Paris Love Match

Chapter 34





Piers heard footsteps in the corridor outside his cell. Every noise reverberated in the empty metal-and-concrete staging area. Footsteps had come and gone all week. Sometimes they’d been singing drunks, but often they’d been the inspector assigned to his case. This time there was no singing.

He rolled over gingerly on his bunk. The pain across his chest was almost gone. The cut had been long but not deep. His leg wasn’t so good. The bullet had torn a chunk from his thigh. The doctors had stitched and dressed the wound, but it was going to take weeks to heal.

Several times a day he’d asked to see Sidney, but every request had been denied. On one occasion, he had seen her disappearing through a door as he was led to an interview room. He’d shouted her name and she had turned, but the guards had closed the door before they could speak.

She had been right about the French police. They were efficient, but not in the slightest bit sympathetic to their situation. He understood. It was a tall tale and there was a trail of bodies to be explained.

An attorney had been assigned to each of them. Piece by piece, evidence had cleared them of the murders. Brunwald had been taken to The Hague to stand trial for crimes in Elbistonia. Kuznik had quickly followed, his men providing a ready stream of information when they discovered their escape route had been rigged to dispose of them in the air. The painting had been returned with much fanfare through the embassy, and Piers had glimpsed a moment of TV showing celebrations on the streets of the Elbistonian capital.

His attorney had refused to pass messages to Sidney, but in one interview he had told him the only charge she was still facing was illegal immigration. Piers had felt a great weight lift from his shoulders with that news. He had practically skipped back to his cell.

But that had been two days ago and he hadn’t seen or heard of her since.

He wanted her released, of course, but what would she do? Stay in Paris? Or would the authorities force her to return to Elbistonia? Would he see her again? Would she want to see him? She certainly hadn’t been pleased when the police arrived on the bridge. Her ardor had cooled rapidly and she had sunk into a paralyzing gloom. The police had been his idea, of course, and perhaps with a week in the cells she had come to blame him.

The footsteps stopped at the door to his cell. There was a knock, a rattle of keys, and the door swung open. The case inspector smiled at him. “Monsieur Chapman. Gather your things. You are being released.”

Piers pried himself up, being careful not to scrape his leg on the edge of the bed, and followed the inspector to his office.

The inspector sat at his desk. “I have to ask you one more time, monsieur: the diamonds?”

Piers shrugged. “I took them after the fight with Kuznik, but when I got out of the water, they’d gone. They’re in the Seine somewhere.”

The inspector scowled. “A claim that guarantees the police will never find them.”

“Huh?”

“Your story has filled the Seine with bounty hunters, monsieur.”

“Oh.” Piers shuffled.

The inspector took a deep breath. “Nevertheless, you are being released on the condition that you return if we have further questions. You understand this, yes?”

“Am I free to return home?”

The inspector leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows raised. “I am surprised you do not wish to stay in Paris, monsieur.”

“Stay? You’re kidding, right? I’ve had enough excitement, I just want to go home.”

“I see. Very well.” The inspector held out his passport. “This has been endorsed such that you cannot leave the EU … but you may return to England.”

The inspector signed Piers’ release form with a flourish and handed it to him. “You are free to go, monsieur.”

“What about Sidney?”

The inspector gestured to the doorway. “She is next.”

She stood cuffed to a police officer and staring at the forms on the inspector’s desk.

“Sidney.” Piers felt his heart lift and fall in one sweeping movement. He held his arms out and did a good impression of a Cheshire cat, but Sidney’s eyes didn’t meet his. Her expression was cold and fixed.

He lowered his arms. “You okay?”

Seconds passed before she mumbled “Fine.”

The police officer walked her to the inspector’s desk.

Piers looked questioningly at the inspector, who waved his hand at him, “You are free to go, monsieur.” He gestured to the door. “Si vous plait.”

Piers was out of the police station before he realized. The sun was down and the streetlights were on. He lingered on the steps, but he wasn’t sure for what.

Fine.

One single word.

He’d worried all week, churning acid, desperate to see and talk to her. There hadn’t been a moment when he hadn’t wondered how she was doing, and all she said was fine. He hadn’t known what to expect—he’d prepared himself for joy or raging anger—but the fatalism of her voice left him numb.

He sighed. He felt as if his heart slowed a beat. She had been breathtaking. A blinding light in his ordinary world. A star too high for him to hold onto. He looked at his hands. He had tried. He had rescued her. It hadn’t all gone to plan and the doctor had told him he’d be scared for life from his run-in with Kuznik, but he had saved her. He clenched his fists. She was safe. That was all that really mattered.

He heard Sidney’s voice. “You’re going home.”

He jerked his head up. She was six feet away, arms folded and staring at the ground between them.

He cleared his throat. “I, I guess.”

“Right,” she said, her head bobbing upward and her jaw barely moving.

His phone buzzed.

“Mother,” Sidney said, flatly.

He hummed his agreement and pulled the battery out of his phone. “Later.”

Sidney stared at him, her lips thin and every muscle in her face frozen.

He took a deep breath. “I was—”

“You better get going then.”

He closed his mouth slowly. “What are you going to do?”

“Does it matter?”

“I—”

“I heard you.” She jerked her head toward the police station. “Back there.”

He raised his shoulders, questioning.

“You said you wanted to go home. Had enough excitement, you said.”

“I—”

“I guess I was just an accessory to the excitement. Thrilling for a minute.”

“No. No. I mean, yes, you were part of the excitement … but you weren’t just that. I would have wanted to be with you, no matter what.”

“Would have.”

His mouth hung open. He stared at her face till she glanced at him. He spoke slowly. “Want, not would. I want to be with you. I’ve wanted to be with you since you made me laugh in that stupid taxi.” He waved his hand at the police station. “Every moment we were in there, I wanted to see you. I worried about you, what was happening to you, and what would happen to you.”

She grunted. “And you still want to go home.”

“Eventually. Sometime … one day.”

She looked sideways at him. He thought he saw her lip quiver. He held out his hands. “But not today. And not tomorrow. And maybe not even next week. And—”

“What about the week after?”

Their eyes met and he saw a sliver of a smile growing radiant. She tilted her head up, and he saw tears spilling over a thousand watts. He flung his arms around her.

“I thought you were going to bloody leave,” she said. She crushed him in her embrace, pounded on his back with her fists, and forced her lips painfully on his. He felt the pounding of her heart.

He pulled back from her, and stroked her hair back over her ear. “Me?” He squeezed her tight and laughed. “I wouldn’t dare.”

She punched him on the shoulder. He wiped away her tears with his thumbs and they kissed, tender and gentle, long and hard, their tongues touching and exploring. He ran his hands through her hair and down her back. The feel of her curves under his palms overwhelmed him. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe out. She gripped his belt and pulled him upward and tighter to her. He closed his eyes, drank in the smell of her skin, and the world ceased to exist.

Minutes passed before a shrill voice called out, “Get a room.”

They ignored it.

A car horn sounded. “Really, get a room.”

Their eyes wandered reluctantly in the direction of the voice.

Little and Large were leaning against the side of a bright yellow taxi. Large opened the rear door. “Taxi?”

“No!” Sidney yelled taking a step back.

Large laughed. “You’ll be all right.” He nodded at Piers, “You’ve got your own James Bond to protect you.”

Little pushed himself off the car, straightened his back, and rolled his shoulders. “Course, we’ll be with you as well.”

Piers smiled at Sidney. “It’ll be all right.”

She stared at him. “Look what happened last time.”

He squeezed her hand. “Yeah, look.”

She laughed and squeezed his hand back. “Yes.”

He dipped down and swept her up in his arms.

She squealed as she looped her arms around his neck and held on. “What are you doing?”

He grinned as he walked to the taxi. “Something I should have done with you when I had the chance.”

Her eyebrows bunched together and she twisted in his arms. “What do you think I am, some easy—”

He held her tight, juggling to keep her from falling. “Dancing, I meant dancing.”

She froze, her hand on his shoulder and her mouth open. “Oh.”

He raised his eyebrows. “At Bernard’s?”

“Right.” She bit her lip and nodded. Her smile returned, soft and warm. “Dancing,” Her eyes locked on his and her fingers played through his hair. “Mmmmm, yes,” she said, “You can take me dancing.”

She nipped at the lobe of his ear. Her breath tingled his spine and he curled his head toward her reflexively. His lungs felt as if they would burst and he had to swallow before he could speak.

“And then?”

She lowered her head onto his shoulder and patted his chest. “We’ll see, lover boy. We’ll see.”





Note from the Author:





Parle moi!



Make me happy.

Tell me if you liked it,

Tell me if you didn't,

And tell me what you think happened to the diamonds.

I'd love to hear.



www.nigelblackwell.com

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Acknowledgments

This book would never have been written without the great many people who assisted, encouraged, and cajoled me to its completion. I offer them my sincerest thanks—particularly as the next book is in progress, and I may require at least as much assistance, encouragement, and cajoling!



In particular,



My wife and daughter have supplied all the peace, encouragement, and tea, a writer could want. And then a little extra, just to be sure. Thanks guys. I love you.

Kristen Lamb and the writers of several WANA groups have generously and freely shared their insight, experience, and soul-lifting humor. Thank you.

My editors, Beth Suit and Rebecca Peters-Golden, have elevated the quality of this text with their professionalism and patience. If mistakes remain, it is because I have failed to heed their advice. I will try harder next time, I promise.

My writer's group, David Walker, Charity Kountz, Mary Morgan, and Jillian Dodd, who are a constant source of support. Saturday’s are always an education.

And finally, Jillian Dodd. Yes, she gets a mention twice, because no one works harder, or makes everything look so easy. Plus, she puts up with me Nigelizing her Doddifications!!! Thank you.





About the Author

Nigel Blackwell loves Paris. He is ashamed to say he hasn't been to Elbistonia, danced at Bernard's, or jumped in the Seine, but he has cavorted in and out of wetsuits in freezing weather, raced the wrong way down Parisian one-way streets, and eaten in Terry's All Time. He also keeps a set of bolt croppers to deal with the problems these actives can bring.



And he's not telling what happened to the diamonds.