“Okay,good.”Her huge smile shattered the gloomy mood, and just like that, the joyful electric buzz she brought to every room returned.“How about tacos for lunch?I need to eat before I start studying for midterms.We could try that new place on Gayley and Kinross.They have a special, three for six dollars with a student ID.”
Ford could only nod, his insides a tangled mass of relief and dread.I’m so fucked.
Turned out he hadn’t been wrong.
A few weeks later, Tim Marinelli had attacked, Natalie had come within an inch of losing her life, and Ford had ended up with a new hole his body.Not to mention, he’d had to kill a man.
His first, and hopefully, his last.
After recovering from his wounds, he’d quit working close protection, taking over for his uncle as Director of Beaumont’s small European office, and moving to the other side of the world where he’d never expected to see Natalie again.
Clearly the Universe had other plans.
Needing a distraction, Ford cued upBoom Town—an oddly fascinating audiobook about the history of Oklahoma City that his dad had recommended—and settled in for the remaining three-hour drive to Turin.Once there, he returned the car that his assistant Sabine’s husband had rented for him in Lucerne, grabbed a sandwich, and caught the five o’clock train.Feeling relatively confident that there was no one on his trail, he sank into his window seat, set timers on his phone so he wouldn’t miss his connections, and slept.
It was nearly midnight when he walked through his front door and Blitz welcomed him home with a full body wag, thumping tail, and happy barks.
“Hey, girl.”He set down his bags and sank his hands into her soft fur, soothing both of them, and taking what felt like his first full breath since Natalie’s call on Tuesday night.
He barely managed to get off a text thanking his landlady Katja for watching over Blitz before collapsing into bed.He crashed so hard that he didn’t wake until a rough, warm tongue on the back of his hand roused him around eight the next morning.
Still bleary after throwing on some gym clothes and brushing his teeth, he grabbed the dog’s leash and took her for a jog.Over the last few weeks, Blitz had grown accustomed to the constant surveillance, taking her cues from Ford’s outward nonchalance, but this morning her hackles were up.She looked as twitchy as he felt, the too-familiar sensation of being watched returning like fingernails dragged down the back of his neck.
Unfortunately, even the fast pace she set couldn’t unravel the knot in his chest while Natalie and Henri consumed his thoughts.For their protection, he couldn’t simply call the farmhouse, but the inability to check up on her—especially given her injuries—gnawed at Ford.
He and Blitz ran through the large park that abutted his neighborhood.Once they reached the entrance to a cluster of upscale homes with gaslight-style streetlamps, broad trees, and narrow roads, he started his cooldown.Excited to be close to home, the mutt tugged him hard toward the guest house he rented at the back of Katja’s elegant property.Inside, he refilled Blitz’s water bowl and downed a glass of his own while watching her make an absolute mess of the kitchen floor in her haste to drink.
He’d thrown down the dishtowel and started wiping up the water with his foot when someone knocked on the door.No doubt Katja, welcoming him back with homemade croissants or something equally delicious.Aside from the nice yard for Blitz and the quiet neighborhood, the owner’s skill—and generosity—with pastries was a significant perk of living here.
But when he checked the peephole in the door, it wasn’t the statuesque, sixty-something woman who stood on the porch, but two men in suit coats.Behind him, Blitz growled.Any residual grogginess Ford had been feeling fled like a nervous rabbit.
Gripping the dog’s collar, he opened the door.
“Monsieur Beaumont?”The tall blond and his darker-haired friend held up badges and IDs declaring them part of the Sûreté—the detective branch of the cantonal police force.
“Oui.” Ford body-blocked Blitz, who’d started barking wildly, and responded in French.“How can I help you?”
Their identification appeared legit, but that didn’t mean they were safe.Patrick Deschamps—the Balkan crime boss who’d ordered the death of Henri’s wife—had deep pockets, and he couldn’t have lasted this long without buying off law enforcement.
The detective with dark hair and deep tan lines from wearing sunglasses eyed the dog warily.“Can you please step outside?We need to ask you a few questions.”
Ford’s pulse tripled, but what choice did he have?He slipped out and closed the door behind him, leaving Blitz inside, whining and barking and scratching at the wood.
“Monsieur Beaumont,” the blond detective said, producing a set of handcuffs as the darker man reached for Ford’s arm, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Henri Michaud.”
CHAPTER FOUR
NATALIE HAD BEEN stuck with the grumpy doctor for two days now, and while her physical condition had improved, their relationship had not.
She wasn’t afraid of him anymore.He provided whatever care she needed, but he huffed and scowled and stomped through every minute of it, often muttering under his breath.Or worse, complaining to her in bitter French, as he was now, rambling endlessly in a stream of unintelligible words.All this despite the fact that she’d been perfectly courteous and openly grateful from the very beginning.
She set down the—admittedly delicious—pastry he’d provided for her second breakfast outside of her bedroom, and locked eyes with the man across the wooden dining table.“I’m not any happier about this situation than you are, you know.”She’d been reluctant to say anything yesterday, but she had much more energy this morning.And, honestly, she’d had enough of his attitude.
He never responded to her in English, but she was pretty sure he understood most of it, and at her words, he stopped his complaints.
With his attention on her, she continued.“I didn’t ask Ford to dump me here.I assume he’s trying to protect me somehow, but I have no idea if my family and friends know I’m safe, or what happened to the friends I was with when I was shot—” Henri’s eyebrows rose, though he had seen her wound up close “—or how long he expects me to stay here.I know I’ve messed up your quiet life, but honestlyI’mworried, and scared, and angry too, and glaring and complaining aren’t helping either of us.Can wepleasecall a truce?”
His frown changed from irritated to contemplative, maybe even a little abashed.
