Paris Love Match

Chapter 22





Piers paced away from Notre Dame. People veered around him as if his shock was somehow contagious. He crossed two roads without looking before a car’s horn pulled him up. He stood in front of the vehicle, gawping as the driver waved his fist at him. He stumbled back onto the sidewalk as the car screeched away, and stood on the curb, oblivious to the traffic inches from him.

They had taken her. Pushed her into their car and driven her away. Had she been working for Brunwald all along? Had she been playing him? The smile, the hugs, the moments in the shower? Was it all part of a plan that he had been stupid enough to fall into? Or had Brunwald used her as he was trying to use them both now? If you could call threatening her life using.

He sighed. He remembered the moment in Place des Vosges when she stepped out of the dressing room wearing that dress. How it shimmered and danced around her figure. How she embraced him as they hid from the police behind the umbrella. He let out a single breathy laugh, but felt like he had been punched in the gut. She had been maddening, infuriating, moody. Yet, she had been exciting, vibrant, and thrilling. She was heartbreaking, and heartbreakingly beautiful. He should have said as much to her. He should have told her of his feelings. He should have risked that embarrassment. But he hadn’t even known his own feelings. Not then; only now. But nothing mattered now. They had taken her. She was gone.

He leaned against the window of a store and rolled his head back. Shit. They’d found the painting and still Brunwald had taken her. Somehow, he’d duped her. Her text messages must have been reporting their progress. That bastard must have known everything. He’d had the upper hand all the time, and Piers hadn’t even known he existed. He had even waited until the mob to showed up, so he could dispense with them without a second thought. Piers swallowed. He didn’t want to find her body in front of Notre Dame.

A fine drizzle misted his face. The drops glittered in the street lamps, a sparkling carpet in the air. The foot traffic on the streets was thinning, the evening rush hour waning. Fewer people for him to hide among, fewer people to spot him. He walked toward the river, head down, sheltering from the rain.

His only way to get her back was to find the money Morel was going to hand over for the painting. But how? What clues did he have?

He crossed another street, barely looking at the traffic.

There was always the police. Even though Brunwald had warned him against going to them, it was the sensible idea. It was the idea they should have gone with at the start. His idea. The police could have sorted all this out, even if they had been placed in cells until it was done. Being in a cell with a bed and three meals a day was a much better prospect than being wanted on the streets with—he swallowed—her being held hostage.

Hostage? Christ, what was he thinking about? He needed to go to the police. Now. He scanned the street for a gendarme. Why hadn’t he gone to them before? No matter what happened to him, they could sort this out. They would have the resources. They probably had cameras everywhere, like London. They could trace Brunwald and mount a raid, or surround his hideout and demand Sidney’s release. As much as the bastard had shown no remorse for killing, he wasn’t stupid. He’d let her go if he thought he might get away with it.

A police car turned onto the street ahead of him. He raised his hand. They would be able to save her. They would be able to capture Brunwald and bring him to justice. The police car showed no signs of slowing. Piers stepped out into the road and waved. Brunwald and his men had killed the mobster and his men, along with Auguste. The police couldn’t help but see that. Piers would have to convince them, but it’d be worth it. Sidney only had until tomorrow. Midday tomorrow. He couldn’t risk her life. It was the sensible thing to do.

But tomorrow? He brought his arm down a fraction. What if he couldn’t convince them? By midday? What if they pinned the murders on him? Shit. He whipped his arm down, and stepped back onto the sidewalk.

Murder! How could he convince anyone that he wasn’t responsible? They had pictures of him on a motorbike running from the scene of Auguste’s murder. Christ, what if they had footage of him walking into the alley with Morel and then walking out without him? He sank to his knees and lowered his head into his hands. The police car didn’t stop.

Bloody hell. He was a software engineer, not a criminal mastermind. How was he supposed to solve this? If he went to the police he’d be done for. And if he didn’t convince them to look for Sidney, she’d be dead by midday tomorrow. But if he didn’t go to the police how was he supposed to find her, or the money?

And what if Morel was trying to con Brunwald out of the painting? Maybe the whole affair with Auguste had been a ploy to steal the painting from Brunwald all along? Maybe the money never existed? Maybe, maybe, maybe. He ducked into the covered entranceway of a department store. Christ, he was out of his depth.

He rotated his head and shoulders and stretched out his back. He had no clues and the light was fading fast. Not that he knew what he was going to do anyway. He stepped out from under the shelter of the building. The fine rain, which had felt refreshing before, now just felt miserable.

Across the street, a light flickered into life: a sign, big and bold. He felt as if a blanket of cold engulfed him, sweeping the air from his body. The single word Bernard’s glowed in purple neon script above a white canopy. It was Sidney’s nightclub, the place she had wanted to hide for the night. The place she had wanted to take him. The girl who just wanted to have fun. The girl he had turned down. Damn, damn, damn, why hadn’t he said yes? Why hadn’t they gone there? Why hadn’t he asked her to dance? She even said she wouldn’t leave him.

He sighed. It was too late now. No amount of begging in the world would bring her here now. He felt for the tickets Sidney had given him. They were stiff card, laminated, with Bernard’s embossed in the same color and swoopy font as the glowing neon across the street. On the back someone had written “free admittance” with a stylized “B” underneath. The man himself, presumably.

A line had already formed beneath the neon, early for a nightclub. Two bouncers stood in front of a white door. A rope had been placed along the sidewalk and patrons were rapidly assembling. A Bentley pulled up alongside the canopy. One of the bouncers rushed forward with an umbrella and sheltered a well-dressed couple that emerged from the rear. Flashes went off as the couple dived for sanctuary behind the white door.

Piers turned the tickets over in his hands. Sanctuary? He needed sanctuary. He needed time. He needed to sit and think. Perhaps Sidney had been onto something. He squeezed the tickets. At least no one would recognized him in the dark of a nightclub.

He flipped up his collar and strode across the road for the canopy and its white door, ignoring the queue of people, confident in his ticket. Bernard’s name would surely grant him instant access and, if it didn’t, they’d just send him to the back of the line. No big deal. No problem. Nothing to worry about.

At least, that was what he thought until he saw the bouncers talking to a gendarme.