Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

Lying next to her, on top of the covers, was the small, defenseless form of Nicole.

Relief and wonder washed over Claire. She shifted carefully, so as not to wake her visitor, and stared down at the child’s face. Nicole looked younger in her sleep, less terrifyingly precocious. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, with the dried trace of tears beneath them, and she was curled in a fetal ball, as if even in sleep she knew she had to protect herself.

Yet she’d come to Claire, a fact that amazed her. Despite the uneasy truce that characterized their relationship, she’d sought out Claire for a comforting presence.

The room was damp and chilly in the early-morning light. Claire had made the bed the way Marc liked it, with a top sheet and a duvet, no blankets. Carefully Claire lifted the duvet away and wrapped it around the child’s body. Nicole shifted once, sighing, and sank back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Claire lay there, shivering under the light sheet, watching the child, fighting the wave of maternal tenderness that had swept over her. It was too much for a little girl, first to lose a mother, then to be caught between a stepfather’s coldness and a grandmother’s paranoia. It should come as no surprise when Nicole turned to the only person who demanded no allegiance and only wished to offer comfort.

Usually Nicole wouldn’t accept that comfort. Last night’s dreams must have been particularly bad to send her into Claire’s bedroom, a bedroom Nicole always assiduously avoided. Looking down at her, Claire’s indecision vanished, the last of her doubts fled. She wouldn’t, couldn’t leave Nicole behind to the tender mercies of Marc and Madame Langlois.

Didn’t Nicole have a great-aunt somewhere outside of L.A.? Hadn’t that been where Madame Langlois spent the last year or so? If Claire moved swiftly, before Marc decided to return from his so-called tour, she could take Nicole out of the country, leave her with her great-aunt, and then disappear.

It would doubtless be against the law. Could France extradite her for kidnapping? And was it kidnapping if she was taking the child to a close blood relative?

All that was academic. She had already committed a criminal act and hurt a child in doing so. Perhaps another criminal act to help a child might even the score a bit. Not in the eyes of the law, but in her own, troubled soul.

She wouldn’t hesitate. This morning, after Nicole went off to Madame Langlois, she would go to the American Express office where, thank God, everyone spoke English. She would get two tickets for Los Angeles on the next possible flight, and then they would simply leave.

She imagined Marc’s anger when he returned from his nonexistent tour and found them gone. Not that he cared for Nicole, but he wasn’t likely to willingly give up ownership of anything, even an unwelcome nine-year-old. And to lose his control over Claire would make him livid.

Claire shivered in the dawn light, telling herself it was the chilly room. She allowed herself a brief, longing thought of Tom, then forcibly dismissed it from her mind. The right man, but the wrong time and place. It wasn’t meant to be.

She’d have more than enough to keep her mind occupied, away from regrets for what might have been. She’d have to find Nicole’s passport and put it with her own, she’d have to find the great-aunt’s name and address. She’d have to pack for both of them, surreptitiously, and think of something reasonable to get Nicole on the plane. While she’d be more than happy to leave her stepfather and the coldly elegant apartment that had once belonged to her mother, she wouldn’t willingly part with her grandmother.

Of course, Harriette Langlois might very well assist Claire in her plan. If she truly believed Marc was so dangerous, she should be glad to have her granddaughter sent out of harm’s way.

But could Claire trust her? Would Madame assist her, help cover for her if Marc should return unexpectedly, support her in case the French courts were more active than Claire hoped? Or would she demand that Nicole stay with her, a constant audience to her persecution complex, until Marc took her away again?

No, she didn’t dare risk it. She’d leave Madame a note, explaining what she had done, and it would be up to the old lady to help or hinder the aftermath. At least she wouldn’t be able to interfere with their escape.

Nicole stirred in her sleep, murmuring something low. The word was universal; even in its French form Claire understood it. She was calling for her mother.

Claire blinked

back the hot tears that had suddenly formed in her eyes. Come hell or high water she’d get Nicole safely away. Then, and not until then, she’d begin to deal with her own problems.

Harriette Langlois lay alone in the bed, watching the sunrise as she had every morning for the last thirty years. Except for her hideous, self-imposed exile in America, she corrected herself, watching the sky slowly lighten. The bed beneath her frail body had long ago conformed to her contours, so that she lay, cradled in the softness in a place that clearly belonged to no one but her.

The Americans bought new mattresses every ten years or so, her sister had said. They turned their mattresses every few months to keep the surfaces hard. Just another example of new-world stupidity, Harriette thought, sniffing contemptuously. With their constant need to spend money they would never have the luxury of owning a mattress that really knew them.

It was a shame she couldn’t die in this comfortable bed, but she’d already mourned that fact. She had never shirked her duty in her life, and she wasn’t about to do so now. She wasn’t going to die without taking Marc Bonnard down with her, and since fate and medicine had decreed her death was growing imminent, her need to act was also imminent.

She thought back to the man dear Hubert had sent her. She didn’t even know his name, nor did she want to. She’d originally planned to ask whoever appeared to do it as painlessly as possible. One look into the man’s flat, dark eyes and she knew it would be a waste of her breath.

She’d faced terrible things in her life. She’d stayed during the long, terrible years when the Boches invaded Paris, she’d watched her beloved husband die slowly, painfully, she’d survived the cruellest blow of all, the death of her only child. She would face this, and do it without flinching.

But Lord, the bed was so comfortable, the scent of her lilac toilet water hung lightly in the air, and all around her were the dear, familiar things she’d had for so long. If only fate had decided, for once, to be kind.

In the early-morning hours, Harriette Langlois allowed herself a brief, uncharacteristic moment of self-pity. No one would see, no one would know. In another few hours she would face the day, stalwart, unmoved, waiting for the moment when the dark, evil-looking creature would reappear.

It might be today, it might be a week from now. Harriette hoped it wouldn’t be too long. The pain was getting very bad indeed, and Nicole had such sharp eyes.

At least Marc’s American mistress was a blessed surprise. The woman had more brains than Harriette would have imagined, coupled with an honest concern for the child. She would see to Nicole.

And the man in the leather coat and dirty fingernails would see to her, Harriette thought. Soon, she hoped. Please God, make it soon.

The passports were gone. Claire sat back on her heels, staring at the scattered contents of her traveling bag in horrified disbelief. There was no sign of the slim blue folder with its unflattering photograph anywhere in the jumbled bag where she usually kept it. That bag usually sat at the back of the bedroom closet, where no one knew of its existence; no one could get to it except Claire. And Marc, of course.