Risk the Night Read online

  For some reason she began to cry. Silently, and her hot tears mingled with the water. He kissed her forehead, murmuring soft words, he held her tenderly, ignoring his own erection as it grew between them, stroking her, soothing her as she shook with emotions she couldn’t name.

  When she finally stopped he washed her tear-drenched face in the water, smoothing his hands over her cheeks, before turning off the shower. He wrapped her in one of her huge bath sheets, lifted her and carried her back to bed.

  He lay down with her, holding her in his arms, and the feel of him was almost more powerful than the sex. It was comfort, protection, impossible as it was it felt like love. Non, je ne regrette rien, she reminded herself, the last bit of tension draining from her body as she sank against him. I regret nothing.

  They made love again as the light of dawn began to fill the apartment, gentle at first, tender, and then suddenly turning feral, and she turned her head into the pillow to stifle the scream he’d coaxed from her, so easily. She knew she shouldn’t fall back asleep, but exhaustion overcame her, and when she awoke she was alone in the bed.

  A dark, impossible dread had begun to fill her, and she lay very still, hoping, praying he was gone. This insane suspicion was simply the result of too many things assaulting her senses. She was wrong, terribly wrong, and if she simply stayed in bed she wouldn’t have to find out the truth.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Constantine made coffee. He should leave, check on Tessa, but something kept him here. He’d been mad last night. Perhaps he still was. It had to be insanity. He’d made his way up the fire escape of the building like fucking Spiderman, just to get to her. And now he couldn’t leave.

  He didn’t bother to turn around when he heard her come into the kitchen. If he looked at her he might drag her back to bed again, and he couldn’t afford the time. He’d already been here too long. Ten minutes was too long.

  “Why did you come here?” Her voice was only a thread of sound.

  He laughed. “You can’t be that naïve.” She’d spoken in English, and he’d answered in the same language, his voice stripped of the Italian accent he’d used. He didn’t even know if it was his normal voice – it had been so long since he’d used it. But it was ordinary enough, the flat, neat English that gave no clue to his origins. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m not naïve at all,” she said. “I told you no.”

  He braced himself, turning to look at her. At least she wasn’t wearing that fucking flannel robe. She was wearing some other enveloping kind of thing, hiding her delicious body, thank god. Not that he had to see it. The memory of it was going to stay with him a long, long time.

  “No, you didn’t,” he said wearily. “You said it was a bad idea. But it wasn’t. You’re a sensual woman, even when you’re dressed in your mother’s baggy Balenciaga or the underwear of a nun. You needed a lover last night, and your own lover wasn’t coming home. You needed me.”

  She ignored that. “How did you know that dress was my mother’s?”

  “I’m an observant man.”

  And just like that her face froze, and her blue eyes were like chips of dark ice. “I think you should leave.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I should.” He didn’t move. He should have read the signs, but he was a fool.

  “I know who you are.”

  He wasn’t a man who made mistakes. He wouldn’t have survived as long as he had if he did. “You do,” he agreed, hoping he was wrong. “I’m a worthless playboy, a man who uses women. But I didn’t use you. After tonight I promise you won’t see me again, you can forget this ever happened.”

  But she had grown very still, no longer trembling. “I know who you are,” she said again, and the sudden realization shocked him.

  He would have to kill her. In his arrogance, so certain he’d managed to blind her with lust, he’d given himself away. Maddy Banks knew him, and for that terrible truth she couldn’t be allowed to live.

  “Don’t say it.” His voice was cold. His fingers flexed on his coffee cup.

  She stood a little straighter, as if considering her words. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, looking at him. He rose and came to her, putting his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, and he slid his hands around her slender neck, cradling it. He leaned down to kiss her, to say goodbye to what he couldn’t have, when her mouth opened beneath his, and her arms slid around his neck. She was trembling, and he didn’t know why. Whether it was desire, or the knowledge of what he must do.

  “Ma belle,” he whispered against her lips.

  “Don’t,” she said with a muffled cry, and there were tears pouring down her face. “Just make it fast.”

  He could do that. He could snap her neck, so quickly that she wouldn’t realize what was happening. He could do what he had to do.

  “I can do fast,” he whispered, pushing her up against the kitchen door. It took only a moment to rip open her robe, and he was still hard, seemed to be always hard in her presence. She didn’t move, quiescent, and he released his cock with one hand while his other slid between her legs, finding her wet, ready.

  He lifted her, pressing her against the door, and thrust inside her, all the way home with one thick shove, and she arched back with a shudder of pleasure that was unmistakable. Did her desire for him override her fear of death? Or was she one who courted it, secretly longed for it?

  He didn’t care. He pushed for release, fast and hard, and she came an instant before he did, the slick walls of her cunt milking him.

  He hadn’t used a condom. It took him a moment to realize it, as he slowly disengaged, letting her limp body slide down against his. Not only had he betrayed himself, he’d left clear DNA behind.

  Not that he was in any data banks, at least, not recognizably. He was systematically screwing himself in his blind desperation to screw her.

  He slid his hands up to cradle her throat, and she looked up at him out of dazed, tear-filled eyes. “Au revoir, ma belle,” he whispered.

  She managed a smile, shaking her head. “Good-bye.”

  He tightened his fingers, and a moment later she slumped in his arms. He caught her body in his arms, carrying her back to the bed, refusing to remember lying there with her. He set her down, pulling the torn robe back around her, chastely. And then, like fucking Prince Charming, he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers.

  He went back out into the kitchen, washing the coffee cup and wine glass, wiping down any obvious surface. If they looked hard enough they could track him. If he had half a brain left he would torch the apartment, wiping out any trace of his presence.

  But he wouldn’t do that. He’d come to the end of the road, that particular road. He’d had enough.

  The early morning streets of Paris greeted him as they had the day before, and yet everything felt different. The smell of fresh bread mixed with the stink of diesel. The small car was where he’d stashed it, and he drove through the suicidal traffic, back to the hotel, back to Tessa. With luck she’d still be passed out, and he could slip away without having to make excuses, face recriminations. He could simply … vanish.

  In the end, it was easier than he wanted. She lay stretched across the bed, the needle near her outstretched hand. He cursed, feeling for the thread of a pulse at her neck, but her skin was already cool.

  She hadn’t been dead long enough for rigor to set in – in the overheated room it had to be only a few hours. He pulled the covers over her, pushing her hair back from her face. For some crazy reason he leaned down and kissed her cool, dead lips, this woman he had used and never cared for. This time he wasn’t Prince Charming. Now he was the Angel of Death.

  He wanted to go back to that apartment in the Marais. He wanted to go back to bed with Madeleine and stay there. He wanted fresh air and blue skies and space. He wanted everything new again, when he knew that was impossible.

  It had been an erotic fairy tale, a dream and nothing more. If he saw her he would probably
feel nothing. And he knew women – she would never want to see him again.

  No, he had no choice. He would disappear again, vanish an become someone new. He’d lighten his hair, take out his contacts, dress in rough, serviceable clothing. He’d forget everything that had happened in Paris.

  He was going to have to find a new way to make a living. A talent for wetwork didn’t mean he had to follow it. A gift for death was no gift at all.

  He headed out into the early morning light, vanishing in the icy mist.

  Someone was pounding on the bathroom door. Maddy didn’t move from beneath the shower, once more thanking god that this apartment had a ridiculously large supply of hot water. It had to be Drake – no one else had a key to the place. She had to face him sooner or later, and he was no fool. She’d done a cursory job cleaning up, wiping any lingering trace of the man out of existence, but the knowledge of sex still hung in the air, and Drake would know it.

  At least she’d never said she would marry him. Some small piece of wisdom had remained as everything else had gone out the window. She tilted her face up into the hot stream of water. Even now she didn’t know what was truth and what was her imagination. She only knew the man was gone and wouldn’t return. She could pull sanity back around her like the soft flannel robe.

  Drake must have heard the shower and decided he wouldn’t be intruding. He pushed the door open, and there was concern on his good-looking face, in his dark eyes, as he stared at her.

  “How long are you going to stay under there?” he demanded in a calm enough voice.

  Forever, she thought. But obediently she turned off the water and stepped from the corner of the small bathroom, taking the towel he offered her, and she wondered how much he saw. What kind of marks the man had left on her pale skin.

  “I’ll make us coffee, shall I?” he said briskly. “Then we can compare notes.”

  Not likely, she thought bitterly. But she managed a tight smile. “I’ll get dressed.”

  To her surprise he brushed a kiss against her mouth. Drake wasn’t one for random kisses. “You do that.”

  She’d already stripped the bed, shoving the sheets and all her discarded clothes into a hamper. It was daylight, and the shadows were clear. She dressed quickly, refusing to look at her reflection in the old gilt mirror she’d found at a flea market. She didn’t need to see herself to know what she looked like. Rode hard and put away wet was the term that came to mind.

  Drake pushed the mug of coffee across the counter towards her, made just the way she liked it, with almond soy milk and lots of fake sugar she had her mother send her from America. She took the stool opposite him and took a sip, letting the caffeine slide through her system like the blessing it was.

  “Tessa Parker is dead,” he said abruptly. “They’re looking for her pretty boyfriend but he seems to have disappeared. Not that the French police are worth a damn. Someone like D’Angelo could pretty much buy himself out of anything.”

  She set the coffee back down. After the first sip it was churning like acid in her stomach. “What happened?”

  “Overdose. Sometime in the middle of the night. They think he was the one who shot her up – she had so much junk in her system that it would have been almost impossible for her to have done it herself.”

  “She was already an addict,” Maddy said carefully.

  “That wasn’t generally well-known,” Drake said, watching her.

  “You’re not the only one who can find out things.” There was just the trace of an edge in her voice. She’d never found Drake condescending before. It must be her own guilt. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t get much sleep.”

  The words hung in the air between them, like a confession. Drake put out a well-shaped hand and covered hers. “This isn’t like you, Maddy,” he said gently. “I suppose the man must have amazing charm, though I’m damned if I can see it. He’s just one of a score of petty users with a good-looking face. You’ve never been shallow.”

  She didn’t ask him how he knew. There would have been people at the party who would have told him whom she left with, and he knew her too well. He could look at her and know things had changed.

  She smiled at him. “Now aren’t you glad I never agreed to marry you?” she said lightly.

  “The offer’s still open. Everyone likes an occasional adventure every now and then. Even me.” His thumb stroked her hand. She had a bruise on her wrist, she noticed. At times last night he’d been infinitely tender. At other times rough.

  “Not a good idea,” she said.

  “All right,” he said, not withdrawing his hand. He’d seen the bruise as well, as his fingertips traced it lightly. “We’ll revisit the question in a few months, when you’ve had time to think about things. In the meantime, how long was he here?”

  “I really don’t want to discuss it …”

  “Because Tessa died sometime between three and five in the morning. I’m assuming he’d left by then since he chose to disappear. An innocent man doesn’t take off when his girlfriend has an accidental overdose.” There was just the slightest emphasis on ‘girlfriend,’ and Maddy tried not to flinch.

  “A man innocent of murder might not want all the attention a high profile death might bring,” she said.

  “Was he here?” For the first time there was an edge in his voice.

  “Yes. He left about six.” Or at least she assumed so. The last thing she remembered was the darkness closing in, the strength of his fingers around her throat, the knowledge she was going to die at his hands.

  But she hadn’t. And neither had Tessa Parker.

  Drake seemed to relax, his hand still stroking hers. “Doubtless he’ll show up again eventually, living off some other rich woman. Did he know who you are? How much money you have?”

  She pulled her hand away. The implication was clear – he had chosen her as a new meal ticket. There would be no other reason he had come to her. “I have no idea. We didn’t talk much.”

  Drake flushed. It has been a cruel blow, but she didn’t care. “I deserved that,” he said, scrupulously fair. “Are you going to see him again?”

  “No. He couldn’t have known Tessa was dead when he left, but we were both very clear that last night was a moment of temporary insanity.” She took another, careful sip of her coffee. “He’s out of my life. Forever.”

  “And you have a book to write,” Drake added. “We never had much of a chance to discuss your interview yesterday. How was it? You told me you taped it – I’d love to hear it.”

  It had been gone, of course. He hadn’t come just for her. She shrugged. “It wasn’t terribly useful. I’ve already erased it.”

  “But you said Renard was helpful,” Drake protested.

  “He was. The man he found was not. If I decide to continue with the investigation I’ll take another tack.”

  “And we’ll go on as before?”

  Not likely, she thought, smiling at him. It was as if the first sharp wind of winter had blown in, destroying the bright flowers. Things were never going to be like before.

  By the time he left Drake had convinced himself that everything was the same. He would come by and take her to dinner this evening, they would talk about work, and sooner or later he’d talk her into bed again. And she’d probably give in, just to try to wipe the man from her mind, from her body.

  She’d told Drake the truth. Last night had been temporary insanity. There was just one problem. It hadn’t been temporary with her.

  She dressed in black jeans, a shirt and over-sized sweater, then put on her boots. It wasn’t Parisian attire, but she didn’t give a damn. She managed to tame her hair into one thick braid, then grabbed her fourth cup of coffee and moved toward the small balcony. Her stomach was in an uproar, her hands were shaking, her heart hurt. Pushing open the doors, she stepped onto the narrow platform and looked out over the skyline of Paris. It was beautiful, and she loved it with all her heart.

  It was time to leave.

 
She wouldn’t say good-bye to Drake – he’d only argue. Her mother could have someone pack up the apartment – that, or leave it for her if she ever wanted to come back to it. She wouldn’t. Everything had changed, whether she liked it or not. She was a new person, and the old Maddy was gone.

  For some reason she looked down into the streets. The icy mist was rising, and there was an old Citroen parked illegally in the alley behind her building. She stared at the car in bemusement – she’d always loved old, classic Citroens. This one looked fairly battered, and she watched as the door opened.

  A stranger got out. He had short, sun-streaked blond hair, faded jeans and a flannel shirt beneath a down vest. He was tall, lean, and moved with an economy of motion, reaching up and removing his sunglasses as he turned to look up at her balcony.

  They stared at each other, and Maddy felt her breath catch, her heart slamming against her rib cage. In the distance Notre Dame chimed eleven – he’d been gone five hours. It had been enough time for him to completely change his appearance. Why had he come back?

  But she knew the answer. He made no effort to come to her – he merely leaned against the car, folding his arms across his chest as he stared up at her. Waiting.

  Clearly this kind of insanity had a lingering effect on all parties concerned. She stepped back and closed the windows, setting down her coffee cup. She grabbed her coat and the backpack she used as a purse, locked the door behind her, and started down the narrow, winding stairs.

  She didn’t hurry. He would be there.

  He was. He straightened to his full height when she approached him. She wasn’t used to men being so much taller than she was.

  “Ready?” he said. Even his voice was different. Lower, a deep, sexy rumble that heated her bones and did nothing to calm her racing heart.