Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (36 page)

He shifted, rolling to his side and propping himself up on his elbow. His hair was in delicious disarray, a mop of black curls that begged for her fingers. More of his beard had grown in, too, giving him a raffish look, like one of the pirates that used to sail the Spanish Main, preying upon enemy ships and sending all female hearts to helpless longing.

“That’s
assurdo,
” he said heatedly, “and you know it. Nothing selfish about helping others. It shows that you’ve got a good heart.”

She smiled gently. “Is that why you do it?” She pressed her palm to the center of his chest, feeling the brush of hair, and the steady beat of his own heart.

He scowled. “Setting wrongs to right—that’s why I do it. Making sense out of disorder. It’s no different from solving a mathematical equation.”

“Yes,” she replied. “I can see why you’d risk your life again and again just because two plus two doesn’t equal five.”

“Bronwyn,” he said warningly.

“I’m applying your logic. Action, not words, define character. If I’ve learned anything over the course of this mad journey, it’s that.” She lifted herself up, bracing herself on her elbows. “You tell me again and again that you’re not a hero. And maybe you’re not. What’s a hero, though? Someone of pure soul and intentions? No one like that exists. But there are people like you, and Simon, and Harriet. And even Giovanni. People that do what they can with what they have. Seems fairly heroic to me—as heroic as anyone can be in the real world.”

He stared at her for a moment. “I won’t shake you of that belief, will I?”

“No,” she answered. “Because it’s
my
belief, and I’ll never let it go. It’s not a theory, either. It’s been tested many times over the past few weeks.” She smiled to herself. “Many things have been tested these past weeks.”

He brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “Damn it,
fragola.
I’m going to miss you.”

“I know,” she replied.

Then they lay down to sleep, neither speaking of the future.

*   *   *

When she woke, she bathed as best she could. She used a small jug of water and ewer Marco had procured.

Despite her quick bath, though, as she and Marco approached the headquarters of the Sûreté, Paris’s police, she felt distinctly unkempt. Her lone outfit showed its wear, and she’d had to dress her hair without the benefit of a mirror or maid. Marco wasn’t much assistance. He, of course, looked immaculate, despite the fact that they’d both been through the same ordeals. In contrast to the way he could somehow make himself fade into near invisibility, the moment he set foot inside the building, he radiated authority and demanded respect as though it were his due.

Blue-jacketed policemen scurried out of his way as he strode to the desk sergeant, Bronwyn hurrying to keep up with him.

“Oui?”
The sergeant didn’t lift his head up from filling out his blotter with the latest developments in Paris’s criminal activities.

Marco said nothing.

“Well?” the sergeant asked in French, still not looking up.

Yet Marco continued to remain silent.

Finally, the sergeant looked up. The moment he looked at Marco, he snapped to attention, tugging on the tunic of his uniform. “How may I help you, monsieur?”

“Captain Journet,” Marco said.

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but he’ll want to see me.”

The sergeant started to rise from his desk, then stopped halfway. “I’ll … uh … need to tell him who you are.”

“The man who can help him take a bite out of Les Grillons.”

The sergeant’s eyes widened, and he hurried off. After he’d gone, Bronwyn shook her head. “I doubt I’ll ever get used to that,” she murmured in English. “The way you can inhabit different personas.”

He shrugged. “Actors do it all the time.”

“Not the way you do. As if everyone has no choice but to believe you’re the person you present.”

“It’s a useful skill.”

She glanced at the hallway down which the desk sergeant had disappeared. “Clearly.”

What role did he play with her? The thought lowered her already melancholy mood.

“Who shall I be?” she asked.

“A woman who rejects the word
no.
”

She took the thought into herself, letting it seep into her.

Given that the police captain was likely a busy man, she expected her and Marco to be kept waiting, but within minutes, the sergeant returned. A man with a white goatee, dark suit, and sharp eyes strode behind him.

“This the man?” he asked the sergeant in French.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your name?” he demanded of Marco.

Bronwyn felt as though the command couldn’t be disobeyed—it was given with uncompromising authority. But Marco only shook his head.

“No names, Captain,” he answered. “At least, not mine or my companion’s. If we’re to give you what you want, everything is done anonymously.”

“My superiors won’t like that.”

“Then we’ll say good-bye, and good luck with Les Grillons.” Marco took her arm, as if to lead her out the door.

“Hold a moment,” Captain Journet snapped. He thought for a moment, then motioned for Marco and Bronwyn to follow him. “Come on, then.”

She’d never been inside a police station before, and the activity made her head whirl. Men in uniform and civilian clothing rushed back and forth, some carrying dossiers, others leading rough-faced men and women from one room to another. Noise buffeted her, and the eyes of many people followed her as she trailed after Marco and Journet, but she kept her chin tilted up, her glance cool and impersonal.
I have never heard
no.

Finally, Journet waved them into an office with his name painted on the glass mounted in the door. More half windows surrounded the room, though the slats of the blinds were tilted open. As she and Marco sat in the two chairs positioned in front of a desk, Journet closed the blinds with a snap.

The captain lowered himself into his chair and laced his fingers together, resting his hands on his desk. “All right, Monsieur and Madame Nameless, I’ll say this once.” He pointed at a battered clock at the edge of a console. “That thing only eats time, it doesn’t create it. Which means you have ten minutes before I tell Sergeant Daugier to throw you the hell out onto the street. Apologies, madame,” he added in Bronwyn’s direction.

“You’ll make time for this, Captain,” she answered.

“To wound Les Grillons?” Journet threw up his hands. “My men and I have been working for years to bring them to justice. Then you dance in here like some exile from the Moulin Rouge and tell me you’ve got the way to hurt that passel of bastards? Excuse me, but no, I can’t believe it.”

“Then believe this.” Marco held up the ledger given to him by Bertrand. He tossed it across the desk at Journet, who caught it neatly and began thumbing through its pages.

“What the devil is this?” he demanded.

“Solid evidence linking two of Les Grillons’ top men to the murder of Olivier Maslin,” Marco replied.

Journet stood, grabbed his clock, and dropped it into the rubbish bin beside his desk. Then he sat back down.

“My time is all yours, Monsieur and Madame Nameless.”

*   *   *

An hour later, after reviewing the evidence against Cluzet and Reynard, Bronwyn watched as Journet slowly shook his head.

“Is this Christmas?” He exhaled. “Because you’ve given me a gift. How’d you come by it?”

Marco only smiled. “I can’t say, and you know it.”

“Does it matter?” Bronwyn asked.

“Normally, yes,” answered the captain. “There are practices to follow. Rules to obey. But we’ve been hunting Les Grillons so long, no one upstairs is going to give a damn—apologies, madame—about things like procedure and policy. We just want to throw these bastards—apologies, again—in the darkest hole in France.”

“You’ve got your shovel right there,” Marco noted, nodding toward the ledger.

“I’ll need to keep this,” Journet said.

“Of course.”

But the captain had no idea that what he held was, in fact, a counterfeit. After they’d awakened, Marco had forged a duplicate copy of the ledger. It was a common enough notebook, found in stationer’s shops all over the city. He’d purchased one, and similar ink, and then spent hours meticulously reproducing the ledger. She’d gazed in amazement as he’d duplicated the tiniest nuance of the handwriting within. But he hadn’t stopped at reproducing the writing. He’d taken gritty paper and recreated the wear on the ledger, and made certain that the pages within looked as though they’d been handled many times.

Yet another of his countless skills that continued to astonish her. It was a beautiful art, in a strange way.

He’d explained that making a duplicate of the ledger gave them added insurance, in case anything should happen to the original.

The captain had no idea he held a forgery, and no one who looked at the original and the reproduction would be able to tell the difference between the two.

“What happens now?” Bronwyn asked.

“I take this to my superiors,” Journet answered, “and close the trap around Les Grillons’ legs.” He narrowed his eyes. “What will you gain by it, the arrest of these two men?”

“I can’t tell you the particulars,” Marco replied. “But suffice it to say that my parents would still be alive if it weren’t for Les Grillons bleeding them dry.”

He told untruths so easily. But he’d never lied to her.

“How long will it take to bring them to justice?” Marco pressed.

“Much as I want to damn the rules entirely,” Journet said, “there’s still paperwork to be filed, and the case assembled. But the Sûreté wants to move fast on this. I’d give it a day, and then we’ll make our move. Are you on a clock, monsieur?”

“Time’s always in short supply, Captain,” he answered.

Did Marco want to tie everything up so he could finally be done with her and move on to the next assignment? Though he’d said he’d like to continue their relationship as lovers, once their association was over, he would soon be on his way. To the next job. The next woman.

“And we’ve been here too long,” Marco continued. He stood. “Shall we, my dear?”

She also rose. “If our business is concluded.”

“It is. For now.”

“How do I get in contact with you?” the captain asked.

“I’ll find you,” Marco answered. He glanced at the captain’s name painted on the door. “Not so hard to do.”

“So says my wife,” Journet answered wryly.

“Perhaps when this is done,” Bronwyn suggested, “you could take her on holiday. I’m certain your superiors would permit that, and she’d welcome the time alone with you.”

“Not all married couples have the same rapport that you and Monsieur Nameless share,” Journet replied. “It’s a rare thing.”

She stopped herself from correcting him, saying that she and Marco weren’t married. What did the sharp-eyed captain see? Even Marco seemed a little startled by Journet’s words.

After shaking hands with the police captain, and promising that they wouldn’t disappear, she and Marco left the station. The world continued on in its rush and bustle, little knowing that another crucial step had been taken—not only in the retrieval of her fortune, but in the crippling of one of France’s most notorious crime syndicates. Everything was about to change. But would anything truly change at all?

She asked this of Marco as they headed back to the toy shop.

“It’s never enough,” he answered. “When men like Cluzet and Reynard fall, there are always more to take their place. Like vermin. But if we hit a few of their top men, it will destabilize them enough to shake their attention from you and me.”

“But if Les Grillons itself continues, why bother trying?”

He guided her around a patch of slime on the pavement. “The other option is to be complacent, and I can’t be that.”

“No,” she murmured thoughtfully, “you can’t.”

*   *   *

At the toy shop, Bronwyn watched as Marco penned two letters. One to Reynard and one to Cluzet. She read them over his shoulder as he wrote.

Monsieur,

You have been betrayed by your own. They have given you up to the Sûreté over the Maslin affair. I write this to warn you. If you do not believe me, send one of your men to police headquarters. They will see the Sûreté ready to close in. Heed my advice and flee Paris while you can.

—A friend

He paid a delivery boy to give the letters to second delivery boys, and those to a third set of runners. With that, the machine was set into motion. The hope being that, evading arrest and fearing betrayal, the Grillons bosses would run, but not before transferring money into their private Swiss accounts—which was, in truth,
her
account.

She and Marco had done everything they could. The rest was out of their hands. There was no guarantee things would work out the way they’d been arranged.

If it did … if the money was transferred to the new bank account, and the arrests made, they’d return to England. Return to their lives. Well, he’d go back to Nemesis. To his work as an intelligence operative. Their plans were as laid out as a cartographer’s map. A new life beckoned beyond the horizon.
Here there be monsters.
The possibility frightened and excited her. A fresh start. An existence that had greater significance.

God, she hoped the plan worked. For so many reasons. Including helping the widows of London. Giving back the kindness she’d received. Perhaps even give more. Marco had mentioned that one of their agents—who now lived and worked for Nemesis in Manchester—was the daughter of missionaries. Since Bronwyn knew next to nothing about how to run a charity, maybe this agent would give her some advice. Because she was determined to make this new way of being succeed. It had to.

Once the letters to Cluzet and Reynard went out, Marco tugged on his coat. “Come on.”

She didn’t question him as he led her out the door. And after taking a convoluted path through Paris, they finally arrived at what appeared to be a small, overgrown, abandoned zoo. Ivy snaked up the cages’ bars, giving them the appearance of living enclosures. Weed-choked paths meandered between the cages, and the trees hung low and untrimmed. It had an eerie, neglected, and otherworldly beauty.