The Angel
Page 82
“I don’t know why I need to know. But I have to. He…” She stopped speaking and searched for the words, any words, to explain what she felt, what she wanted. “I believed in him like I once believed in God. I don’t want to believe in either of them…unless I should.”
Kingsley exhaled heavily as he pulled a booted leg into his chest and draped his arm over it casually.
“To believe or not to believe…only you can answer that question for yourself,” he said as the Rolls pulled in front of an elegant black-and-white town house. “But I can help you on your quest. I can point you in the right direction at least. Come.”
The door opened and Kingsley left the car. She smoothed her blouse and skirt and followed him through a wrought-iron gate and up the stairs.
As they hit the third floor, the most stunningly beautiful woman Suzanne had ever seen in her life appeared with a cup of tea in her hand and a smile on her face. Almost as tall as Kingsley with ebony skin, charcoal eyes and a playful smile on her full lips, the woman seemed both graceful and severe to Suzanne.
“Aah…my Jules. I’ve missed you,” Kingsley said as he saluted the woman on each cheek with a kiss. “This is Suzanne Kanter, a reporter friend of mine.”
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Tea?” the woman who Suzanne surmised must be Juliette, Kingsley’s private secretary, asked. Like Kingsley, she too spoke with a rich accent. But Juliette’s sounded different, more Caribbean. She must be from Haiti, Suzanne decided, recognizing the accent. A black Haitian woman working for a rich, white, French man.... Kingsley really was the most arrogant man alive.
“She can’t stay.” Kingsley took a sip of his own tea. “She’s merely here for a file.”
“Which one, monsieur?” Juliette asked. “I’ll fetch it.”
“The mistress…her medical file.”
Juliette’s dark eyes went wide for the barest hint of a second before she composed her face once more into the mask of the perfect submissive secretary.
“Oui, monsieur.”
While Juliette disappeared into a room, Suzanne looked around. So strange. Kingsley’s headquarters seemed as if they’d been transported from another place, another time. She saw huge black rotary phones on the large art deco desks. Wooden filing cabinets, Tiffany lamps…and no computers in sight.
“Such a Luddite,” Suzanne said, taking it all in.
“I’m simply old-fashioned,” Kingsley said with a wicked glint in his eyes.
Juliette returned with a thick black file folder fastened with a burgundy ribbon. Kingsley held it out and Suzanne reached for it, but he pulled it back to his chest.
“For you and you only, mademoiselle, I had a dear friend of mine send this to me. You will be allowed to keep this file for one day. It must be returned to me by this time tomorrow night. Nothing in this file can be recorded or photocopied in any way. No one but you may look at it. I will know if you have disobeyed any of these conditions. The consequences for disobedience will be severe. Do you understand me?”
Kingsley said the words with a conversational air but the threat in them was unmistakable.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Je comprends.”
Kingsley raised his eyebrow at her before passing her the file.
“Now I’ll have my driver take you home.”
Suzanne headed down the stairs and Kingsley followed. Not twenty minutes ago, he’d been buried inside her body. Now he barely spoke to her, although she saw him watching her out of the corner of her eyes. On the first-floor landing he stopped and gestured for her to go on without him.
“Good night,” she said, clutching the file to her chest. “I’ll drop this off tomorrow, I promise.”
“Bon.” He nodded.
Apparently good-night kisses wouldn’t be forthcoming. Suzanne nodded back and headed toward the front door where Kingsley’s chauffeur waited in silence.
The chauffeur opened the door.
“Mademoiselle?” Kingsley called out and Suzanne turned around and looked up at him. “One more piece of advice on your quest.”
“Yes, please? What?”
“Go see the sister. Talk to her.”
Suzanne blinked.
“Sister? Like a nun? Which nun?”
Kingsley laughed then—an amused, arrogant, infuriatingly French laugh.
“No, Suzanne. His sister.”
“That’s right,” she said, a memory clicking into place. “He has three sisters, doesn’t he? Which one?”
“The one you don’t want to see.”
“I don’t want to see any—”
“And one final thing,” Kingsley said, all mirth and seduction gone from his face and his tone. “About the file in your hands…”
“Yes?”
“It was mine.”
“What was—”
“Au revoir, Suzanne.”
Before Suzanne could ask another question, Kingsley turned on his heel and headed up the stairs.
Suzanne watched him until she could see him no longer.
Holding the file to her chest, Suzanne followed the driver back to the Rolls Royce.
“It’s all right,” Suzanne said, making a sudden decision. “I’ll walk home.”
The chauffeur only looked at her before curtsying and heading back into the house.
Once alone Suzanne headed down the street until she found what she needed—a bench under a streetlamp.
Kingsley exhaled heavily as he pulled a booted leg into his chest and draped his arm over it casually.
“To believe or not to believe…only you can answer that question for yourself,” he said as the Rolls pulled in front of an elegant black-and-white town house. “But I can help you on your quest. I can point you in the right direction at least. Come.”
The door opened and Kingsley left the car. She smoothed her blouse and skirt and followed him through a wrought-iron gate and up the stairs.
As they hit the third floor, the most stunningly beautiful woman Suzanne had ever seen in her life appeared with a cup of tea in her hand and a smile on her face. Almost as tall as Kingsley with ebony skin, charcoal eyes and a playful smile on her full lips, the woman seemed both graceful and severe to Suzanne.
“Aah…my Jules. I’ve missed you,” Kingsley said as he saluted the woman on each cheek with a kiss. “This is Suzanne Kanter, a reporter friend of mine.”
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Tea?” the woman who Suzanne surmised must be Juliette, Kingsley’s private secretary, asked. Like Kingsley, she too spoke with a rich accent. But Juliette’s sounded different, more Caribbean. She must be from Haiti, Suzanne decided, recognizing the accent. A black Haitian woman working for a rich, white, French man.... Kingsley really was the most arrogant man alive.
“She can’t stay.” Kingsley took a sip of his own tea. “She’s merely here for a file.”
“Which one, monsieur?” Juliette asked. “I’ll fetch it.”
“The mistress…her medical file.”
Juliette’s dark eyes went wide for the barest hint of a second before she composed her face once more into the mask of the perfect submissive secretary.
“Oui, monsieur.”
While Juliette disappeared into a room, Suzanne looked around. So strange. Kingsley’s headquarters seemed as if they’d been transported from another place, another time. She saw huge black rotary phones on the large art deco desks. Wooden filing cabinets, Tiffany lamps…and no computers in sight.
“Such a Luddite,” Suzanne said, taking it all in.
“I’m simply old-fashioned,” Kingsley said with a wicked glint in his eyes.
Juliette returned with a thick black file folder fastened with a burgundy ribbon. Kingsley held it out and Suzanne reached for it, but he pulled it back to his chest.
“For you and you only, mademoiselle, I had a dear friend of mine send this to me. You will be allowed to keep this file for one day. It must be returned to me by this time tomorrow night. Nothing in this file can be recorded or photocopied in any way. No one but you may look at it. I will know if you have disobeyed any of these conditions. The consequences for disobedience will be severe. Do you understand me?”
Kingsley said the words with a conversational air but the threat in them was unmistakable.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Je comprends.”
Kingsley raised his eyebrow at her before passing her the file.
“Now I’ll have my driver take you home.”
Suzanne headed down the stairs and Kingsley followed. Not twenty minutes ago, he’d been buried inside her body. Now he barely spoke to her, although she saw him watching her out of the corner of her eyes. On the first-floor landing he stopped and gestured for her to go on without him.
“Good night,” she said, clutching the file to her chest. “I’ll drop this off tomorrow, I promise.”
“Bon.” He nodded.
Apparently good-night kisses wouldn’t be forthcoming. Suzanne nodded back and headed toward the front door where Kingsley’s chauffeur waited in silence.
The chauffeur opened the door.
“Mademoiselle?” Kingsley called out and Suzanne turned around and looked up at him. “One more piece of advice on your quest.”
“Yes, please? What?”
“Go see the sister. Talk to her.”
Suzanne blinked.
“Sister? Like a nun? Which nun?”
Kingsley laughed then—an amused, arrogant, infuriatingly French laugh.
“No, Suzanne. His sister.”
“That’s right,” she said, a memory clicking into place. “He has three sisters, doesn’t he? Which one?”
“The one you don’t want to see.”
“I don’t want to see any—”
“And one final thing,” Kingsley said, all mirth and seduction gone from his face and his tone. “About the file in your hands…”
“Yes?”
“It was mine.”
“What was—”
“Au revoir, Suzanne.”
Before Suzanne could ask another question, Kingsley turned on his heel and headed up the stairs.
Suzanne watched him until she could see him no longer.
Holding the file to her chest, Suzanne followed the driver back to the Rolls Royce.
“It’s all right,” Suzanne said, making a sudden decision. “I’ll walk home.”
The chauffeur only looked at her before curtsying and heading back into the house.
Once alone Suzanne headed down the street until she found what she needed—a bench under a streetlamp.
