Fifteen minutes later, I park the car near the bistro where I’m slated to meet with Arthur Rosace, the detective I hired on Nicolai’s recommendation. Our meeting will be about Charlie’s case only. I willnotask him to tail Stella Jezequel from Vosier-en-Haut for a day, find out everything he can about her current life, and report back to me. Nor will I check on her myself. And I sure won’t call her the moment my meeting with Arthur is over to ask how she’s been.
Even as I enunciate those affirmations, I already know I’ll be doing the exact opposite.
STELLA
Istep into the bar area, breathing in the blended smell of expensive liquors and coffee. This bar, like the rest of the Hotel l’Impérial Palace where I’m supposed to meet with Darrel, is very chic. The dark leather stools, lush velvet couches, and golden-hued armchairs complement the upscale atmosphere. Everything here suggests a level of wealth that my parents have aspired to for as long as I can remember, but never quite managed to reach.
The snazzy rows of small lamps that seem to hover underneath the ceiling provide a subdued light, which is great if you’re having a relaxing drink. Not so great if you’re trying to find someone.
That someone called me about an hour ago, after three weeks of radio silence. His excuse? He’d been determined to never look back, but the need to know if I was all right prevailed in the end.Pff!I should’ve told him to get lost. But, to my shame, I said I could catch a bus to Annecy and be there in forty-five minutes. In response, he made a strange request without offering an explanation.
After we hung up, I put on a flirty cocktail dress, high-heeled boots, and red lipstick. Darrel has only ever seen me in flannel pajamas or oversize sweatshirts, so he’s in for a surprise. If we never meet again, then this is how I want him to remember me—at my sexiest.
My eyes adjust to the dim light of the bar. Suddenly, I see him. He’s walking toward me from the back, breathtakingly handsome in a tailored black suit and crisp white shirt.
Ha!Looks like I’m not the only one who made an effort tonight.
Wait a second…How can he walk like this without any visible effort, wincing, limping, crutches, or cane? Three weeks ago, he lay in my parents’ basement with two broken legs! And I know he wasn’t faking it because I saw what it cost him to stand up and fight Dad. I also heard bones crunching when Dad kicked Darrel’s legs.
“You look incredible,” he says, halting in front of me.
Much more than his unexpected compliment is the sight of him, the arousing smell of his cologne and the deep, masculine sound of his voice that sends delightful shivers down my spine. I do my best to remain cool and composed.
He scrunches his face. “Sorry, I meant to say ‘incredulous.’ You look incredulous.”
“That’s because you look brand-new.”
“I know, right?” He laughs. “Intensive physical therapy, ultrasound, massage, and other highly effective treatments twelve hours a day, every day. Speedy recovery in half the time.”
I lift my chin slowly to show I’m impressed.
“After you.” He points at the corner with two armchairs facing each other across a small table.
As I saunter to the designated spot, I sense his gaze on my back. It takes all my willpower to not look over my shoulder and see if he’s checking out my legs and derrière. I hope he is. And I hope his chest constricts with regret as great as mine.
Yeah, I’m feeling vindictive tonight.
Is it my outfit, the lipstick, or the ways in which my life has changed over the last three weeks? All I know is that tonight I feel older. I feel like I’m Darrel’s age. Like I’m his equal.
He gestures for me to sit first. When he slides into the armchair opposite me, he grabs the armrests for additional support. It’s the first indication he’s allowed of his recent injuries so far.
We open the drink menus.
Darrel flags down a server who rushes to our side. “What can I get you, Madame?”
I hesitate, studying the menu.
Darrel orders a cognac. I opt for a rum cocktail—just as strong as Darrel’s drink, only sweeter. Within minutes, the waiter returns and places our drinks in front of us, along with small dishes of cashew nuts and olives.
When he’s gone, Darrel looks me in the eye. “Did you bring the pills?”
I hand him a matchbox with samples of my daily meds. “One of each, like you asked. What are you going to do with them?”
“I’ll have them tested in a lab.”
My glass freezes halfway to my mouth. “What for? What do you expect to find?”
“Probably, nothing,” he replies. “Just following up on a hunch.”
