Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“I like that,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t want to be with anyone else. I want to follow through on the plan we agreed on, and I’m not sure the best way to make that happen. And your brother…”
“Wait. You’ll see. Milo is trying to get under my skin, but he wants the money. He’s bluffing. I’ve never known a greedier man in my life. Why do you think he’s in the position he’s in? He doesn’t need the job.”
It dawns on me with crystal clarity. “He likes the power. The leverage.”
“Exactly. So what do you think is our best chance of convincing him to give us what we want?”
Ahh. “We give him even more power and leverage.”
“Precisely.” He releases me only long enough to kiss my cheek. “But tonight, we dance. Tomorrow, we attend the wedding. And then, we set our plans into motion.”
The bride and groom take their leave a short while later. The wedding, like many French weddings, will be an all-day affair, first the legal matter of vows, followed by a church wedding, then the reception and dancing. I’ve heard they can run into the wee hours of the morning.
As the number of guests begins to dwindle, I notice more people looking our way. Milo paces back and forth as if mulling over the request from Fabien.
“Will you make a counteroffer tonight?” I ask in a low voice only Fabien can hear.
He shakes his head. “I’ll let him mull on it overnight and discuss it again with him in the morning. I may have dropped a hint I have another contact in Sartène that can help.”
“Do you?”
He huffs out a breath. “She’s sitting right in front of me.” I watch as he takes a final swig from his nearly empty glass.
“You think pretty highly of my skills, Monsieur.”
“I do. I have something to show you before we head upstairs for the night.”
We say our goodnights and walk down the same hall that leads to our room, but he doesn’t stop at our door. Instead, he leads me further down the hall, past an end table, past a set of closed doors, to a small, narrow door at the very end of the hall.
“Is this your cupboard under the stairs?”
“You could say that.”
Withdrawing his phone from his pocket, he slides open an app and places it by the door. A light flashes, and a click tells me the door is unlocked. He presses his thumb against a small panel, a second security measure it seems, before he pushes the door open.
At first, I think he’s taking us into a utility closet. It certainly is about the size of one. But when he shuts the door behind us and flicks on a light, I see we’re in a narrow storage room about the size of a walk-in closet. Are those… mannequins? Well, no, just hangers showcasing a variety of not just clothes but… costumes? A large section to the far-right houses clothes on hangers hanging from thick metal bars, and another display features sturdy shelves with rows upon rows of shoes neatly arranged by type—boots and sneakers, sandals and loafers.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing at first, until he gives me a demonstration.
“Come here, Nicolette.”
I step over to him so I’m standing right in front of him, shadowed under his height. I watch him press a circular button beside one of the wooden panels. With a gentle whir, a door slides open. Fabien reaches inside to retrieve a wild, curly, red-haired wig. He places it on my head with a flourish, then hands me a pair of thick black glasses. When he holds up a mirror, I hardly recognize myself.
“Take a look,” he says almost proudly, a little bashfully, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and gestures with his head.
I press another button, and the panel in front of me with the women’s clothes slides back, a second panel replacing it as if by magic. Wigs and hats, suits and jackets, rugged workmen’s jeans and thick gloves, security glasses and wire-rimmed glasses. I touch each item gently.
“Wow,” I whisper. Each outfit’s in his size, likely custom-made. There are firefighter and police officer uniforms, delivery uniforms and janitorial outfits, even a priest’s black suit and white collar. A tweed jacket with khakis, faded jeans with boots and tees. Another panel with drawers reveals dozens and dozens of passports. I rifle through them and feel my jaw drop. Each passport has a picture of Fabien, but each looks different and none say Fabien Gerard.
Who is he?
I should be scared. I should tell him to take me home, that I want no part of this. But I’ve never been someone who ran in the face of something she was afraid of. No. It doesn’t scare me at all.
I’m fascinated. Intrigued. And if I’m honest, a little turned on.