Chapter Ten

Alyson sat up in bed and held her throbbing head. Sunlight streaming in through the slats of the exterior shutters scorched her eyeballs. Some nasty animal had left a foul-tasting mess in her mouth. She sneezed, and the sonic boom nearly blew her ears off. She gingerly laid her head on the pillow and moaned. Great, a hangover.

Thirty minutes, three aspirins and a bath later, she slowly got dressed. Sudden movements only intensified the headache. After several minutes of staring at the meager choice of clothes Niko packed for her, she chose a sleeveless white blouse and dark jeans.

Following the enticing aroma of coffee, she padded barefoot into the kitchen where she came face-to-face with a strange green-eyed woman. “Who are you?”

The woman had long, curly dark hair and wore a snug navy short-sleeved sweater over a pencil-slim navy checked skirt. Gold chains hung around her neck and gold bangles encircled both of her wrists. On her feet were, of course, navy and gold stilettos. “Bonjour, Madame Moore. I am Giselle, Niko’s coworker.”

“Where’s Niko?” So this was the woman Jean-Luc alluded to back at police headquarters.

“He wanted to go over some things at the office. New intel has surfaced regarding The Red Hand. It requires his attention, so he asked me to take over his babysitting job.” Giselle winced—for effect, Alyson suspected. “I’m sorry. That’s a nickname we use when we aren’t happy with a protection detail.”

Not happy? He certainly seemed happy enough with her last night when he had his hands on her legs and held her in his arms.

“There’s coffee and croissants for your le petite dejune. Breakfast, I think you Americans call it.” Giselle waved toward a white bag lying on the counter. “Niko told me to get croissants at our favorite bakery.”

Alyson chose to ignore the way the young slip of a girl purred over the words “our favorite bakery.” She was obviously making a point. Alyson poured coffee into a mug and bent to open the door on the counter-height refrigerator. She pulled out the cream. “How long have you been here? I didn’t hear you come in.” Hadn’t Niko said a buzzer would sound when someone used the fingerprint scanner?

“Two hours ago. Niko met me in the hallway so the buzzer wouldn’t waken you. It gave us a chance for a private greeting.” Her lips curved in a feline smile, and Alyson’s heart sank. So, this wasn’t an office romance gone bad. This was an ongoing relationship. He had a girlfriend. Thank goodness things hadn’t progressed to the next logical step.

Alyson pulled a croissant from the bag and bit into it, fighting back the urge to snarl. What a fool she was.

Then, as if to hammer in the point, Giselle took aim. “You’re very attractive. Not at all the way Niko described you. He said you were old enough to be his mother.” She laughed. “Men, they can be so cruel at times.”

Indeed.

Alyson tossed the remainder of her pastry and stepped into the salon to get her laptop. It was gone. “Giselle, where’s my laptop?”

“Niko took it with him. He found some malware on it. Computer genius that he is, he could easily remove it, but he wanted to diagnose the designer…ah…the code writer of the program. Often they leave little telltale idiosyncrasies in their code.”

“I see.” So she was to stay cooped up in this apartment with Niko’s lover and no computer to occupy her time.

Giselle removed her computer from a black leather bag. “You may use mine if you like.”

“No thanks. I think I’ll lie down for a while. I have a terrible headache.”

“Yes, Niko said you drank like a lush last night.” Giselle sat her computer on the desk and plugged it in.

Rage filled Alyson. She glanced at the shutters covering the windows, wishing they weren’t locked for security reasons, for she would gladly have shoved the girl with the hard green eyes and the skinny ass out the window. What about Niko? Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She’d take that switchblade from him and fix him so he’d never father children. The lying rat. She stormed back to her bedroom and threw her things into her carry-on.

She didn’t have to stay here, not with his lover and her snide remarks. Plus, when he came back, if he came back, she’d have to face him, knowing the truth. He lied to her, and she was foolish enough to believe him.

Giselle was engrossed in playing a computer game when Alyson tiptoed past the doorway, holding her carry-on. Once she stepped out into the hallway, relieved no alarm sounded, she slipped on her flip-flops and stepped onto the elevator.

Her plan was simple. She’d go back to Marie-Clare’s. While she was packing, she remembered the business card the elderly woman gave her yesterday. When she called to ask if Marie-Clare knew of a nice hotel, the sweet woman insisted she come stay with her. This new friend was the only person in Paris she trusted other than Eddie. Since he was living rent-free at Shakespeare and Company, she doubted he’d be any help.

Marie-Clare gave her directions to her shop on Boulevard Saint Michelle and she jotted them on a slip of paper. As she strolled up the street, head high, concerns for her safety wrapped tightly in her temper and the soles of her feet kissing the rubber bottoms of her flip-flops, she smiled. She could take care of herself anywhere. To hell with Niko Reynard—and his green-eyed bitch.

****

Niko keyed in the security code to the door of the safe house. He hadn’t intended on staying away from Aly all morning, but several things required his attention. The Red Hand bombed a café and a cinema in the city last night, no doubt in retaliation for Aly’s interference. Five Parisians were killed and several injured. He expected more such instances in the next few days, at least until Alyson was caught, which would happen over his dead body.

He stepped onto the elevator, leaning against the wall. The photograph he took off Qimat had been analyzed. Or rather, he did the analyzing. Something sinister niggled in his gut. Suspicions loomed. Doubts clouded his opinions of everyone in his organization. Although he hated it, he learned years ago to trust his instincts. Something was foul in his unit.

Whoever took the picture had to know he would have Aly in the garage at that particular time. That narrowed the photographer to someone in his unit or someone associated with a member of his unit. Why? Why would a photograph be taken of the two of them and then placed in the hands of a terrorist? The answer to the “why” was simple. It was the answer to the “who” that bothered him. Who in his unit was associated with The Red Hand?

He stepped off the elevator and approached the door of the apartment where he left Aly. Deep in thought, he pressed his thumb to the scanner and unlocked the door to the apartment. He’d methodically work through his list of suspects and find the culprit, but would it be in time to save Aly?

When Niko closed the door behind him, Giselle stepped into the hallway. “I was about to call you.”

He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the daybed. “Why?” He set his briefcase containing both his and Aly’s computers on the floor. Tugging on his tie, he glanced into the empty salon. “Where’s Aly?”

Although her façade appeared cool, Giselle was cracking her knuckles, a sure sign of stress. “That is why I was going to call. She went into her room to take a nap. When I knocked on the door to see if she wanted any lunch, I got no response. She’s gone.”

“What?” Dear God, no! He stormed back the hallway into the bedroom. The empty bedroom. He pulled open the closet and stared at the empty space. Dammit! “How long ago did she leave?”

“How should I know?”

Niko wheeled around so angry with Giselle’s attitude and her failure to keep Aly safe that, for the first time in his life, he wanted to hurt a woman.

Giselle stepped back, obviously intimidated by his menacing glare. “Don’t look at me like that. I am sure she is fine.”

“You were sure she was taking a nap, too, weren’t you? Dammit, Giselle, you weren’t doing your job!” Why would Aly leave? The sound of Giselle’s infernal knuckle popping grated on his nerves, and instinctively he knew… “What did you say to her?”

“What is her attraction, Niko? I found an empty champagne bottle and a caviar can in the trash. Did you seduce her last night?” She flung herself at him in a jealous rage, hissing threats.

He grabbed her forearms. “What the hell’s wrong with you? We ended our affair a month ago. You should be over that by now. I should have known better than to get involved with a coworker. Those things never end well.”

Giselle’s eyes flashed anger. “Those things? Is that how you view us? You contemptible bastard!”

“Get out. Report back to Henri. See what he can find for you to do. I’ll be placing a report in your employment file of how you screwed up this assignment.”

“You will not get her back. Not in your bed, that is for sure.” She smirked in a self-satisfied manner.

He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. “You vengeful bitch! What did you say to her?”

Giselle turned and sauntered out of the bedroom. “Poor Niko. What will he do without his American lover?”

Niko speed-dialed “one.” After four rings, he was kicked into voice mail. “Aly, where the hell are you? Have you forgotten the danger you’re in? Call me so I can come get you. I don’t know what lies Giselle told you, but if you’ll give me a chance, I’ll explain. Call me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, willing himself to think, to analyze. Breathe, man. Calm. Remain calm and think. Think, dammit! She had to be in the city. Granted, she could have taken the train to another location, but with no passport, she couldn’t leave the country. Besides, she had an appointment at the U.S. Embassy at ten on Monday morning to obtain her passport. No, she’d still be in the city, but where?

When his second phone call to her was kicked into voice mail, he tried a different approach. “Cherie, you promised you wouldn’t leave me. You promised you’d let me take care of you. Sweetheart, you’re in very real danger. There have been more bombings.” His irritation nearly choked him. “Dammit, Aly, answer this damn phone!”

He made a call to Henri and then called Jean-Luc. “Buddy, got a situation.”

“Yeah?” Computer keys were clacking. Jean-Luc was doing what he was best at.

“Aly’s gone.”

“Who’s Aly?”

Niko took a deep breath and tried to tamper down fear. Aly was not Hae-Won. “Ms. Moore, the woman I’m supposed to be protecting. I left her in Giselle’s care while I was in the office this morning. When I returned to the safe house, Aly was gone.”

“Three problems. One, you’re calling her Aly, which signifies a personal interest. Two, she’s not Hae-Won. You’ll get her back. Three, you had Giselle—volatile, impulsive Giselle—within ten meters of her.”

Niko ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Giselle was next up on the rotation for off-hour duty. But, yeah, you’re right. On all points, I’m afraid. I need your help.”

“Okay. Give me a list of what you want done.”

He gave instructions for Jean-Luc to send an agent to each of the train stations just in case Aly decided to go out of town for the weekend. While he gave other orders for search and apprehension, he paced the small bedroom. Dembri could not get his hands on Aly the way he had Hae-Won. Aly, with her sweet softness, would not survive this madman’s torture. Something in the little trash container in the bathroom caught his eye. Her new Pradas. “Tell everyone to be on the lookout for a slender, busty blonde wearing ugly black flip-flops.” Hell, she must really be pissed to toss away her new Pradas. He retrieved them from the trash container and wiped them off, all the while thinking of how he’d make her pay for disobeying his orders once he found her. So help me God, I will find her!

****

When Alyson stepped into Aukland’s les Arts Atelier, she was grateful for the cool interior of the little shop. Marie-Clare Aukland was chatting with a middle-aged woman and turned at the jangle of the bell over the door. “Alyson, from America. Come meet Josette. She works for me a few days a week so I can have a life outside of this little shop.”

Once the introductions were made, Marie-Clare led Alyson upstairs to her apartment. “Pierre and I lived here for many years. We bought this building about the time our son started public school. I grew up in Paris, but Pierre was from Villerville. He came here to study art and never went back. Not to live anyway.

“We bought a little apartment in Villerville, along the English Channel. It is where we spent so many relaxing holidays and vacations watching the seagulls and listening to the water lap against the shore. I often think of selling this and moving there. It is so peaceful.” She unlocked the door and stepped aside so Alyson could wheel her carry-on into the hallway.

“I really appreciate your taking me in like this. When I called earlier, I was hoping I could impose on you for a hotel reference, not compel you to open your home to me.”

“Nonsense.” Marie-Clare waved her hand emphatically. “I felt flattered you thought enough of me to ask my opinion. Women my age are invisible to the world, you see. People think I am just another, useless old woman. No one thinks I can be of any assistance any more. You coming to me like this has put a delightful spark back into my dreary life. I welcome it. I plan to enjoy every moment we have together. Follow me, dear.” She led Alyson to a small bedroom. “This petite chamber is yours for as long as you like. Make yourself at home.”

A single bed covered in yellow hugged the wall. The small room contained an antique desk and chair and a small dresser. She shrugged off her shoulder bag and set it, along with the parcel containing the picture Marie-Clare had given her the day before, on the bed. The carry-on she placed in the small closet.

“I’m so glad to be rid of my burdens. My shoulders and arms ache. Coming here was a longer walk than I thought, but I enjoyed seeing the sights. I love the buildings and the energy of the streets as Parisians hurry here and there.”

The older woman smiled and took Alyson’s hands in hers. “Come, I will make us a pot of tea and we shall talk. Oui?” She led the way to a lovely salon, its French doors slightly ajar to allow fresh air to circulate.

Minutes later, they were sipping herbal tea and eating French pastries. “I can’t get over the beauty of pastries here. They’re like miniature works of art. Yet French women remain slender.”

“Oui. It is the walking, you see. Keeps us trim. Now, tell me what has happened since I saw you last. First, I made appointments for us to have our hair done and manicures. You were so upset when you called. When a woman is upset, I have always found a few hours of indulgence can work wonders.” She glanced at the gold antique watch pin worn on her brown linen dress. “We must leave in thirty minutes for the salon. Normally one cannot get last minute appointments with Christophe. He is in such a demand. But when I told him who you were, the lady who saved the Mona Lisa, well, he insisted we come in. Christophe is a genius, an artist. He will transform you.”

Marie-Clare dropped a sugar cube into her tea cup and stirred. “Now, tell me, what has happened that has you so upset. You must tell me every detail.” A twinkle lit her eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, Marie-Clare pressed her wrinkled hands to her cheeks in obvious disbelief. “You threw away a new pair of Pradas?”

Alyson set her second cup of tea on a saucer. “Yes. I was so angry. I never do things on impulse, but I did today. I just tossed those shoes in the trash.” She groaned. “All that money wasted.”

“You care for him. Oui? Perhaps even love him?”

“Oh, Marie-Clare, you misunderstand.”

“No, my dear, in matters of the heart, I understand all too well.”