Walking The Edge: A Romantic Suspense/Espionage Thriller (Corpus Brides Trilogy Book 1) (14 page)

White binding with gold lettering on it.

The thought materialized in her head out of the blue, and, not pausing to question it, she allowed her gaze to roam the wooden shelves for anything fitting the description.

She found one such small book on a ledge at her knee level. The manuscript sat propped at the extreme right of the shelf, hidden by a bigger hardback volume.

She pulled the book out and stared at the nondescript cover, certain she’d found what had drawn her there.

“What is it?” Gerard asked.

Looking up at him, she shrugged. “I have no idea.”

She opened the book and thumbed through the pages quickly. Nothing caught her attention, so what had drawn her to this particular tome? To come all this way and find nothing? No, she refused to accept it!

She turned the cover this way and that, thinking maybe she had missed a page during her first search. The binding shifted under her fingers.

The sound of a metallic object hitting the marble floor with a sharp
ping
startled them both.

She peered down, her gaze drawn to the glint of what looked like something made of steel, lying at her feet. She crouched and scooped it up.

A key.

*

Gerard smothered a curse. “What in God’s name...?”

Had they just stepped onto the set of an old mystery movie, complete with hidden compartments and secret rooms?

On Amelia’s face, the surprise widening her eyes must mirror his own.

So she hadn’t known the key lay here. Yet, she had led them here, chosen this specific book, all with a frightening certainty.

How had she known? Things well beyond their frame of understanding had to be at play.

“Put it away,” he said.

She blinked, but otherwise didn’t move.

He grabbed the key from her hand and replaced the book where they had found it. Then, without a word, he pocketed the metal scrap and took her arm.

“Gerard, what’s going on?” she asked as he led her away, out of the atrium, down the steps, and all the way to his car.

“Don’t talk,” he mumbled.

He waited until they sat safely in the Peugeot, on the way back to his place, before he spoke again.

“I don’t know who you are or what happened there, but we’re overdue for a talk.”

“We need to talk? Really?” She slammed the heel of her hand against the dashboard. “Damn it, Gerard. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since the minute I walked up to you in that bistro!”

Then she clammed up and stared out of the windshield, arms crossed in front of her chest. They both remained silent through the remainder of the trip, and didn’t speak until they’d reached the garage and he’d pulled the door closed.

She sprang onto him the second he turned her way. Guess she did itch for that talk. When it happened under her terms...and whenever it suited
her
. Not him.

“I told you,” she started, “that I don’t recall who I am.”

She still thought he’d buy such bullshit? “Yet, you remembered enough to find the key, whatever that’s supposed to be for.”

“I didn’t remember. I
dreamed
about it after I took the LSD!”

Did she even hear herself? “You want me to believe a damn psychotropic drug showed you the way like a light-beam falling on a dark path?”

“Exactly.”

He shook his head. “Try again. I’m not buying it.”

“Lord, you are so exasperating,” she shouted as she tugged at her hair and turned away from him.

If she thought she’d get away so easily, she had another think coming. He grabbed her arm and spun her around, pulling her to him in the process.

She landed smack against his chest, her face tilting up, eyes wide, lips moist and parted.

“
Putain
.” Gerard finally let loose the curse he’d held in since their little field trip to the library began. He craved to kiss her when she looked at him like this. He lowered his head, claimed her mouth in a forceful, punishing kiss. He wanted her to hurt, to burn with all the uncertainty and turmoil that bubbled and scorched inside him. She twisted and turned him so easily it made him mad whenever he paused to think about the effect she had on him.

Her hands came up to his shoulders, and, with a force he wouldn’t have credited her with, she pushed him away. She marched to the couch, plopped down with a thump, and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Fuck you for thinking you can get away scot-free by kissing me and trying to seduce me. We were talking here, and you are going to give me some answers for once,” she threw out.

She had a point; he better control himself. Things were already enough out of his grasp.

He ran a hand in his hair and cursed. Answers. She’d been intent on them right from the start. What did he tell her? How much did he need to withhold, and how much could he trust her? The more he found out about her, the more muddied the waters grew, the more complicated the situation became.

His mobile rang, shattering the tension between them. He punched a button to take the call. “What?” he barked in greeting.

“Where the hell are you?” Rashid snapped in reply. “The head honcho’s here asking for you.”

Gerard sighed. Just what he needed, the
commissaire divisionnaire
on his back. No way could he worm his way out of meeting with him. “I’ll be right there.”

He looked down at her on the couch. Her eyes blazed with fury and reproach.

He would leave her in the lurch, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He had a job,
bon sang
, and one hell of a case already hanging like Damocles’ sword over his head. Not to mention the attempt on his life a few days ago. Add to it all the complication of a woman who didn’t know who she was, and he had the perfect recipe for a fucked-up mess.

“I promise we’ll talk when I get back,” he said.

She didn’t answer; her eyes narrowed as her chest rose and fell with her rapid breathing. She must be reeling in her temper, and as much as he didn’t want to be there when the clouds opened, releasing the bolts of her wrath, he owed her some slack. And some answers.

“I promise,” he added, meaning it fully.

She finally lowered her gaze after a few, very long, seconds. “Fine.”

“Stay here,” he said, walking to the car.

She jumped off the sofa. “Are you out of your mind? I’m going to the hotel—”

“Where you can do as you wish, maybe pop a few more pills, get onto another trip again?” He reached her side in three long strides, his hand closing on her arm before he flung her back onto the couch.

Daggers of fury shot from her blue eyes. “How will I take the damn drug, Gerard, when I’m sure you’ve disposed of it all?”

“Good thinking. But I know you. How will I be certain you won’t go out and find some other narcotic? For someone not from Marseille, you know remarkably well how to procure illegal stuff.”

“So what are you gonna do?” she asked. “Handcuff me somewhere here?”

He leaned over her on the sofa, his face inches from hers. “Now that’s a good idea.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she asked huskily as her eyelids grew hooded in a perfect rendition of come-hither bedroom eyes.

Don’t make me think of that!
“I’d make sure you liked it, too.”

Their gazes locked, and then she sighed and looked down. She reached out for his wrist and brought his hand up so she could glance at his watch.

“I swear,” she said. “If you’re not back, or if you haven’t as much as called me by one o’clock, I’m getting out of here.”

“Deal,” he replied.

***

Marseille.
Vieux Port

Tuesday, December 18. 12:58 p.m.

At two minutes to one, he called.

“Hey,” he drawled when she answered his landline.

“You kept the key with you.”

She didn’t beat around the bush, for sure. “Yes.”

“So even if I gallivanted around, I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of finding the lock that key opens.”

He remained silent, stifling a smile.

“Fuck you,” she shouted.

He chuckled. Her insults could bring so much lightness to his day. “How’s your morning so far?”

“Boring. Your daytime soaps are all mind-numbing.”

He smiled. “That’s what soaps are supposed to do, numb your mind.”

“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” she chided him.

The barb stung. “So I’ve gathered thus far,” he defended himself. “What do you want for lunch?”

“What’s on offer?”

A good romp in the sheets.
Come to think of it, who needed sheets?

Get your mind out of the gutter, Gerard
. “How does
couscous
and lamb
tagine
sound?”

“You know what? A conversation sounds even better,” she said.

“I haven’t forgotten. I gave you my word we’d talk.”

“Then get your sexy arse here ASAP.”

He laughed. “Will do,” he said before he cut the call.

They’d almost had a ‘normal’ conversation, had chatted as if he were a man who’d called his woman from work during the day.

Bad line of thought. He couldn’t afford to go there. Too many dark, shadowy areas where
this
woman was concerned.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and fingered the small key. He took it out and stared at the metal. What did it open? A good many possibilities came to his mind, but how to choose one from all of them? The key looked nondescript, which didn’t help to clue him in to any direction.

Maybe Amelia would have one of her flashes when she took a good look at it. He snorted. Flashes and visions. She had led them straight to that book at the library, though.

Gerard didn’t kid himself. As an undercover cop, he knew the workings of such tactics to store objects or information. And that’s where it got complicated—these amounted to tricks of the trade for undercover purposes. Or for secret service officers.

How did she know of such tradecraft? If she’d remembered it all through a dream, it must mean someone had taught her those things previously. How? And who? She claimed she didn’t remember. As much as he did believe her, he had no way of making certain she wasn’t simply acting...

No, she couldn’t be. Something about her rang too true. He couldn’t explain it—call it a gut feeling—and as a cop, he recognised the times when he simply had to go with his instincts.

But food first. He had to go get the darn
couscous
and lamb
tagine
, assuming the woman he would call upon had made the dish today.

He had a feeling she had, since it represented a staple of her kitchen. But, he wouldn’t know unless he paid her a visit, would he?

That’s how he found himself in
La Castellane
a short while later. He left the Peugeot on the curb in front of her building, knowing no one would even nick the paint, let alone try to steal it. As a child of this
cité
, that fact commanded the respect of the petty thugs of the neighbourhood. Being a police officer had nothing to do with it—in fact, they gave him hell for being a cop. But origins took precedence, and he’d never tried to get the stronger upper hand on the people there, instead treating them as equals whenever he addressed or met with them. Such treatment had further won their esteem.

Taking the steps two at a time, he headed to the fifth floor to her flat. Khadijah ‘Katy’ Bashir—the woman he had come to call “Mother” when he was growing up.

The smell of cooking caramel drifted to his nostrils when he stopped at her door. She must be making the thick syrup women used instead of wax in this particular part of the world. He knew all about the intricacies of the gooey mass, having had three ‘sisters’ around him who all but monopolized the sitting room on the days when they tried making the house into a spa. He’d been turned off the idea of caramel as a sweet treat after watching the women in his life back then use the sticky balls of cooked sugar as an instrument of self-induced female body torture. The sharp rip when they pulled the wax and hair off their skin? He shuddered—criminals would confess right away if he threatened them while that sound resonated in the background.

Gerard didn’t knock. Instead, he used the key he always carried with him. The aroma of the caramel engulfed him when he stepped inside, as did the drone of the television playing the soap Katy had been addicted to since he’d been a young boy. That they still managed to tug the storyline along amazed him. Katy said they were like family. Of course they would be—she spent every single day of her life with them in her living room.

“
Maman? C’est moi
.” He closed the door behind him.

“In the kitchen,” she yelled back over the buzz of the television.