Chapter 13
To Do:
- Brush up on conversational French
- Send donuts to the West Haven PD
EQSA
“It’s smaller than I thought.” Claire stood in the shadow of Notre Dame. She shaded her eyes with one hand and stared up at the space where the spire once stood, grasping an espresso in the other hand like a lifeline. Scaffolding disguised the front of the cathedral, and tarps covered holes in the roof. The fire that had ravaged the cathedral had certainly done some damage, but much of the original beauty remained. The bell towers emerged from the scaffolding, standing tall and unchanged. It felt like the stained-glass windows could see her, recognize her. Two damaged but resilient souls, calmly regarding each other across the courtyard.
“You know how you build things up in your mind sometimes, but when you actually finally experience them, they’re not what you expected at all?” she asked Luke.
He cleared his throat. “You are talking about the cathedral, right?”
She smiled. “Yes, the cathedral.”
“It only looks small from this view. Here.” He took her hand and led her around the side of the church.
The sunshine was bright and warm. Although the air smelled distinctly like stagnant water and mud, courtesy of the adjacent Seine River, nothing could spoil the view.
“Oh,” she said. The cathedral, deceptively narrow from the front, seemed to stretch to infinity. “I take back everything I said.”
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“This spot would be perfect for a proposal.” She whipped around. “Closer to sunset, maybe in the spring. They could start on a river tour of the Seine and cross the bridge, stand here under the belfry.”
She waved her hands vigorously, sloshing some espresso out of her cup and onto her hand.
“Friends and family members could stand over there holding candles, lining a path littered with white rose petals. Maybe a violinist or a string quartet. More private than the Eiffel Tower. Just imagine the pictures.” She clasped a hand to her heart. It was so freakin’ romantic.
“You could actually make that happen,” Luke said quietly, coming to stand beside her. He pulled a napkin from his pocket and dabbed at the spilled coffee. “How many requests for international proposals have you gotten in the last few weeks alone?”
She slumped a little. “I don’t know that it would be worth the effort. I have no connections here. I’d have no control. I don’t speak the language. How would I even begin to overcome that?”
“Hire a business consultant. Open another branch, find a couple of locals to run the day-to-day. You could be writing happily ever afters for the whole world.”
“Great, then we could service serial killers worldwide. What a fabulous idea. Besides, you think proposals are stupid.” She turned to stare him down. A stiff wind blew her hair across her face. A strand stuck stubbornly to her lip gloss.
Luke grasped her hand and pulled her along. “Not all of them are stupid. You’ve shown me that there’s value in making a big gesture. I don’t necessarily understand why that requires a Jet Ski, but people express love differently I guess.”
She whistled. “Luke Islestorm, you’re a changed man.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
She shoved him playfully. “What’s next on our adventure?”
“You’ll see.”
Hours later,Claire threw open the door to their black-and-white hotel room and tossed half a dozen shopping bags onto the floor.
“I love the Champs-élysées,” she said, collapsing onto the bed. “Do you think they would let me live there?”
Luke appeared in the doorway, laden with more bags. “I don’t know how we’re going to get all this crap home.”
“I’ll buy another suitcase.”
“Did you really need six pairs of shoes when there’s already four in your suitcase?”
“Luke,” she said, very seriously. “Fall is right around the corner. And I’m a master packer.”
She rolled off the bed and inspected her suitcase. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“It’s a surprise.”
She sighed. Being along for the ride was getting old. “At least tell me how I should dress. Dressy, casual? Not that it really matters since it’ll be black regardless.”
“Dressy, I think. You’d better hurry or we’ll be late,” he said, tapping his watch.
She headed toward the bathroom.
“Wait,” he said. “Give me your phone. No working, remember?”
Claire sighed and pulled out the phone that she had stuffed in her bra not a moment before. She was only going to check a few emails. The high school marching band was supposed to send her a video of their song and formation. She threw it at him before slamming the bathroom door.
Claire opened the bag Mindy had packed for her. She lingered for a moment on a lacy black bra. What the hell. She pulled it on and paired it with a tiny pair of black cheekies. The underwear might mean a permanent wedgie for the evening, but if Luke was finally going to take a peek under the hood, it would be worth it. A cocktail-length little black dress clung to her curves. Pearls her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday curled around her neck, matching studs adorning her ears.
She twisted her wild hair up into an elegant topknot and transitioned to her evening makeup with a quick smoky eye and false eyelashes. For once they adhered without gluing her eyelids shut, and she said a small prayer that they would not wind up falling off in the middle of an amorous escapade. The large, flesh-colored bandage that covered her accidental stab wound didn’t really go with the dress, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.
She emerged from the bathroom moments later, and Luke lit up when he saw her.
“You look incredible,” he said, grabbing her hand and twirling her around.
She giggled and tried not to trip in her black stilettos. A rare compliment from the Grumpmeister. “Thank you. Shall we?”
He led the way to the restaurant, occasionally pausing to point out a historical landmark or location of a childhood memory. Claire’s feet ached by the time they reached the restaurant, and her underwear was indeed burrowing into her butt crack. She shifted uncomfortably as Luke checked them in. Maybe she could dislodge the wedgie by shifting her weight. No such luck. The only thing she managed to accomplish was getting a bizarre look from the ma?tre d’.
A waiter led them to a table by the window. They passed a dozen couples dressed in black, hunched around their candlelit tables. Would it kill them to add some color to their wardrobes?
A glass ceiling stretched above them, revealing the Eiffel Tower in all of its lit-up glory. Even at a considerable distance, it was shockingly tall.
Claire sat, unable to stop gawking. “Oh, Luke. It’s beautiful.”
“I thought you’d like it here. Red or white?”
“What? Oh, cabernet sauvignon, s’il vous pla?t,” she said, seeing the waiter standing politely next to them. He made a small bow and then disappeared.
“So.” She scooted closer to the table. “Tell me more about your progress on the documentary. And when do I get to see it?”
Luke was always careful to talk about his documentary in abstract terms or from the perspective of the victims.
“Not until it’s perfect. I have so much information, so many stories to tell. At this point, I think a miniseries is going to be the best way to really tell them all, maybe even a separate forty-five-minute segment for each victim. But the producers are still after me to add a few things.” He spread his napkin over his lap and drummed his fingers on the table.
“Like what?” she asked, taking a sip of the wine that had been promptly delivered at her elbow. Pleasantly earthy and full-bodied. She glanced at the menu, but it was all in French. It would be incredibly rude to pull out her phone to translate while Luke talked about his project. It looked like Luke was going to be ordering for her.
“A couple more interviews, maybe people who knew Barney at school, that kind of thing.”
“You’re doing something incredible, you know.”
“I know,” he said, also staring at his menu. He put it down abruptly. “Wait, what specifically?”
Claire laughed. “Telling their stories. The girls—they had whole lives. They loved, they laughed, they may have smoked a fair bit of marijuana and experimented a little too much in the bedroom if my roommate Courtney was any indication. But they lived.”
“Exactly,” he said, fidgeting with the corner of his menu. “To most people, these women are just a list of names in the news. But they were so much more. Did you know that Ariel Pullizi volunteered at her local animal shelter every week? Or that Jennifer Heiser was fluent in Portuguese?”
Claire shook her head.
“That’s because the media doesn’t treat them like people—like individuals. They’re all lumped together as a set, practically anonymous. Not if I can help it,” he muttered, turning back to his menu.
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. He was so cute when he talked about work. He returned her squeeze, then took a sip of wine.
“What are you ordering?”
“I don’t know. I can’t read any of it,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if the wine was stronger than what she was used to or she was getting tipsy on the atmosphere of France, but her head was beginning to swim pleasantly. She took another sip of wine.
He smiled. “I’ll take care of it.”
Claire took another glance around the restaurant. Wine glasses and carefully polished silverware gleamed. Candlelight flickered softly. Warmth flowed from the tips of her toes to her ears. She was safe here, surrounded by tantalizing smells and free-flowing wine, a fierce and grumpy protector at her side. Whoever threatened her was thousands of miles away. And tonight, she was finally going to break her sex embargo.
When the waiter passed by again, Luke ordered for them both. She didn’t bother to ask what she was getting.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you.” She stared dreamily up at the Tower.
Preferably about his mystery brother. Or why his mom was such a raging bitch. Maybe he would be more open if he had more wine.
He leaned back in his chair, looking utterly at ease in a foreign country. “All right. I once played Peter Pan in a school play.”
“Shut up,” she said, a bit louder than she intended. She leaned forward and bumped the table, sloshing the wine in her glass. A couple at the next table turned to stare at them. Claire paid them no attention. “Please tell me there were green tights involved.”
Luke smiled mischievously. “There may have been. Now you return the favor.”
“But I want to hear more about the play. What grade was this? Did you have to kiss anyone? Did you wear pants or was your package just snugly supported for all to see? Are there pictures?”
It would almost be worth opening up a line of communication with Rachel to score some pictures of Luke in green tights.
He crossed his arms. “Your turn.”
“Fine, let me think.” She propped her chin in her hand. Her glass had magically refilled itself, and she took another sip. “Okay, this is going to sound silly. Even though my mother is clearly unhinged and I think most of what she says is either completely made up or derived from just paying attention and making educated guesses, there have been times where she has inexplicably known things that she couldn’t have known.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
Claire shook her head. “Countless things. Where a departed family member of someone we never met buried a collection of gold coins. The combination to a safe in some inherited mansion in Tennessee. The location of a secret will from someone’s grandfather who had almost certainly been murdered by a family member.” She ticked the encounters off on her fingers. “I started a blog for her side quests—that’s what we called them—when I was in middle school. That’s how she ended up getting her TV show.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “There has to be some kind of logical explanation.”
She shrugged. “She claims the ‘veil’ is thin around her.”
“I bet.” He clearly was not convinced. “To be fair, there have been zero ghosts in my car since the sage incident. Claire Hartley, paranormal enthusiast,” Luke said, smiling to himself. “You learn something new every day. What about your dad? Is he paranormally inclined as well?”
She thunked her glass onto the table. “Roy grew up in Guatemala before moving to Miami as a teenager, so he has some pretty unique superstitions. He swears that he saved a middle school girlfriend from a sisemité.”
“A what?”
She shrugged. “It’s like a big murder gorilla or something.”
“Interesting. And your biological father?”
“He might as well be a murder gorilla,” she muttered, spreading her napkin on her lap and digging into the basket of bread. Shopping had left her starving. And she didn’t want to talk about her bio-dad.
“How did he feel about your mom’s—uh—abilities?”
“Oh, he loved them. That’s why they’re still together to this day,” she said through a mouthful of bread. He was totally prying. But maybe if she opened up a little, he would reciprocate.
He buttered his roll and stared out the window.
Screw it. It was worth a shot. “He left when I was five. A few days before my sixth birthday. I barely remember him, but I doubt he put much stock in my mom’s career.”
“You must have been devastated.”
Claire shrugged. “Charlie hates him to this day, but she was sixteen when he left. It was different for her. Like I said, I only remember snippets of him. But I do remember what happened after he left. My mom couldn’t afford the mortgage on her own, so we had to sell our house on the lake and move into this tiny apartment full of spiders. Charlie had to take two part-time jobs to help out. Our front door didn’t even have a real lock. We used to move the couch in front of the door every night before bed.”
“That does explain some of her obsession with personal safety.” Luke reached across the table and held Claire’s hand. She was eighty percent sure that hand had some butter on it. “Did you ever hear from your dad?”
She shook her head. “Years later, my aunt ran into him at the grocery store with his new family. He married a cashier from a health food store, and his daughter—my half sister, I guess—is almost exactly six years younger than me,” she said, withdrawing her butter hand. She had spent so much time and effort suppressing all thoughts and memories of her biological father that she had almost forgotten she had a half sister wandering the earth. It wasn’t her fault that their shared father was a skeevy adulterer. What was she like? Maybe that was a question that didn’t need an answer.
“He sounds like a dirtbag.”
The waiter arrived and set two plates in front of them. It smelled amazing, but the meal was still a mystery. Screw it, the time for subtlety was over.
“Yep. Well, now that I’ve told you my deep dark family secret, spill. What’s the deal with your brother? Did he steal your girlfriend? Crash your first car? Give you a wedgie at school?”
“That wasn’t part of the agreement.” Luke cut into the meat on his plate more aggressively than was necessary for such a tender-looking cut.
“Luke. Come on.” She stared at him earnestly until he met her eyes.
“Fine, but only because I know you won’t let this go. My dad’s dead. My brother killed him.”
“What?” she practically shouted. The fork fell from her hand and thudded to the floor. Another one appeared at her side as if by magic.
“I’m so sorry, Luke. What the hell happened?” She clutched her new fork like a lifeline. People at the restaurant were staring at them, but she didn’t care. She had found an obituary for Luke’s dad when she’d internet stalked him before agreeing to work with him for Nicole’s proposal. But that obituary sure as hell didn’t mention anything about George Islestorm II getting murdered by his son.
Luke set his fork down and turned to the window. He grimaced as if he was passing a kidney stone. “It happened while I was deployed. I was in Afghanistan and I got a call from my brother. He said my dad had been in a car accident. They weren’t sure he was going to make it. Meanwhile, I’m half a world away, suturing people and administering fucking flu shots. I applied for emergency leave, but the day it got approved I got another call. This time from my mother. That phone call was one of the only times in my adult life I’ve heard her show any kind of emotion. They were already divorced at that point, but I think she always loved him.”
He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t meet Claire’s gaze.
“She and my dad had set my brother up as medical power of attorney when they made their will. My brother made the decision to pull the plug on my dad. He knew I was trying to get home. He took away my last chance to see my dad alive.”
This may have been the longest string of sentences Luke had ever said to her.
“You never got to say goodbye,” she said softly.
“No. I came home for the funeral. We almost got into a fistfight. Never spoke to him since.”
“I am so sorry about your dad. Did your brother—” she hesitated, not wanting to push the subject. “Did he say why he did it?”
“Some bullshit about not wanting to keep dad ‘in limbo.’”
Her shoulders slumped. She stabbed her fork into the mystery dinner. Now she was the asshole for grilling him on a dark family secret. “That’s awful. You must miss him so much. I’m sorry for asking you to talk about it.”
Luke picked up his fork and resumed eating. “It’s okay. I should learn to talk about it. It almost felt kind of good.”
Wow. Mystery solved. No wonder he hated his brother. If god forbid something ever happened to Alice, Claire would never shut off her life support without Charlie. And yet, it sounded like his brother hadn’t had sinister intentions. It had been three years since his father’s death. Three years of his niece’s life missed. Time he would never get back. But she surely wasn’t going to bring that up to him. It wasn’t her place. Was it?
They chewed together in silence for a minute. Whatever he’d ordered for her was delicious. Duck, maybe?
“Have you ever considered reconnecting with your brother?” Claire asked quietly in between bites. She couldn’t help herself.
He shook his head. “He was a douche even at the best of times.”
Must take after Rachel.
“He sent me a few emails over the years, but I never responded,” Luke continued. “Every time I see a picture of him, all I can think about is my dad.”
“But he’s family,” she said, taking a sip of water. “And your niece?—”
“Have you ever tried reconnecting with your dad?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Fair enough. Not my place. Sorry.”
They finished their meal in silence. A pall had been cast of the magic of Paris. It served her right for snooping, but at least now she knew the truth. He had been honest with her, even when it hurt. It was time to shake off the family trauma and recapture the magic of Paris while they were still here. Maybe the night could still be salvaged.
“How are you feeling?” Luke asked as they exited the restaurant and stepped under the stars. He took her arm.
“Great.” Claire rolled her shoulders back. For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t tense. Luke had finally been honest with her. She was an ocean away from paparazzi, from her attempted killer, from whomever had tucked the message under her pillow. Surely that was just someone playing a prank. Wendy was probably bored. There was no way Barney could be pulling strings from prison, right?
Did Paris have binder stores? Maybe she should start a list of suspects, just in case. With Luke in California, she would have an easier time doling out vigilante justice. “And you?”
“Good. I think the company helps.” He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over her knuckles.
Her toes curled in her shoes. The note-leaver could wait.
“It’s amazing that you can see so many stars in the middle of the city.” She paused in the middle of a busy crosswalk and twirled around. The streetlights of Paris blurred around her like a strand of Christmas lights. She stopped mid-twirl and gasped.
“Luke, let’s go to the Eiffel Tower. Please? It’s nighttime now. You promised.”
“To be honest, it’s a little overrated.” He grabbed her hand and hustled her to the sidewalk. “But everyone should see it once.”
“Mister hipster not impressed by what was once the tallest building on earth.” She smiled. The wine danced through her system and lifted her spirits. She was in freakin’ Paris. Her heels no longer bothered her. She could probably twirl the entire way to the Tower.
They passed more trees and fewer buildings. The smell of urine was undeniable, but it was at least partially masked by the delicate smells floating out of nearby patisseries.
“This bun is too tight.” One by one, she plucked bobby pins from her hair and allowed the curls to fall, wild and unbridled, down to her mid-back. Her flying elbow nearly made contact with a stranger’s chin, and Luke pulled her into his side, laying his arm around her shoulders.
“Whoops.” She giggled. “Luke, your phone is ringing.”
He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. “Just work again,” he said, silencing it and tucking it away.
“It’s okay for you to answer it. I know how important it is.”
“No need. Nothing is more important than what’s going on right here, right now.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head.
Warmth rushed from the tips of her fingers and toes directly to her lady parts. “What does Pete expect you to accomplish from Paris?”
A crack in the sidewalk nearly sent her sprawling.
Luke pulled her in tighter. “I’m not sure. He probably just wants to confirm my arrival date.”
“Holy crap.” Claire jolted to a halt. They had rounded a corner and entered the Trocadero Gardens. Fountains danced all around them, splashing rhythmically. The Eiffel Tower rose magnificently in front of them.
“Pete can suck it.” She grasped his arm as they walked slowly down the sidewalk, growing ever closer to the mammoth structure.
A gentleman on a park bench nearby was playing a soulful melody on a saxophone. The notes bounced off the nearby trees and benches, filling the gardens with sound.
Luke stopped and she turned to face him. One calloused hand extended to her, and she took it. He pulled her close and snaked his other hand around to the small of her back, leading her through the same dance they had practiced countless times for Nicole’s proposal in his ballroom at home.It wasn’t a perfect fit with the saxophone’s rhythm, but it was close enough.
People on the sidewalks gave them a wide berth, stepping onto the grass to avoid the dancing couple and clearly muttering Americans under their breath.
Claire laughed as Luke spun her out. She thrust her hand out to the side. He stood still for a moment, and she strutted around him, sliding her hands over his lapel and coming within a hair’s breadth of a kiss.
He pulled her in again and dipped her low, raising her back up tantalizingly slow. They widened their steps, covering the entire sidewalk. The saxophone player picked up his speed. Claire leaned into Luke with one leg cocked, and he dragged her several feet. Had she scuffed her shoes? Oh, well. She had just bought a half dozen more pairs.
Luke spun her again, gripping both her hands and locking them over her head, bringing his hands slowly, sensually, from her wrists, to her elbows, thumbs spreading to cup the sides of her body, desperately close to the curve of her breasts.
She locked eyes with him as he tugged her close. Heat radiated from him, and a longing she had never known burned in her belly.
He leaned in, tantalizingly close like the first time they’d kissed. Claire’s lips parted, begging for sweet release. This time, there wasn’t a battered copy of War and Peace waiting to smash into her skull and send her to the hospital. There were only stars above them, and if one of them plummeted to the earth, they would have a whole different problem.
Abruptly, the song ended. The saxophone hung loosely by its neck strap as the gentleman opened his instrument case. Rude.
A man with a handlebar mustache cleared his throat uncomfortably as he passed. Claire and Luke pulled apart. The spell was broken.
They were standing in grass, and one of Claire’s heels had sunk into the ground after their last dance move.
“So,” she said, attempting to wipe the dirt from her heel. “The Eiffel Tower.”
“Yeah.” He turned to look at it, buttoning the front of his suit jacket. Hopefully, he was concealing something interesting in his pants.
“These people are judging us so hard,” Claire whispered loudly to him as they continued to walk along.
“Definitely. Maybe we should really give them something to talk about.”
“Right here?” Her gaze wandered to the flash of his belt buckle. “We might get arrested.”
“No, not that. I think we should go star spinning.”
“Star spinning?” What the hell was that? She was not in any condition to be launched into space.
“Surely you’ve heard of it,” Luke said, eyebrows raised. Maybe it was a rich person thing.
“Is that some kind of euphemism for recreational drug use?” she probed.
He laughed. “No, it’s something I used to do when I was a kid. My brother and I did it a couple of times when we were here on vacation. I had almost forgotten about that.”
He led her out into a patch of grass and bent down on one knee.
Claire’s heart leapt into her throat. Her mind raced a mile a minute. There was no way Luke was proposing. They had only known each other for two months. This wasn’t the Middle Ages. But they were in Paris. In front of the Eiffel Tower. After sharing a borderline sexual dance. And they had already been through more than some couples go through in a lifetime together.
Was this seriously happening?
“Don’t get excited.” He threw up his hands as if to proclaim he was innocent.
Her heart dropped a centimeter. So, he wasn’t proposing. Of course he wasn’t. That would have been insane. Wouldn’t it?
“Here.” He slid his hands down the length of her shin to the buckle of her shoes.
She bit her lip. If he got any closer, the heat emanating from her neither regions was going to scorch his eyebrows off. Could he tell she was half an inch away from tackling him? She gripped his shoulders for stability. God, they were solid. What would the buttons on his shirt sound like if they were ripped from the cloth?
He fought with her shoe for a moment before tugging it free. He removed the other one and stood. Claire had shrunk several inches.
“So, how do we do this?” She tucked her shoes into her oversized purse.
“Pick a star. Any star.”
She turned her gaze upward. “Got one,” she said, zeroing in on one that was twinkling. Or was that a helicopter?
Luke walked several feet away from her, also looking up. “When I say go, keep your eyes fixed on that star. You have to spin in place for fifteen seconds, and then we’re going to try to run the rest of the way to the Eiffel Tower.”
“You want me to spin around and then run to the Eiffel Tower? What if there’s broken glass or rusty nails or cigarette butts?—”
“Claire Aurora Hartley. Where is your sense of adventure?”
A thrill ran through her at the sound of her full name on his lips. She bit her tongue. He was right. She needed this.
“Okay. Ready when you are.”
“Go!” Luke yelled. He spun clockwise like a well-dressed top.
Claire kept her eyes fixed on her star and started rotating, taking tiny steps. The hem of her dress lifted as she twirled, skirt flaring out in a wide circle. She raised her arms out to her sides, too, spinning for the sake of spinning. Her world blurred gently at the edges, trapped in a kaleidoscope of stars.
Somewhere around the count of eight, she stumbled. Her foot fell more heavily behind her, and suddenly she was staggering more than spinning.
“Luke—”
“Keep going, just a few more seconds! Aaaand run!”
Luke stopped mid-spin and took off in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.
“Oh no,” Claire said. She had stopped spinning, but the world hadn’t. She ran forward at a drunken tilt, arms flailing out to either side of her. All she had to do was aim for the giant, glowing steel structure. But one side of her body seemed heavier than the other, and it was dragging her straight for a fountain.
“Luke!”
She tripped over something in the grass and came down hard onto her knees. She rolled over and lay still, staring up at the stars that had betrayed her. They spun stubbornly above her. The fountain tinkled pleasantly in the background. Partially dead grass poked at her legs.
“That was harder than I remembered,” Luke’s voice said at her side.
Claire reached out one hand and felt an expensive leather jacket next to her. Luke’s clean, comforting smell engulfed her. She ran a hand down his chest, and he leaned over so that he was nearly on top of her. He plucked a blade of grass from her hair and tossed it to the side. For a moment, he just looked at her.
The moon had risen above his head, creating a halo. His five-o’clock shadow stood out in the half-light. She ached to feel it against her skin. She grabbed a fist full of his shirt and tugged him to her.
Luke crushed his mouth eagerly to hers, and she released the sigh that had been pent up all evening. She tugged at his shirt, sliding her hands underneath so she could feel every hard inch of his chiseled abs.
His hands traveled from her hair down to her chin, gently forcing her lips from his so he could feast on her tender, exposed neck. His hand hesitated at the hem of her dress before slowly, carefully, sliding its way up.
When his wandering mouth hit her collarbone, her hands fisted at her sides, tearing up clumps of grass. She pressed her hips into his. Who cared if they were in public? She wanted him, and she didn’t care who saw.
“Ahem,” someone said nearby.
They broke apart. The end of a nightstick thrust into her face. Not the nightstick she had hoped to see.
Luke hastily apologized in French and tugged Claire to her feet. She straightened her dress and curtsied at the policeman, smiling sheepishly as they took off in the opposite direction.
“Oh my god, so embarrassing.” She hid her face as they half-ran down the sidewalk. Her bare feet slapped the sidewalk. She was totally going to get tetanus. And thrown out of the country. Why hadn’t she checked that she was up-to-date on her immunizations before traveling internationally? So irresponsible. “Did I just curtsy at a policeman?”
“You did.” Luke laughed deeply. He paused in a brick alleyway. A black cat ran out of its hiding space when they approached, bolting for the opposite side of the street. The crowd had thinned out.
“Here, let’s get your shoes back on.” He tugged her down the alleyway until they were mostly concealed between a dumpster and a large stack of wooden crates. What was that smell—old brie? Yikes. She was definitely sober now.
He pulled the shoes out of her purse and bent to put them on her feet.
She leaned against the wall for support, grateful to have something solid to lean on. Luke was like quicksand.
“That’s better,” he said, buckling the last clasp. He was suspiciously adept at buckling women’s shoes. What if he had a foot fetish? He rose, staring at her with stormy eyes, and laid one hand on her waist while the other cupped her cheek.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
“Stop it.” Heat crept into her cheeks. Her blood boiled with need. “I have a stab wound and grass stains on my knees.” Not to mention the cut from the sword incident, and some bruises on her shins where she had tumbled over a wall.
“I’m serious. Seeing you here, so carefree and relaxed. It’s a whole new Claire I never knew existed.” He leaned in and kissed her neck again. Her elbow knocked against the side of the dumpster.
“It’s easier to relax when you’re an ocean away from people who want you to die,” she whispered, but the words didn’t hold the same weight they did at home. Luke’s mouth was a glorious distraction. The smell of old bread and rancid sauce emanating from the trash was barely noticeable.
His head snapped back to hers. “I will always keep you safe.” His hand slid underneath her dress again, sliding up her thigh.
But, historically speaking, he hadn’t. He hadn’t even divulged that he suspected she was being targeted by the Widowmaker until she brought it up herself. And, as he pointed out earlier, Sawyer had saved her when it really mattered. Not that she could hold that against him. It wasn’t his job to make sure she wasn’t murdered. And then there was the fact that he was leaving for California for an unknown number of weeks.
“I can keep myself safe,” she began to argue, but he silenced her with his mouth. Her legs were jelly. Her lips parted graciously.
Luke’s hand reached the apex of her thighs, and he cupped her gently.
She gasped. The heat washed over her like an inferno. She hadn’t been touched like this in eons.
He reached down and grabbed her leg, wrapping it around his waist. His normally rough hands glided gently over the lacy fabric of her underwear (which had mercifully removed itself from her butt crack), caressing and teasing. Claire moaned softly, arching into him, aching for more.
She trailed one hand down his torso to his belt buckle. She tugged one way, then the other. It wouldn’t budge. Who had made this belt, abstinence activists? Annoyed, she simply ran her hand over the front of his pants, eliciting a moan from him.
He tugged her panties to the side and began to stroke her again, this time skin-to-skin. Tingles exploded down her arms and legs. Was she finally going to figure out what was underneath Luke’s pants next to a dumpster in Paris? Could they get arrested for this?
He broke away. “Maybe we should go to the hotel.”
“No.” She dragged him back to her. “Here.”
He tugged her neckline down, put his mouth on her skin. Her knees buckled, and she almost fell. Then he was lifting her, pressing her against the brick wall. Could he hear her heart thudding in her chest?
He hitched her dress up, wrapped both of her legs around him. Claire blindly wrestled her arms around his neck, pressing herself as close as she could to his glorious, solid frame. She wanted—needed—to be as close as possible. With one hand on the wall and one hand firmly on her ass, he swiped her underwear to the side and filled her at last.
She gasped at the impact. How long had it been? Were there cobwebs down there? There was a hint of pain in her pleasure.
Why was it always the grumpy jerks who had the best dicks? Was there some kind of scientific correlation between dick size and ego size?
All thoughts promptly spilled out of her head as Luke rocked rhythmically. A mountain was building beneath her, forcing her higher and higher. Her head thumped against the brick wall and her legs burned with the impact of holding herself up, but she barely felt it. Her fingernails raked down his back.
His breath was ragged in her ear.
“Luke,” she barely managed to say. Her fingers and toes curled.
Together, they burst over the peak. Claire bit her lip to keep from crying out as the waves of pleasure thundered over her. Luke gripped her so firmly that she was certain she would have bruises tomorrow.
His eyes had never been as green as they were in the alleyway, like the broken glass that crunched under his feet.
“Wow,” he said simply, leaning Claire against the wall.
“Wow,” she agreed through heaving breaths.
A trash can at the end of the alleyway tipped over.
Claire screamed and pushed Luke away from her. He stumbled backward, and she fell butt-first into the pile of wooden crates.
Luke picked a broken beer bottle from the ground as Claire gasped, splayed between a pile of knocked-over crates with her dress hiked up. Her tailbone ached at the impact. Her elbow had gone completely through one of the boxes and her arm was now stuck. She stared into the darkness as she struggled to stand.
Luke shouted something in French, defensively holding the broken bottle.A black shadow moved toward them, and Claire screamed again. She ripped her elbow from the box and leapt onto one of the crates. A family of rats scurried past. Bared yellow teeth glinted in the moonlight as the black mass scuttled by.
Luke charged down the alley toward them, hissing and stomping his feet. The rats scattered, scrambling for the street.
“Are you hurt?” He bent to look into her eyes.
She glanced down at her body. Her elbow had sustained some alarming new scratches and her tailbone smarted like she had been walloped, but it could have been worse.
“I think I’m okay.” She tried to stand and winced, rubbing the knee that had smashed into the cobblestone. She was a mess from head to toe. But that was nothing new.
“Come on.” He picked her up.
“Don’t forget my purse,” she said. He grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder. Her knees and elbow stung, and her months-long dry spell had ended next to a dumpster in an alleyway with an army of rats for an audience. Paris wasn’t exactly turning out to be what she expected. At least she had gotten some new boots out of it.