Free The Bookseller by Mark Pryor Page A

full of questions rather than answers, the metal boxes might become contaminated and never give up their secrets.
    He turned left again, making his way onto Rue Dauphine, heading toward his apartment. He wasn't ready to call it a night, though; he was restless and needed to be around people. Even if that meant sitting alone in a bar. He slowed, gazing into the windows of the tiny stores that made up these narrow streets, one-room boutiques that sold not much to hardly anyone. There were dozens of them in this arrondissement , and he often wondered how they paid the rent.
    He found an empty table under a heating lamp at a café on Rue Andre Mazet. It was busy for a Monday night, but it pleased him to be out in a crowd. He ordered a scotch, and when the waiter returnedhe opened his wallet and took out a ten Euro note. The woman at the small table next to him stared at his wallet. She tried to be subtle about it but the edge of her table touched Hugo's, and their chairs were just inches apart. And, Hugo would have to admit, her presence had already attracted his attention, the moment she walked into the café. He sipped his drink and took the opportunity to look at her a little more closely. She was a few years younger than him, maybe mid-thirties, with light brown hair that she wore short, an almost-bob. Stylish and pretty, but with a hardness to the face that almost certainly dissuaded strange men from making conversation.
    As he put his glass down, she caught him looking. He was about to apologize, when she did.
    â€œ Je m'excuse , monsieur ,” she said, nodding at his wallet. “I noticed your badge. You are a cop?”
    â€œ Non . Not exactly.” So it wasn't the money. “I work at the US Embassy, in security.”
    â€œ Bien . You speak French very well.” She looked at his wallet again and switched to English. “You should know better than to carry so much cash.” A smile accompanied the reprimand.
    He patted the bulge under his suit and returned the smile. “The US Embassy, remember.”
    â€œAh yes, you Americans and your guns. Perhaps I can help you lighten your wallet.”
    â€œExcuse me?” America or France, Hugo knew that a certain type of working girl, usually the more attractive ones, plied their trade in bars, restaurants, and cafés rather than on the street. But he'd never actually been propositioned before, and he wasn't even sure if that's what was happening now.
    â€œBy buying me a drink,” she said, putting out her hand. “Claudia Roux.” She put her other hand into her bag and pulled out her own credentials. “A journalist.”
    â€œI'm sorry, of course, I thought…I'm Hugo Marston,” he added hurriedly.
    â€œI know what you thought, Monsieur Marston, and I'm not surewhether to be flattered or appalled.” Her eyes reflected neither, though the slight curl at the corners of her mouth suggested amusement.
    â€œI'm sorry,” he said, “I should be appalled, not you.” He caught the waiter's eye and when he came over, Hugo turned to his companion. “What would you like?”
    She spoke directly to the waiter. “ Un whisky, s'il vous plait .” She held up a hand, stalling the young man. “Have you eaten yet, Monsieur Marston?”
    â€œActually, no.”
    She turned back to the waiter. “ Alors, deux omelettes. Vous avez les cepes toujours ?”
    â€œ Oui madam. Deux omelettes avec cepes ?”
    â€œ Oui .” She smiled at Hugo. “You are married, I take it.” It was a statement, not a question.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” Hugo asked.
    â€œYou should see your face. You are not used to having a woman order for you.”
    He nodded. “That's true.” His southern belle, Christine, would have let them both starve before she ordered for him at a restaurant. “But I'm not married, not anymore.”
    She watched him closely as he spoke and Hugo