If only it were that easy—to believe in Raven. She made that part effortless. But the life of someone else teetered on the brink, someone he loved as much as his own mother. Even though he didn't understand why she'd left the country, it didn't matter. Fiona was depending on him. And he wouldn't let her down. Not even if it meant keeping secrets from Raven.
"I promise," he whispered, kissing her cheek. The beautiful homicide detective had given him a great deal to think about.
She'd read the same line countless times. Once again, Fiona set down the book on her lap, a restless feeling burning just beneath the surface of her skin. Despite the comforter over her legs and the warmth from the heavily brocaded chair, she shuddered, her skin prickling with a distant anxiety. Her eyes drifted toward the large picture window, draped in muted gold. Sunlight filtered through the opaque sheers, daubing ribbons of light across the massive pastel rug at her feet. Even imagining the heat from the sun, she couldn't shake an uneasy feeling.
The fire in the hearth popped and hissed in warning, making her jump with its prompting. A faint gasp whispered through her lips. In this remote area of the world, far from her past life, she should have felt more secure. Despite her best efforts to ignore it, fear refused to be conquered.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside the library. Staring at the lavishly carved wooden doors at the entrance to the room, she waited and held her breath. And with certainty, she knew. Her time was up.
She stood and filled her lungs, resigning herself to the inevitable. Brushing off her dark gray slacks and straightening her black cashmere sweater, she raised her chin and pulled back her shoulders, swallowing the lump in her throat.
Armande stood by the door, softly clearing his throat. "Pardon me, madam, but you have a very insistent visitor." The manservant tightened his lips. "As I was instructed, I gave no indication you were staying here at the chateau, but the man insists upon seeing you. What would you have me do, Madam Dunhill?"
Clenching her jaw, Fiona turned and walked toward the window to pull back the sheer fabric. Her eyes lowered to the circular drive below.
As she expected, fate had come to Versailles.
CHAPTER 10
"You look lovely, Fiona. I'd nearly forgotten—"
His voice resonated through the formal parlor with its twenty-foot ceiling, the sound of his footsteps intruding upon his feigned cordiality. He'd entered the grand salon with a confident swagger, breezing toward her, dapper and dashing in his elegant navy suit. But as he neared, a reserve swept over him and now rested in his eyes of blue-violet. She hadn't seen eyes that color before or since. Truly, the man was one of a kind.
"Well, let's just say it's been a very long time." Nicholas Charboneau held out his hand, beckoning for hers. She lowered her eyes to the soft skin of his palm, resisting the memory of how that hand had once given her such pleasure.
"A lifetime, Nicky."
That name. She hadn't spoken his name aloud for decades.
Fiona hoped he hadn't seen the slight tremble as she gripped his hand. His eyes firmly entrenched in hers, Nicky held her fingers and brushed a thumb across the back of her hand. A suggestive move. To counter her weakness, a show of strength would be in order. She refused to dissolve under the pressure of his mesmerizing blue eyes.
"I thought I covered my tracks fairly well—no flight plans, a private airstrip at a friend's personal residence, paying off the French government to turn a blind eye. How did you find me, Nicky?"
Keeping her hand in his, she was determined not to give in to his obvious show of intimidation by pulling away. Fiona forced a smile. The best she could do.
"The first rule in the art of bribery, my dear. Never trust anyone who'd accept a bribe in the first place. A rather amazing paradox, really." He lowered his chin and tilted his head, unrelenting in his gaze. "Actually, I cheated. You'll find a tracking beacon on your plane, just inside one of the wheel wells."
With a haunting smile she knew well, he eventually released his grip on her. And in the wake of his touch, she didn't know which felt worse. The warmth of his skin lingered in contradiction, her fondest and worst memory.
"Otherwise, I'd say yours was a grand scheme. It would have worked on your standard fare of pursuers." His deep voice grew thick with intimacy.
He stood close enough for her skin to tingle at the sound of its familiarity. She turned her back on him, unable to steady her breathing. But as she stepped away, she caught a glimpse of him in the massive beveled mirror above the mantel of the marbled hearth. For a split second, a guileless younger man appeared in the reflection. Past and present stared her in the face. The image disturbed her. She flinched and shut her eyes for a moment. Fighting for control, she allowed sarcasm to imply a strength she did not possess.
"How utterly gracious of you, Nicky. Your charm knows no bounds." She claimed an ornately carved and gilded armchair with vivid yellow brocade, set beside the fire. Fiona appreciated the symbolism. She'd always been the moth flitting too near the flame. "But it appears you didn't take the hint. I didn't want any visitors."
"I thought you'd make an exception for me, Fiona. Since we are such old and dear friends."
He stalled just long enough to make his point. Nicky never said anything without careful consideration and orchestration. Yet perhaps his ego far outweighed his discretion. As she thought back over what he had just revealed, a new question summoned her curiosity. For now, she would bide her time, watching him.
Following her toward the fire, he stood with his hand on the mantel, staring into its flames. A warm glow radiated upon him, outlining a handsome face ablaze in gold. His admirable good looks had seasoned well with age. She'd trailed her fingers along that strong jawline, known the softness of those full lips, and lost her soul to those eyes. That's why his offense provoked her, compounded by his deceit. It had been an act of betrayal to what remained in her memory of Nicky.
"Why are you here, Nicholas?" Fiona hoped the use of his formal first name would remind him. She only used it in anger. "And why would you plant the tracking device on my jet ahead of time, unless you knew I'd be taking a hasty trip abroad? Did you play some part in the abruptness of my departure?"
Seeing the slight flicker to his eyes, she knew she'd been right. He had arranged for the murder of a man. But why? How had love twisted into such a vile thing?
In disbelief, she waited for his response to her challenge. But as expected, his break in composure had been instantaneous, gone as quickly as it appeared. Slowly, his expression morphed into a sneer as his eyes shifted toward her.
"My, aren't you the clever one?" He smiled, with all the seductiveness of a snake coiled in high grass. "Are you insinuating I had anything to do with your most recent misfortune, my dear?"
"And what might that be, Nicky? Misfortune? I wouldn't exactly characterize my life as unfortunate." She stiffened, raising her chin in feigned arrogance and pride. "Quite the contrary."
His jaw tightened as he backed from the fire. Finding a chair opposite her, he sat and leaned an elbow onto an armrest. Resting his chin on his fist, he stared, unreadable. A faint pull at the corner of his mouth reminded her how much he enjoyed a good verbal joust—but not if his opponent held the upper hand.
"Perhaps you can live with your sins better than most." His hurtful words hung in the air for her to examine at length.
The simple observation gnarled her stomach, entangling it with the bitter truth. What did he know? How could he—? Uncertainty prickled the skin of her face, forcing an unsettling blink to her eyelids. She conceded his clever insight. Her lungs burned from lack of air. She reminded herself to breathe—just breathe.