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

kind of ache in his chest at the knowledge that whoever had done it had caused her fear or pain.
    That she’d been alone in that moment.
    He didn’t like the thought of her being alone and afraid.
    The realization left him with a deep sense of disquiet. He didn’t like disquiet. He turned his attention to the catalog in front of him. An important estate was coming up for auction in Berlin. He would have to have his buyer there attend and bid on his behalf.
    He felt better as he turned the pages of the catalog, mentally tracking the pieces that were of interest to him. This was his world. A world of oil paintings and gilded frames, centuries old mahogany and oak, stained glass and the finest gems.
    Here everything made sense, everything was for sale. And if one couldn’t own the object of one’s desire, there was always another of equal beauty around the corner.
    He kept turning the pages long after he was really seeing the items displayed there, his mind turning over the unwelcome suspicion that Charlotte Duval wasn’t like all the other beautiful things in his world.
    That she would not be for sale.
    That she would not be replaceable.

15
    C harlotte slid into the waiting car, trying not to look impressed. She wasn’t some kind of underprivileged ingenue, but she couldn’t help but note the luxury with which Christophe Marchand surrounded himself. She didn’t know what kind of criminal maintained a private plane, a pilot on retainer, and a personal bodyguard, but the house in Saint Germain had only hinted at Marchand’s wealth.
    She watched as Julien slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. It was easier to look at the bodyguard than the man sitting next to her. She’d spent the entire flight from Paris turning the pages of her book, the words swimming in front of her eyes as she tried to resist glancing at Christophe Marchand across the aisle. Sometimes she had the feeling he was looking at her, but she hadn’t been about to test the theory by finding out.
    She’d focused her eyes on the book instead, her mind swirling with the events of the past forty-eight hours. Her whole world had been turned upside down with the discovery of the ring, and she wondered all over again if she should have handed it over, gone back to L.A. She’d probably be landing right now, taking a taxi to her rented cottage in Malibu.
    She couldn’t think about the cottage without imagining its interior, the mid-century modern architecture further depersonalized with her generic furnishings, expensive and well-designed, but lacking any real indication that a human being resided there. It was depressing to look at one’s life from the outside, to realize it was a hollow shell, one she’d been occupying for a long time.
    Too long probably.
    She watched the historic city of Vienna appear on the other side of the glass. This would be good for her.
    A diversion. A distraction.
    “Have you been to Vienna?” Christophe asked next to her.
    Speaking of distraction.
    She turned to look at him, startled all over again by the bottomless depth of his eyes. “Once,” she said. “It was for an exhibit on Max Kurzweil. I assisted with the curation as part of my Masters program.”
    “I saw that exhibit,” he said. “It was lovely. Perfectly spaced and ordered.”
    “Thank you.” How strange that they’d once been in the same city and hadn’t known it. Then again, how many times had she visited her father in Paris while Christophe Marchand operated his criminal empire only a few miles away? “I don’t actually like Kurzweil, to be honest.”
    He tipped his head. “Why is that?”
    “I find them a bit flat, the colors blurry in a way that makes me want to look away instead of look more closely.”
    She thought she saw appreciation in his gaze. “I’ve always quite liked Kurzweil, but your perspective is one I haven’t considered.”
    “That’s the beauty of art, isn’t it? That we all see something different, and yet none