Paris Love Match

Chapter 32





Piers drifted, carried by the Seine’s flow. The edge of the bridge was no more than ten feet away. Another five seconds and he’d be exposed to Brunwald’s men, a proverbial sitting duck, bobbing on the water.

He took deep, rapid breaths and dived down, swimming hard for the bottom. He scooped water with his hands, fighting his buoyancy. The cut on his chest burned, and his injured leg begged him to stop.

He sensed his surroundings brighten and knew he’d emerged from the shelter of the bridge. He opened his eyes for a second. The water stung, but, to his relief, all he saw was the Seine’s dirty green color. If he couldn’t see Brunwald’s men on the bridge, they couldn’t see him either.

He kicked with his good leg and renewed his struggle to keep underwater. His desire to breathe added to the pain in his chest. His arms ached and his strokes slowed. The pain in his injured leg made it useless, and he thrashed his good leg to keep himself down.

His strokes faltered. His arms trembled as if he was about to lose control. His body screamed for air and rest, but he gave one last effort, down, forward, and away from the bridge.

He curled his head onto his chest. It took every ounce of effort to stop his nose breathing in the Seine. His lungs begged him to open his mouth. His throat closed up. He had to breathe. He had to surface.

He headed upward, flailing his arms and kicking with his good leg. He thrust his head up and back, desperate. The air hit his face. His mouth burst open, spluttering and coughing. His lungs pumped his chest, sucking oxygen in a frenzy. He choked and rubbed his eyes as he whipped around to look for Brunwald’s men. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Pont au Double was farther than he’d expected.

He forced a big draft of air into his lungs, ready to dive again, and then realized blue lights were flashing on the bridge. Large had done his job; the police would handle Brunwald and his men. He let out his breath and treaded water with his good leg, letting the current carry him. His lungs burned and his ribs felt as if they’d been stretched two sizes. His biceps and shoulders felt heavy and weak.

He’d escaped Brunwald’s grasp, but had Sidney made it? She had driven away in the Citroën, and Little should have been able to direct her to the second bridge. But had they made it before the second dumpster came down?

Piers saw police on the ledge where he had fought Kuznik. They were strapping the giant to a stretcher. He’d been lucky to escape. A second slower and he’d be the one being loaded onto a stretcher, probably for a short trip to the morgue.

The river carried him on. Pont Saint-Michel was only a minute away. The bridge was lined with people watching the activity around Notre Dame. He’d intended to use the oxygen to keep submerged and draw less attention, but being seen was a fair exchange for making it out of Kuznik’s grasp alive.

He kicked for the bridge’s central support, but the arch of the bridge swept darkness over him before he reached it. The water sped up as it squeezed through the narrow part of the bridge. He dug in with cupped hands and fought the flow. The ladder’s iron rungs were his only plan of escape. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel approached fast.

The swirling water slowed as it began to open out. Even the overcast daylight was almost blinding as he emerged from the tunnel. He swam hard, but the water swept him away from the rungs and safety. Head down, he scooped water in his hands until he felt the rough burn of a rope flick past his wrist. He grabbed tight, and looked up to see Large’s frame filling the bottom rung, the rope around his arm. Large grinned. “Need a hand?”

Piers wrapped the rope around his wrist and held on as Large dragged him to the iron ladder. He took the rungs one at a time, not daring to look up. His breath came in deep gasps. He felt the skin on his arms prickle. Would she be there? Had she made it away before Brunwald’s men could give chase? Had the police stopped her? What would she say?

And would what he say?

His world had been brighter from the moment she’d jumped into the taxi. She was stunning, for sure, but she was everything he wasn’t, and everything he wished he could be. She was infuriating, yet could bestow joy with a word, or a smile, or the lift of an eyebrow. She could be innocent and wise at the same time. She was cool, fashionable, and fearlessly independent. He sighed, and his imagination slowed its roller coaster ride. Yes, she was independent. She was cool and fashionable and worldly, and … and there went the stake through his heart.

He was none of those things.

He wished he were. He wished he had made more of an effort. He wished he could throw off his stupid self. Shed his fears, throw out his inhibitions. Change the day, as Bernard had said. But it was too late now. He’d done his best to save her, and now there was no reason for her to associate with him any more. He spat out the taste of the Seine, and before he realized it, he was at the top of the ladder.

Hands grabbed at him. Little slid his arm under Piers’ and pulled, but Large did all the work. Piers grunted against the pain in his leg and chest, staggered over the wall, and collapsed to his knees on the sidewalk. Pedestrians detoured around them, staring. He lifted his head and rotated his shoulders to ease the pain in his chest.

And saw her.

Her eyes were wide and her hair stuck out at angles that would have impressed a punk rocker, but her thousand-watt smile had found one more watt. A tear rolled down her cheek. Her lower lip trembled. She brushed her jumbled hair back over one ear. “Damn you,” she mumbled, “Damn you, damn you, damn you, damn you.”

She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around his shoulders. “I thought they’d gotten you, or that you’d drowned, or that … You took so long, I thought they’d killed you. I thought you, you, you … I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

He squeezed her tight and buried his face in the curve of her neck. She cried, and sniffed, and thumped her hands on his back. The pain in his chest screamed but he paid it no attention. He felt like he would melt in the warmth of her embrace.

Her tears slowed and she pulled her head back to look at him. She sniffed and laughed. “Bloody dumpsters.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand and stood up. “Bloody dumpsters.” Her smile evaporated. “Bloody dumpsters!”

Her eyebrows hunched together and her pupils narrowed. She swept her hand around fast, slapping him hard on the cheek. “Are you mad? Do you know what you did? You could have bloody killed me! Killed me! Crushed me with a bloody great dumpster on my head! What a stupid, idiotic, thick-headed . . .” She bit her lip and sniffed. “. . . Brilliant, wonderful, fabulous—”

She cupped her hands around his face and wiped his lips with her thumbs. “Damn you.” She leaned down and kissed him, long and hard, full on the lips. She sunk to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Damn you, James Bond.” He slid his hands around her back, crossing them over and hugging her with all that remained of his might.

He heard clapping, cheering, and catcalls from passersby. He didn’t care; as she helped him to his feet, a smiled stretched his mouth wide and wasn’t about to quit.

His shirt flapped open and blood ran down his front. Her finger traced the slash across his chest. He put his hand on hers. “It’ll be okay.”

She nodded doubtfully.

Large bustled the group across the road to watch armed police officers swarming around Notre Dame. Brunwald was freed from the battered Mercedes. He pushed and shoved the officers. They pushed back. He swung a wild, looping right hook at one man, who caught Brunwald’s arm, twisted it behind his back and threw him onto the ground. Several officers piled onto his arms and legs as he thrashed in vain. A few moments later, they had his hands and feet cuffed and threw him into an armored police vehicle, which departed with an escort of sirens and flashing lights.

Sidney hugged Piers. “Good riddance.”

He hugged her back. “We’d better go.”

Police sirens sounded behind them.

“Oh, shit,” Piers said.

Sidney looked up and down the street. “This way.”

Large placed his hands on her shoulders. With an upturned smile, he stared straight at Piers. “Only way to get this all sorted out, I’m afraid.”

Piers gave a glum nod. Sidney squirmed. Large tightened his grip and looked her in the eye. “No more running, now.”

Sidney’s gaze fell, her shoulders sagged. Piers took her hand. “It’ll be all right.”

She swallowed hard. “You’re not the illegal immigrant who was helping a criminal.”

Piers smiled softly. “The illegal immigrant that found a work of art, recovered a bag of diamonds, and caught Brunwald the Butcher.” He put his arms around her waist and hugged her close. “It will be all right.”

They kissed until the police surrounded them.