Page 89 of The Wolves Come at Night
“We are paid well for our work.”
“Disgusting,” Taylor muttered.
“You really don’t get it, do you? You, who only kills in the name of the law. You’re no better than some Wild West sheriff who decides who lives or dies based on who the villain robbed. My work is more…elegant.”
“That’s utter bullshit. And I’m tired of arguing with you,” Taylor said. “Let’s just do this job, get Carson, and get her home, agreed? Preferably without murdering anyone else.”
“I can’t promise that,” Angelie said, eyes darkening.
They drove for an hour before stopping. The snow grew worse the farther south they went. Taylor watched the signs as they drove, though she knew exactly nothing about the French countryside. They hit the village of Chevreuse, and a few minutes later, the car slowed, then turned into a rambling lane that led to a large, charming buttercup-yellow two-story farmhouse with gabled windows along the expanse of the mansard roof. The snow had gathered prettily over the gravel courtyard, and Taylor was annoyed all over again. After the events of the day, staying in a lovely house in the French countryside felt obscene to her.
Angelie trudged out, along with the driver, who had yet to introduce himself. He opened the trunk and took the bags while Angelie stalked directly inside. Taylor followed, trying like hell not to appreciate the very old and exquisite door she entered through.
It was as lovely inside as the exterior foretold. Santiago was set up in the kitchen, a laptop and stack of papers in front of him, feet bare on the warm terra-cotta tiles. A fire roared, making the room cozy, and dinner was waiting for them in the oven, some sort of chicken and vegetables with plenty of onions and garlic, from the smell of it.
Taylor went to the kitchen window and glanced out at the dusky sky. She could see the place had a pool, gardens, and extensive grounds. It was off the beaten path, a good safe house. She shook her head. It was like overnight, she’d been transported into a spy novel.
But this situation was of her own making. So she needed to suck it up and do the job, regardless of the company she was keeping.
Baldwin’s face floated into her mind, only slightly mocking. Told you you’d hate it.
Hush, she told him back. I’m doing this for you.
Suddenly the charming hostess, Angelie stopped and gestured toward the stairs. “Your room is upstairs on the right, Taylor. Your bag is already there. Would you like to freshen up, or are you ready to eat?”
Taylor glanced at the stairs. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
She needed the alone time. If only to rationalize with herself for the hundredth time. Every step up the thick oak treads was a new recrimination, answered with a justification.
You’re doing this for Baldwin.
You’re doing this for his son.
You’re doing this for yourself.
You’re bored.
You’re not as outraged as you seem.
You don’t care that she killed those men.
You are lost.
The room was perfect, of course, with timbered beams and whitewashed walls, a double bed piled high with downy pillows and crisp linens. She hopped in the shower, rinsed off the acrid scent of anger, and dressed quickly. Damn if she wasn’t hungry, and the food, whatever it was, smelled incredible.
Yep, put away your conscience, girl. Apparently, you can’t afford to have one anymore.
She’d always been so sure of what was black and what was white. What was evil, and what wasn’t. Now she was cavorting in the shadows, dallying in the gray space, and it was damn uncomfortable.
When she entered the kitchen, Angelie and Santiago merely pointed at a chair. The driver, who was also some sort of servant, brought plates to the table, along with a couple of crusty baguettes that were clearly homemade. Santiago owns a bakery, that’s right. Well, she wouldn’t die for lack of carbs, at least. She took a seat at the table, trying to keep her mouth from watering.
“Coq au vin?” Taylor asked, spying the telltale pearl onions and the roasted chicken in sauce. It smelled ridiculously good, all wine and thyme and onions.
“Santiago has been cooking all afternoon,” Angelie said with a smirk.
“Shut up. It’s my love language.” Santiago passed Taylor the butter, a crock of fresh yellow goodness, and they dug in.
Forty-Six
