Paris Love Match

Chapter 6





“Slow down,” the girl shouted in Piers’ ear. “You’re going to get us killed.”

“They could be behind us.”

“You shook them off a while ago.”

“Why didn’t you bloody tell me?”

“I just did.”

Piers eased up on the throttle. The engine groaning as it slowed.

“Go left here,” she said.

“It’s a one-way street.”

“It’s okay. I live up there.”

Piers forced himself to relax, braked for the corner and turned into the street, ignoring the no-entry sign. A car horn blared and he veered for the gutter, narrowly missing a Ford heading in the opposite direction.

“How far?” he said.

“Not far. Maybe a mile.”

“A mile! For god’s sake, we could get arrested.”

“Does James Bond worry about one-way streets?”

He avoided another car as it raced by, headlights flashing at them.

“No, but he’s not real.”

“Tell me about it. You try and get a guy to dress proper these days.” She patted him on the shoulder. “No offense.”

“Oh, none taken. I’ve been kicking myself all day for forgetting my tux on this trip.”

“Right, see what I mean? Guys just don’t want to wear nice clothes anymore.”

Piers rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’s because—”

The girl squeezed Piers with her arms and nodded toward a line of scooters by a café. “Stop over there.”

Piers braked hard, almost throwing them both off, and lurched into the parking spot.

The café’s patrons turned as one to stare at the interruption to their morning croissants.

She scissored her legs gracefully and twisted off the back of the bike, her arms still secured around Piers.

He felt the patrons’ stares leave the bike and focus on them as a couple.

The girl’s face was inches from his. She gave a momentary smile, which lifted her eyebrows. “Er . . . um . . . this is embarrassing, but could we possibly just walk . . . you know, like,” she squeezed him, “arm in arm?”

Piers drew his head back. “Arm in arm? Arm in bloody arm? You’re nuts! We’ve been shot at, crashed a taxi, stolen a motorbike, bloody near killed ourselves in these stupid narrow roads and—”

She smiled, big, broad, a thousand watts. “I know, and you were brilliant.”

“I—”

She gripped him with her cuffed arms and kissed him full on the lips, bold, brief, and hard.

His jaw hung slack and his eyes converged on a point inches in front of his nose.

She wrenched his numbed body off the motorbike. “Come on, before anyone sees these handcuffs.”

He staggered, struggling to keep his balance. “What the hell are we doing? Those people could catch up any moment.”

“No problem.” She dragged him to a pair of narrow double doors and barged through into an equally narrow hallway. Wallpaper curled from the ceiling and the painted woodwork hadn’t been white for decades. A set of stairs ran upward. She took the first step and raised her cuffed hands over his head.

Piers grabbed her wrists. “What are we doing? Who were those people? How—”

She pulled free and held a finger over his mouth, “Sssshhh.”

Piers quieted.

Her smile faded in an instant. “Good. Now, take the back door, go right, and down two blocks. There’s a Métro station. You’ll be okay then.” Her smiled flashed again. “See ya,” she said, and she bounded up the stairs.

“What? No! Wait!”

She turned and jerked her head toward the rear door. “It’d be for the best.”

“What would be? Have me walk out and get gunned down by some nutcase? Am I supposed to be some decoy—”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m being ridiculous? You drag me into god knows what, get me shot at, and dump me Christ knows where, and I’m the one who’s being ridiculous?”

“Ooohhh. You’re English, aren’t you?”

“What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

Before she could reply, a door creaked and an old woman’s voice called out “Who’s there?”

The girl’s pencil thin eyebrows narrowed. “Merde.” She beckoned Piers frantically. “Up here. Now. Vite, vite, vite.”

“What? One minute it’s so-long-and-thanks-for-all-the-fish and the next I have to follow your every instruction?”

“You’re the one who’s worried about nutcases, and this one’s a doozy. What’s more, you’re a guy. She’ll want a kiss.”

Footsteps echoed on old floorboards. “Who is it? Who’s there? Is that a man’s voice?”

The girl gave Piers a told-you-so smile and bounded up the stairs. Piers followed, three steps at a time. On the third floor, the girl crashed into a door, fumbled the key into the lock, and swept inside. Piers dived after her and she swung the door closed, gently lowering the latch.

The girl leaned back on the wall and exhaled, long and slow. She rolled her head back and closed her eyes as she unbuttoned her jacket.

Piers’ heart was pounding from adrenaline and exertion, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from sinking down over the white blouse that fitted close across her chest and moved hypnotically with each breath, nor the short skirt wrapped tight around the very tops of her long, toned legs. With a jolt, he realized she was staring straight at him. She lowered her face and he thought he saw her sneer for an instant. He flushed hot and his ears prickled. “I, er … I didn’t mean … I’m sorry … who was that?”

She cleared her throat. “That?”

“The voice. The woman.”

“Oh, right. That.” She shrugged. “Landlady. Nosy old bat.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“You haven’t had to put up with her as long as I have.”

Piers glanced around. It was a tiny studio apartment. A bed was pushed up against one wall and a cooker and sink were in the corner. A large armchair, a desk with a sewing machine, and a rolling rack of clothing filled most of the floor. Everywhere else, even the walls, was covered with bolts of fabric, fashion illustrations, sketches, and pages torn out of magazines. He whistled. “You’ve lived here a long time.”

“Tell me about it. Since September.”

“September?”

“September. The month I moved in. September.”

“Which September?”

“This September. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

“Sorry. I just thought you said you’d been here a long time.”

“I have. I just told you. Since September. Five weeks. Five long weeks with that nosy old bat hounding me.”

“That doesn’t seem like a lo—”

Her eyes seemed to double in size. “It’s a long time, all right?”

Piers put his hands up. “Okay, okay, it’s a long time.”

The girl pulled a toolbox out from underneath the sink and produced a set of bolt croppers.

Piers stared. “You have bolt croppers?”

“There’s no fooling you, is there?”

“Not every girl has a set of bolt croppers.”

“Lots of people have them.”

“Riiiiight. Do you often have to remove handcuffs?”

She stared at him and snorted. “Just cut the damn things.”

Piers aligned the croppers carefully and squeezed. The handcuff gave in an instant. The girl wriggled and held up the other one, which was just as easily dispatched. She tossed the mangled metal on the bed.

Under a pile of fabric on the armchair, she found a half-finished bottle of wine. The cork popped with a tuneful echo and she slugged a mouthful.

“Is that good?” said Piers.

She blew out a long breath. “Yeah. I needed it. I’ve been shot at.”

“Me too, just in case you didn’t notice.”

“Yes, but they weren’t really shooting at you.”

“Weren’t shooting at me? Christ, I nearly got my head blown off.”

The girl gave a sarcastic smile. “Yeah.”

Piers rolled his eyes at her and looked around the small room. “This is your apartment?”

She took another swig of wine. “Right on, Sherlock. What does it look like, a fish shop?”

“No. But people have been shooting at you and me, don’t you think they might just happen to know where you live?”

“Why would they know where I live? This is a very quiet neighborhood.”

“Who cares if it’s a quiet neighborhood? We’re in the first place they’ll look. This is bloody ridiculous.”

“Trust me, this neighborhood is way too quiet.”

“Quiet? It’s not about the area being quiet. Shit, this is serious! We’ve been shot at. I mean, who were those people? What did they want?”

“I don’t know! All right. All I know is they shot the guy who jumped into my taxi.”

“Our taxi.”

She scowled at him and took another swig of wine.

He took a deep breath. “All right. Where’s the nearest police station?”

“Police! Didn’t you see them shooting at us?”

“The police don’t shoot people.”

“Those ones did. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“They weren’t police. They were after the guy they shot. They probably think we’re connected with him. That’s why we need to go to a police station and tell them everything.”

“But they waved guns at me and said, ‘Halt, we’re the police.’ That’s usually a sure sign. Plus, they were in a police car. So, no way, we’re not going to the police.”

“I didn’t see any uniforms, and they weren’t speaking French.”

“Look, I know you’re English, but not all police officers go around wearing silly hats and calling each other Bobby, all right? And I’m sure they were speaking French.”

“They weren’t. It sounded like Russian.”

She stuffed the cork into the bottle, wedged it down the side of the sofa and walked to the kitchen area. “What did he say to you?”

“Who?”

“The dead guy, stupid.”

“Oh. He called me a bastard.”

She laughed loud. “You have to admit, he was a bit of a character.”

“Character? He spat at me! And he used us as human shields.”

She pulled a tub of ice cream from the fridge. “Oh, get over it. He didn’t use us as human shields. What did he say before he called you a bastard?”

Piers scowled. “Something about Waterloo and construction.”

“What was that about?”

“I work for Waterloo Large Construction.”

“Oh, the people building down by the river?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look much like a workman.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have clean fingernails and new shoes.” She leaned forward and stared at his feet. “Correction, old shoes that have been polished. Still, not workman material.”

She took a giant scoop of ice cream and slowly licked it off the spoon.

Piers wriggled in his seat, trying not to be mesmerized by her tongue. “We just need to get to a police station.”

She shook her head. “No. No. No.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Even if you don’t want to go, I do.”

She licked her spoon and flicked a tiny drop of melted ice cream at him. “You go, then.”

He wiped the ice cream off his face. “Do you mind? Anyway, we both need to go. We need help. They can protect us while all this gets sorted out.”

“You did see the bang, bang, the breaking glass, and the screaming tires? Please tell me you noticed that much?”

“That’s exactly the point. The police will sort all this out.”

“Really. A guy got shot in my—” she huffed—“our taxi. There were bullets everywhere and you, very courageously I must admit, rescued me from a guy with a gun who was looking to shoot anyone who moved. What are you going to say? Sorry we were involved in a gunfight in the middle of the streets? A guy is dead, but we had nothing to do with it? The police probably think we killed the guy ourselves.”

“They’ll understand once we explain.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t know much about French justice, do you?”

He gave her a quizzical look.

“First they lock you up, then they send you to trial, then you have to prove you’re innocent. Have you ever proved your innocence from a jail cell?”

“We won’t be in a jail cell.”

“Ha! Too right. After what just happened they’ll shoot us on sight.”

“They won’t—” He sighed. “Either way, whatever we’re going to do, we have to get out of here.”

She shook her head. “Nah, dragon lady won’t come up here. Doesn’t like steps.”

Piers rolled his eyes. “Not her! You’ve just been shot at by someone—”

“The police.”

“Maybe—”

“Definitely.”

He held up his hands. “Whoever it was—police, criminals, or whatever—don’t you think they might know where you live?”

Her face froze and she stuffed the spoon into the tub of ice cream. “Well . . .”

“Well nothing. We need to get out of here.”