Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Michelle St. James
gently over the old mahogany, stared into the dreamy landscapes, trying to see what her father had seen, trying to see what had spoken to him about each piece. He had taken the business personally that way; his inventory was never simply about profit and loss. He looked for things that moved him, things that needed a new home, a fresh start.
She put her father out of her mind and hurried to the metro, descending under the city via the concrete stairs. The air was hot and dry underground, the midday crowd intent on their destination. She stepped onto the train and pulled her book from her handbag, reading as the train sped through Paris’s underground tunnels.
By the time she emerged onto the pristine streets in Saint Germain she was calm, her attention focused on the desk bound for Christophe Marchand. It was the last remaining piece to deliver. She would get it done. Then she would be able to focus on closing the shop and getting back to LA.
She followed the directions on her phone to a gleaming building in the 6th Arrondissement. It was old, probably built in the early 1800s. The facade was immaculate, the white granite shimmering in the sunlight breaking through the clouds. Stately buildings stood guard on either side, all of them as perfectly restored as the one belonging to Christophe Marchand.
She approached the white moving truck parked near the curb and waved at Abel in the driver’s seat. He opened the door and stepped to the ground while his young companion in the passenger seat studied her with open curiosity.
“I’ll just go to the door, make sure Monsieur Marchand is ready for the delivery,” she said. “I’ll wave you in once it’s confirmed.”
Abel nodded and leaned against the truck.
She headed for the house, walking up a flight of granite stairs and stopping at a giant wood door with a gargoyle knocker cast in bronze. She looked for a doorbell, didn’t find one, and hesitantly reached for the knocker instead. She tried to tamp down her nervousness as the sound reverberated through the house beyond the front door. For all of the stories Joelle had told her about the high-maintenance Monsieur Marchand, he was just another client. Deliveries weren’t usually part of her job during the summers she had worked with her father, but she’d accompanied him enough times to get the job done.
The door opened, and she looked up into the cold eyes of a giant of a man. He wore a well cut suit and gleaming shoes, and when he pulled his arm back, she caught a glimpse of a gun holstered to his side.
“Monsieur Marchand?”
“Who is asking?” the man said in accented English.
“I’m Charlotte Duval, here with a delivery from Galerie Duval. Monsieur Marchand should be expecting me.”
He surveyed her for a long moment before opening the door wider in silent invitation. She hesitated, then stepped into a triple height foyer monopolized by a massive, curving staircase and a chandelier she guessed to be from the 1850s. The walls were a stark white, paneled with elaborate moldings, and the floor was constructed of symmetrical black and white travertine.
But for all its grandeur, the house didn’t hold her command long; it was the two men standing on either side of the staircase, both of them in suits, both in a stance that would have been appropriate for Secret Service agents protecting the President.
She had to resist the urge to let herself out. To run. She was in over her head. She didn’t know how, didn’t yet understand the details, but she knew with bone deep certainty that she was nowhere near prepared for the interaction that was about to take place.
“Wait,” said the man who opened the door.
“Of course.”
He disappeared down a long hall to the left of the stairs. She tried to smile at the stony faced men obviously standing guard, but their expressions didn’t change. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that they were statues, modern day gargoyles positioned at the foot of
She put her father out of her mind and hurried to the metro, descending under the city via the concrete stairs. The air was hot and dry underground, the midday crowd intent on their destination. She stepped onto the train and pulled her book from her handbag, reading as the train sped through Paris’s underground tunnels.
By the time she emerged onto the pristine streets in Saint Germain she was calm, her attention focused on the desk bound for Christophe Marchand. It was the last remaining piece to deliver. She would get it done. Then she would be able to focus on closing the shop and getting back to LA.
She followed the directions on her phone to a gleaming building in the 6th Arrondissement. It was old, probably built in the early 1800s. The facade was immaculate, the white granite shimmering in the sunlight breaking through the clouds. Stately buildings stood guard on either side, all of them as perfectly restored as the one belonging to Christophe Marchand.
She approached the white moving truck parked near the curb and waved at Abel in the driver’s seat. He opened the door and stepped to the ground while his young companion in the passenger seat studied her with open curiosity.
“I’ll just go to the door, make sure Monsieur Marchand is ready for the delivery,” she said. “I’ll wave you in once it’s confirmed.”
Abel nodded and leaned against the truck.
She headed for the house, walking up a flight of granite stairs and stopping at a giant wood door with a gargoyle knocker cast in bronze. She looked for a doorbell, didn’t find one, and hesitantly reached for the knocker instead. She tried to tamp down her nervousness as the sound reverberated through the house beyond the front door. For all of the stories Joelle had told her about the high-maintenance Monsieur Marchand, he was just another client. Deliveries weren’t usually part of her job during the summers she had worked with her father, but she’d accompanied him enough times to get the job done.
The door opened, and she looked up into the cold eyes of a giant of a man. He wore a well cut suit and gleaming shoes, and when he pulled his arm back, she caught a glimpse of a gun holstered to his side.
“Monsieur Marchand?”
“Who is asking?” the man said in accented English.
“I’m Charlotte Duval, here with a delivery from Galerie Duval. Monsieur Marchand should be expecting me.”
He surveyed her for a long moment before opening the door wider in silent invitation. She hesitated, then stepped into a triple height foyer monopolized by a massive, curving staircase and a chandelier she guessed to be from the 1850s. The walls were a stark white, paneled with elaborate moldings, and the floor was constructed of symmetrical black and white travertine.
But for all its grandeur, the house didn’t hold her command long; it was the two men standing on either side of the staircase, both of them in suits, both in a stance that would have been appropriate for Secret Service agents protecting the President.
She had to resist the urge to let herself out. To run. She was in over her head. She didn’t know how, didn’t yet understand the details, but she knew with bone deep certainty that she was nowhere near prepared for the interaction that was about to take place.
“Wait,” said the man who opened the door.
“Of course.”
He disappeared down a long hall to the left of the stairs. She tried to smile at the stony faced men obviously standing guard, but their expressions didn’t change. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that they were statues, modern day gargoyles positioned at the foot of
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