The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(35)

Waiting for something to happen.

It should not have worked. But the police officers waiting on the periphery mumbled among themselves. The youngest of the five—a boy of barely eighteen—slid his gaze from Toussaint to Bastien. He shuddered the following instant.

What was it about Bastien—about this place—that made them all quail in their boots?

One of the officers—an older gentleman with a ruddy nose and rheumy eyes—stepped forward. “Eh, Michael,” he began in a thick drawl, “listen, my boy, perhaps it would be—”

“Detective Grimaldi,” the young detective corrected without even glancing at the man who spoke.

The officer coughed once, but failed to conceal his resulting frown. “Detective Grimaldi . . . perhaps it’s best if we conduct our interviews here, sir.”

Displeasure flickered across Michael Grimaldi’s face. Celine sensed he wished to protest, but recognized the tides were turning against him. “Very well, Sergeant Brady.”

In that instant, it became clear that everyone present—save for Celine and Pippa—knew something about Jacques’ and its peculiar denizens that was not apparent at first glance. Sébastien Saint Germain did indeed wield a strange kind of power within these paneled walls. Not once had he issued any direct threats or raised his voice. Nevertheless he managed to hold everyone present in an invisible vise.

The hint of this kind of power—the mere suggestion of it—sent Celine’s blood on a tear through her body, her mind spinning with possibility. The possibility that she, too, could wield this kind of influence over others.

That she, too, could crush her detractors in a vise.

Appalled by this reaction—by her growing obsession with power of any kind—Celine stood suddenly, wishing to run from her own skin.

It was a thoughtless move. Her heart sank like lead in her stomach when she realized she’d drawn attention to herself in the worst possible way.

The young detective turned toward her, letting his gaze settle a moment. “May I help you, miss?” he intoned.

Celine considered her options before responding. She watched Detective Grimaldi’s eyes flicker over her. From the shining curls of her dark hair to the faint sheen of sweat along her brow. To the bit of black ribbon about her throat and the blue gabardine dress fastened tightly across her bust. She minded how his brows arched. Took note of the rise and fall of his chest. Observed how his expression sharpened with admiration, though he tried to conceal it.

Young men were predictable. Especially young men who appreciated life’s finer things like Detective Grimaldi did, as evinced by his manner of dress.

It was a truth she’d realized at the age of twelve.

Celine lowered her eyes and stepped forward. Then she lifted her lashes slowly, offering him a tentative smile. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, Detective Grimaldi, but might I beseech you for a favor?” She tilted her head in a coy fashion.

His pale eyes widened. “As a rule, I tend not to agree to such requests until I hear the terms, Miss . . .” He waited for her to offer her name, a distinct rasp in his voice.

“Please call me Celine.” She tucked a black curl behind an ear. “And could I implore you to make an exception to your rule, just this once?”

“Against my better judgment, I might be persuaded.”

From her periphery, Celine swore she heard Nigel snort. She disregarded it, not even allowing herself to consider how Pippa might perceive her behavior in this moment. How . . . others might perceive it. She smiled brightly, then leaned closer, as if she wished to tell Detective Grimaldi something in confidence. “It’s terribly late, and our . . . guardian will be looking for us. Would it be possible for us to conduct these interviews tomorrow, in the light of day?” Celine paused for breath, her green eyes imploring him without words. She considered reaching out to touch the young detective’s arm, but that would be too forward, and she did not wish to mishandle the small amount of magic she’d managed to conjure in this moment, all in an effort to achieve a greater goal.

Celine desperately wanted to leave. To give herself an hour to collect her thoughts and speak with Pippa in private. A chance to tell the right story to themselves, so that they could offer it later as the unswerving truth.

“Us?” Detective Grimaldi asked.

Celine nodded. “I’m here with my dear friend Pippa.”

The young detective glanced over her shoulder. Then returned his gaze to Celine. “I’d wager your guardian must be quite concerned about your welfare, given the hour.”

Celine nodded again. “I’d hate to worry such a good woman, especially if she hears about the unfortunate events that transpired tonight.”

“Of course,” he agreed, his expression filled with concern. “It would be terrible for her to think something might have happened to you both.”

Celine sensed he was on the cusp of acquiescing. Could it really be that easy?

Detective Grimaldi leaned closer. Almost too close. “You know,” he began, his voice low and husky, “you’re a very beautiful young woman. Perhaps the most beautiful young woman I’ve ever met.”

Celine blinked. Then laughed airily. “Thank you, Detective Grimaldi.”

“In fact . . . you might be too lovely for your own good,” he murmured.

“Pardon me?”