the first thing about her?

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Half past noon.”

She didn’t as much as blink.

“You enjoy sleeping in?” he asked, more to get a reaction than because he wanted to know.

*

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and not from the glare of light in the room. He wasn’t teasing her—she could hear the seriousness in his voice. Some of the joy inside her died, crashing her spirits after the elation of waking up and seeing him by her side.

He hadn’t remained there watching her for the whole morning surely, had he? “How did you get in?”

His forehead creased in a light frown. “What makes you think I went out?”

He still wore the same clothes, so how did she know he’d only come back now? “Call it feminine intuition.”

He chuckled. “I saw the cleaning lady in the hallway, asked her to open the door for me.”

Her turn to frown. “How? By telling her the woman in the room shut her lover out, or by showing her your badge?”

“Something like that,” he said evasively. “You always wake up so perky?”

“I think you have this effect on me.”

“So you’re grumpy the rest of the time.”

It means I’m always wondering whether the furniture is really lazily flying in my room and if I’m still dreaming
. But she didn’t say so, the recollection taking away the remaining lightness in her heart.

“Tell me,” he softly coaxed.

He’s good at interrogation.
Did she want to answer him, or evade his questions? She chose the first, knowing again deep inside her that if she could trust someone, it would be him.

She took a deep breath. “I always used to wake up with drugs still coursing in my blood, so I didn’t know when I hovered between reality and la-la-land.”

He gave a sharp intake of breath.

“You mentioned those drugs, and your,” he paused, “husband.”

“What about him?” She didn’t want to think of Peter right now. Not ever, actually.

“Come on, help me out here. I’m trying to understand.”

Cut him some slack
, her instincts told her. He did sound sincere. Concern blazed in the aqua depths of his eyes, and she sat up straighter, pulling the sheet so it at least covered her breasts.

He’s seen all of you
, a little voice chided. She clamped down a smile. He may have slept with her but that didn’t mean she had to make a spectacle of her naked body.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Everything you can tell me. Starting with your name, maybe...”

She smiled softly. “I don’t know my name.”

“What do they call you?”

“Amelia. Millie. Peter’s wife. Mrs. Jamison.” She peered into his face. “None of which spark any remembrance in my mind.”

“What happened to you?”

“They said it was an accident. I later learned it turned out to be a bomb blast aboard a yacht, targeting someone not on it that day. Why?”

*

The wheels inside Gerard’s head started spinning. A target for a bomb blast? That could only imply criminal intent, and this kind of thing happened mostly in the realm of organized crime or high-end illegal activity. What would a woman like her be doing on such a boat in the first place?

The image of her holding his gun slid into his mind, and he sucked in a breath. She had to be connected to that world; why else would she have been on board a yacht that exploded?

“Where did the explosion take place?” he asked, suddenly desperate to have a line to cling to since so much swam around him.

“Off the coast of Nice.”

“When?”

“Some seven months ago.”

Seven months ago.
Mirka had been in a car crash at the same period, her body burned beyond recognition when they’d found her. She’d been leaving Marseille when the accident happened.

His mobile rang, tearing him out of his recollection. Pulling the device from his pocket, he focused his gaze on her. She lay so close; he could touch her if only he reached out.

Questions danced in her eyes, too. There could be more turmoil and confusion inside her if her story turned out true.

The shrill ring of the phone recaptured his attention, and he flipped it open to find Rashid calling.

“What?” he answered.

“Remember the card you gave me earlier? I did some snooping and nothing turned up.”

He sat straighter, reflexively turning his back to her, not wanting her to see his face when he assessed the information Rashid supplied to him.

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“The phone number doesn’t ring, and the company isn’t listed with any professional organization or chamber of commerce.”

“
Putain.
” He softly swore. “Are you thinking the same thing as I am?”

“Brass plate firm,” Rashid confirmed. “There’s more. The name on the card, it belongs to a thirteen-year-old boy from the back seat of nowhere in Wyoming, USA. No listing for a grown man working for an investment firm in London or anywhere, not even a trace on the Net.”

Gerard returned his attention to the woman; she had sat up. He placed a hand over the keypad of the phone, covering the microphone, and edged the device away from his face. “What’s the name of your husband?”