Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(20)
Enter France, on the brink of economic disaster. France offered to sell the Palace of Versailles only when it came down to a choice between preserving its landmarks and feeding the French people because of said famine. And Sonoma needed something to do with all that profit. But the company hid its intentions by using a puppet corporation—the Haroldson Historical Society—to complete the purchase, luring the powers that be to grant them full sovereignty. The French government had been, unquestionably, utterly deceived.
Sonoma likes to point out that we paid full market value for the place and saved France’s economy—which is technically true. But we did it through trickery and at the expense of one of France’s most prized landmarks. I find the grudge entirely justifiable.
My car pulls into a quiet street on the very edge of Paris, scant kilometers from the palace, where there are several shops a bit more friendly to us Louies. A nearly identical black sedan is waiting at precisely the location I specified, at exactly the moment I requested. I have to give this criminal credit for his ability to follow directions.
My car pulls to a stop alongside the other, and I emerge just far enough for its occupants to see me. Instantly, the vehicle’s rear passenger door springs open; within, I spy a set of knees clad in dark pants, but that’s the only view I’m afforded of the man I paid ten thousand euros to meet.
When I slip into the confines of the sedan and look up at a masculine face, however, I feel a melting within my chest. His hair is a dark brown, and his sea-green eyes belie the obvious Asian skin and features. His brows are high and sharp, his form lithe and slender as he lounges like a great cat, one arm draped over the back of his rear-facing seat. Something in his eyes, no, his very presence, makes my spine rubbery with the strange feeling that I’m not quite safe, and a thrill of tingling excitement bursts to life in my stomach. Before I can move, before I can even speak, the door closes on its own, the man nods, and the car pulls slowly forward.
I’m not certain what to make of this person. Even sitting in the car he’s tall, but then, so is the King. This person is a different kind of powerful, a kind I’ve rarely encountered. He’s lean, but with corded muscles that even his too-large shirt and suit jacket can’t hide. His hair falls across his cheekbones—unfashionably short in my world—and his eyelashes are long, longer than my own would be without their usual enhancements. But he’s…so young. I expected an older man, and what I get is this figure who’s probably younger than the King.
And I want…I suppose that’s it, truly. I want. Want to slide nearer and brush that hair out of his eyes and see if his skin is as warm as it looks. Want to feel whether the power that radiates from his body is a matter of clothes making the man or something…deeper.
Oh.
I force down the inconvenient and ill-timed wanting; what I do here will determine my future. I meet his eyes, even if only through my semitransparent veil, and try to get hold of myself. His eyes blaze with an anger that I don’t understand. He hasn’t said a word, clearly waiting for me to speak first. It’s a move I know well and use frequently. But I’m not in charge today. I’ll be forced to begin.
Even as I make the attempt, my voice catches in my throat. I clench my stomach muscles—a motion he couldn’t possibly see even if I weren’t tightly laced into my stays—and lift my chin to try again. The illusion of confidence is far more important than actually possessing the feeling. Yet another mantra from my dance instructor. I stall for a moment and use the time to peer up at him through my veil as I compose myself. He can see my face, but I’m reasonably certain he can’t make out the fear in my eyes.
“You’re punctual, that’s appreciated,” I say in French. The words come out barely above a whisper. My heart is racing in my chest and I’m complimenting his punctuality?
He says nothing.
“I meant what I wrote in my note. I’m prepared to discuss an opportunity that I think will be immeasurably profitable for both of us.”
He steeples his fingers and leans forward as though listening intently. A move calculated, I’m certain, to make me feel at ease. But it appears forced, and instinct raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
I fight the urge to lean forward myself—to close the distance between us. To feel his breath on my face and—what is it that draws me to this…criminal? For of course that’s what he is—a dangerous criminal. I pause at that thought. Is it the danger? That sort of foolishness certainly occurs often enough in the romantic novels I’ve read. Is that what’s happening here? But no. If I were attracted to dangerous fellows, I’d be throwing myself at the feet of the King. Is it because I have, on some level, considered becoming a criminal myself?
I study him closely, and a prickling sense of wrongness wriggles through the haze of attraction. He’s young, yes, but I’m hardly one to question youth. His dress is a touch sloppy—or at the very least, not personally tailored—but what I’ve seen of Paris has suggested to me that this is the norm rather than the exception. Still, there’s something…
“You’re not who I asked to see,” I say, forcing my voice to flow out utterly calm: a sea of glass.
A slight widening of the eyes is his only response.
“I must speak with the person in charge of this operation. That’s clearly not you.” I give a graceful gesture at his figure with a swirl of my wrist that takes some of the sting of the insult away. I hope. Though a large part of me is simply glad he’s not who he was pretending to be: a drug lord.