Free The Bookseller by Mark Pryor Page B

couldn't help but hold her gaze. She had hazel eyes, utterly flawless, and once he'd noticed them the toughness she carried about her like a cloak softened considerably. Her eyes matched perfectly a thick stripe of color in the scarf wound around her neck. Hugo wondered whether that was intentional, perhaps the gift of an observant friend or lover.
    â€œNot anymore?” she said. “Then we are either celebrating or commiserating, no? Either way, we should order wine with dinner.”
    â€œFine by me,” Hugo said. “So what exactly did you order? Omelets, yes, but ‘cepes’?”
    â€œA type of mushroom. The best type. The Italians call them porcini but the ones they grow around Bordeaux are different, I would swear to it. Much better. We're a little late in the season but some chefs keep a good supply, and it seems we're in luck. You've never had them?”
    â€œNot that I know of.” When they arrived, he discovered that she was right. Rich but light, without the meaty, overpowering taste of other mushrooms, such as the ubiquitous portabella. Cooked in butter and garlic, he guessed, and only now did he realize how hungry he was. The waiter arrived with another basket of bread.
    â€œSo what kind of journalist are you?” Hugo asked between bites.
    â€œNewspaper. A police reporter for Le Monde . Robbery, rape, murder, all that stuff. Drugs, too, that's my current interest. The cops are seeing a lot more of that lately, which means I'm writing about it more.” She smiled and tore a piece of bread in half. “The whole European Union thing. You open the borders up to tourists and trade and guess what else you get.”
    â€œThat makes sense.”
    â€œBelieve me, the dealers think so. The cops are starting a new antidrugs task force. I'm kissing a lot of butt to get info about it, get an exclusive or two.” She was switching between French and English and had used the slang cul for “butt,” which made Hugo smile. The way she said it, the language and her soft voice, it actually sounded elegant.
    â€œI see.” Hugo poured them more wine. “And are drugs more interesting than robberies or murder?”
    â€œUsually. More back story. A murder or a robbery just happens and that's it. They're not like on television, the murders we have here. They're quick and senseless, almost always. But with drugs there's often intrigue, drama, and real people touched by them. Plus, I'm tired of looking at dead bodies.”
    â€œI understand that.” He told her a little about his time in the FBI, working out of the Houston office as a profiler, showing up to murder scenes and having to dispassionately evaluate why the killer had gouged out the eyes of the victim. Too often a child. He'd had his successes, but success for him usually meant catching the bad guy after the event, not stopping him before. And that kind of success took its toll, which is why, he told Claudia, when he'd been offered the chance to get out of the trenches and travel a little, he jumped at it. No need to mention Ellie.
    â€œBut I think you miss it, no?” Again the cocked head as she looked at him.
    â€œMaybe I do. A little.” He looked at Claudia. “So you have good contacts at the prefecture?”
    She batted her eyelids dramatically. “What do you think?”
    He laughed. Of course she did. “Good. Do you do favors for American cops?”
    â€œThat depends on the favor.” She forked the last bite of her omelet into her mouth and chewed. “And it depends on what's in it for me.”
    Hugo laughed gently. “I think you'd do this cop a favor even if there was nothing in it for you.”
    Delicate eyebrows rose high. “Why is that?”
    â€œJust guessing. How about I pay for dinner?”
    He did, and afterwards they went to Hugo's apartment, where they drank brandy by the fire. She was a more enthusiastic listener than talker, mentioning