Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

She scooted up in bed, pushing the pillows behind her and staring at the dawn-lit room in dismay. The longer Marc was gone the worse it was getting. Not the missing him. Just the opposite.

She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Without his commanding presence, without his formidable sexual technique, she was suddenly beginning to think for herself once more. For six months she’d been in shock, content to follow where Marc led her, content to live an almost cloistered existence, doing penance for Brian’s crime and her complicity.

But with no one to tell her what to do, with Nicole depending on her, she’d begun to face life once more. And as the days passed she was coming to the unsettling conclusion that she didn’t want to face life with Marc Bonnard.

She was a slob, he demanded compulsive neatness. She was casual, he was formal. She liked to laugh and cry, he disdained emotions. She liked to lie in bed and read and eat chocolate and croissants and dribble crumbs all over the place; for Marc the bed was for sex and for sleep.

He wanted her passive, and for far too long that was exactly what she had been. Suddenly, without Marc around to keep her subdued, she was waking up. And she didn’t like what she saw.

The frightening thing, she realized as she leaned forward and stared out into the streets of Paris, is that the alternatives were so unpromising. If she left Marc, where would she go? She couldn’t go back to the U.S. and pretend nothing had ever happened. If she went back she would have to go to the authorities and tell them about that night six months ago. She’d have to implicate Brian, implicate herself. She’d probably face criminal charges. Even if she didn’t, the publicity would be ghastly, and there’d be no way she’d be able to find work with that kind of past haunting her. She’d be friendless, jobless.

She could always go down to Florida to stay with her mother. But her mother’s retirement life of bridge and gossip and cocktail parties drove her crazy—even Marc was preferable to that.

Claire shivered in the drafty old apartment. Even Marc, she echoed, dismayed. When had it turned from passion to repression, when had it turned from idyllic love to resentment and the desperate need to escape? Even prison, an honest, American prison, would be preferable to the straightjacket kind of life Marc had forced on her.

But what about Nicole? Nicole, with no one to love her but her grandmother, a grandmother who was gone far too much of the time. In the early-morning light Claire could no longer come up with excuses for Marc. If he loved his daughter it was a useless kind of love. His behavior toward Nicole was as controlling and repressive as it was toward Claire. Never had she seen him kiss the child, cuddle her, praise her, even greet her warmly. And while Nicole still didn’t trust Claire, didn’t accept her, at least Claire was able to distract Marc when he grew terrifying.

No, she couldn’t leave Nicole. Not unless she made some arrangement with Madame Langlois, made certain the old woman wouldn’t desert her again. And in order to do that, she’d have to go see the old lady.

Claire shoved the covers back and climbed out of bed, padding across the floor in the oversized T-shirt that Marc would have disdained. He preferred her in ruffly silk and laces, like a Victorian whore, Claire thought bitterly, yanking the shirt over her head and dropping it on the floor. She picked up the jeans from the Louis XIV slipper chair and headed for the bathroom. The more she thought about it, the more determined she grew. She’d see Madame Langlois, assure herself that Nicole was in good hands, and then she’d make her plans to leave.

Rocco heard the pounding at the door. He’d been in bed less than an hour and he was in no mood for visitors. Giselle was still out, which was fine with him, and normally he wouldn’t get out of bed until late afternoon.

The pounding continued, and Rocco squinted at the thin gold watch he’d taken off the Spaniard. Seven-fifteen. Any man who woke another up at seven-fifteen deserved to die. Rocco pulled the huge Magnum from under the grimy pillow, aimed it at the door, and fired twice.

“God damn it!” A furious voice came through the holes in the flimsy pine door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Guillère?” The door slammed open, bouncing against the peeling wall, revealing a tiny figure vibrating with rage.

“Hubert,” Rocco acknowledged, sitting up and pulling his boots on. The man in his doorway was no more than five feet tall, almost as round, and dressed quite nattily in a gray linen suit that emphasized his bulk. His egg-shaped head was completely bald, and there was a long scratch on top of that shiny pate, oozing blood.

Hubert was dabbing at it gingerly with a white handkerchief. “Damn your eyes, Rocco,” he said with his unmistakable voice. Upper-class Parisian combined with a lisp, Hubert’s voice was his trademark. “You could have killed me.”

If anyone could have chastened Rocco, Hubert was the one. No one could. “It’s lucky you’re so short, Hubert,” he said lazily. “Anybody else would have gotten it in the throat.”

“Is

that what you were hoping?”

“It’s effective. That way they die quickly and they can’t scream.”

“It makes a hell of a mess.” Hubert peered at his bloody handkerchief in disgust, then tucked it away in his vest pocket.

“I’m not fastidious.”

Hubert wrinkled his nose. “In our long association I have discovered that about you. I have a job, my friend.”

“A job that brings you here in the middle of the night?”

“You’d prefer the middle of the night. I don’t sleep more than an hour at a time, Rocco. If you wish to work for me you’ll have to accommodate yourself to my schedule.”

Rocco stared at him stonily, the warm gun clasped loosely in his hand. For a moment he considered shooting one more time. He didn’t like to take orders from anyone, even someone as deceptively impressive as Hubert. But the old man was legendary, with connections that reached all the way to the top of the government, and those kinds of connections couldn’t be thrown away in a fit of pique. Besides, Hubert’s jobs were never boring.

“I wish to work for you.” Rocco kept his voice lazy, insolent. “What is it this time?”

Hubert seated himself gingerly on the green plastic American recliner that was Rocco’s pride and joy. “It’s a tricky one, my boy, but well suited for your talents and reputation.” He sighed, dabbing at his eyes with the bloody handkerchief and then grimacing. “It’s a favor for an old, dear friend.”

“I didn’t know you had any.”

“Don’t be absurd, my boy. It’s my friends that serve us so well, that have saved your butt time after time. Though this is somewhat different, and I’m counting on your delicacy to handle it properly.”