Paris Love Match

Chapter 23





Piers sweated. Surely the police wouldn’t be checking nightclubs in their search for him and Sidney? There again, Sidney had said she knew the owner, so perhaps they were checking places she was known.

The gendarme stared at Piers as he approached. He couldn’t turn around now. His shirt clung to him; it was make or break time. Should he walk away? Rush off as if he’d just remembered something? Or could a run-in with the law really be the best twist of fate?

The bouncers waved people through the entrance in small groups. He slowed his pace and joined the rear of a gaggle of noisy girls.

One of the bouncers held out his arm, deftly cutting off Piers from the girls. “Monsieur?”

Piers held up his ticket. The man glowered at it. Behind him the gendarme went quiet.

The bouncer didn’t blink. “You have a ticket.”

Piers shook the ticket.

The bouncer frowned. “Oui, monsieur. And this ticket was given to you by?”

Piers’ heart pounded his rib cage. “Bernard.”

The man nodded. “Ah, Bernard.”

Piers smiled big. “Oui, Bernard.”

The bouncer plucked the ticket from Piers hand. “Bernard doesn’t give tickets to single men, Monsieur.”

Piers licked his lips. “He … he didn’t. He gave these tickets to my girlfriend and me.”

“Ahhhh, and your girlfriend is?”

Damn. Dare he mention Sidney’s name? What if the gendarme had just alerted the bouncers to her name? He swallowed. “Busy.”

The doorman’s shoulders sagged and he gave an exasperated sigh. “Her name, monsieur.”

“Oh,” Piers tipped his head forward and spoke in a whisper. “Sidney.”

The doorman’s face coiled into a left-handed sneer. “You? You are Sidney’s boyfriend?”

The gendarme took a step to one side, to gain a better view. Piers felt sweat trickle down his back. Was this it? Was this where he was going to be arrested? Sneaking into a Paris nightclub? He focused on the bouncer. He had to think French. “This week, yes. But next week?” He shrugged. “Who can tell?”

The man snorted a laugh. “So, when does she get here?”

Piers waved his hands in the air. “Thirty minutes? An hour? Who knows?”

The man slapped the ticket back into Piers’ hand. “Go on.”

Piers took the ticket and opened the door, but the second bouncer called, “Wait.”

Piers’ heart skipped a beat. His skin prickled. He turned slowly around. The man was pointing his finger at his watch. “This week is almost over.”

Piers face felt numb. “And?”

“So, your week is almost up. You make the most of tonight, yes?” He had a lascivious grin and gave a theatrical wink. “It may be your last.”

The gendarme erupted into laughter. Piers’ heart resumed beating and the numbness in his face melted into a broad grin. “Oui, oui, tonight.” He let the door slip from his fingers and disappeared into the club, wiping sweat from his brow.

A flight of stairs descended onto a gantry above a giant underground dance floor. In opposite corners, bars were doing a brisk trade, but the floor was mostly empty. A DJ was raised above the floor on a platform. Lasers, lights, and LEDs pulsed around the room. Lines and shapes spun over the ceiling and floor. Samples of Duran Duran mixed with heavy dance music pounded from speakers hung from the ceiling. Along one side he saw booths set into the wall like Stone Age caves. He got a beer from the bar and headed for one, sliding into the back to watch the entrance and the dance floor.

He cradled his beer. What would it have been like if they had come here? Would she have talked all night? Danced like crazy? Both, probably. Only now he’d never know. He breathed in deeply and straightened himself up. At least, he’d never know if he failed her.

A man in a cream suit walked across the floor toward him. He waved at some of the dancers as he crossed the open space, then seated himself directly opposite Piers. “I hear you’re waiting for Sidney.”

Piers’ eyes narrowed. “You know her?”

The man leaned across the small table. “I gave her those tickets.”

“You’re Bernard?”

“You’re English and, pardon me for saying this, an unlikely person to be in possession of those tickets. You don’t seem like Sidney’s type.”

“And what type do you think she goes for?”

Bernard shrugged. “Not, monsieur, a man who sips beer on his own in a corner.”

“I’m not having a good day.”

Bernard leaned forward. “Let me give you some advice about Sidney. She’s a true Parisienne. The type of person she would go for doesn’t sulk about not having a good day. He grabs it by the throat and changes the day.”

Piers raised his gaze and started at Bernard. “She’s not French. She’s Elbistonian.”

Bernard raised his head up. “Ahhhh, so you do know her. This is true.” He thumped his chest. “But inside.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.” Bernard stood up. “Don’t forget, monsieur, you have the clothes to impress, but if you want to win Sidney, you will change the day.”

Piers watched him walk away, talking to patrons, passing from group to group, waving at a couple on the dance floor. He was calm, confident, assured—everything Piers didn’t feel about himself.

He toyed with his beer. Should he search Auguste’s apartment again? Find April? Neither of those would be easy. Certainly not before midday tomorrow.

He stretched. What else could he do? Contact Little and Large? Where had they gone? They’d tipped him off about Morel bringing other men, but what could he get out of them?

The only thing left was Auguste’s car. He took a mouthful of beer. He didn’t relish the idea of returning to a murder scene, or the place where he’d last seen Sidney, but Bernard was right.

If he wanted to win Sidney, he had to change the day.