Free Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) by Michelle St. James Page A

think your choice of words is simply a kinder way of saying she’s high-strung.”
    Charlotte laughed, and she was relieved to feel her shoulders relax. Everything was going to be okay. Christophe Marchand was just a man.
    A man like any other man.

14
    C hristophe sat back in the plush leather seat and fastened his seat belt for the flight to Vienna. It took effort to avoid looking at Charlotte as she did the same. Everything she did was the subject of fascination to him. It was something about the way she moved, slowly and carefully, with a deliberation one didn’t often see in the twenty-first century. She reminded him of the screen sirens he’d watched in old movies growing up — all the sensuality of someone like Sophia Loren coupled with the reserve of Grace Kelly.
    The engines grew to a dim roar as they taxied down the runway. He dared a glance at her then, drank in her slim neck, her profile as she gazed out the window. Her posture was relaxed, her hands folded casually in her lap.
    He was glad for the distraction of takeoff, glad Julien had opted to sit in the cockpit with the pilot. Christophe didn’t want to make polite conversation. He was still trying to reconcile the bargain he’d struck with Edgar Duval’s daughter.
    He’d presented it as the only smart, viable option. And yet, he could have advised her to return to California, close the shop for a time. He could have stationed men outside it for a few days to head off any damage by the people who had threatened her. He could have suggested she hand over the ring. What did it matter? Stefan Baeder was dead. Exploring a connection between the ring and his death — whatever the outcome — wouldn’t change that.
    But he hadn’t done any of those things. He’d suggested a joint trip to Vienna instead.
    Because of her.
    Her appearance in his life had been unexpected, but now that it had happened, it had the air of inevitability. As if it were destined.
    Ducunt volentem fata.
    Except he didn’t believe in fate. Not really. A man — or woman — made his own destiny through the choices he made and the work he did. So why did he feel like he was breathing for the first time in years? Animated by a single life-giving breath, like a person pulled from the water, blue and cold, brought back by the breath forced into his lungs by another?
    It didn't make sense. He didn’t like things that didn’t make sense. But the truth was undeniable; he wasn’t ready to see her walk out of his life. He didn't know what it meant, but Vienna would give him time to figure it out. They could spend a couple days together in one of the most romantic cities in the world. Unless he was misreading her physical response — and he rarely misread a woman’s physical tells — she was attracted to him as well. Perhaps it would be a passing infatuation. That would be easiest. They could find out more about the ring, develop a strategy for resolving the problem of the men in Paris, part ways when she went back to Los Angeles.
    He turned his attention to the men who had threatened her. Petty thievery seemed unlikely. Small time crooks weren’t interested in valuable works of art. They were too difficult to pawn, too easy to trace by the authorities.
    That meant either the ring itself was valuable for reasons they hadn’t yet determined (its value had been appraised at a hundred thousand Euros when it was last at auction — hardly a king’s ransom) or it connected these men to the murder of Stefan Baeder.
    He let his gaze slide to Charlotte across the aisle of the private plane. Her head was bent to a book, an obviously well-read copy of Suite Francaise she’d carried onto the plane. She flipped the page, and he caught sight of the smudge at her wrist, the discoloration marring her porcelain skin.
    His outrage was immediate. It was like looking at a work of art that had been damaged by someone careless and cruel. He wanted to repair the damage, but there was something else — a