“It was a gut instinct.”
“But you were desperate to escape Neuville. You never called them at all?”
“Once, from an untraceable line. But the number I was to call into wasn’t working. That’s when I surmised that someone at the CIA was working with Neuville, hence why no one had come to save me or kill me.”
“Where’d you hide the necklace?”
“I don’t know yet, but I keep thinking about this one chocolate shop in Paris. I went there that night. It has to be there or close to there, and I don’t know why I just can’t remember this.”
“There’s something your mind still thinks you can’t handle.”
This is not an idea I welcome. I’ve relived my father’s murder and I keep reliving what Neuville did to me. What could possibly be worse?
thirteen
sara
It’s raining.
The bed is warm.
Chris’s hard body wrapped around mine is even warmer.
I can hear the storm pelting the windows of our master bedroom, see the dark sky beyond the panes peeking through the small part in the curtains. I’ve come to know that rain in Europe is not like rain in the United States. Here in Paris, when they say it’s going to rain, they mean a steady, all-day-and-all-night drenching that you cannot escape. I’ve also come to know that when Chris holds me this way, with his leg tangled around mine, he can’t escape the tragedies of his past or the demons they’ve created. Demons that once would have driven him to a dangerous need to use physical pain to drive away the emotional pain.
Often that need delivered him to that damn club that supposedly caters to the elite of Paris with darker hungers. Where the owner, that monster of a woman, Isabella, happily helped feed Chris’s need to escape reality with whatever punishment he ordered her to deliver. Though in most cases, Isabella doesn’t need to be ordered to do such horrid things, but Chris never gives away control. In whatever role she plays, though, Isabella thrives on delivering pain, and ironically, gut-wrenchingly, considering my worries for Ella, that club—and therefore Isabella herself—is the one thing that Chris and Garner Neuville share in common. But Chris is ultimately all about control, and that means he wants to please and protect me, sometimes to the extreme. Chris would do anything for me, as I would for him.
But Neuville is no bad-boy version of Chris. He’s the mob, and the stories that have trickled to us say that he’s brutal to the point of evil, in both the bedroom and boardroom. Stories that have kept me up at night, worrying about Ella.
Right now, though, what keeps me awake is discovering that we’ve inadvertently involved this organization called The Jackals in Ella’s life. What if Kayden is Ella’s safe haven, as Chris is to me, and me to Chris, and in my desire to protect her, I’ve stolen that away?
ella
It’s raining.
The fireplace is glowing amber.
Those are the first two things I think when I blink awake in the dark bedroom, Kayden’s hard, warm body wrapped around me from behind, the fireplace glowing in front of me. Safe. Warm. Loved. I am no longer alone, and neither is he. And we both were alone, even when we were with other people. He nuzzles my neck and pulls me tighter against his body. The dark room, the thrumming of the storm on the window, and him make for a seductive combination. I love the rain in Europe. It’s eternal, and it soothes all the hot spots in my mind. I shut my eyes and savor the perfection of the moment. I’m safe in a way that’s indescribable with Kayden, in a way that has nothing to do with the physical. I can’t lose this or him. Garner Neuville will not take this from me.
If he tries . . .
The next time I open my eyes, the darkness has become more of a dull, light haze cast by the storm, and Kayden is no longer in bed with me. Certain he hasn’t gone far, I roll over and find no note, which means I’m right. He’s probably in the kitchen fielding calls for Underground business and drinking coffee. I glance at the clock. Nine o’clock. Oh, yes. He is most certainly in the kitchen. Stretching, I smile with the realization that I’m still wearing his shirt, drawing in a deep, yummy whiff of his spicy scent before climbing out of the bed and pushing my feet into my slippers.
Fully intending to join Kayden for a caffeine fix, I hurry into the bathroom and take care of things like brushing my teeth and my brown hair, which I dare to imagine red again. Maybe, just maybe, I’m close to being me again. Just one mobster to kill, and a few other problems to solve, and I’ll be a redhead again. No matter how I try to convince myself brown is beautiful—and it is—it’s just not me.