Page 44 of Forgiving Paris
“In every language. Through every season of every year of our lives.” They stood back from the crowd of tourists gathered at the attraction. He kissed her the way she had wanted him to since that morning in their hotel living room. “I love you forever, Ashley.”
“I love you.” She kissed him this time. “Happy anniversary.”
Their anniversary wasn’t until the next day, but that didn’t matter. This was an anniversary trip, after all. Despite every horrible memory and the awful things she had done here. A smile caught Landon’s lips and a sparkle filled his eyes. “You know what I’m going to say, right?”
Ashley had no idea. She didn’t need fancy words or poetry at this point. She only needed him. She slid her cheek along his and allowed herself to get lost in the feel of his arms around her. “What are you going to say, Landon?”
He moved back half a step and searched her eyes. “The story of Jesus and the storm. Remember?”
And just like that another chill came over Ashley, because Landon had told her there would be moments like this while they were in Paris. Times when God would show them how Ashley’s choices and heartache when she was lost in this city must’ve held some redemption. Even for someone else. And so they had. Ashley felt a warmth fill her heart and soul. Landon didn’t have to say the words. Ashley already knew.
Because in the greatest storm of her life, today’s lunch was something God wanted her to notice. He had made good out of Paris, after all. And today’s lunch brought them the one thing Landon had hoped they would find when they came to France.
People like Alice Arquette.
The little boats.
WITH THE INFORMATIONhe’d received from the gallery owner of Light of the Seine, Albert had a number of ways he could kill Ashley Baxter. Twenty-three years ago, the American artist had been his first paid hit and he had failed.
But he was better at his job now.
Albert settled into his leather recliner and stared at the walls of his expensive flat. He had completed thirty-three hits since returning to Paris. Businessmen who stood to make great financial gain, small-time politicians with too much information. Spouses threatening public divorce.
His boss made the connections. Albert did the dirty work.
He picked up a newspaper from the table near his chair.WHISTLE-BLOWER REPORTER TAKES HIS LIFE, the headline read. Albert smiled. Few whistle-blowers ever really took their own lives. But Albert knew many ways to make it look like they had.
His victims died of suicide and food poisoning, car accidents and accidental falls. At least that’s how it seemed. Occasionally a body would show up in the Seine and the police would suspect something more than an accidental drowning.
But Albert was good enough to elude authorities.
He surveyed the small, windowless room. On occasion, Albert brought people to his flat in the sixteenth arrondissement. Men or women he’d met on the street or in bars. But no one ever came into this room. The door was locked from both sides and for good reason.
Albert scanned the space. Every inch of the four walls and ceiling was covered with photos of Jean-Claude Pierre and his work. A shrine to the man who had given Albert prestige and power. His idol.
His obsession.
“I’m about to make you a very happy man, Jean-Claude.” He talked to the artist here. It was their place, for just the two of them. “You and me, both.”
Yes, it wouldn’t be long now and Albert could do one last deed for Jean-Claude Pierre. He tried to imagine how good it would feel to know he had finally finished what the artist had asked of him. He stared at a photo of himself with Jean-Claude. Happier times. “Soon, Jean-Claude,” Albert whispered. “Very soon.”
He had lived for this moment, dreamed about it.
Every day since seeing the ad in the window at Light of the Seine, Albert had been planning. The gallery used the same caterer for every show. Albert knew that now. If all went well, he would deliver a poisoned piece of cheesecakeespecially for Ashley Baxter. A treat for the night of her show. If that didn’t kill her, Albert had other ideas.
He knew which hotel Ashley was staying at and which car service her husband was using. From the table next to his chair, Albert picked up a handgun. One way or another, the American artist would not return home in coach beside her husband.
But under the plane in a body bag.
16
The next day, lunch with the gallery owner and her husband took place at a restaurant not far from Light of the Seine. Ashley had to keep reminding herself that this was really happening, that she was back in Paris about to see her paintings sold at a professional gallery.
Never mind what Marguerite had said about her work twenty-three years ago.
This time the gallery owner didn’t despise Ashley. Emilie Love adored her.
They had ordered chicken confit with roasted potatoes and parsley salad. Landon must’ve enjoyed the food because he was nearly finished with his plate. Same with Emilie Love and her husband, Edward. Ashley was trying, but she wasn’t hungry after what had happened earlier. Her heart was too full to eat much.
