“I don’t imagine it did. By the way, my name’s Tom Parkhurst. You ought to know who you’re married to. That is … you’re not really married, are you?”
Not yet, she should have said. “No, I’m not married.” Tell him about Marc, she ordered herself sternly. Say thank you very much and get rid of him.
It had been so long since she’d spoken to anyone but Marc. So long since she’d heard the blessedly flat vowels of an American accent. Surely she could indulge herself for just a short while?
“My name’s Claire,” she said, deliberately omitting her last name. She wasn’t sure why she did—it was just an instinctive gesture of self-protection. She stopped, and he took his arm away from her slender shoulders and shook her proffered hand. There was just the right feel to it, not too soft, not too rough, not too squeezing, not too limp. He was harmless, she told herself. A fellow American, and someone to talk to.
“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you know the French words for coffee ice cream?”
* * *
Malgreave slammed the book shut with a nasty curse. His English wasn’t bad, better in conversation than in literature, but this book, for all the effort he was putting into it, wasn’t proving any help at all. He glared down at it. He’d gone to a great deal of trouble to get it. It was the latest American best-seller, chronicling the history of several of the copycat killers in the last decade. And there was absolutely nothing of value for his current case.
He leaned back on the uncomfortable, overstuffed sofa that Marie had banished to the back bedroom, the room they now called his office. It had been Margritte’s room, until she got married, and for almost a year Marie had refused to change anything. But now Margritte was about to give birth to their first grandchild, an event Marie clearly anticipated and dreaded. On the one hand Marie loved babies, she loved Margritte, and she looked forward to having a new little one to dress up and play with.
On the other hand, being a grandmother meant getting old. And he knew very well that Marie had no wish to get old.
She’d lost weight recently. She’d been going to a health center and exercising, and her waist had come back. She no longer bought sweets, and she scarcely touched her morning roll. She was wearing more makeup now, and her hair had lost the becoming silver. No, she didn’t want to get old. But was her sudden youthfulness for her own sake, or his? Or someone else’s?
Margritte wouldn’t be coming home now, and the spare bedroom was simply going to waste. And if Louis was going to bring his work home with him and smoke those nasty cigarettes, then he needed a place to work, she said. She wasn’t going to give up her television programs because he wanted to concentrate. God knows, she said, she had little enough to entertain her these days.
She was going to leave him, he knew she was. And while the thought ate away at his soul like acid, there was nothing he could do. If he said anything, there would be no turning back. So he just plodded onward, his head in the sand, hoping she would change her mind.
And in the meantime, the weather forecast was for three days of rain.
Rocco Guillère strolled down the narrow street, away from the park, his cruel dark eyes following the old lady’s elegant pace. He hated women like that. They looked like they had a broomstick up their ass and they’d rather die than admit it. Tall, straight, born rich and she’d die rich.
Sooner than she’d like. He looked up into the clear blue sky, peering into the fleecy white clouds scudding along. When he’d been a boy and lived outside of Paris he could tell what the weather would be from the clouds. He’d forgotten all that—now he only knew the weather from what landed on his skin. He’d wait, he had to wait. He’d promised, and promises like that couldn’t be broken.
In the meantime, he knew where she lived. It wouldn’t take long. Early spring was one of the rainiest times of the year. All he had to do was be patient and hope that fool Malgreave didn’t realize he had anything to do with the two bodies found floating in the Seine last night.
He didn’t have anything to worry about. The police didn’t fuss too much about dead drug dealers, as long as they weren’t part of a gang war. This way he had the money, the drugs, and Giselle had been able to enjoy herself, the greedy bitch. And in a few days, as soon as the rains came again, he’d get his reward.
Marc came up behind her, snaking his arms around her waist and pulling her pliant body back against his. His warm, damp mouth nibbled her neck, and his narrow hips pressed against her buttocks. He was aroused, and she waited for an answering surge of heat in her own body. It came, obediently enough, but it took a moment.
“Did you miss me while we were at grand-mère’s?” he murmured in her ear.
She didn’t move. There was absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, she told herself for the twentieth time. All she did was share a park bench and an hour’s conversation with a fellow American. And a coffee ice cream cone that was sinfully delicious.
It had been nothing. Just a sharing of idiotic things. Where they went to college. Where they’d worked. What pets they’d had when they were young. The miserable weather, and yes, the tragic deaths of the old ladies. The kind of conversation strangers had. And that’s all she and Tom Parkhurst were. Strangers who would be unlikely to meet again.
So there was no need to tell Marc, was there? He was flatteringly jealous, but it wasn’t a game Claire cared to play. There was no comparison between the two men. Marc was heat and passion and dark, mysterious depths. Tom was about as mysterious as a teddy bear.
No, there was no need to tell him. “Of course I missed you,” Claire murmured, turning in his arms and pressing her hips against his. “Do I get to go next time?”
He smiled at her, his dark, dreamy eyes level with hers. “Not next time, darling,” he murmured, his hands deft with her zipper. “There wasn’t time to bring up the subject. But soon, I promise.”
She felt the coolness of the air against her skin as the zipper parted company, and she squashed down the sudden surge of disappointment. She’d been looking forward to meeting Nicole’s beloved grand-mère. Anything to break out of her seclusion. Marc would have no reason for keeping them apart, unless … “She does speak English, doesn’t she?”
Marc’s expressive face was answer enough, it didn’t need his words. “I’d been hoping you wouldn’t ask. Not really, darling. But I’m sure Nicole will translate for you.”
“But she just spent almost a year in Los Angeles …”
He shrugged. “You will find that Harriette Langlois does not do anything she doesn’t care to do. And she doesn’t care to learn a language she considers an abomination.” The dress slid to the floor, a pool of silk at her slender ankles. “Don’t worry about her, darling. As long as we have each other we don’t need a disapproving old bitch like her. Let Nicole have her.”
“But …” Her mouth was silenced, swiftly and effectively, by his. And Claire, thinking of Tom Parkhurst and guilt, kissed him back.
Harriette Langlois was washing her own dishes. She hadn’t yet arranged for her cleaning lady to come back, and in truth, she didn’t mind doing the dishes for a change. It helped her think.