“I have to.”
Tom was on his feet, searching his pockets for change, frustration and impatience on his face. “Can’t you see that woman was a lying troublemaker? Of course Marc is out of town, and even if he isn’t, what does it matter? You haven’t done anything wrong. Are you afraid of him? Has he threatened you, hurt you in any way?”
“No. No, he hasn’t hurt me,” she said slowly. “I’d better get back.” And before he could stop her she was racing down the streets, her Reeboks silent on the sidewalks.
She could feel his eyes watching her hasty departure, but she knew those weren’t the eyes that had watched her, followed her. She knew now whose eyes they were. No, Marc hadn’t threatened, abused her. But he frightened her. Very much indeed.
And tucking the grisly newspaper under her arm, she turned the corner and raced homeward, a thousand demons riding at her back.
CHAPTER 9
The apartment was empty. Claire made very sure of that fact, starting with the hall closet and working her way back through the huge, stately rooms to the cavernous kitchen. No sign of Marc, no sign that he’d been there in the past two weeks. All that remained was her defiant clutter.
Pushing up the sleeves of her baggy cotton sweater, Claire began to clean. She started in the kitchen, working with single-minded purpose, scrubbing and dusting and straightening, making sure every piece of china was back in place, every piece of silver polished and sparkling, the counters and table scrubbed, the floor spotless, the ceilings free of cobwebs.
Without stopping any longer than she needed to consume too much black coffee, she moved through the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the dining room and formal salon, working with a frenzy only intensified by the silent reproach of the apartment and the caffeine in her system. She kept her mind a perfect blank, refusing to think about why she was doing this, refusing to acknowledge the very real panic that had swamped her when she imagined Marc’s reaction when he saw how she had trashed his beloved apartment.
She stopped outside of Nicole’s room, exhausted, sweating, almost too weary to continue. But she knew Nicole was just as intrinsically messy as she herself was, knew that as long as her father was out of reach she’d let her own room turn into a shambles.
She opened the door and then stopped, leaning against the door frame and staring at what she hadn’t quite comprehended during her previous reconnaissance.
Nicole’s room was spotless.
Messy Nicole, who’d left her dishes in the sink just as Claire had, who’d dropped coats in the hallway and crumbs on the silk-covered sofas, had kept her own room scrupulously neat.
Claire shut the door silently, moving back through the empty apartment that didn’t feel empty. It hadn’t been deeply ingrained instincts that had kept Nicole’s room neat. She must have known, deep in her nine-year-old heart, that Marc was still around. Watching.
No one saw him as he made his way back to the shabby hotel room. But then, no one ever saw him. He knew how to blend with those around him, how to disappear into crowds, become invisible. If by any chance someone happened to notice him, they would simply shrug and think no more about it, accepting him as part of the Paris street scene.
He was late coming back. He’d stayed too long at the park, but he couldn’t help himself. He liked the little boys the best. The girls, even the five- and six-year-olds, were already too flirtatious, too sure of their own seductive power. Whores at heart, all of them.
The boys were still innocent. Still a challenge. When he was ready he would start with the little boys.
The pain was manageable. Harriette had learned that long ago, learned to control it with her mind, with drugs, with sheer grit and determination. It wouldn’t be much longer. Just time to pay off a few debts, and then a blissful nothingness. She simply had to use the formidable strength of mind and will that had supported her for so long. And never weaken.
She watched her granddaughter leave with mixed emotions. She didn’t like entrusting her care to some mindless American besotted with Marc Bonnard’s sexuality. But she had Nicole’s word that Claire MacIntyre was essentially a decent person, and she trusted her granddaughter’s instincts. Nicole had seen through Marc even before Harriette had, looking up at her stepfather with dark, disapproving eyes.
It was no wonder Marc hated her, almost as much as he hated Harriette, as he had hated Isabelle, her daughter. He was such a consummate artist, a trickster, that it was simp
ly unbearable for him to be seen as he was, the shoddy upstart with no origins. He’d taken on Isabelle’s apartment, her life-style, her daughter, as if he were born to them all, but Harriette could see through his jumped-up manners. She didn’t need to know he’d been brought up by peasants in Rouen to realize he had less breeding than her garbage man.
She wasn’t going to die peacefully and let Marc end up with everything—Isabelle’s money, Isabelle’s apartment, Isabelle’s daughter. He wasn’t going to profit from murdering her daughter. The damnable thing was that Harriette had no proof. It had been a stormy night when Isabelle had taken off over the steep, winding roads in the south of France, and Isabelle had never been a good driver.
The police had seemed to think it all reasonable, and Marc had been sufficiently broken-hearted to convince some of the most cynical observers.
But not Harriette. She had watched, dry-eyed with a grief too terrible to bear, as her son-in-law moved with dignified grief through the funeral, and she had known. In the years since it had happened she had been consumed with such bitter hatred that it was no wonder her aging body was now eaten up with cancer.
But it wasn’t cancer that was going to get her, she was about to make grimly sure of that. And Marc wasn’t going to reap the benefit of her money, the money she had no choice but to leave to Nicole, which would, in turn, place it in Marc’s greedy hands. No, she was going to take care of Marc, give him just what he deserved.
She heard the rude buzz at the back door, and nodded with satisfaction. She’d told Hubert to make sure his employee—her employee—wasn’t seen. She wanted nothing to tie him to her untimely demise.
She moved slowly through the apartment, running a graceful, regretful hand along the elegant old furniture. The door buzzed again as she reached the kitchen, and Harriette frowned. Such a rude, impatient man. But what could you expect from someone in his line of work?
She opened the door and looked up into Rocco Guillère’s cruel, pockmarked face. She blocked the doorway, all one hundred frail pounds of her, and looked him over with a withering glance. “You are Hubert’s friend?” she inquired coolly.
The man didn’t like her attitude, she could tell. Good. It would make him that much more eager to get the job done.
“I’m Hubert’s friend,” he growled in a gutter-Parisian accent. He hesitated a moment longer, then pushed past her into the kitchen. “I believe you have a job for me.” He looked around her small, spotless kitchen in contempt, looked at her with equal disdain.