“No questions, Paul Bennett.”
The heat in the room, the wine, the touch of her hands as she unbuttoned his shirt answered the only question that mattered.
In the shadows of that small room with only the glow of the fire from the cast-iron stove, they undressed each other. Beneath the sound of the rain on the roof, they came together, skin against skin, their breaths mingling, his hands in her hair, her legs wrapping around his.
Whispers, words that made no sense, or needed to. Touches, as old as time, as new as that moment. Then flesh against flesh, a silent question in the stillness of that room, and then he was moving inside her.
“Now I know,” she whispered afterward, sprawled across him, their bodies slick in the warm cocoon of that room.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“What lies beneath the kilt,” she replied, making him smile.
“Are you certain?” he asked, opening one eye to look at her.
She reached beneath the blanket, her hand closing over him.
“You must show me again,” she whispered huskily, her mouth moving over his, even as she moved over him, her breasts brushing his chest as his head went back at the things she was doing.
“Micheleine!” he whispered, different this time, not a question, his fist closing around her hair. Her answer was in the heat of her body as she took him inside her.
“When will it finally be over?” she asked, as they lay together that next morning.
“The build-up will take weeks,” he replied, what he had heard from Dunnett, not exactly a secret any longer.
“That will take us into winter.” He looked over at her. The comfort of a fire, a bed, and four walls. Not a cold cot or soggy blankets.
They should have slept well the night before. Except that they hadn't slept at all. They'd made love, hands reaching, needing the contact, needing those moments when they came together. Human touch, the assurance that the world as they knew it wasn't completely gone. Hope.
“Will you be safe?” He had tried not to ask it, knowing full well they were both headed into uncertain places. But after the past hours...
She shook her head as she came to him then, pulling him down for her kiss, her body opening to him, and all he wanted was this.
“No questions,” she whispered.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
PRESENT DAY, LE NOIR, PARIS
The rain had let up.
The streets filled with people in spite of the cold—tourists, locals, and those who lived in the shadows—Paris by night, the gleam of the Eiffel Tower over the skyline, that gleaming glass pyramid outside the Louvre museum, admired for its architectural simplicity, loathed by Parisians of all generations, an insult in the midst of historical French culture, the Seine, a river with two identities—the right bank lined with exclusive shops, and the iconic left bank with its Bohemian history that included world famous artists and writers, and the Rue St. Denis with its prostitutes and junkies.
Two hundred years earlier, Paris had collected them all—misfits, anarchists, revolutionaries. Now there was a new generation of misfits, anarchists, and revolutionaries. They were called terrorists, and they left their mark on the city.
The call finally came as they sat outside the all-night Café. The message was brief. Anthony tucked the phone back into his jacket pocket.
“He'll meet with us. But he won't be at the club until around midnight.”
James nodded. “I want to make another stop first.”
The Eiffel Tower loomed to the east as Anthony eased the motorcycle around a corner a half block away, and cut the motor.
Farther down the boulevard, the gallery occupied the ground floor of one of those iconic 17th-century buildings spread throughout Paris, with an alley along the back. They left the motorbike in the alcove of a building and walked that short distance.
The front entrance was locked with the faint glow from the alarm system keypad in the reception area of the gallery. The hours for the gallery were stenciled in gold lettering on the glass beside the door with a number to call for an appointment.
