He says nothing.
“I meant what I wrote in my note. I’m prepared to discuss an opportunity that I think will be immeasurably profitable for both of us.”
He steeples his fingers and leans forward as though listening intently. A move calculated, I’m certain, to make me feel at ease. But it appears forced, and instinct raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
I fight the urge to lean forward myself—to close the distance between us. To feel his breath on my face and—what is it that draws me to this…criminal? For of course that’s what he is—a dangerous criminal. I pause at that thought. Is it the danger? That sort of foolishness certainly occurs often enough in the romantic novels I’ve read. Is that what’s happening here? But no. If I were attracted to dangerous fellows, I’d be throwing myself at the feet of the King. Is it because I have, on some level, considered becoming a criminal myself?
I study him closely, and a prickling sense of wrongness wriggles through the haze of attraction. He’s young, yes, but I’m hardly one to question youth. His dress is a touch sloppy—or at the very least, not personally tailored—but what I’ve seen of Paris has suggested to me that this is the norm rather than the exception. Still, there’s something…
“You’re not who I asked to see,” I say, forcing my voice to flow out utterly calm: a sea of glass.
A slight widening of the eyes is his only response.
“I must speak with the person in charge of this operation. That’s clearly not you.” I give a graceful gesture at his figure with a swirl of my wrist that takes some of the sting of the insult away. I hope. Though a large part of me is simply glad he’s not who he was pretending to be: a drug lord.
“Did you expect a court dandy in fancy clothes, then?” he says. In French for certain—but not with a native accent.
I take a moment to inhale his voice, which is deeper than I’d anticipated, and with a hint of gravel. “Your clothes tell me nothing, sir; it’s in your eyes.”
That makes him angry. But it’s true. His eyes are fire and rebellion, and the head of this sort of operation would have need of neither. Running a successful business, even an illicit one, fills men’s eyes with confidence, satisfaction. This person in front of me longs for more in life.
It’s a feeling I can well understand.
“Are you going to take me to your employer, or have we both wasted our time?” I ask, pinning him with my eyes.
“I have no employer.”
“We’re going to mince words, then?”
I note a telltale twitch at his jawline. Without breaking eye contact, he mutters, just loud enough for the Nav computer to pick it up, “Take us to him.”
I’m not the least bit familiar with the streets of Paris, so I don’t bother to look out the windows and try to guess where we’re going. I’ve put my life in this man’s hands, and at this moment, I feel it. Anything could happen and no one in the world would know if he slit my throat and tossed me into the Seine. My fingers tremble as I clench them in my lap, and I’m struck by how stupid it was to put my trust in people who deal in illicit wares. But soon, sooner than I’d have guessed, the car stops and the young man climbs out. A figure in black takes his place.
And my long-fractured world explodes into dust.
“Look who we have here,” he says, amusement floating on his voice.
Liberté. The light is better here than it was in the catacombs, so this time I can read the word tattooed on his neck. Inside, I feel like I’ve been knocked over by an ocean wave and am trying to figure out which direction is up, which direction means air and light and life. For a few seconds I hold very still, looking at—though not truly seeing—the man’s face.
The younger one slides back into the car from the other side, seating himself next to the man I first met in my sojourn to the catacombs. I wonder now if they were both there that night too. If the young one was one of the faces in shadow; if his were among the scurrying feet.
If he was the one who cut the satin laces on my corset.
A steady heat rises to my cheeks.
The young man gives a whispered order, and the car pulls away from the curb. Only after I’ve counted to twenty in my head—twice—do I trust myself to speak without shouting.
“I suppose I ought to say that it’s a pleasure to see you again, monsieur, but I don’t like to lie.”
In response the blackheart laughs heartily, shamelessly, then doffs his hat, and I see his face clearly for the first time. “If you don’t mind my asking,” the tattooed man says once the sedan is driving along smoothly, “I told Saber not to bring you unless you specifically asked to see me—how did you know?”