update.
Still, this is worse than I imagined. I’d been nothing but careful. Who was outside the safe house, close enough to me to snap a picture? And how did it end up on Novák’s site? God, it’s like that classic seventies song, with jokers on the outside and me being stuck smack in the middle. Holy hell, who doesn’t want me dead?
I jump when a young waitress interrupts my thoughts. “Voulez-vous quelque chose de plus?”
“I’ve had enough,” I reply far too forcefully. Yeah, I’ve had enough. Time to step up my game before it’s game-over-for-Kylie. With my goody bag clutched in one hand and the phone in the other, I rush away and onto the hilly streets of Montparnasse. A sugary confection is not going to help me out of this shitty situation. But Francis might.
I stop on the corner of rue Broca and rue Claude Bernard, then dial my so-called ally and last remaining contact in TORC.
The phone rings and rings, and just as I’m giving up hope, he answers.
“Kylie? Where are you?”
“All over the sites, it appears. My picture’s plastered all over Novák’s organization. Any idea how it got there?” I demand.
“Um . . . well . . . no. Are you sure it’s you?” Francis’s voice quivers. Either he’s hiding something or coked up—or quite likely, despite the early Oklahoma hour, both.
“On second thought, it could be Jessica Chastain.”
“Who?”
I sigh. “The actress. She won a Golden Globe for Zero Dark Thirty?”
“Never heard of her. Where are you staying in Paris? I can wire money to you . . .”
I stop before a pretty blue-shuttered building and turn my back to the crowds of pedestrians passing by. My reflection is mirrored back to me from the windowpane, so it’s no surprise when I spy the frown marring my forehead. I never told Francis I’m in Paris. Though besides Geneva, where else would I be?
“Which whole number falls between six and eight,” I ask him, glaring down at the phone.
“What? Seven. Are you okay?”
No. I’m far from okay. “That’s what I thought,” I reply. Yeah, little did I realize when I dubbed Francis with the nickname Worm how suitable it’d be. But I’ve known it for a while now. Nine months, to be exact.
Patience. You’re counting on him to feed information on your whereabouts to Novák, remember.
I clench and unclench my fist, once, twice. So preoccupied with getting a grip on my temper, that on the third squeeze, I almost miss it—the gentle tug on my scarf. It tightens around my neck and I hastily reach for the soft cotton material at my throat. Alarmed, I drag my gaze back to the glass just as the scarf falls lax. But when I catch a fleeting glimpse of the tall blond man out of the edge of the windowpane, I feel like I’m choking. My throat hitches and my world goes topsy-turvy.
No. Impossible. It can’t be.
“Are you going to answer me, Kylie? I can have money sent to your hotel . . .”
“I gotta go.” I disconnect, and spinning on my heels, fight my way through the crowded sidewalk, battling for breath even though my progress is slow. Chasing after a ghost, and desperately trying to prove to myself that I’m out of my bleeding mind.
Somewhere along the way, I drop the phone. Doesn’t matter—hopefully someone will snatch it up and take it home with them. Drawing Diego’s attention away from me, assuming Francis still reports into Hayden and that my calls are being traced.
Diego, with hair dark as a prairie sky just before a storm hits. No, the man I’m chasing after isn’t Diego.
This man’s an illusion. A ghost. Someone I’d give my life to see again.
Impossible. I’m inventing things that can never happen.
Jaxson, oh Jaxson.
I slow my pace, the abrupt pain in my stomach as familiar as the dizziness that’s accompanied me since arriving in Paris a few days ago. A side street suddenly seems more appealing, somewhere away from this bustling crowd.
Halfway down a nameless street, I begin to regret my decision. With every step, in every limestone-colored building, in the worn cobblestone beneath my feet, I see Jaxson’s smug face. Loneliness creeps back in. And guilt. Would he have understood why I did what I did? Why I wasn’t there when he needed me most?
With shaking hands, I reach into my goody bag and take out a croissant. Therapy patisserie, I think. Though it seems to last long as the croissant does.
Despite it’s name, hills are