Gritting through the agony coursing through her leg, she limped one step ahead of Pascal down the hall toward the kitchen, avoiding his rough grasp. A cook or someone else in the household staff might be in the kitchen. Their presence could soften Pascal’s aggressive treatment of her. They wouldn’t actually help her. She wasn’t that optimistic. They’d be risking their own lives to save hers and, honestly, she didn’t want another death on her hands. The blood she was responsible for already made Lady Macbeth’s hands appear downright sterile.
Hope rushed through her at the sight of a woman by the counter until the woman’s dress and demeanor came into focus. Her long straight brown hair cascaded across her shoulders, her plunging neckline exposed double Ds, and her tight skirt revealed sexy stripper legs. The kind only seen spread apart from the back as the woman bent over to present her ass to a room full of horny men. Definitely not a cook. She had an arrogant manner merely pouring hot water into a cup. This sensual woman must be Luc’s latest bed partner. She was more his type than Alex was. Slutty and, most likely, easily deceived.
“Good, you’re back.” The stripper spoke in the Queen’s English to Pascal. “I’m going to need…” She stopped talking when she noticed Alex.
A casual stroll of her eyes over Alex’s pathetic wedding attire and cast caused her to smirk. “Bonjour. Tu es qui?” The words came out slow and pronounced in an exaggerated manner. Was she sucky at foreign languages or speaking to Alex like a child?
“Don’t bother.” Pascal spoke in barely conversant English. “She speaks better English than you. Her French is better than yours, too. She’s American and Luc’s new bride.”
“New bride?” The woman’s eyes widened a smidgen, but soon returned to a more relaxed exterior.
Without showing a hint of jealousy at being introduced to her husband’s lover, Alex smiled and put out her hand. “Hi. I’m Alex.”
The woman’s eyebrows raised a fraction; perhaps she’d heard of her. She gripped Alex’s hand and stared into her eyes, looking for something. “I’m Nicola. Nice to meet you. I’m a guest of Luc’s.”
Simon’s Nicola? Alex needed more information. This connected Simon and Luc in a way she couldn’t piece together. Had Simon set her up? She didn’t know what to believe.
“Nice to meet you.”
“What happened to your leg?” For a moment, Nicola appeared to send pity in Alex’s direction, but as Pascal approached them, the expression turned to conceit. “You’re not Luc’s type at all. He tends to prefer sophistication and elegance in his girlfriends.”
“Luckily, I’m not his girlfriend. Too much pressure to perform. As his wife, I’m stuck with him until one of us dies, hopefully sooner than later. Therefore, there’s not much need to impress him. You, on the other hand, conform to all of Luc’s specs—tall, lean, full of self-importance. He’ll have replaced you by the end of the week.”
Nicola ignored her digs. “This makes an interesting twist on our relationship. I’ll discuss it with him tonight in bed.”
“Be my guest. In fact, I’d prefer it if you kept him entertained every night until you’re replaced with an eighteen-year-old centerfold.”
“My dear Mrs. Perrault, he’ll never be bored with me.” Nicola leaned against the counter and took a sip of tea, a woman in for the duration.
The rusty gears in Pascal’s pea-sized brain must have kicked in, because he stepped between them as if breaking up a bar fight. The realization that Luc’s wife and mistress maybe shouldn’t cross paths finally dawned on him. “You won’t be seeing much of each other. Mrs. Perrault will be staying in her room until her husband returns.”
He reached down and lifted Alex off the ground, clasping her crutches in one of his giant hands. A quick exit to separate the sparring women. Perhaps Pascal’s mistake would cause him to end up at the bottom of the Seine. A cheerful thought.
“Tell Luc to keep out of my room when you see him.” She waved to Nicola as Pascal hustled her from the kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Simon never demanded anything from Henry. So when he told Henry to fly direct to Charles de Gaulle instead of Heathrow, Henry found the quickest route and jumped on a plane.
The taxi dropped him off at a low-budget hotel a few blocks from one of the seedier sections in Paris. A half-lit neon sign advertised the Hotel Dupré, a beige stone establishment covered in soot and grime. He scanned the deserted neighborhood for any sign of life. A lack of cafés, restaurants, and storefronts kept tourists away from this small, dark back street. After paying the driver, he lifted the two suitcases he’d been lugging around since Atlanta and headed to the entrance.
The room on the third floor appeared as dirty and gray as the outside facade of the building. Simon opened the door for his brother. He blended well into the environment in worn jeans and a black T-shirt, and carrying a cold beer in his hand.
His expression at seeing Henry’s bruised face courtesy of the Northrop security team wasn’t pity. It bordered on amusement. “What happened to you?”
“I met Alex’s family.”
Simon grinned and handed Henry the beer, grabbing another from a cooler under the window without a view. “I’m glad you’re in one piece and could make it here. We have a lot to discuss.”
“Starting with Alex’s true identity.” Henry took a swig of the cold beer. The drink slid down his throat, giving him a needed touch of nourishment.
“Boston blue blood. It fits her profile.”
Henry shook his head. “I’m supposed to be the expert on reading people, but you predicted this outcome. How the hell did I miss all the signs?”
“I was thinking with my head, and your brains had migrated below your belt, a rare occurrence for you. I, on the other hand, have years of experience thinking with my knob.” Simon rummaged around near the closet and tossed a bag of chips to Henry, opening a jar of nuts for himself. “I can’t believe you traveled all the way to her father’s house in Massachusetts, and he gave you the cold shoulder. Although if someone had just murdered my head of security, I suppose I’d be apprehensive, too.”