any member of La Cour des Lions at police headquarters, let alone Bastien.
Merde, she thought to herself. I never should have told him anything, least of all my plan to use myself as bait.
Celine sniffed. It grated on her to be shackled to one place in such a manner, like a princess kept in a tower, awaiting a white knight. She wasn’t a complete fool, after all. No undue risk would be taken this evening. At all times, Bastien’s solid silver dagger would be close at hand. And she had no intention of wandering beyond earshot of police headquarters. Instead she’d wait for Bastien in the heart of Jackson Square not a minute before midnight, less than forty paces from the front doors of the cathedral.
What kind of foolish killer would try to strike her down a stone’s throw from a garrison of armed police officers?
Several sets of footsteps neared the door, pausing just outside. A fist pounded lightly on its oaken surface in three successive knocks. Then waited a breath before rapping four times more.
The signal Michael had devised to convey he was outside and all was well.
Celine unlocked the door to find the young detective standing there, a storm brewing in his colorless eyes. Over his shoulder loomed a jolly giant of a man carrying an incongruously small basket and a stooped woman with a woolen shawl draped across her shoulders and a covered dish between her wrinkled palms.
The elderly woman peered past Michael with a wry expression. “Step aside, caro.” Her accent was threaded with rolling r’s and richly rounded vowels. “And be sure to introduce me.” A twinkle shone in her watchful gaze.
When Michael failed to cross the threshold or utter a single word, the elderly woman elbowed him aside with an amused snort, the looming brute laughing under his breath, the sound like the barking of a large hound.
With a world-weary sigh, Michael followed them into his office, his motions uncharacteristically awkward. “Nonna, this is Miss Celine Rousseau of Paris.” He paused. “Miss Rousseau, I’d like to introduce you to my grandmother.”
Celine’s eyes went wide. She stood straight while tucking Bastien’s letter into the pocket of her petticoat. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Madame Gri—”
“None of that nonsense. Call me Nonna.” Her smile crinkled every line in her brow, the effect more soothing than a mug of hot tea. She shuffled past Celine. “I brought you some ribollita.” With a thunk, Nonna set down the covered dish on Michael’s desk. “It’s a soup my mother taught me to make when I was a child. You see, I was a bit of a piantagrane in my youth.” She made small circles with her hands, her gestures punctuating her words. “Always destroying things and getting into mischief. So my mamma would give me old bread to tear into pieces, then we would wait until they soaked up the delicious broth before having a feast! Have you ever had ribollita?” she asked Celine as she waved her immense escort closer, his steps mincing, as if he’d incurred a recent injury.
“No, ma’am.” Celine smiled, a fond warmth settling in her stomach.
“You will love it.” Nonna beamed. Every time she moved, the smell of cinnamon and sage suffused the air. “Luca, per favore, where are the bowls?” She turned to the jolly giant, a stern expression on her face. “And, Michael, why are you standing there as if you were struck by lightning? Muoviti!” She flung her hands to one side, shooing him away.
For the first time since Celine had met Michael, she glimpsed a look of utter bewilderment on his face. He started to step forward, then stopped, clearing his throat and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.
Despite everything, a bubble of dark laughter threatened to burst past Celine’s lips. Michael’s diminutive grandmother had ripped the proverbial carpet from beneath his feet, and Celine relished every second of watching him stumble.
Nonna continued, “I can only imagine how little my grandson has thought of providing you adequate food, since he himself often forgets to eat.” She spun around, her shawl falling from one shoulder. “Let me look at you.” Without warning, she seized Celine by the chin, turning her face to and fro. “Bella, bella, bella,” she murmured. “Where did you get those eyes and those cheekbones, cara?”
“My mother.”
“Ovviamente,” Nonna said with a nod. “Your mother must have been a great beauty.” She winked at the man she’d called Luca. “Not unlike myself in my heyday.”