Broken by a Dangerous Man Read online

My mouth went dry. “Who I am?”

  “Private investigator, looking into me, into my background.” His lip curled in disgust.

  That brought me up short. I wasn’t a real PI. If he thought I was, he’d likely gotten it from Neil, who’d surely gotten it from Frances. If either man had researched me, he would have known I was a bounty hunter.

  I was going to kill Frances.

  Massimo took a step toward me, and he leaned deliberately into my personal space. His breath was tingly fresh, which was more than I could claim. Too bad I hadn’t eaten the mint sprigs in my mojitos.

  “You’re the reason Neil and I broke up.” His heavy accent was even more pronounced than it had been during our conversation at the groomer, and fire danced in his eyes.

  “Massimo—”

  “Unless you have an extradition order, I’m not going back with you or anyone else, so don’t follow me all over Paris.”

  “Um, ok… I wasn’t planning to follow you.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but as far as people angrily confronting me about being followed, this was a mild encounter. For starters, he didn’t have a knife and he wasn’t trying to turn me into a human sieve.

  But I felt bad, felt guilty. I didn’t know Massimo well at all, but I liked him. And even though it had been extremely unprofessional on my part, I’d poured out my heart and soul during that doggie shampoo.

  “Look, Massimo, I really am here for my boyfriend. I swear it on… on whatever you want me to swear it on. To be honest, I have no idea what you’re talking about. There weren’t any warrants out for your arrest. Were there?”

  He stared at me, and I didn’t have a clue what was behind his stony gaze. A garbled announcement blasted over the loudspeaker. The crowd bumbled around us.

  “I’m sorry you and Neil broke up. For what it’s worth, I told Frances that you were a good match.”

  “He’s the other half of my heart.” Pain darkened his eyes. “I didn’t kill anyone. I’m… I’m not a killer.”

  So saying, he pivoted on his heel and walked away in long, ground-covering strides, his four-thousand-dollar suitcase rolling smoothly behind him.

  I scratched the back of my arm and tried to make sense of the encounter. He didn’t kill anyone… wouldn’t let anyone take him back…? He’d talked like there was a warrant out for his arrest. Massimo was wanted for murder?

  I’d investigated him pretty thoroughly. And Frances had done her own search before suckering me into the job. An outstanding warrant for murder tended to pop up in even a superficial background check.

  Unless something had happened in the last few days.

  Chapter 3

  I made my way back to where I’d abandoned the chauffeur. My thoughts were jumbled. Had I really just talked to Massimo? Was he really wanted for murder?

  It occurred to me that maybe he’d been high.

  It also occurred to me that I was still asleep on the plane and having a bizarre dream.

  Bertrand came strolling over. “This way, mademoiselle,” he said, and he led me into a warm summer morning and to a waiting vehicle. Black sedan. Glossy. New.

  Luxury, I realized as I slid into the back. Not that I’d doubted. Corbin didn’t do things halfway. There was a small canvas bag on the seat next to me.

  “That’s for you,” Bertrand said as he merged haltingly into the traffic, which was barely moving. “The croissants are fresh, from the best bakery in France.”

  I pulled the bag into my lap. The croissants sat on top, wrapped like a present. Underneath were a bottle of water, a roll of mints, a candy bar, a stack of napkins. All the way at the bottom I found a phone that seemed brand new, and a red envelope addressed to me in Corbin’s familiar and messy handwriting. It wasn’t sealed.

  I played with the flap, but I didn’t pull out the note because I didn’t want to get motion sick by trying to read in the car.

  Or so I told myself. In reality, we’d only moved a few feet due to construction and blocked lanes.

  I opened the tissue paper and looked at the croissant. It was golden, flaky. When I nibbled the edge, it practically melted in my mouth.

  “Mm,” I said. “This is really good.”

  Bertrand beamed. “If you like, we’ll visit the patisserie and bakery later. It’s a fantastic experience if you’re interested in the culinary arts.”

  Yeah, the sort of experience that I should have been sharing with Corbin, who’d once been a chef. I wondered if Bertrand was my surrogate boyfriend, hired to distract me. The croissant turned heavy and tasteless in my mouth, and I set the rest aside.

  Eventually we reached a highway. The other vehicles on the road were smaller than I was used to. Even the trucks seemed like diminutive versions of the ones back home. It was all very charming, I supposed, but I wasn’t in a mood to be charmed. In fact, a heavy darkness was settling over me.

  I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be doing this.

  “Would you like some music?” Bertrand asked. “You’ll find controls in the armrest, if you pull it down—”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” I said. “Really, thank you.” I turned the envelope over and over in my hands. The paper was getting damp from my sweating fingers.

  Finally I jerked out the folded paper inside. It smelled faintly of Corbin’s aftershave, I thought. Masculine, a little spicy, and very sexy. I sniffed the paper and decided I was imagining the smell.

  What, was I going to taste it next? I unfolded the note.

  Six bills tumbled into my lap. I picked them up. They were euros, which I’d never seen before. Each had a face value of 200.

  Of course I was going to have to give them back to Corbin. I turned my attention to the note.

  My dearest Audrey—

  The salutation was enough to make me dizzy, to send my stomach somersaulting. Corbin’s wife and I didn’t have much in common. Only two things, by my count. One, we’d both fallen in love with Corbin. Two, we shared a first name.

  It was a small detail, but it bothered me immensely. “Audrey” wasn’t exactly a common name.

  Exhaling, I forced myself to continue reading.

  My dearest Audrey—

  Welcome to Paris. I regret not being able to meet you at the airport.

  Bertrand is at your service for the foreseeable future. Whatever you want to do, he’ll accompany you. If you need something, he’ll get it for you.

  Thank you for coming. It means a lot. I look forward to seeing you soon.

  All my love,

  Corbin

  I could almost hear his deep voice speaking the words. After reading the note a second time, I returned it to the envelope.

  My hands were trembling, and my lips were cold.

  No one reading the note would have ever guessed that Corbin’s wife, a woman everyone believed had been killed five years earlier, was alive and being held hostage somewhere. He acted like nothing had changed.

  “Excuse me, Bertrand,” I said, surely butchering his name. “When did Corbin order your services?”

  Bertrand’s blue eyes briefly met mine in the rear-view mirror. He raised an eyebrow as he returned his attention to the road.

  “Early this morning,” he said.

  “Oh.” So Corbin hadn’t written the note before he had the latest information on his wife.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Not one that could be solved without a time machine. “No.”

  A motorcycle zipped past, and I jumped in surprise. It darted between the cars in the lanes ahead of us, then quickly disappeared from view.

  “Where are the police?” I murmured.

  “Oh, that’s fairly normal here.” Even as Bertrand was saying it, another motorcycle zoomed by.

  “It should be illegal.”

  He laughed. “It is.”

  Something about the way he was acting gave me the impression that he might be new at the job. It wasn’t that he was a bad driver, and he was friendly enough… I couldn
’t put my finger on it. For all I knew, it was a European thing. Or maybe it was because Corbin had needed someone bilingual on short notice.

  Over forty minutes later, we were deep in the city. Bertrand double-parked in front of a luxurious hotel.

  Without a word, he bounded out of his seat. He opened the door for me, then hurried to swing open the trunk.

  Was I ready for this?

  No choice, really. If I didn’t get out now, I’d have to hide in the car until my flight home.

  Gathering my courage, I stepped into the Parisian morning. Despite the city sounds, I could hear birds twittering in the trees lining the street. Bertrand carefully carried my things to the sidewalk. Cars were lining up behind his. “Shall I come in with you?” he asked.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded. “So you know, I’m at your disposal for the duration of your stay,” he said. He looked through his pockets, probably for a business card. “Maybe I can program my number into your phone.”

  “Sure,” I said. I dug it out of the bag and handed it to him. After tapping in his number, he showed me the basics and also explained how to dial internationally.

  “You want a suggestion?” he asked. “Check in, take a nap, relax. I won’t be far. When you’re ready to get something to eat or to see the sights, give me a ring-a-ling.” He extended his thumb and pinkie and held his hand up to his ear.

  “Oh,” I said. “My first mime.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, and for a fleeting moment, I felt better.

  Someone honked, and Bertrand gave me a little salute before dashing back to the car and pulling away.

  I turned to contemplate the hotel where Corbin and I were sure to pass the most awkward five days of our lives.

  The stately, blocky building was quite old but in pristine condition. The leafy, purple-and-gold flower arrangements under every window were pleasant touches.

  I grabbed my things and headed in, but I came to a stop in the entrance, between two doorways.

  An arch, which seemed to terminate a mile over my head, shimmered in gilded opulence. Statues in the form of solemn, medieval saints lined the depth of the short tunnel. Their sandaled, pale feet were well out of my reach, but a tall person could have reached up and tweaked a saintly toe.

  Without a doubt, this was the most over-the-top, ridiculous hallway I’d ever walked through.

  The archway, at least, should have been in a museum, and I couldn’t believe it was used for a hotel entrance. Was that elegant or disgusting? I’d never imagined that a fine line separated those extremes until now.

  I did know, however, that I didn’t want to walk deeper into that hotel. So instead of going forward or backward, I stared at the golden ceiling. I felt like I was in purgatory. Really, what were my options? I’d decided to come so I could support Corbin, but I wasn’t strong enough for that, not by half.

  “Vous bouchez la porte,” a man behind me growled.

  I turned, smiling. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Typical tourist,” he muttered, his accent revealing him as a fellow American. But he was already pushing by, his bored-looking family behind him.

  On the street I’d just left, it was a gorgeous morning, not too hot or too cool. Maybe I could sleep in a park until it was time to leave.

  You’re such a coward. I jerked my heavy suitcase through the second set of doors.

  A doorman came hurrying up. I didn’t need to understand what he was saying to realize he was apologizing for not having gotten the doors. Waving him off, I pulled my suitcase deeper into the spacious lobby and gave the starched receptionist my name.

  “Ah, yes,” he murmured. He opened a drawer and looked through some red-tasseled keys. With his head bowed, I had an unfettered view of his hair, which was gelled away from his face. It made me think of Rob. Not because Rob shellacked his hair, but because when we were kids, Rob’s army figurines—heaven forbid I call them dolls, even though that’s exactly what they were—had hair just like this guy’s. I could practically see my reflection in the shine.

  “Please wait one moment.” He walked through a door behind the desk and returned a moment later with several large bags, pastel tissue paper spilling from the tops.

  I became aware of someone standing next to me. It was a uniformed bellboy with an embarrassing little hat and a parade of buttons marching down his shirt.

  The receptionist said something in French, and the bellboy took the key and the packages and loaded them onto a cart. He also took my suitcase, and he would have taken my other bags if I hadn’t stepped out of reach.

  Really, I would have preferred to haul my own belongings.

  “You are staying in the Dauphin suite,” the receptionist said. “If you need anything, you have but to pick up the phone, and we shall endeavor to satisfy your every desire. Enjoy your stay.” He capped it off with a tight but earnest smile.

  “Thanks. Merci.”

  The bellboy waited off to the side. He seemed to be expecting some order from me.

  “I’m ready,” I said, and he nodded once.

  Chapter 4

  The fancy script on the door said Le Dauphin.

  My heart thudded in my chest.

  Even though I knew Corbin wouldn’t be in there, I didn’t want to enter.

  The bellboy, however, had no such reservation. He unlocked and opened the door.

  I leaned forward, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk inside. The room was decorated in an assortment of cream and blue fabrics and ornate furniture. Lots of curlicues and little decorative flourishes, even in the pattern of the cream wallpaper.

  Across from the entrance, three sets of balcony doors were open, the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze. Beyond I could glimpse the river, and on the other side of the water, gorgeous, silvery buildings.

  So this was Paris.

  The bellboy ferried the packages from the hall into the suite. I thought he would leave then, but instead he motioned for me to follow him around while he uselessly pointed out the bedroom and the two bathrooms (one with a bidet, which I had never seen before).

  Upon finishing his tour, he flipped my suitcase onto a padded bench and started to unzip it.

  “No!” I said, horrified.

  “I arrange in the furniture.” He used his hands to demonstrate.

  I shook my head. “No. Thank you, but no.” I dug in my backpack for money—all I had were dollars. Was five enough? He hadn’t done much, but I didn’t want to insult him by first refusing his services and then undertipping.

  It was so much easier to navigate these things when Corbin was around. I held out the money. “Thank you. I don’t need anything else.”

  He refused the bill firmly. “Your husband arranges everything.” He placed the tasseled key on a round table and scurried from the room.

  But I felt like I’d been punched in the chest.

  My husband.

  Corbin wasn’t my husband.

  Suddenly, the room’s decadence felt obscene. The buttery croissant now sat uneasily in my gurgling stomach. A bitter taste permeated my mouth, and I swallowed, grimacing.

  Don’t think about it.

  I crossed to the window—the balcony only extended out a foot or so and was therefore unusable—and stared out at the river, the Seine. With the bright sunlight glancing off the water’s surface, it was difficult to gauge the color, but it seemed a steely gray. A blasé and world-weary gray that had seen monarchs overthrown and queens beheaded.

  A large, flat boat powered past, the passengers sitting in rows of wooden chairs arranged so neatly that they were surely bolted to the deck. Tourist river cruise. It certainly undercut the magic.

  But for all that, I was staring at the Seine. Despite my foul mood, the fact made my brain explode a bit. There was something so wrong about being in the heart of this city. I didn’t belong here. This place was old. This place had history. It made me feel even more insignificant.

  This wa
s Corbin’s world, not mine. And it was Audrey’s, the other Audrey. The one he’d married.

  If only he’d texted me before I went through airport security. Better yet, if I’d still been at home… Maybe I wouldn’t be here, my raw heart exposed and ready to be shredded.

  If only I’d trusted my gut. Because deep down I’d known that Corbin could never be mine.

  I swayed on my feet, then choked down a lungful of air. I’d been in public when I’d learned the truth, and I hadn’t had a moment to myself. Somehow, I’d dealt with it.

  But now I was alone, and the mojitos had worn off, and I was exhausted and scared out of my mind. I couldn’t keep my emotions from crashing through me.

  Corbin’s wife was alive.

  She’d been kidnapped, likely beaten, tortured, starved, brainwashed.

  When I’d first learned that there was a chance she was alive, Corbin had promised that nothing between us would change. And I, like a fucking idiot, had tried my hardest to believe him.

  He was wrong.

  Everything had changed.

  My legs threatened to crumple. I staggered a few boneless steps back and sank into a striped, padded chair beside the window. My breaths were slow but shallow, and the room tilted and whirled around me.

  I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Instead, I hunched over. A tiny sliver of white paper sat curled on the chair’s armrest. With a short exhalation, I tried to blow it away. It didn’t work, and for some reason, the failure made me burst into tears.

  Eventually the feeling of helplessness passed, but I didn’t feel any better. I leaned back and dropped my hands into my lap.

  Impossible to say how long I sat there, staring at nothing, at the blanket of sunlight across my lower body. I watched the light slowly crawl over my fingertips and knuckles, warming my skin.

  The hotel phone rang. Probably Corbin, but I didn’t have the energy to answer. A few minutes later, a musical chime came from the canvas bag. My new cell phone. Had to be Corbin.

  But I couldn’t deal with him right now.

  There was only one person I wanted to talk to. Rob.

  And he was only a phone call away.