Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,93
and finding the underbelly of Montparnasse.
Now a simple black door. Discreet. New owners and new clientele evidenced by the calendar of soirées—a menu of domination, and S-M. Tonight: femmes et fétiches.
Great.
A woman in a leather thong and little else, pink butterfly clips holding her blonde hair up, gave her the eye. Svetla sat at the far end of the bar. Her short hair slicked back, wearing a leather biker jacket and low jeans over bony hips, revealing a flat stomach and pierced navel. Dark shadowed eyes on the prowl. Primed for a night off.
Svetla’s look played well in a lace-and-leather bar in Paris.
But Aimée needed to lure Svetla back to the Hôtel Plaza Athénée and bend the diva’s ear if she wanted to learn the oligarch’s plan. And hurry out before Svetla saw her.
“Didn’t know you swung this way, Aimée.” Cécile, a friend of Michou’s, René’s transvestite neighbor, was blocking her exit. Cécile wore lace bloomers held in place by strategically placed suspenders. A big pout on her rouge-noir lips. “You never told me.”
Of all the people to run into.
“I’m meeting someone, Cécile.”
“Let’s make it a party,” Cécile said, leaning closer to her on the bar. Smoke spiraled from her cigarette into Aimée’s eyes.
“It’s not like that.” She wished she could make Cécile disappear.
“And pigs fly.”
“Alors, she’s a Russian bodyguard.”
“Ooh, like them rough do you?”
Svetla was watching them, the edges of her mouth turned down.
“My friend gets jealous.” She waved to Svetla.
“I would too, Aimée. I’m mad you never let on,” said Cécile, but Aimée had already hurried past her.
“Svetla, I can’t stay here. I know her.”
“I noticed. Your girlfriend?”
“No way, but a little complicated.” She winked. Think. Think. She needed to lure Svetla out. “But that party—if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss it.”
“Miss what party?”
“Zut! Didn’t you get my message? My friend’s soirée. Invitation only.…”
“Let’s have a drink first,” Svetla said, unconvinced.
“And miss a Parisian leather party? Models, les bobos chics.…”
“First I’ve heard.”
“Exclusive, Svetla,” Aimée said. “I used my connections and wangled you an invite. Special, only for you.”
“You mean like models, designers, Karl Lagerfeld—like that?”
“Bien sûr. Last time, Karl held the party. Maybe tonight too.”
“Where?”
Svetla’s affected disinterest didn’t hide her excitement. Aimée had hooked her. Now to reel her in. And fast, without giving her time to think it through.
“They call with the address twenty minutes before—it’s a flash party. But you need to change. First we’ll stop at the Athénée, then go from there.”
“I don’t understand this.”
“There’s a dress code.” Aimée let out a low laugh. “I want to make sure the bouncer will let us in.” She had to chance it. “Or you’re not interested? Shall I invite someone else instead?”
Svetla slapped down twenty francs. The notes stuck to the wet drink rings on the bar. Cécile blew Aimée a kiss as they left.
DIDN’T BODYGUARDS ROOM on the same floor as their employer—or next door? According to that hotel detective, they did. Round-the-clock protection duty. In the taxi, Svetla had revealed that the diva and the oligarch had stayed in tonight. Perfect.
Aimée glanced down the hotel hallway, deserted except for a thick blue carpet and bronze wall sconces.
“The party goes all night. Sure you’re off duty?”
“On call,” Svetla said.
Even better. Svetla opened the door to a suite with a dressing room the size of a studio apartment, blue velvet floor-length drapes framing the window.
“Nice,” Aimée said, scanning the room for a travel itinerary, Svetla’s agenda—anything that might indicate the diva’s room number or her plans.
“Why don’t we party here first?” Svetla said, tossing her leather jacket on the giant bed.
From behind she felt Svetla’s muscular arms around her. A hot kiss on her neck. Aimée noticed Svetla’s cell phone poking out from her jacket pocket on the bed.
“Think I’m easy?” Aimée arched her back.
“I can hope.” Svetla’s tongue licked her ear.
Aimée twisted away. “First I’ll raid the minibar for champagne. Find you party clothes for later.” She glanced at the marble bathroom with the huge tub. “Why don’t you lather up and I’ll join you.”
“Promise?”
“Seduction’s an art. Don’t rush. Let’s do it à la Française. We’re good at that.”
“World famous.” Svetla grinned and began peeling off her jeans.
Aimée tried not to avert her eyes. Hoped she didn’t blush to high heaven. An amazingly toned body. Svetla’s muscles rippled.
“You’re shy,” Svetla said. “I never would have thought it.”
If she only knew.
“Make the water hot for me.” Aimée cringed inside, but Svetla bought it. For now. Minutes. She had minutes.