Author: Anne Stuart
Category: Suspense
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He’d have to go and view the body, of course. He knew what he’d find. The crowded, pitiful apartment of an old woman trying to keep her dignity in a world changing beyond her recognition. The shrunken, withered body, stretched out like a penitent, the arthritic hands folded across a sunken chest. Sometimes there was blood, sometimes not. There had even been a fingerprint that had matched at two of the scenes. They hadn’t been Rocco’s.
God, he hated this business. It was no wonder Marie was unhappy. He wouldn’t blame her if she started looking at other men. She was too young, too lively to be tied to a husband whose job was death.
He stood up, reaching for his battered raincoat. It was already after six. He’d be late again, and Marie would have already eaten. She wouldn’t say a word, but he would read the hurt and anger and disappointment in her fine brown eyes, and his guilt would eat into his soul.
But he had to stop by the rue Broca and Felice Champêtre’s apartment. Marie’s life didn’t depend on his getting home on time. Some other woman’s might.
Claire put the mug back in the cupboard, in a straight line with the other ceramic mugs. Marc didn’t like them, preferring the paper-thin Limoges tea cups he’d inherited. But she’d broken one, and the look he’d given her had been chilling.
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Later she decided she’d imagined it. But she went out and bought herself a set of heavy, earthenware mugs, and never touched the Limoges again if she could help it.
Her thick, red gold hair was still damp from the shower. She should have finished drying it, but she was too restless to spend the time. She tugged at the fine wool of her dress, wiggled her toes in the silk stockings, and fiddled with a pearl earring. She would have liked to have greeted Marc in an old pair of jeans and a thick sweater on a cold, miserable night like this. Or maybe wearing a soft flannel nightgown, and she could have made hot chocolate for the three of them in front of the fire, and they could have been a real family.
But Marc had standards, and Claire had learned it was easier to conform to them. Particularly when he explained that he wanted her to dress well because she valued herself, not him. It made sense, and she did as he expected. But right now she would have loved something more comfortable.
The chicken was simmering, the air was redolent of tarragon and wine. At least she could cook. She hadn’t had to change that part of her nature, she thought with that uncomfortable trace of defiance. Indeed, she’d had so little to do during the last few months that she’d developed her modest talent into something approaching art. She would have liked to study further. Paris was the perfect place for learning haute cuisine. But the cooking schools weren’t bilingual, and French was the language, not only of love and ballet, but the language of food.
Through the endless corridors and rooms of the old apartment she heard the soft closing of the front door. Her ears had become very finely tuned. Living with a mime did wonders for your senses, she thought with a trace of humor. Marc used to be able to sneak up on her when she was completely unaware. She hadn’t liked it, hadn’t wanted to say anything and hurt his feelings. So she’d worked on listening. Marc hadn’t surprised her in months. No, that wasn’t true. He was always surprising her. But he hadn’t managed to sneak up on her in a long, long time.
She took off her apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the spotless kitchen table. Her narrow, delicate hands were trembling slightly, and she frowned at them. It must be the excitement. She’d been left alone for two nights, and ever since the accident she hadn’t liked to be alone. Now that Marc was back, and Nicole, things would be better. Things would be as they should be.
Smoothing her challis dress, she headed for the living room, setting a welcoming smile on her face. Only for a brief moment did she consider that she shouldn’t have to call forth a smile to greet her returning lover. It should have come on its own.
Once more she cursed her depression, her indecisiveness. She was going to throw away the best thing that ever happened to her if she didn’t shake herself out of it. Marc was home, and she loved him. Maybe it was time she made it clear just how much she did love him. Maybe it was time to get married. And maybe it was time for her to tell him so.
But then, she didn’t want to spoil Nicole’s homecoming, did she? It could wait. Wait until Marc asked her again. This time, she would say yes. And to hell with second thoughts.
CHAPTER 2
Rocco Guillère propped his feet on the battered table and eyed his pointy-toed black leather boots blearily. He would need a shine tomorrow. He liked having classy boots, with a real shine, not that plastic coating they had nowadays, and he spent a lot of money on them. He knew the places where you could still get a decent shine, and he tipped well.
He liked people’s reactions. He’d stride up to the stand in the lobby of the best hotels, all black leather and menace, and take his place with the gray-suited businessmen, propping his huge black boots beside their hand-sewn Italian leathers. The others would pull away, as if he gave off a bad smell.
Rocco grinned, lighting a stubby Gitane and drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs. Maybe he did give off a bad smell. He wasn’t one of the bourgeoisie, into hot baths and clean clothes. He lived in the roughest, nastiest part of Paris, and his life was rough and nasty. He had no time, no patience for the finer things in life.
It was just after midnight, the heart of the evening, and his work hadn’t even begun. He had to waste another hour until he was needed.
It was a simple job tonight, if he chose to make it so. He’d been hired as protection during a drug deal. He would simply stand in the background, glowering, his huge American Magnum prominently displayed, while Achilles and the little Spaniard traded lots of money for a decent amount of cocaine. He’d been told to stand guard while the Spaniard counted his money and left, and Achilles would pay him with part of the drugs.
It would be good pay for an easy night’s work. And if he could keep the stuff away from that greedy little tramp Giselle he could make a nice profit.
But there was another alternative, one he’d used occasionally. He could waste both Achilles and the Spaniard, take all the drugs and the money, and no one would be the wiser.
He didn’t do that sort of thing very often. Word would get around, and his reputation would suffer. He’d had to be very careful since that fool Malgreave had arrested him. It had been a close call. Two months in that stinking prison, two months while Malgreave went his slow, deliberate way, trying to pin those murders on him.
In the end he’d failed, of course. Thirty-five old women had died at that point. And Rocco had only killed seventeen of them.
He stubbed the cigarette out, shifting in the chair and tilting it back further. It was a good thing he’d been so far ahead of the others. They’d had time to catch up during his enforced retirement. Four more women had died since he’d been arrested, and he hadn’t touched one of them. By now Malgreave had to have given up on him.
He scratched his groin absently. It should be safe by now. Or safe enough. And he was badly short of cash. He’d take care of Achilles and the Spaniard, and then, when a little time had passed, he’d find an old lady. A sweet old grandmother, living alone. And the very next rainstorm he’d start taking care of his quota. After all, he couldn’t let a bunch of amateurs get ahead of him.
He smiled, his shark’s smile. It would be a pleasure to set Malgreave to wondering.
It was happening again. The cold, black, rain-slick night. Brian driving his BMW far too fast, his handsome mouth set, his beautiful hands clenching the leather-covered steering wheel as if he wished it were her neck. He wasn’t yelling, he was saying quiet, bitter, cruel things. She was the one who was yelling.
He’d promised, how many times had he promised? He would talk to his wife, the separation and divorce would be amicable, and they could finally get married. It had been eighteen months of promises, and Claire had had enough. So, apparently, had Brian.
There would be no separation, he had finally admitted. Not right now. His wife was pregnant again, and it probably was his.