Paris
Jaxson hates me, and I can’t say that I blame him.
I bow my head and clasp my hands together. Kneeling on a pew in the last place I expected to find myself today, before an alter inside the Val-de-Grâce church. Praying God will bless me with the strength to hate Jaxson back.
“I’ll always find you,” he promised me. He loved me once. But beware of promises. Because in time, they can twist and turn and change on a dime. And finding me is the last thing I need from him right now.
The cathedral is as large as it is beautiful, with its painted dome and Baroque-style architecture. A perfect peaceful place to rest after exploring the tunnels beneath the church, the attached hospital, the grounds and the graveyards nearby.
“American?” I jump as a voice penetrates the silence. A priest as old as this church kneels down beside me.
Nodding, I still wonder how he guessed. With a mental eye roll, I make a promise to myself: going forward and no matter what I’m up to, I’ll wear that bleeding scarf. Frenchify myself.
The priest scrunches his nose, clearly catching a rancid whiff of eau des catacombes.
With a soft humph, he hands me a white lace handkerchief. “Another American with an aversion toward cleanliness.”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all,” I mutter, trying to act normal in a situation that’s anything but. I’d correct him and say, “What does it matter, I’m going to hell anyway?”
Except I’ve been there, done that.
“You’ve been in the catacombs.”
Yep, the gateway to hell, I think, using his handkerchief to wipe the grime off my face. “That obvious?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. I smell like a sewer rat and my fingernails look like I’ve been digging myself out of a grave.
In a way, I have been. I’m no closer to discovering Novák’s location within the catacombs than I was a week ago. The cafe in Montmartre seem to be on a Prick-free hiatus. And although I’ve returned to the teahouse on several occasions, there’s been no further sign of Novák.
Or Jaxson—a fact I’d rejoice in if the ache in my heart would only go away.
“You’re undoubtedly the American he’s looking for.” His eyes flash over my wrinkled shirt and mud-caked pants.
“What?”
“The other American would like to see you.”
The priest taps my hand, comforting me, then issues another humph. “Find it in your heart to forgive him.”
I rise to my feet and peer around the small church. “Forgive?” I say, not asking Forgive who? because I already know the truth. How the hell did he find me?
“Matters of the heart are often overshadowed by insecurities and doubt. Open yourself up to forgiveness. Forget your grievances.”
I’m going to throttle that Jax-ass. “Where is he?” I snap, unable to control my anger. My panic.
He turns and points upward, toward heaven. For a second, I think the worse. Dead? He’s dead. No. No. No.
I clutch my stomach, bending over and panting. Hyperventilating, while the memories come rushing back.
Blood everywhere. Seven Pricks the cause. And . . . I’m late. So horribly late.
I feel the priest’s gentle touch on my arm. “You love him?”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think straight. I can’t even choke out the truth.
But in the sage, all-knowing, godlike way priests have, he pats my arm and comforts me. “Shhh. Go. He’s waiting for you.”
My emotions are like a runaway train. Headed toward devastation with no hope in sight, only to be derailed, rolled down an embankment, and crashing flat out into the most enormous yet and devastatingly beautifully load of horse crap known to womankind. What to do—laugh or cry?
I straighten, and my gaze follows the priest’s finger, pointing in the direction of the church choir, high up in the loft at the back of the church.
“He wanted me to tell you he’s open for discussion.”
“Open for discussion . . .”
“Yes.”
So he doesn’t have a gun trained on me as we speak? I want to ask but given present company don’t.
“Go ahead. He needs you.”
I frown. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s suffered. Still suffers. As do you. Together you can heal,” says the all-knowing priest.
When did I become an ain’t-such-a-believer? Still, I wince. Just thinking about Jaxson suffering . . . because of me . . . “Did he tell you what happened between us?” I choke out.
About his time with Novák?
“Yes. He’s worried about you’re being lost in the catacombs. Blames himself for causing you misery.”
What? I narrow my eyes on the priest. “Are you telling me he’s suffering from guilt? From . . . abandoning me in the catacombs?”
“Eh, oui. He’s waiting to apologize. Nothing but a lover’s quarrel.” The priest stands. “Remember, love conquers all.”
I sigh. First the hairdresser, now him. How French, him being philosopher and a priest.
He winks in an all-knowing, not-so-priestly sort of way. “I’ll be in the garden while you kiss and make up.”
I flush. Sex, he thinks I mean sex. That Jaxson and I plan to raise the holy-loving rafters.
Damn it.
I search the heavens above but it’s not until I climb the spiral staircase leading into the choir loft that I see him.
He’s sprawled out on a choir stall, both legs up on the freshly polished wood and an arm resting across the seat back. Like a man without a care in the world. Except I know the truth.
“You bribed a priest?” I say, not without humor.
Disappointment creeps in when he doesn’t flash me that oh-so-familiar grin. Just like he used to do.
“Take a seat.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Sit your sweet ass down. We need to talk.”
I let out a long exhalation, my irritation now a third party in the room. His lips lift upward. A smile? But it’s gone in a blink. “You make me crazy.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
I take a seat next to him. Close but not touching. I have the sinking feeling we’ll never touch again.
“What have you learned about Novák?”
I swallow back my disappointment. I thought this discussion was him open to me clearing the air. Filling in the gaps between distrust and disloyalty. Despite the knowledge that if I share with him what I know, it’ll bring him one step closer to terminating my mark, this is a test in trust. My olive branch. Without the olives, of course.
“I’ll share if you agree to leave the termination to me.”
“Not going to happen.”
I glare at him.
And damn it, he grins. It catches me off guard, like a rainbow after a thunderstorm. Brilliant in its own right. Beautiful, like Jaxson himself. “Fine. But understand this. Game on.”
“Agreed.” Jesus, even his eyes are smiling. Smirking. Loving the challenge.
“As you know, Novák is operating out of the catacombs. I’ve narrowed down the search to one of the tunnels beneath the cemetery behind this church. They run seven layers deep. Quite a few of them are dead ends. But surprisingly, there’s a generator down there supplying light and electricity to several of the catacombs. If I were a gambling gal—” I’m interrupted by his snort. “—then I’d say that for a Prick who wears fine suits and drives a Mercedes and dines at trendy, overpriced teahouses, he’s a creature of comfort. He’s not someone to set up show in the bowels of hell. Thank God. No, he’s working out of the fancy, generator-powered ones.”
“You’re probably right,” Jaxson comments. That’s . . . it. He glances at his watch then back at me. “Go on. What else?”
“Are you in a rush?”
“Do I seem like I am?”
“You answered a question with a question. What’s going on?” I stiffen and look around. Is this a set up? Is Diego or, worse still, Hayden, going to pop his head into the choir loft?
“Fuck, Kylie. What else have you learned?” Jaxson demands.
“I overheard a phone conversation. I think the Prick works for another man, someone named Farhed. They mentioned a shipment from Marseille and Mexico City.” I bite my lip, then stare at Jaxson. “I made a mistake. I sent pictures of the envelopes being exchanged to the Parisian gendarmes. A heads-up about the local riffraff, who are exchanging money for drugs. Just like in Shelby.”
“You didn’t give yourself much time.”
“Dumb move, I know. Though it could take months for them to figure out what’s going on. Or they’ll scratch their asses and do nothing. Same as what’s happened in Shelby.”
“Not something you’re likely to ignore.”
“I want justice. I want revenge. I want that Prick.” I want . . . you.
He shakes his head, side to side. No. Oh shit. Did I say it aloud? “You never give up. Still a fireball, huh?”
I gasp. Fireball?
He checks his watch again. My emotions are like a guitar string, a long sweet C chord, followed by a short, panicked, D-flat. What the hell is going on? Then he plucks the mother of all F chords. “Thirty seconds. Why did you text me only one man was with Novák when six men showed up at to the Palace? And why the fuck did I have to find out you had lunch with Novák from a handful of anonymous pictures Hayden handed to me?”
Pictures. Someone took pictures of my encounter with that Prick back in Shelby.
“If you hate the man so much, why the fuck were you having lunch with him?”
“I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t important. It’s something that happened unexpectedly. That Hayden knew about—he refused to let me terminate the Prick. Kept asking me if I knew why they were outside the Ranch.” I take a deep breath. Jaxson has to believe me. “I was set up. My cover with Franco exposed. Novák made aware of who I am, and who I’m working for. TORC’s work revealed. Those pictures are just another piece of incriminating evidence, pointing the finger at me. Why Hayden chose to believe them, along with the false information being circulated when he pulled me off the hit . . .”
Damn you, Francis. But before I can explain who the real traitor is, we’re interrupted by a buzzing sound.
“Damn him. Twenty seconds early.” Jaxson grins before removing his cell phone and taking the call. “Your dime.”
My lips tighten as a chill runs up my spine. He’s reporting in to Hayden right now?
“Photos?” Jaxson raises an eyebrow at me. “She mailed you pictures?”
Yep. No doubt Hayden’s called him back. And little did I realize I’d be fighting one set of pictures with another.
Hayden says something on the other end but his words are muffled. I wouldn’t put it past him to have one of those voice-altering devices attached to his phone.
“I have information that’ll cheer you up.”
Jaxson pulls the phone away from his ear as Hayden responds.
“Understood.” Jaxson rolls his eyes, then proceeds to repeat word for word what I told him moments ago, stealing my thunder at the end of it by adding, “I overheard a discussion.”
There’s a pause. Jaxson sits up and whatever motivated him to poke the tiger in the first place vanishes.
“Diego?”
I scramble to my feet. Oh shit.
“That’s not necessary. I’ve finally located her,” I hear him say from across the space. I take the spiral staircase, two stairs at a time.
Back inside the chapel, I freeze and raise my eyes to the loft.
Jaxson is standing at the balcony, phone to ear and scowling fiercely. “I’ll finish my orders.”
His words don’t drift down to me like we’re acting out our twisted version of Romeo and Juliet. No, his words drop like daggers, piercing me to the core.
“Yes. I understand. She’ll be dealt with.”