Free The Devil's Reprise by Karina Halle Page A

flights, I nearly stopped in my tracks. Jacob was here and talking to Max with a grim look on his face, my suitcase in his meaty hand. He was waving his other hand in the air, his gold rings glinting, and Max was silent, chewing on his lip and listening attentively.
    “Hey,” I said, my voice cracking a little, as I continued walking toward them, hoping I wasn’t interrupting something important. Jacob shut up and his head whipped my way. A broad smile cracked across his face, his golden eyes vivid and dancing.
    “Dawn, love,” he said in that irrepressible Cockney accent of his, throwing his arms open and bringing me into a tight embrace, my face smooshed up against his scratchy orange-and-brown wool suit, which smelled like coffee and mothballs. His fashion sense hadn’t changed, and that brought me the tiniest bit of ironic comfort.
    I finally untangled myself from his vice-like hug and let him look me over with a discerning eye. “You look great, love. Tired as fuck but still great. I trust Max has been a gentleman with you.” Jacob’s scrutiny turned to Max, who seemed to pale a bit under his gaze.
    “Max has been fine,” I told him. I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m glad you’re here; I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.” I was really beginning to think Sage had forgotten about me, but from the apologetic smile stretched across Jacob’s face, I could tell he knew what I was thinking.
    “Yes, well, traffic you know, love,” he said, leading us toward the doors. “Bit of a crazy thing with all these frogs around us.” I quickly glanced around me, expecting to see dirty looks from the Frenchmen, but no one paid us any attention at all. “I was just here yesterday at the same time, but it seems you can’t predict the traffic in the city.”
    “Just yesterday?”
    We stepped out of the airport and into the light drizzle, which was falling steadily from the overcast sky. “Yes, I had to pick up Sage and Tricky. He’s back at the hotel, you know. He wanted to come and pick you up himself, but, uh, he’s recovering from jet lag.”
    Funny how I could almost believe that—but as plausible as it was, as I would surely be hit with a debilitating chunk of jet lag later, I knew in my heart that wasn’t quite the case for Sage. He either didn’t want to see me or he was recovering from something other than jet lag.
    As we scurried toward the nearest cab, I noticed Max’s eyes on me. We were about to climb into the backseat of a funny-looking car whose driver Jacob was trying to haggle with, when he stopped and said, “I’m here to take photographs, you’re here to write, and that’s the truth. Now get in.”
    I had lovesick written across over my forehead, didn’t I?
    We both scooted into the back of the cab, sliding over greasy old grey leather, while Jacob finally got in the passenger seat. He shot us both a gleaming smile and raised his orange brows. “Not sure how much this cabbie is going to charge us, but I figure if it’s too much, we can always get the suitcases and run, right-o?”
    I spent the first half of the drive trying to figure out if Max and Jacob and everyone else knew something about Sage that I didn’t, and the second half being utterly swept away by the passing landscape. I was in France. I was in Paris. I was in a city that couldn’t be more foreign to me. I watched beautiful old houses zoom past us, their elegant roofs and flower-lined windowsills, the funny little cars parked on the streets out front, the fashionable women strolling past with their cat-eye glasses and their tiny dogs on sparkly leashes. The thing about Paris is that it really did look like all the movies I’d seen— Paris in the Springtime , Charade , Funny Face . Really, anything with Audrey Hepburn.
    I was enthralled, no doubt brought on by the time difference and sleep deprivation and present company and crazy circumstances, but it was a good kind of trip—better than the mushrooms