Chapter 14
KANE
Jet lag should have taken me by now.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, watching shadows shift as Paris moved outside my window.
Cars passing. Voices drifting up from the street below in rapid French I couldn't understand.
A dog barking somewhere in the distance, insistent and lonely.
Life continuing its relentless forward march whether I participated or not.
Sleep didn't come.
My mind wouldn't shut off.
Kept circling back to the same place like a dog worrying a bone.
Her.
Ella.
The way she'd looked at me across that café table this morning—was it only this morning?
It felt like days ago and also like minutes.
The way she'd said you without flinching, without hedging, without any of the careful distance people usually maintained around me.
The way every rational part of my brain was screaming to stay away while every other part—the parts that operated on instinct and want and need—wanted to do exactly the opposite.
I wasn't a man of indecision. You made choices fast and lived with the consequences. Simple. Clean. Efficient.
But right now?
Right now I was paralyzed by a decision that shouldn't be this hard.
Call a woman who'd made it clear she wanted me.
Or don't.
A choice that would've been automatic for most men.
The paper with Ella's number sat on the nightstand where I'd left it hours ago, folded once, corners already softening from how many times I'd picked it up and set it back down. Mocking me with its simplicity.
Ten digits.
That's all it was.
And yet it felt like a detonator to something I wouldn't be able to control once I triggered it.
Call her.
Don't call her.
Help her.
Walk away.
Be the man she thinks you are.
Be the man you actually are.
I shifted onto my side, frustrated with myself, wishing the world would make a move so I wouldn't have to. Wishing someone would force my hand so I could stop pretending this was about nobility or protecting her or any of the other bullshit excuses I'd been feeding myself all afternoon.
The truth was simpler.
Cleaner.
Harder to admit.
I wanted to see her again.
Wanted it badly enough that I was lying here in the dark arguing with myself instead of sleeping like a normal person.
And that terrified me more than anything I'd faced in years.
More than bullets. More than knives. More than men twice my size trying to kill me in underground fight clubs.
Because those things I understood.
This?
This was uncharted territory.
Pathetic.
Finally, I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting cold hardwood.
Enough.
I grabbed my phone before I could talk myself out of it and dialed her number, each digit feeling like a point of no return.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Kane."
Not a question. Not surprise. Just my name, spoken with something that sounded like relief. Like she'd been waiting. Like she'd hoped I'd call and was glad she'd been right.
"Hey," I said, voice rougher than I intended. "How ya doing, Manhattan?"
"It hasn't been that long since we saw each other." Amusement colored her voice, warm and teasing in a way that made my chest tighten. "But I'm fine. Better now."
A pause.
The kind that felt loaded.
Then, direct as a blade to the ribs: "Have you reconsidered?"
Christ.
No hesitation. No coyness. No playing games or pretending she hadn't said what she'd said this morning.
Just straight to the point like it was the most natural question in the world.
I laughed despite myself, scrubbing a hand over my face, feeling stubble rasp against my palm. "You don't waste time, do you?"
"Life's short. We covered this."
"Yeah, we did."
And she was right. Life was short. Brutally, unfairly short. I'd learned that lesson over and over until it was carved into my bones alongside all the other hard truths St. Paul's had taught me.
But that didn't mean I should make her life shorter.
Didn't mean I should drag her into my darkness just because she thought she wanted it.
I needed to change the subject before I said something stupid. Before the part of me that wanted to say yes, I've reconsidered, give me your address and I'll be there in ten minutes and we can finish what we started won out over the part that knew better.
"Have you made any progress?" I asked, forcing my voice back to neutral ground. "With your sister?"
Silence for a beat.
I could almost hear her recalibrating, accepting the deflection even if she didn't like it.
Then she shifted gears, and I felt the moment pass. Tension releasing like a breath.
"Some. I'm still working on it. Trying to track down the man who knew her. The one from the clinic file. étienne Moreau."
That perked me up immediately.
This I could do. This I could help with without crossing lines I shouldn't cross. Without putting my hands on her. Without finding out if she tasted as good as I'd been imagining.
"I can help with that. I have resources."
More silence.
I could almost hear her thinking through the phone. Weighing options. Deciding whether to accept help from a stranger—a dangerous stranger who'd admitted he was bad news—or handle it herself like she'd probably handled everything else in her careful, controlled life.
Part of me expected her to say no. To tell me she appreciated the offer but she'd manage on her own, thank you very much, Mr. No Sex Who Can't Make Up His Mind.
But she didn't.
"Yeah," she said quietly, something vulnerable underneath the word that made my jaw tighten. "I could use all the help I can get."
Something in my chest loosened.
Relief I had no business feeling.
"What's his name again?"
"étienne Moreau."
I grabbed a pen from the nightstand and scribbled it down on the back of a crumpled receipt, letters slightly uneven in the dark.
"Give me a few minutes. I'll call you back."
"Just like that?" Disbelief colored her voice.
"Just like that."
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."
The screen populated.
Fifty-one hits across France.
Without asking, Ellsworth typed and clicked, filters narrowing the list with the kind of efficiency that spoke to years of practice. Geographic parameters. Age ranges. Cross-referencing multiple databases I didn't recognize. Government. Corporate. Medical. Financial.
Twelve results.
"Do you know the man's age? Approximately?"
I thought about Ella's description. Younger than forty, maybe? But I wanted to cast a wider net just to be safe.
"Between thirty and fifty. To be safe."
His fingers flew. Six results.
"General location within Paris?"