She laughed softly, the sound doing something dangerous to my pulse. "Should I give you my Christmas list, too? Santa could use a talking to."
"Sure. After."
I ended the call before she could hear the smile in my voice and headed downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
Ellsworth was in the sitting room, reading what looked like a first edition of something in French, leather-bound and probably older than both of us combined. The man had taste. And money. Or worked for people who did.
He looked up as I entered, closing the book with one finger marking his place, expression calm and knowing.
"Mr. Black."
"I need help finding someone. In Paris."
Ellsworth set the book down without hesitation, no questions asked, no judgment in his eyes about why I needed this or what I planned to do with the information.
Professional.
"Follow me."
He led me down the hall, past rooms I hadn't explored yet—a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves, what looked like a study with a massive desk, another sitting room decorated in shades of cream and gold—into a wing I hadn't even realized existed. The building was bigger than it looked from the outside. Much bigger.
At the end of the hallway, he stopped in front of what looked like ordinary wallpaper. Expensive, sure—silk damask in a subtle pattern—but ordinary.
Then he pressed a specific spot near the crown molding.
Something clicked.
A door hissed open, revealing a seam I never would've spotted on my own.
A Sanctuary indeed.
I followed him inside, curiosity overriding caution.
The room was small, maybe ten by twelve, but packed with equipment that made my pulse quicken with recognition. Comms gear mounted on the walls in professional racks. Three computers on a custom-built desk, monitors glowing softly. Wires and receivers. Satellite uplinks with encrypted channels. Everything you'd need for surveillance or intelligence work. Military-grade stuff, not the civilian bullshit you could buy at electronics stores.
Not big, but professionally stocked by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Someone had money. Serious money.
And serious connections.
Ellsworth sat at the first computer and gestured for me to continue, fingers already moving across the keyboard with practiced ease.
"The name?"
"Étienne Moreau. E-T-I-E-N-N-E M-O-R-E-A-U."
He typed, fingers flying, and I watched databases populate on the screen—government records, corporate registries, social media, property records, financial transactions.
Jesus.
"You may use this room whenever you like," he said without looking up, voice casual like he was offering me access to a library instead of intelligence capabilities that would make most agencies jealous. "The active scanning system has your biometrics loaded already. Though the network may take some getting used to. It's ... comprehensive."
I glanced around at the setup again, noting the professional-grade encryption software visible on one of the monitors, the secure satellite feeds, the kind of access that didn't come cheap or legal.
"I'm not a computer guy," I admitted. "If it's okay with you, I'll leave the tech stuff to the veteran."
Ellsworth's mouth twitched, almost a smile, the closest I'd seen him come to actual amusement. "As you wish, Mr. Black."
