Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,6
in to keep watch on this operation. Nothing complicated. Just to keep watch.”
“We did watch. The police were there, and there was lots of shooting, and we were gridlocked, and—”
“Spare me. You searched this taxi?”
“The painting definitely wasn’t in it.”
Morel groaned. “Can this day get any worse?”
“There’s something else. There was a man and a woman in the taxi.”
“Did they have the painting?”
“No. We’d have seen it when they left.
“You let them leave?” Morel’s voice inched up an octave.
“Er, well, they were on a motorbike. They went off fast, clouds of smoke and—”
“You mean you lost them. The only lead we have and you let them get away. You slimy, good-for-nothing—”
“No, no, no. There’s Auguste’s phone, see. It’s still moving.”
Morel’s face froze between anger and a sneer. “So?”
“Moving the same way the man and woman went.”
“So, track them! Find them! Threaten them! Do whatever it takes, but find my bloody painting!”
“Yes, sir. Definitely, sir. No problem. We’re on it.”
“You better bloody had be. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”
“And then?”
“I’ll go all matchstick on them.”
There was a small laugh. “That should do it.”
Morel lowered his voice. “And on you, too. Understand?”
The man on the other end of the line swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter 6
“Slow down,” the girl shouted in Piers’ ear. “You’re going to get us killed.”
“They could be behind us.”
“You shook them off a while ago.”
“Why didn’t you bloody tell me?”
“I just did.”
Piers eased up on the throttle. The engine groaning as it slowed.
“Go left here,” she said.
“It’s a one-way street.”
“It’s okay. I live up there.”
Piers forced himself to relax, braked for the corner and turned into the street, ignoring the no-entry sign. A car horn blared and he veered for the gutter, narrowly missing a Ford heading in the opposite direction.
“How far?” he said.
“Not far. Maybe a mile.”
“A mile! For god’s sake, we could get arrested.”
“Does James Bond worry about one-way streets?”
He avoided another car as it raced by, headlights flashing at them.
“No, but he’s not real.”
“Tell me about it. You try and get a guy to dress proper these days.” She patted him on the shoulder. “No offense.”
“Oh, none taken. I’ve been kicking myself all day for forgetting my tux on this trip.”
“Right, see what I mean? Guys just don’t want to wear nice clothes anymore.”
Piers rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’s because—”
The girl squeezed Piers with her arms and nodded toward a line of scooters by a café. “Stop over there.”
Piers braked hard, almost throwing them both off, and lurched into the parking spot.
The café’s patrons turned as one to stare at the interruption to their morning croissants.
She scissored her legs gracefully and twisted off the back of the bike, her arms still secured around Piers.
He felt the patrons’ stares leave the bike and focus on them as a couple.
The girl’s face was inches from his. She gave a momentary smile, which lifted her eyebrows. “Er . . . um . . . this is embarrassing, but could we possibly just walk . . . you know, like,” she squeezed him, “arm in arm?”
Piers drew his head back. “Arm in arm? Arm in bloody arm? You’re nuts! We’ve been shot at, crashed a taxi, stolen a motorbike, bloody near killed ourselves in these stupid narrow roads and—”
She smiled, big, broad, a thousand watts. “I know, and you were brilliant.”
“I—”
She gripped him with her cuffed arms and kissed him full on the lips, bold, brief, and hard.
His jaw hung slack and his eyes converged on a point inches in front of his nose.
She wrenched his numbed body off the motorbike. “Come on, before anyone sees these handcuffs.”
He staggered, struggling to keep his balance. “What the hell are we doing? Those people could catch up any moment.”
“No problem.” She dragged him to a pair of narrow double doors and barged through into an equally narrow hallway. Wallpaper curled from the ceiling and the painted woodwork hadn’t been white for decades. A set of stairs ran upward. She took the first step and raised her cuffed hands over his head.
Piers grabbed her wrists. “What are we doing? Who were those people? How—”
She pulled free and held a finger over his mouth, “Sssshhh.”
Piers quieted.
Her smile faded in an instant. “Good. Now, take the back door, go right, and down two blocks. There’s a Métro station. You’ll be okay then.” Her smiled flashed again. “See ya,” she said, and she bounded up the stairs.
“What? No! Wait!”
She turned and jerked her head toward the rear door. “It’d be for the best.”
“What would be? Have me