The Paris Game (3 page)

“Give me a moment.”

She nodded, turning her head to watch him walk into the bedroom.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Perron?” It was Bates.

“You’d better have another offer or you’re wasting my time,” Marc warned him.

“Of course.” His voice sounded hurt and a bit resentful. “My client has authorized me to offer you forty thousand pounds for what we discussed.”

“Much better than your first offer.”

“You’ll receive payment on delivery,” Bates continued. Marc laughed.

“Who do you think you’re trying to scam?” Marc asked. “Half up front or no deal.”

He heard Bates mutter to himself. “All right.”

“I’ll be in touch regarding my account,” Marc told him. “Until I have the money, I won’t lift a finger.”

Bates agreed and Marc hung up. He dialed another number, one he hadn’t used in quite some time.

“Girard, I have a job for you.” He filled the man in on the details. “Soon would be best, even this weekend. It’ll be busy.”

He returned to the sitting room and found Madelaine relaxing on the sofa.

“Are you going to call room service?” she asked. “I’m starving.”

“Soon, ma petite. There’s something I need to do first.” He drew her onto his lap and her hands reached for his belt, undoing his trousers so she could slip a hand into his briefs, around his cock. She leaned over to the side table and pulled out a condom from the drawer before she brought him out, stroking her hand over his length, then rolled the condom over his erection. She settled onto his lap with a delighted shiver. His hands grasped her hips and he thrust up into her tight heat. Her gasps in his ear made him tighten his grip and she whimpered.

“Harder,” she pleaded. His fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her head back so he could taste the hollow between her clavicles. She arched against him and took him deep. He held her immobile as he fucked her roughly, dragging hoarse cries from her as she came. She clenched around him and he spilled into her, a shudder racking his body. She slumped in his embrace and he rested his forehead on her shoulder, catching his breath.

“Now we can call room service,” he told her with a chuckle.

Chapter 3

Sera left her tiny garret apartment in Montmartre when the sun was high overhead, illuminating even her small winding street. A malnourished ginger tabby cat stared at her from atop a battered cardboard box as she walked by on her way to the metro station at Abbesses. She emerged into the bustle of the boulevard St. Germain, crossing the street to her final destination. The cathedral of St. Germain-des-près had been her sanctuary since she’d first come to Paris. All the noise from outside fell away as the door closed behind her.

She made her way to the chapel of the Virgin, the walk to the furthest point of the church calming her. She took a couple of euros from her trouser pocket and deposited them in the donation box before she lit a taper.

Please let me find enough money to pay Royale, she thought, watching the tiny flame flicker into existence. She found herself a spot and knelt at the prie-dieu, taking her rosary from her bag. The jet beads glinted in the low light. She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross, whispering the Apostles Creed and the Our Father before reciting the first Hail Mary, her fingers marking the spot on the bead. Her grandmother had tried to teach her the prayers in Latin, but she still preferred them in French. They felt more substantial in her mind, more powerful. Not that her grandmother would approve of her praying to the Virgin after what she’d done, and would have to do again. She repeated her wish between each of the rote prayers, slowly counting through the five decades. She let the beads hang from her fingers for a few moments as she looked up at the statue in the chapel. Mary’s serene face looked down on her, luminous in the sun shining through the stained glass windows.

Sera rose to her feet and tucked her rosary back into her bag, feeling rested and ready to face the rest of her day. She still had several hours before she had to be at work, and her time was her own. She squinted into the sunlight as she emerged from the church and nearly stumbled over a young woman with a sketchbook across her knees. She laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

The young woman glanced up, brushing her auburn hair away from her face. Her movement left a smudge of charcoal on her lightly tanned cheek.

“It’s no problem.” She gave Sera a shy smile. Her French was hesitant and accented. She hadn’t been in Paris long.

Sera caught a glimpse of her sketchbook and couldn’t help gawking. The girl had nearly finished a drawing of the Deux Magots café in careful detail. She bent to look closer.

“You’re very talented,” she remarked. The young woman smiled again, seeming less shy.

“Thank you, Madame. I really should be working on my thesis, but the day was too nice to stay inside.”

Sera perched on the step next to her. The girl’s looks reminded her of Edouard’s Paula, slim and delicate, but she had a calmer mien. What would Edouard think of her? She couldn’t help being a matchmaker, especially with Edouard. If she’d had a brother, she’d have done the same.

“Are you studying art?”

“Art history,” the girl replied. “I chose my thesis especially so I could come to Paris.” She held out a hand. “I’m Sophie, by the way.”

Sera clasped her hand. “Sera.”

“Are you from Paris?” Sophie asked.

“Not originally. What about you?”

“Ottawa, though I wish I could have been born here. There’s just so much to see.”

“It’s a lovely city. Have you toured around a bit?”

“Not nearly enough. I’ve been here less than a week,” Sophie confided. “And most of that week has been work.”

“You should come to the club tonight, take in some music,” Sera suggested. Edouard would be working and it would be the perfect opportunity. Already she knew Edouard would like her; Paula had no interest in art and he’d complained regularly about missing exhibitions to make her happy.

“What sort of club is it?” Sophie looked down at her sketchbook, tapping her pencil against the edge.

“It’s a jazz club called Le Chat Rouge,” Sera replied. “Say you’ll come, Sophie. I’d love to have a new ear for my performance.”

Sophie looked at her with a kind of awe, her eyes wide. “You’re a singer?”

“I am. Will you come?”

“I could.” Sophie’s enthusiasm faltered. “Where is it? I don’t want to get lost.”

Sera dug in her bag for a pen and a scrap of paper. She jotted down the address. “It’s not too far from here, actually.” She wrote out directions from the metro stop. Sophie looked over the slip of paper.

“I think I can find it,” she said. “Should I wear something nice?”

“You could wear jeans, but there’s nothing wrong with something fancier,” Sera replied. Edouard would love her, even in jeans. He just had to.

“I’ll come up with something.”

Sera rose. “I’ll look for you tonight. The band starts around nine. À bientôt, Sophie.”

Sera could hear the murmur of the
growing crowd. Friday nights were her favourite; she loved singing for a full house. It made her fantasies of success seem real, and her cut of the cover charge would give her enough to pay Royale for another week. €300. She’d just make it without leaving herself destitute.

A brisk knock at the door announced Benoît’s presence.

“Are you ready?”

“Just about.” Sera leaned forward, picking up her face powder. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Benoît’s reflection grinned. “Two minutes,” he told her. The door shut behind him.

Sera applied her powder and made the final touches to her makeup. She rose and smoothed down her dress. It clung to her curves and dipped to give her more than a hint of cleavage in front, and left bare an expanse of her pale back. Perfect to impress the crowd, and Jeremy Gordon, if he decided to return. She’d spend the evening with him if she could. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror and put a sultry smile on her face before she opened the door.

She strode out into the club, scanning the crowd for familiar faces as she approached the stage. Benoît held out a hand and helped her up the short stair. Serge and Patrice were already there, talking in low tones. Patrice cradled his cello as he talked, gesturing with the bow as he made some point to Serge. Edouard came to the edge of the stage, holding a glass of water. She bent to take it from him.

“Look for a slim girl with dark auburn hair,” she told him.

“Why?”

“Just trust me. You’ll like her, I’m sure of it.” His aggrieved expression amused her. “You won’t regret it, Edouard.”

“I’ll watch for her,” he conceded. “What’s her name?”

“Sophie. She’s Canadian. And she’s an artist—just like you.” His expression softened and she thought she saw a hint of a smile. He nodded and headed back to the bar.

She set the water at the side of the stage, tucked behind one of the small speakers. As she stepped up to the microphone, she glanced at the band. Benoît gave her a nod and she heard the opening bars of '
Le Vagabond'
.

The first lines came easily and she saw the club’s patrons turn their heads to listen. Even Jean paused in his work, holding a snifter of cognac. Her confidence swelled and she allowed a small smile to hover on her lips between verses, widening as she saw Jeremy Gordon moving from the bar to a better vantage point. Perfect. Near him, Sophie waited her turn for a drink. Sera met Edouard’s gaze across the bar and knew he’d spotted her as well. She watched them until the song finished and she had to turn her attention back to the band.

Benoît had chosen a song by Dietrich for their next piece, one of her favourites. It seemed appropriate to sing about falling in love again as she watched Sophie hover by the bar with her drink, Edouard speaking to her every time he had a lull in his work. Satisfied, she let her gaze wander.

The flicker of a cigarette lighter in the gloom caught her eye. It flickered again and held, illuminating the face of a man she hadn’t seen in weeks. Marc Perron lit his cigarette and his features faded back into the shadows. Not that she needed bright sunlight.

He would be elegantly dressed—a suit, pressed shirts with cufflinks, and depending on his mood, a tie. For all his apparent fastidiousness, he was never a dandy. Even now, moving amongst the crowd to stand at the rail, clear to her gaze, he confidently filled his space. He had a certainty about him, even when they’d first met in that tiny bar years ago. He’d beckoned her over, introduced himself, and had her telling him all her troubles before the night was over. Tonight, he gave her a hungry look that caused her to catch her breath in the midst of the phrase she was singing. She saw that half smile of amusement as he sipped a glass of wine. No one else had noticed her distraction, but he knew.

She pulled herself away, looking anywhere but at him. She found Jeremy Gordon at a table to her left, tucked into a corner, and he looked relaxed, watching her. Sophie had found a small table for two. She’d see Sophie, and then spend time with Jeremy. He might be generous enough to buy her a few drinks, or dinner. That was where she would go at her break, she resolved, and she would ignore Marc completely.

The music drew to a close after several more songs and she bowed briefly to the audience to acknowledge their applause. She glanced at Marc before she could stop herself and he raised his glass to her. She looked away. A hand loomed from the darkness beside the stage and she let the man help her down to the floor. She looked up at him as her eyes adjusted and smiled at Jeremy.

“Bravo, mademoiselle.” He bent to kiss her hand.

“Merci. I’m so glad you came.”

“So am I.” He lowered their linked hands, but didn’t let go. “May I buy you a drink?”

“Afterwards? I promised my friend I’d see her at the break, and there’s not much time.”

“Later then. I’ll come find you.” He brushed her cheek with his lips and they parted. Sera wove through the crowd to Sophie’s table, where she was greeted with a look of outright hero worship.

“You were incredible!” Sophie clapped her hands together. “I’m so glad I came.”

“It’s not over yet. There’s a half hour break and then we’ll do one more set.” Sera took the free chair and glanced at Sophie’s empty glass. “We should get you another.”

“I would have gone, but I thought I’d lose my spot.” Sophie leaned forward. “That bartender is so sweet. Do you know him well?”

“Edouard’s a great guy,” Sera agreed. “He went through a rough spell and I know he’d love your attention.”

“He seemed to.” Sophie blushed. “I’ll try to get back there during the next set.” She craned her neck to glance at the bar. “He’s too busy now.”

“Things will slow down during the second set.” Sera moistened her dry lips and wished she had her glass of water with her, but she’d left it onstage.

“Looking for this?” A familiar hand set a glass of water in front of her. She would have known his hand anywhere, even without the silver cufflinks that glinted against his dark pinstriped jacket. That hand had bruised her, caressed her, comforted her, and had brought her to screaming orgasm more times than she could remember.