If someone told Dree that for twenty bucks, she could sleep with the hottest, nicest man she’d ever met, who could probably curl a fifty-pound barbellwith his tongue,she would have been halfway to the ATM before they could draw a breath to tell her they were just kidding.
So, why should she be all concerned if the money were flowing in the other direction? She needed the money. Augustine seemed like he had plenty of it.
She would just stuff all crazy down into the happy box in her head and act like nothing was wrong.
Besides, she’d gotten barely a peek at the black-inked tattoo that covered his back, and she wanted to know what it was.
Chapter Ten
St. Augustine’s Curse
Maxence
Maxence typed the following texts into his phone:
To Quentin Sault—What the hell are you doing? Did you send those commandoes after me? Who ordered them?
To Julien Bodilsen—I haven’t seen anything. Have you gotten her out yet? What is Hannover planning?
And the last one.
This one was the hardest.
To Father Moses—Your perception is correct. We should discuss my vocation and what I believed to be a Call from God to do His work to make the world better. Maybe I’m not that kind of man.
Maxence waited as patiently as he could while Dree was in the bathroom and caught up on several more personal texts he’d received. He assured Casimir he was alive, and Gen mentioned in a text that Arthur was “away.”
Afterward, Max ended up pacing through the living room.
His skin itched with wanting his little blonde.
His body heated, and he opened one more button at his throat. He’d already taken off the suit jacket and hung it over a chair.
He knew whom he needed to call.
Texting Quentin had been a stopgap measure that wasn’t going to keep them safe. Quentin couldn’t countermand orders from above him.
Max tapped a contact on his phone and listened to the rings.
A man’s voice answered, “What the hell do you want?”
Max’s other hand curled into a fist because just hearing his older brother’s voice made him want to punch Pierre in the face again. In Max’s defense, Pierre’s smug face was inherently punchable. “Call off your goons.”
Pierre’s sniff of disdain echoed through the phone. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You sent them. Corporal Rossi was right there in front. They’re your guys. Call them off, or I’ll punch Rossi in front of the Paris Opera House. The cell phone footage will make every news outlet, and everyone in the council will turn against you because they’ll assume you sent them to take me out.”
“I did no such thing.”
“It doesn’t matter who gave the order. You have ultimate authority right now. Recall them, or I’ll launch a campaign to take it away from you. I’ll come back andtalkto people about it.You know I could.”
Pierre’s voice was still a bored drawl. “Quentin told me that you’d been spotted in Paris, but I haven’t sent anyone, either to look after you or to impede you. Quite honestly, I’m too damn busy to worry aboutyou.”
The phone clicked in Max’s ear as the connection broke.
Yeah, he’d call them off. Pierre was just establishing his plausible deniability that he’d sent them in the first place.
Maxence checked to make sure the door’s locks had latched properly one more time and called down to the front desk. “Security update. I have no visitors scheduled, and I need upgraded security measures.”
