Chapter 7
Seven
On the patio, Omar bypassed the mosaic tile table with the umbrella and carried the pitcher and the food to a weathered wooden pergola with a built-in bench and a small wooden table.
Jasmine vines climbed the structure’s posts and twisted through the slats overhead like ribbons.
As dusk deepened over the village, dozens of tiny solar-powered fairy lights woven through the vines’ glossy green leaves winked on.
Marielle sank onto the striped bench cushion and drew in a slow breath. The evening air was layered with scent—the jasmine and lavender’s heady sweetness, the herbaceous sharpness of rosemary, the tang of citrus, and beneath it all, the briny exhale of the Mediterranean.
Beyond the low stone wall marking the property’s edge, the sea moved in lazy swells, its surface burnished copper and rose gold in the fading light. The horizon had deepened to aubergine, and above it, the first stars punctured the gauzy twilight like pinpricks.
The setting was lush, romantic, and completely wasted on them. They were here to strategize. She settled back against the bench and Omar sat beside her. The kir caught the fairy lights, glowing like liquid quartz in the jelly jars.
She sipped her drink. “How’s your headache?”
“Gone.”
He answered too fast, but she believed him. The brackets of tension that had framed his mouth on the trail had smoothed away, and those dark, watchful eyes were no longer pinched. He looked like the Omar she knew, and she was glad for that.
“Good.”
They sat without speaking for a long moment, listening to the murmur of voices drifting up from the village square; a burst of laughter, bright and untroubled; faint piano music; and the put-put-put of a Vespa navigating the coastal road.
Somewhere in the trees, a common nightingale whistled his mating song.
“We need to stay the course. The only way to keep Hanna safe from Idris’s men is to go to the safe house,” he said finally.
She disagreed. “We can’t do that until we figure out if our own government is working against us. They were willing to burn Hanna. What makes you think they won’t do the same to us?”
Beside her, he leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands loosely clasped. Through her flowy linen pants she felt the heat radiating from his body.
His jaw tightened. “On our way to Marseille, we’ll reach out to Trent’s team through the official channel. Jake might have more intel by now. Maybe Olivia’s warning was premature, the system flagged something that’s already been neutralized.”
Marielle shook her head no. “Or maybe the threat is worse than we know. Maybe going to Marseille means walking straight into a trap.”
“We can’t hide out here indefinitely. Idris knows we took Hanna. If he really wants to find her, he’ll check every village between Marseille and Cassis. Eventually his men will hit this one.”
“You’re right. Staying here is a stopgap, not a solution. But going to the safe house when Olivia explicitly warned us not to?” She held his gaze, willing him to understand. “That feels like choosing the firing squad over the noose.”
“So we’re agreed. Both plans are terrible.”
“Completely terrible,” she confirmed.
Omar reached for an olive, rolling the brined fruit between his thumb and forefinger before biting into it. He worked the pit free with his tongue and set it on the edge of the plate. “There has to be a third option.”
“I can’t think of one.” Marielle tipped her head back as if the heavens held the answer. The stars had multiplied, transforming from a scattered handful into a lavish spill of light. Orion hung low on the horizon, his belt, a trio of jewels catching fire.
“We both know the third option is we bail on Hanna,” he said.
Before she could respond, a flutter of white fabric caught her eye.
“Omar.” Her voice was sharp.
He followed her gaze up to the open window where the gauzy curtain still fluttered. Hanna’s room.
They stood, the bistro chairs scraping against terra cotta with a harsh metallic shriek and rushed through the door into the kitchen’s golden warmth.
The instant they crossed the threshold, she heard it: the decisive thunk of solid wood meeting frame. The front door.
Her espadrilles slapped against the floor as she raced through the kitchen and into the narrow hallway that connected to the inn’s front parlor.
Luc looked up from his work, startled. He sat in a faded velvet armchair positioned to catch the lamplight, a confection of pale pink tulle and raw silk spread across his lap like an exotic flower.
“Did Hanna just leave?” Omar demanded, his voice stripped of social niceties.
Luc blinked, processing the abrupt question. “She said she needed air. I assumed she meant the garden, but she went out the front instead.”
Marielle yanked open the heavy door. The narrow street beyond stretched empty in both directions, illuminated by pools of amber light from the antique street lamps.
Hanna could have gone left toward the village center, or right toward the coastal road and the marina beyond.
Or she could have disappeared down any of the dozen narrow alleys that threaded between the centuries-old buildings.
Luc set down the delicate fabric, concern drawing lines across his forehead. “Is she in danger?”
“Maybe. Probably,” Marielle said. “Call the gendarmes if we’re not back in thirty minutes.”
She didn’t wait for his response. She was already running.