French Twist

  Her legs sagged, and she grabbed the back of one of Bérnard’s chairs. Memories lurked in every shadow of this cellar. Oh, she’d spent many hours testing the vintages in here with Bérnard. She’d never enjoyed it; but it wasn’t good for her husband to spend too much time alone and drunk. It made him reminisce. But after Luc Tremont showed up, Bérnard spent far too many hours completely alone and viciously drunk. Lost in the memories, no doubt, of his first and true love.

  She sighed and aimed the flashlight at the furthest alcove, taking in the bottles white with years of dust. She now owned one of the most valuable wine collections in the world, and she hated it. Every bottle, every grape, every tainted memory.

  Gabrielle would have been so well suited to this life. She’d worked in the vineyard and danced at the harvest as a teenage girl. Oh, she had loved wine. Loved the process of making it, of running the vineyard, of reveling in the harvest and the tastes of their great valley.

  Ancient jealousy gnawed at Lisette as she dragged the chair to the last alcove and forced herself to concentrate on her mission. She had to get to the top of the Pinot alcove. The cheap wine, she remembered, hid the valuable treasure that filthy Indian had insisted she keep hidden in her home. And that treasure had been there the entire time Luc had—a few feet from where he’d sat.

  Stepping carefully on the chair, she swiped her hand over the top rack of bottles and coughed on the dust that lifted and settled around her like a cloud.

  Voici! Her fingers touched the rough burlap.

  On her tiptoes, she strained over the nests of wine bottles. Her fingers grazed the rough edge of the wrapping, but she couldn’t quite get the grip she needed. Grunting with the effort, she stretched as far as her frustratingly short arm would go, then sucked in a breath and tried for another inch. The chair wobbled, but she held on to the corner of canvas and shifted her weight to the front of the chair to get that one centimeter closer.

  She shrieked as the chair tipped, and for a sliver of time she was suspended in the air, weightless. Then she started to tumble. She flailed at the neck of a wine bottle for support, but it slid right out of its slot. The world moved in slow motion, the crash toward the ground unstoppable. In her hand, the Pinot bottle smashed against the others and exploded into dagger-sharp shards.

  Her face slammed into the dirt, and something sharp slashed her arm, just above her wrist. But she felt nothing at all. Her eyes were open, but there was only pitch black. The flashlight must have broken in the fall. She lay perfectly still, not sure what part of her old body would move. Slowly she tried to lift her head.

  Then the fire shot through her arm. Pain screamed from her wrist straight into her brain. With a gasp, she grabbed the inside of her arm with her free hand. She felt hot liquid, and she nearly gagged from the overpowering smell of fermented grapes and fresh blood.

  She’d cut her wrist with the broken bottle. Au nom du Père, she was going to die like this.

  An unearthly sound came from her mouth. A gurgle, a moan, a prayer.

  Mon Dieu, j’ai un extrê regret du vous avoir offensé. She began her final act of contrition. Parce que je crains de perdre le ciel…

  It was a useless effort to remember the words. She’d never confessed her sins—not these sins—to God or any priest. And none would listen to her now.

  It was so quiet in the cellar. So quiet, she could almost hear the blood flow from her body onto the cold dirt floor. She could smell death and wine and dirt and the faintest lingering of Bérnard’s cigar. Was he watching her now?

  Of course he was, watching with contempt and revulsion. With disgust, because she had let envy and petty jealousies wreck his only chance at happiness. And hers.

  Mais surtout parce mes péé vous offense, mon Dieu.

  But no words could clear her conscience. She was dying and going to hell for ruining Bérnard’s life and for turning an innocent man over to his killer. Those sins were hers to bear.

  She closed her eyes and began to sob. She tucked her gashed arm under her chest and pressed her body to the ground. When the tears finally abated, her mind went still.

  She had to accept death, with no chance for reconciliation. No chance to right her wrongs. Even if she had such an opportunity, what could she do?

  Oh, she knew exactly what she would do. And it had nothing to do with the bundle that had been hidden in her cellar. She would go to the office and use Bérnard’s ancient phone to dial the number she’d long ago committed to memory. She would whisper the truth. And lost souls might be found again.

  Salvation would be hers.

  “Madame? Madame Lisette?” Arlaine’s words were distant in her ears. Was that the sound of the cellar door? “Are you here, madame?”

  A harsh yellow light burned her eyes. Was this it? The light she would walk into with her marked, sinful soul in tow? She heard the gasp as Arlaine turned her over.

  “Mon Dieu, madame!”

  She could still be saved. One last deed that might save her from the agony of hell.

  “Arlaine,” she rasped. “You must do something for me.”

  “Madame! You are hurt!”

  Lisette shook her head and grabbed Arlaine’s arm, squeezing it with the little strength she had left. “Please. Please save me.”

  “Yes.” She scrambled to her feet. “I will call for help.”

  “No! My soul! Save my soul!”

  Something in her voice got through to Arlaine. She halted and leaned close to Lisette. “What is it, madame?”

  Lisette took a labored breath then, and managed to make one final act of contrition.

  Chapter

  Twenty-four

  T o his sheer delight, Luc had lost eight thousand dollars in less than fifteen hands. Benazir had dealt the second card and cheated at least four times. The bets were increasing, along with the room temperature and the number of security guards.

  However, the silence of his cell phone had a band of anxiety crushing his chest. It was eleven forty-five. Screw Benazir and his cheating. His hands itched to fold his cards, and his legs ached to run like hell and find Janine. Regardless of the fact that he had his mortal enemy right by the short hairs, regardless of the fact that victory, freedom, and home were close enough to taste.

  Where was she?

  He calmly passed on a card. Benazir held a four and a five, taking another fifteen hundred dollars from Luc. Two of the dealers exchanged looks, and the ladderman nodded to indicate it was time for a fresh shuffle.

  Benazir had made three brief attempts at clumsily coded conversation, then stopped, seemingly content to take Luc’s money, drink cognac, and bide his time. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his wide forehead, but Luc only felt a chill to his bones.

  Where in God’s name was she?

  The second caller situated himself to the left of Benazir, and Luc knew his opponent would be too smart to cheat for a few hands. Luc dealt, bet on his own hand, and won a noticeably low bet from the other side of the table.

  If Benazir was really smart, when he took the shoe for his next deal, he’d bet high and lose. That would take the pressure off him for a few games.

  He bet low and lost. But then, he was greedy.

  A few more people came into the room, but neither player looked away from the table. The room had grown relatively quiet, most eyes riveted on the high stakes in front of them.

  The caller nodded for the next game, Luc’s deal. He slid a pile of chips to the center and glanced up in expectation of the shoe.

  Something caught his eye. Something bright and shiny and…blond.

  What the—

  His heart simply stopped at the sight of her. Unable to look away, he stared at her pale, shell-shocked face, and then his gaze dropped to the ebony mink rolled into her arms. The man to her left shifted and stole Luc’s attention for a nanosecond.

  Son of a bitch. Tristan.

  Luc took the shoe and set his gaze on the cards. If Benazir saw Tristan or Janine, it was ove
r.

  He dealt, aware of every movement in the room. Tristan, his bald partner, and Janine remained in the doorway.

  What were they going to do? Attack and arrest Benazir? They could. They probably would. But they didn’t appear to have any backup, and he had no way of alerting them to the two men at the furthest table, who undoubtedly were armed and prepared to give their lives for the former prince.

  The Indian woman who’d come in with Benazir stood next to him, motionless and patient. Benazir would use her as protection, would sacrifice the poor woman in a heartbeat.

  Benazir won another three thousand dollars, then put one elbow on the table, leaned forward, and stroked his chin. “Do you wish to continue, or shall we call it a game?”

  In his peripheral vision, Luc could see that Tristan had moved farther into the room, but had made no move to draw a gun. He was probably waiting for DST backup. They had their man right here, out of jail and surrounded by his bodyguards.

  The other agent stepped around one of the tables, and the caller turned to look.

  Damn. It caught Benazir’s attention, and when he glanced up, his gaze landed directly on Janine, then Tristan. The color faded slightly from his olive skin, but he casually picked up his remaining chips in one hand. “I’ve had enough,” he said, and stood.

  Luc was up and in front of Benazir in less than a second, silencing the room as the guards jumped to attention.

  “I haven’t,” he said.

  One of the guards glared at him. Benazir cast a sideways glance at the two men at the other table, who were now standing. Tristan took three steps farther into the room, and Luc flashed him a look, but the gray eyes were trained on Benazir. Tristan’s jacket moved just enough to make his target spin and grab the Indian woman. She sucked in a breath of surprise as Benazir clasped his arm around her waist and held her in front of him.

  “We’re leaving now,” he said, as calmly as if he had just shaken hands with his opponent.

  Luc felt the eyes of the other two on him. He didn’t dare reach for his gun. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Suddenly two security officers flanked Benazir and started walking with him. Half the hotel security must be on his payroll.

  “Let her go, Benazir,” Luc said. “You’re not getting out of here.”

  They continued to walk toward the door, but Tristan jumped in front of them, his gun drawn. Benazir nodded to one of the security guards, who aimed his gun at Tristan’s chest. Luc didn’t have time to think. He pounced on Tristan and knocked him to the floor just as the gun fired.

  Luc hissed as a lightning bolt of pain sliced through him. Another gunshot rang out, and the woman screamed. Tristan and Luc struggled to get up in the riot of panicked players and trained hit men. Luc saw the goateed backup fall to the ground just as he spun around to the door.

  Janine. Janine. She had to get out of there. One of the guards hustled Benazir out of the room, but Janine was gone. An alarm blared just as the other FBI agent wrestled another guard to the ground.

  “DST is on the way,” Tristan shouted to him.

  Luc wasn’t about to wait around for the cavalry; they were too late. He took off after Benazir.

  Janine ran in the opposite direction of the main gaming room, whizzing past a restaurant and down a carpeted set of stairs to a lower level of the casino.

  She moved on instinct, fear, and with the sole objective of protecting her Plums.

  She could hear the alarms and shouting from the level above her. This floor was nearly deserted, with rows of slot machines and no tables. She ran another fifty feet or so along a glass wall and stopped at a door marked for emergencies only.

  Well, this qualified.

  Turning her body to back into the door, she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for a blaring alarm, but the door opened without a sound.

  In the darkness, she could make out a service patio surrounded by six-foot walls, thick shrubbery, and a row of overflowing Dumpsters. She stopped to get her bearings. At the far end, a pile of trash partially blocked the opening to a darkened parking lot.

  Her arms burned. Her whole body trembled. The last thing she’d seen was Luc throwing himself on the man named Tristan. To save him, she was certain of that.

  Through the glass wall of the casino, she saw a figure running. She had two alternatives: trash or the bushes. She threw herself into the shrubbery, but without a free hand to break her fall, she tumbled into sharp twigs and branches and landed right on her backside.

  The Plums were still in her arms.

  She struggled to right herself and hide under the fur coat without dropping the vases. As she did, she saw the glass door fly open, and two men and a woman came running onto the courtyard. She recognized the men immediately: Benazir and one of the security guards from the casino.

  She froze among the branches, held her breath, and clutched her fur-covered treasure.

  The men spoke in short, staccato words, using an unfamiliar language. They seemed to be arguing about something, but it was clear Benazir was in control.

  Benazir handed the other man something, and the man hustled back through the glass door, then Benazir grabbed the woman by the arm and started tugging her toward the parking lot.

  Janine watched in horror. Should she scream, run after him?

  “Don’t take one more step.”

  She whipped her head around to see Luc striding through the door, a gun pointed directly at Benazir’s chest, his hair mussed, his tuxedo jacket torn. Her heart stopped, then jolted against her ribs. All she could do was watch the showdown.

  The woman tried to wrest her arm from Benazir’s grip, but he pulled her closer. She let out a pleading cry to Luc. Janine squeezed tighter into a ball.

  “I’m no good to you dead, Jarrett,” Benazir said.

  Jarrett? Who was Jarrett?

  “You’re no good, alive or dead.” He lifted the gun higher, straight at the other man’s face. “Right now, I kind of like dead.”

  The American accent. Pure, unadulterated American.

  Who was he?

  Benazir took a step backward, still holding the woman against him. “I have the vases.”

  Janine hugged her coat. Oh, no you don’t.

  “I don’t want them.”

  In the soft golden light from inside the casino, she studied Luc. Something wasn’t right. His jaw was set, his eyes alert, but he looked—unsteady. The hair touching his collar was damp, and beads of perspiration covered his temples.

  “You’re not a killer,” Benazir insisted. “You wouldn’t even kill a man for a million dollars, as I recall.”

  Janine’s throat was closed, and she could barely breathe.

  “Well, I’d kill you for free.” Luc took a step closer. “I want you away forever, Benazir. With a bullet in your brain or locked in Leavenworth, I really don’t care.”

  Benazir appeared to relax for a minute. “Don’t be ridiculous. If I’m free, my network is worth a fortune to you. We can work together again.” A smile crossed his face. “I still need you, Nick.” Janine strained to make out his thickly accented English. Did he say Nick?

  “My name is Luc.”

  “You don’t even have a name. Luc Tremont,” Benazir sneered. “Who the fuck is that? You only have one real name that you can live up to. You are a wanted man, my friend. And no matter how far you run or how low you scrape to please your FBI friends, you will always be the Scorpion.”

  Janine’s blood ran ice cold. Luc was the Scorpion?

  Luc’s jaw clenched, and a vein in his neck pulsed.

  Deny it, she wanted to scream. Tell him he’s wrong, Luc!

  “In two minutes the FBI and DST will be out here, and your brief taste of freedom will be over.” Luc’s voice was steady and low. Not indignant, not furious at these wrongful allegations. Not at all.

  Benazir glanced at the door and shook his head. “You’re the one who wants freedom. I know all about you. Your friend in Burgundy spilled her guts t
o me.”

  “And then you killed her husband.”

  “A necessity,” he shrugged, yanking the woman even closer to him, as though he’d need more protection. “He had figured out where his wife’s loyalties lay, and he might have warned you.”

  “And the professor in California?”

  Janine willed her heart to stop thumping. It would give her away.

  “I had to get control of Versailles, and the wise minister of culture agreed, for a reasonable fee.” Dizziness threatened her, along with a black, incomprehensible fear. Claude Marchionette was behind Albert’s death? “It would have been easier with one of my own in charge of the art, but the perfect replacement landed in our lap.” He tilted his head and smiled. “She was easily distracted.”

  Luc’s eyes narrowed, and he cursed under his breath. He jerked the gun toward the casino, then pointed it back to Benazir’s face. “Move. Now.”

  Benazir settled the woman directly in front of him. Suddenly, he flashed a knife at her neck. Janine bit back a gasp.

  Benazir’s hand was steady. His eyes locked on Luc. “You do not want the blood of an innocent person on your hands, Jarrett. Isn’t that true? Didn’t you give up your lucrative life as the Scorpion for that very reason?”

  “Let her go.”

  The blade moved enough for a trickle of red to appear. Janine covered her mouth to keep from screaming.

  “Come on, Nick.” Benazir grinned, baring his white teeth. “We are both men without countries. We’ll split the entire enterprise fifty-fifty.”

  A trickle of sweat dripped down Luc’s face, for a moment, she thought he swayed. Was he thinking about it?

  The knife dug deeper, and the woman screamed out a plea for help.

  Luc lowered the gun, then threw it down. “You coward.”

  Benazir thrust his hostage away and held out his hand as though he wanted to shake Luc’s. Luc reached for it, then yanked Benazir down to the ground with full force. They tumbled and rolled on the concrete as Janine levered herself up from the bushes and squinted into the shadows for the gun.

  It lay about twenty feet away, on the other side of the patio. As she spotted it, she heard Luc grunt and turned to see him roll under Benazir, who pinned him with all his weight. The steel blade flashed over Luc’s neck.