Parisian Affair (28 page)

'Look,' Todd said. 'What do you think about
this place, huh? Looks like it might be really good.'

'I love it. It's so tiny and quaint,' Allegra
said. 'Let's look at the menu and see what they've got.'

They stood in the window, looking at the menu
posted there, oblivious to the attention focused on them from just
down the block.

'Looks like pretty basic French fare to me,'
Todd said.

'And reasonably priced, too,' Allegra said.
'Plus this place is practically next door to the hotel. Just think.
We can eat and then go collapse.'

Todd kissed her cheek. 'I don't know if we'll
collapse when we get back to the room. What do you think?'

She looked at him. 'No,' she said, 'I didn't
mean literally. What I meant was that the bed's a stone's throw
away.'

He kissed her again. 'You're definitely my
kind of woman.'

He opened the door, and they stepped inside
the small restaurant. The room was noisy with the lively
conversations of twenty or more diners, and the smells emanating
from the food were like perfume. The maitre d' approached them
immediately.

'Two for dinner?' he asked, looking from
Allegra to Todd.

Todd nodded. 'If you have a table, we'd love
it.'

'Follow me,' the maitre d' said, turning and
expertly skirting his way through the small maze of tables toward a
back corner. When he reached the tiny table, he turned to them.
'Will this suffice?' he asked.

'It's perfect,' Allegra said, noticing the
romantic candlelight and the little vase of fresh flowers on the
table.

After they were seated and had ordered a
carafe of the house white wine, they studied the menu. 'I think
I'll have a salad and the duck with seasonal fruit,' Allegra
said.

'Same here,' Todd said. 'Then the chocolate
soufflé for dessert.'

'Me, too,' she said.

Todd reached across the tiny table and took
her hand in his. 'I can't tell you how happy it makes me to be here
with you.'

Allegra smiled. 'I'm thrilled that you're
here, too,' she said. 'And you saved my neck today.'

'That was nothing,' he said. 'Even if Paul
had gotten away with the emerald, you'd have put two and two
together in no time, and Whitehead would've had him tracked down
some way.'

'Maybe,' she said, 'but you never know.
Anyway, tonight you're my hero.'

He gently squeezed her hand. 'You're always
my heroine.'

They ate and drank with relish, enjoying the
basic but delicious French cuisine, and when they were back out in
the cool air of the rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie, they walked
arm in arm.

They reached the hotel and went into the
little lobby with its ancient beams and antique furnishings. They
had failed to notice the men across the street, one directly across
from the hotel, speaking into a cell phone, the other down the
block, speed-dialing a number on his cell phone.

Mimi, a Provencal-patterned scarf knotted
around her gray hair and a heavy apron covering her from ample
bosom to arthritic knees, shuffled into the old mill's beamed
salon. In her thick, gnarled hands was a heavy silver tray laden
with smoked-salmon sandwiches made with trimmed toast, lots of
capers, thinly sliced onion, freshly squeezed lemon juice, and a
mere hint of Neufchatel cheese, just the way the princess liked
them. She'd heard laughter on her way in from the kitchen, and it
warmed her heart. There had been little reason for joy in her
mistress's life of late, and she was glad that Marcus
Setville-Penhurst—useless
perverti
she considered him to
be—could bring tears of laughter to the princess's eyes.

She set the tray down on the massive oak
coffee table, then straightened her back and cleared her
throat.

'What is it, Mimi?' Princess Karima asked.
Clad in a white silk caftan trimmed with gold braid, she lay
sprawled on one of the tapestry- upholstered sofas, her black hair
loose and flowing below her shoulders. She held a crystal
old-fashioned glass of Jack Daniel's in one hand and a cigarette in
the other. Kitty-corner to her, Marcus lay on a matching sofa,
holding a glass of Scotch on his stomach.

'The man called from Paris,' Mimi said. 'He
found the lighter you lost.'

Princess Karima bolted upright. 'Wonderful,'
she exclaimed. 'And?'

'He said not to worry. He will take care of
it for you.'

'Did he say when?'

Mimi shook her head. 'No, madame, but he
assured me it was not a problem.'

'Thank you, Mimi,' Princess Karima said. 'If
he should call back, I want to speak with him.'

'Yes, madame,' Mimi said. 'Will there be
anything else?' She looked from the princess to Marcus, who lay
staring at her with a blank expression.

'No, not tonight, Mimi,' the princess
said.

The old woman turned and shuffled back out of
the room.

'What was that all about?' Marcus asked when
Mimi had disappeared into the kitchen.

'I left a gold lighter in a restaurant the
other day,' Princess Karima told him airily. 'That must have been
the maitre d'. They'll send it to me here.'

'Remarkable,' Marcus replied. 'I should have
thought it would've been pawned the minute you were out the
restaurant door.'

'There are a few decent people left in this
world,' the princess said, swirling her drink around in its
glass.

Marcus laughed. 'Introduce me,' he said.
'I've yet to meet them.'

'I can't share everything with you, Marcus,
darling,' she replied. 'A woman must have her secrets if she
doesn't want to appear to be common.'

'How right you are,' Marcus said. 'Though I
do wish you would share the telephone number of that young man
you've told me about.'

Princess Karima threw her head back and
laughed. 'Never!' she said through her laughter. 'I would never see
either of you again.' She took a sip of her drink, then set the
glass down on the coffee table, her body tingling with
excitement.

How odd that Marcus should mention him
now,
she thought
. Just when I've had a call from him. He's
proving to be such a useful young man. In more ways than one. He
has found the young American woman, and if anybody on the planet
can get the emerald out of her, he can
. She lay back against
the soft cushions and took a long drag off her cigarette, looking
thoughtfully at the fire that burned on the ancient stone
hearth.

It had been very clever of her to hire the
young man for the job, she decided. He was handsome, charming,
smart, and very sexy, and he was also a heartless, merciless
hustler. Yes, he was perfect for the work, even if unproved outside
the bedroom. She could hardly wait for the morning, for he would
surely make his move tonight.

Ram flipped his tiny cell phone shut and
placed it on the table next to the sofa bed in the little apartment
on the rue des Rosiers. His lips smiled as he looked at the ceiling
thinking about Allegra Sheridan. What a stupid girl. She might be
beautiful in that American way, but she was also very careless. And
the man Ram assumed was her boyfriend must be a typical Neanderthal
American male. Probably clean-cut and good-looking, but thickheaded
and uncivilized, without a bone of sophistication in his body. They
were right in the neighborhood, only a few blocks away, when they
could have been out of the country. Gone. And the emerald gone with
them.

He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the
table and lit one, blowing a plume of smoke toward the ceiling
after inhaling deeply. He would have the emerald after all, he
thought. Plus, he could hardly wait to get his hands on the girl.
She had caused him no end of problems. He'd wasted the entire
evening with the police after Gerard had been killed, and he had no
more idea than they about who was responsible. The one thing he was
certain of was that it had to do with the emerald.

He wondered who else could be after it,
though it really didn't matter. What was important was that he
would have it soon. Kadar would see to that. He'd been on her trail
ever since she and the boyfriend had left the apartment on the rue
des Archives, and Kadar would figure out a way to get to them in
their little love nest at the hotel tonight. Otherwise, he would be
there to greet them when they left it in the morning. Like Ram,
Kadar had grown up in les Bosquets, the bleak projects that were
the perfect breeding ground for ruthless killers. Kadar would get
the job done.

He heard the toilet flush and looked toward
the bathroom. The girl opened the door and, when she saw him
staring at her, smiled tentatively before walking toward him, her
pert young breasts bouncing slightly against her skinny rib cage.
Under the sheer black thong that was the only thing she wore, he
could see that she was completely shaved, and he felt a powerful
stirring in his groin.

Hmmmm, the perfect antidote to all my
problems
, he thought, relishing her pale skin and nubile young
body, her long blond hair and hungry, painted mouth. She was
pathetic, really. Nothing more than a cheap, strung-out street
urchin. And he would make her beg for whatever he chose to give
her. She deserved it.

Yes, she is the perfect antidote. The
perfect receptacle for all of my frustrations, and nobody will miss
her after I'm finished
. He pulled the sheet off his muscular
body and pointed with an index finger to the weapon aroused between
his thighs. The girl's eyes suddenly widened in surprise, then he
saw her pause as a ripple of fear ran up her spine, but she
continued toward him, as he knew she would. The thought brought a
smile to his lips. Women. They were all alike. All of them had a
price, and this one was a bargain.

In the small lobby of the Hotel de la
Bretonnerie, the clerk behind the desk looked up at the young man
who approached from the door to the street. '
Oui, monsieur?
'
he said, taking in the young man's extraordinarily handsome
features and his expensive clothing.

'What room is Mademoiselle Sheridan in?' he
asked. 'I'm an old friend, and I would like to surprise her.'

The middle-aged clerk shook his head and
fussed with a lily in the elaborate flower arrangement that
decorated the desk. 'I'm sorry, monsieur,' he said. 'We have no
Mademoiselle Sheridan registered here.'

'Surely there's some mistake,' the young man
said, smiling, exposing his perfect white teeth. 'She told me that
she and her boyfriend would be here tonight and that I should meet
them here after dinner.'

The clerk shook his head again, and he smiled
indulgently. 'You said you wanted to surprise her, monsieur,
eh?'

'Well, not really. It's just that I'm a
little early, you see,' the young man lied glibly.

'Your friend must have meant another hotel,'
the clerk said. His hand fingered the fresh hundred-euro note that
Todd had slipped into his trouser pocket only a short time ago.

'She didn't mean another hotel,' the young
man persisted. 'I saw her here.'

The clerk's eyes became steely. For the first
time, he became aware of the hard glint in the young man's eyes and
the muscular body that his

clothes could hardly contain, and he
regretted that he was manning the desk by himself tonight. There
was no one else around with the exception of Mustapha, the bellman,
who was probably down in his basement room smoking.

'If you'll excuse me,' he said to the young
man, 'I have work to do, and I think you'd better leave now. Your
lady friend is not here.'

He turned his back to the young man and
slipped a message into one of the pigeonholes mounted on the wall.
Suddenly he felt his collar grabbed from behind, and he almost lost
his footing as he was jerked backward, as if he were a marionette.
He tried to shout for help, but he was choked by his own tie and
collar. As he drew his hands up to his neck, he felt only an
instant of excruciating pain. It shot through his entire skull as
if it had been crushed by an enormous rock. Then he slumped
unconscious to the floor.

Yamal put the pistol back in its shoulder
holster and went around the counter to look for the registration
book. Shoving the clerk out of the way with one foot, he found the
book in plain view on a shelf just below the countertop. Picking it
up, he looked at the day's entries. There weren't many, since it
was not the tourist season, and this was a tiny out-of-the- way
hotel.

His dark, glittering eyes were rewarded
almost immediately, for there it was: Sheridan/Hall, room 103. He
looked in the pigeonholes on the wall and saw the key was in their
box. He pocketed it. Then before he started up the steps, he went
to the glass door that gave onto the street. He flipped the brass
lock on it, shutting out any possible arrivals. Going up the
staircase a step at a time, he removed his pistol from its holster
once again and stopped briefly to make certain that the small
silencer was fitted on it properly.

At the top of the stairs, he saw a sign
indicating that room 103 was to the left. On silent feet he crept
down the carpeted hallway until he arrived at the door. He tried
the handle. Locked. Taking the key out of his trouser pocket, he
put it in the lock and turned it quickly and silently.

The door gave, and he pushed it open,
stepping into the darkened room and shoving the door shut behind
him at the same time. Holding the pistol in front of him with his
right hand, he reached with his left and felt on the wall for a
light switch. At first he felt nothing; then his hand brushed
across it. He pushed it with a finger, but nothing happened. The
room remained in darkness, except for the faint light coming in
from a

window across the room. He advanced toward
the foot of the bed, his pistol still out in front of him.