Broken by a Dangerous Man Page 8

  Resale? “If someone tried to sell the ring back, how much would they get?”

  She smiled uncertainly. “Sell it back?” She shook her head. “We don’t do that here. With a receipt, it could be returned for a refund or a store credit, but to sell it, you would have to go to a more general jeweler.”

  “Oh,” I said, my stomach sinking. For a moment, I’d thought that if someone found it, they might have tried to bring it to the store. That might have given me an opportunity to get it back, assuming Corbin had some kind of proof that he’d bought it.

  I looked at the ring, now sparkling in the display, and I wanted to cry.

  My phone rang as I turned away, and I saw Massimo’s number blinking on the screen. Several employees gave me a look. Not a dirty look, but I took the hint.

  I answered the call. “One second,” I practically whispered.

  Smiling my thanks to the sales associate, I slipped outside.

  Bertrand waited next to the car. I held up a finger to him. The sidewalk was wide enough that if he stayed where he was, he wouldn’t be able to overhear my conversation.

  “Sorry about that,” I said into the phone. “Hello?”

  “It’s Massimo. I just got your message.”

  “Can we meet? I’d like to get some more details from you. It needs to be in public because I don’t want my boyfriend to know I’m working while on vacation. Can you come to the Louvre?”

  “We could go there,” he said slowly, “but the wait to enter could take over an hour. Do you know where the Picasso museum is? It’s much quieter and would be better for a private conversation.”

  “There’s a Picasso museum?” I looked up and noticed Bertrand watching me closely. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he was trying to read my lips.

  Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure about him.

  Chapter 14

  It turned out that there was indeed a Picasso museum in Paris, and Bertrand claimed to be happy to drive me to it. He readily agreed when I suggested he take a break and come back for me in ninety minutes.

  But when I stopped at the front entrance and looked back, I saw that he hadn’t budged.

  I really hoped Massimo was already inside.

  “You’re lucky,” the woman at the booth said as she accepted my credit card. “It’s usually very crowded right now.”

  The museum stretched over several floors. I couldn’t believe that Picasso had created so many statues and paintings.

  I stopped in front of a blue painting that may or may not have been a woman holding a child.

  “He’s not my favorite artist, but he had confidence and style,” said a quiet voice.

  I gave Massimo a long look. “So it seems,” I said, wondering if I was staring at a murderer. Of course I’d seen killers before. Corbin, for example. So I knew there wasn’t necessarily an itchy sixth sense that would alert me.

  “We don’t have much time,” I said. “Is there a quiet corner?”

  “Not quiet enough, but there’s a nearby park that’s perfect.”

  We had to go out the main entrance, but I didn’t see Bertrand.

  The park was less than a minute away. The white stones shifted pleasurably as we walked across the open space. The only other visitors were an elderly couple, and a young mother with twin toddlers. A boy and a girl. I wondered which one was older.

  Suddenly, I missed Rob. I planned to tell him everything about Massimo as soon as I got back.

  I dragged my outstretched fingers across the short, perfectly flat hedge as we walked. The light rasping of the leaves was pleasantly ticklish on my palm.

  Massimo led me to a bench. I sat and crossed my legs and waited for him to talk.

  “Did you find anything?” he asked.

  “Haven’t had time to start yet,” I said. I had the urge to remind him that I was on vacation. “Why don’t you tell me what you know? Who got murdered? Why are you a suspect?”

  He folded his hands and pressed his thumbs together.

  “Massimo, I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Of course I understand.” But he didn’t explain.

  So I continued to wait. I thought about Corbin, and I wondered what he was doing at that moment. Playing the stunned but thrilled husband? Trying to pull incriminating details from a reluctant witness?

  “I don’t want to hurry you, but I really don’t have much time,” I said. “Let me make it easier. I’ll ask questions, and you answer as fully as you can. Who was murdered?”

  “Neil’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “His name?”

  “Jack Davis. He was an artist and a model.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Slowly, Massimo nodded.

  “Did you… date him?”

  He shook his head. “No. But Jack hit on me. He hit on everyone. He thought we should film ourselves having sex and upload it. He liked to roll around in paint first, then…” He pushed his hands against an imaginary wall. “Then fuck against the canvas and sell the paintings.”

  “Had he done this before?”

  “Yeah. He did it for money. Not sex, but having sex in paint. It wasn’t prostitution, he said, but art. Sometimes he did it with famous guys.”

  “Like who?”

  Massimo half-shrugged. “Actors. Politicians.”

  Instantly I knew this was going to be a headache. The police weren’t going to want to look at all the possible suspects.

  I considered my next question. I didn’t want Massimo to suspect I knew anything. If I caught him in a lie, I’d know he was untrustworthy.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Twenty-four,” I said. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “No reason. You look young but you act a lot older.”

  “Thanks, I think. What happened the day Jack died?”

  “I spent the morning with Neil and Jack. Jack kept trying to get me to leave so he could be alone with Neil. Neil wouldn’t weigh in one way or the other. He was like a blank wall. Jack and I yelled at each other, and Neil seemed to really like that, but eventually I got tired of the whole thing. If Neil wanted to be with Jack…” He shrugged. “So I went to my room.”

  “And did what?”

  “Napped. Then I changed my flight home because I wanted to leave sooner, and I ordered a taxi. After that, I went to Neil’s room to say goodbye, but they didn’t answer when I knocked.” His voice began to quaver. “I pressed my ear against the door and I heard sounds. I assumed…”

  I handed him a tissue. “Then what happened?”

  He tried to speak but couldn’t. “Excuse me,” he finally choked out.

  He got up and walked a distance away, and I watch him do the same breathing exercise as he had the night before.

  When he returned, he’d regained control of himself. “Sorry,” he said as he sat. “I know you don’t have much time. Um… I went back to my room to wait until it was time to go to the airport. I passed the cleaning ladies in the hallway. They gave me such a dirty look.”

  “Why?” I asked, leaning forward.

  “I don’t think they have a high opinion of gay men,” he said dryly.

  Possibly homophobic witnesses. Added to the fact that he and Jack had been screaming at each other… not good. “And then?”

  “Then I watched part of the local news. I got a call that my cab had arrived. When I was walking down the hallway, the cleaning ladies started screaming. Mostly it was the one screaming. So I went to see, and…”

  “Did you see the scene?”

  He shook his head. “No. But the cleaning lady was screaming in Spanish, and I could understand enough. That Jack had been stabbed dead and Neil was in bad shape. He’s still alive—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have a friend who works at the hospital.”

  “Why did you run?”

  “The cleaning ladies saw me, and I saw them, the looks in their eyes. They were afraid of me. They believed I’d done it.
And it just… It scared me. Even though I wanted to stay with Neil, I was afraid. I ran. I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Did you take your stuff?”

  He nodded. “I was already holding it.”

  “And no one tried to stop your taxi?”

  “No. It was chaos.” He looked at me, his eyes red-rimmed. “I bet coming to Europe makes me look guilty, doesn’t it?”

  I was starting to get a clear picture of what had happened, or at least what Massimo wanted me to believe had happened.

  And did I believe him? I wanted to, but his story sounded awfully convenient.

  He was right, though. Fleeing the country made him look guilty as hell.

  “You think I’m lying,” he said, his voice strained.

  “I think you’ve got an uphill battle,” I said. “Why did you and Neil break up in the first place?”

  He tilted his head back and closed his eyes as if he were in physical pain.

  The sun caressed his features. If news crews got hold of a photo of him, he was going to be everywhere. The public loved their photogenic fugitives.

  “I shouldn’t have said it was your fault,” he said. “Though it was partially because of the talk I had with you.”

  I felt my eyes going wide.

  “After seeing how sad you were, I realized I wasn’t showing enough gratitude in my life. At dinner, I told Neil I wanted to sit down with Frances and talk about our differences. You know, get all the bad vibes out in the air so they could diffuse.” He spread his fingers to show bad vibes floating away.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Neil said she would never approve of someone who didn’t want kids. I don’t want kids anytime soon, if ever. Adoption is a long process, so I said maybe we could start it, to make her happy, and then just drag our feet, and Neil said to forget adoption, that we would find a surrogate when the time was right.” He opened his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I’m still not understanding why you broke up.”

  “We’d argued about it before.” He turned to look at me. “I suppose you’re going to find out,” he said with a sigh. “My grandfather was a notorious serial killer in Italy. There are rumors about other relatives having… twisted urges. I don’t want to pass on those genes. I refuse to.”

  Oh, yeah, the news outlets were going to love this story. “Does Neil know the reason?”

  “He thinks a nurturing family can overcome rotten genes.” Massimo attempted a smile. “I know better. Somehow we got into a fight. A big one. I ended up going to a friend’s place.”

  My phone rang. It was Bertrand. I still had twenty minutes before I was supposed to meet him, so something must have changed.

  Flustered, I hit the ignore button. “One last question. What were you even doing at the hotel if you and Neil weren’t still together?”

  Massimo wiped his palms on his pants and stood. “Neil said I could come. In the past, a weekend away helped us remedy things.”

  “The good news is that I believe you’re innocent,” I said. Stupid, but innocent. Stabbing was messy. If he hadn’t run, he never would have been a suspect in the first place. “And I think you’ll get cleared pretty fast.” I touched his arm. “A suggestion. Turn yourself in, Massimo.”

  He nodded as if he’d expected that advice all along. “Thank you. You’ll help me?”

  “If I can.”

  Shoulders hunched, he walked past me. For a moment I stared at the bench where we’d been sitting, and I wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Legally, I was way out of my depth. Professionally, too.

  I balanced on one leg to dump a pebble out of my shoe. When I turned to walk back to the museum, I saw Bertrand standing at the park’s entrance. There was a small, tight smile on his face, and I wondered how much he’d seen.

  Chapter 15

  “Corbin called a few minutes ago,” Bertrand said as I drew closer. “He’s finished for the day and wanted to know where to meet us. I told him I’d have you call back, but he said to just meet at the hotel once we’re finished.”

  I nodded. As we walked, I avoided looking at Bertrand. Obviously he’d followed us to the park. But he was one of Corbin’s friends, right? So that meant he had to be on my side, that he wouldn’t call Interpol if he suspected who Massimo was. Right?

  Calm down, I told myself. He couldn’t possibly know. We’d been too far away for him to read our lips.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t take your call,” I said. “I—”

  “It’s fine.” Bertrand opened the car door for me.

  “That guy I was talking to…”

  “It’s fine,” Bertrand said, his mouth a firm line, his jaw tight. It most certainly wasn’t fine. At the very least, he must have seen me talking to Massimo the night before.

  One thing became clear: I was going to have to tell Corbin about Massimo, and I’d better do it before Bertrand did.

  The drive to the hotel wasn’t the most awkward fifteen minutes of my life, but it came pretty close. I tried a few times to make light conversation with Bertrand, but he gave me terse answers.

  When he pulled up at the curb, he didn’t turn off the engine, didn’t move to open my door. Already a doorman was rushing forward.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said.

  Bertrand twisted in his seat to pin me with a steely stare, but when he spoke, his voice was choked with emotion. “That man loves you. I would never hurt a woman, but if you fuck with him, I’ll find a way to make the rest of your life miserable.”

  The sounds of the street floated through the open door, and I became aware of the doorman standing there stiffly, waiting for me to get out.

  “I could never hurt him,” I said softly, feeling emotional because of Bertrand’s obvious concern. “If anything, it’s the other way around.”

  “If you believe that, you’re not as smart as I’d thought.” He turned around, signaling an end to our conversation.

  I scooted out of the car. The doorman had barely shut the door before Bertrand sped away. The car’s tires didn’t squeal impressively, but Bertrand made his point. I hadn’t even done anything wrong, at least, not as far as cheating went, but I felt guilty as hell.

  That guilt clung tightly to me as I went to the suite, and when I reached it, rather than use my key to enter, I knocked.

  Corbin opened the door.

  Dressed in dark pants and a motorcycle jacket.

  I looked him up and down. Even though the fabric didn’t seem particularly thin or clingy, if he’d had an erection, it would have been on full display. As it was, if I stared, I could see the long outline of his sleeping cock.

  “Did you forget your key?” he asked.

  I shook my head, but all I could think about was how hot he looked.

  “We’re going for a ride,” he said, pulling me into the room.

  He tossed me a white T-shirt, a pair of dark pants, and a jacket that looked too small. “Put these on.”

  The window was slightly open, and I moved to the side before peeling off my pants.

  The outfit Corbin had given me looked leather, but it wasn’t, and the label was in French, so I couldn’t read it. I rubbed the dark material between my fingers. When I stretched it, there wasn’t much give. It wasn’t thick, but it felt sturdy.

  “The pants go on your legs,” Corbin said, and I quickly dressed.

  The clothes weren’t oppressively tight, but they molded perfectly to my body. I zipped up the jacket and looked down. Despite the considerable padding, the ensemble was quite flattering.

  “And these.” Corbin gave me a pair of calf-high boots. Sexy.

  He caught my hands in his and held them up. I felt his gaze burning into my naked finger.

  “I, uh, didn’t think the ring would match what I was wearing,” I said.

  Frowning slightly, Corbin glanced into my eyes. The corners of his mouth turned down as he dropped my hands.

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my butt.

  Co
rbin held out a pair of black gloves that were already slightly curled in the shape of a hand. “This manufacturer runs a little large, but I think I guessed right.”

  I pulled one on. It fit like… well, like a glove. A padded, slightly stiff glove, but it wasn’t too small.

  “Let’s go.” Corbin tucked the glove’s mate into the rear pocket of my pants. The quick brush of his fingers over my hip was enough to spike my heartbeat.

  All these clothes on, and I just wanted to take them off.

  As we walked through the lobby, I couldn’t help feeling self-conscious in the new outfit. No one really stared, but I felt uncomfortable. The clothes were badass, but I wasn’t, not really.

  And Corbin… I hadn’t known he was a bike guy, and I still didn’t believe it, not even when he walked up to a large and sleek motorcycle parked near the hotel entrance. Gleaming and clean, it looked like a prop from a superhero movie, but upon moving closer, I could see little signs that it was a functioning vehicle. The tires, for example, had clearly gotten some use. And there was a little bit of wear on the seat. The handlebars, too.

  “That can’t be yours,” I said.

  Corbin pushed a helmet onto my head. “It is.” He adjusted my chin strap, checked the fit, then pulled down the visor.

  Way too constraining for me. I flicked up the visor. “How do you have a bike in France when we live on the other side of the ocean?”

  He threw a leg over the seat. “Hop on,” he said, but I stayed rooted in place.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I heard you want to see the 16th. Arrondissement,” he added when I frowned. “The neighborhood where I used to live. Did I hear incorrectly?”

  I shook my head. A warm blush spread across my cheeks and crept down my neck. I hoped it was from the helmet. I especially hoped Corbin hadn’t noticed. I knew it was silly to be embarrassed for wanting to see where he’d lived, but it made me feel like a stalker.

  After pulling a helmet onto his own head, he turned the key in the ignition, did something to the handles, and pushed a button.