indignantly.
“Paulie
doesn’t have
a frequent flyer program.” Ilan snickered.
“Well, thanks to me, now he does.”
I couldn’t help it: witnessing the outrage in March’s expression, I dissolved into laughter.
Between two hiccups, I heard Ilan’s amused voice, addressing March. “Putain, c’est bien la première fois que je te vois faire marrer un client.”
Damn, it has to be the first time I see you make a client laugh.
I was surprised, to say the least; Ilan had talked in a rather colloquial French for the second time, and I hadn’t realized March could understand the language so well. It was becoming obvious he had been here before.
I spent the rest of the ride in silence, counting the cows and trying to figure what to make of all this. How many facets were there to the man people just called March?
TEN
The Goddess
“She was a mysterious, sensual goddess, gliding across the ballroom with effortless grace. Upon seeing her, Ryker immediately felt his pants tent: he had been hopelessly bitten by the potent arrow of love.”
—Gilda Sapphire,
Scorching Passion of the Billionaire Werewolf
Ilan must have been a wedding planner before turning to a life of crime, because when we reached the outskirts of Paris, he took charge naturally, March letting him do so without questions. I doubted it was a display of submission, though, more like he didn’t care and would do as he pleased in the end anyway.
A series of text messages made Ilan’s phone vibrate in his front pocket, and after he was done checking them, he looked at March in the mirror. “Your guy was seen at the Rose Paradise two nights ago. He’s a regular there. I’m sending someone. Shouldn’t be long until we catch him. I booked you a safe room, and your car is ready, but we’ll stop at my place first. She said she absolutely had to see you if you were in Paris.”
As he introduced the program, I recorded each single word in that special area of my brain where I store all data that could lead to shocking revelations and drama. Who the hell was “she”?
Ilan drove us through Paris until we reached rue Saint-Dominique, a narrow, crowded shopping street resting in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and mostly bordered by low nineteenth-century buildings. I marveled at the store displays: shoes, clothes, jewelry, perfume, pastries . . . The place was a Parisian girl’s dream. We turned right on a smaller street and stopped in front of a more modern white building. Fumbling in his pockets, Ilan pulled out a small remote and opened a garage’s roll-up door.
Once out of the car, he led us to an elevator. As I stepped in cautiously, my brain sizzled with curiosity. Who was the mysterious lady who wanted to see March so badly? A friend? A . . . girlfriend? Ilan’s mom? By the time we reached the seventh floor, I was busy weaving an elaborate scenario in which their rivalry stemmed from the fact that March was doing Ilan’s mom.
We stepped out, and I noticed that there was only one set of black doors at the end of the hallway—someone seemed to own the entire floor. Ilan pushed them open to reveal a huge living room furnished with tasteful pearl-gray-and-white designer stuff—the sort that makes you wonder how much crime pays—and there, standing on the dark wooden floor, was an apparition.
A woman, perched on high pink platform heels, with skin as dark and silky as the coat of a Bombay cat and indecent curves hugged by a beige bandage dress. It might have been a bit rude, but I stared. Almond-shaped eyes, long wavy hair, full lips, and impeccable makeup. She was a fricking goddess, and judging by the way she smiled seductively and poised herself, she knew it all too well.
My eyes traveled down to focus on her generous breasts. How could girls like me be expected to feel good about themselves when such creatures roamed the earth? It was almost unfair. Finishing my inspection, Inoted she wore a series of large golden bracelets on her
“Paulie
doesn’t have
a frequent flyer program.” Ilan snickered.
“Well, thanks to me, now he does.”
I couldn’t help it: witnessing the outrage in March’s expression, I dissolved into laughter.
Between two hiccups, I heard Ilan’s amused voice, addressing March. “Putain, c’est bien la première fois que je te vois faire marrer un client.”
Damn, it has to be the first time I see you make a client laugh.
I was surprised, to say the least; Ilan had talked in a rather colloquial French for the second time, and I hadn’t realized March could understand the language so well. It was becoming obvious he had been here before.
I spent the rest of the ride in silence, counting the cows and trying to figure what to make of all this. How many facets were there to the man people just called March?
TEN
The Goddess
“She was a mysterious, sensual goddess, gliding across the ballroom with effortless grace. Upon seeing her, Ryker immediately felt his pants tent: he had been hopelessly bitten by the potent arrow of love.”
—Gilda Sapphire,
Scorching Passion of the Billionaire Werewolf
Ilan must have been a wedding planner before turning to a life of crime, because when we reached the outskirts of Paris, he took charge naturally, March letting him do so without questions. I doubted it was a display of submission, though, more like he didn’t care and would do as he pleased in the end anyway.
A series of text messages made Ilan’s phone vibrate in his front pocket, and after he was done checking them, he looked at March in the mirror. “Your guy was seen at the Rose Paradise two nights ago. He’s a regular there. I’m sending someone. Shouldn’t be long until we catch him. I booked you a safe room, and your car is ready, but we’ll stop at my place first. She said she absolutely had to see you if you were in Paris.”
As he introduced the program, I recorded each single word in that special area of my brain where I store all data that could lead to shocking revelations and drama. Who the hell was “she”?
Ilan drove us through Paris until we reached rue Saint-Dominique, a narrow, crowded shopping street resting in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and mostly bordered by low nineteenth-century buildings. I marveled at the store displays: shoes, clothes, jewelry, perfume, pastries . . . The place was a Parisian girl’s dream. We turned right on a smaller street and stopped in front of a more modern white building. Fumbling in his pockets, Ilan pulled out a small remote and opened a garage’s roll-up door.
Once out of the car, he led us to an elevator. As I stepped in cautiously, my brain sizzled with curiosity. Who was the mysterious lady who wanted to see March so badly? A friend? A . . . girlfriend? Ilan’s mom? By the time we reached the seventh floor, I was busy weaving an elaborate scenario in which their rivalry stemmed from the fact that March was doing Ilan’s mom.
We stepped out, and I noticed that there was only one set of black doors at the end of the hallway—someone seemed to own the entire floor. Ilan pushed them open to reveal a huge living room furnished with tasteful pearl-gray-and-white designer stuff—the sort that makes you wonder how much crime pays—and there, standing on the dark wooden floor, was an apparition.
A woman, perched on high pink platform heels, with skin as dark and silky as the coat of a Bombay cat and indecent curves hugged by a beige bandage dress. It might have been a bit rude, but I stared. Almond-shaped eyes, long wavy hair, full lips, and impeccable makeup. She was a fricking goddess, and judging by the way she smiled seductively and poised herself, she knew it all too well.
My eyes traveled down to focus on her generous breasts. How could girls like me be expected to feel good about themselves when such creatures roamed the earth? It was almost unfair. Finishing my inspection, Inoted she wore a series of large golden bracelets on her
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