“I thought…” I say, panting, my body sweat-slicked and so sated I want to crawl under these covers and sleep again, “we had to go.”
“We do,” he says into my ear. “Why aren’t you dressed yet?”
I grin. “Let’s come up with a plan.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fabien
An hour later, Nicolette and I walk hand in hand along the Seine. Near the metro station, facing Quai Saint-Bernard, we stroll past Le Jardin des Plantes, the Parisian botanical gardens. Many tourists like to visit here, as it features a museum of natural history as well as a zoo and tropical hothouse. Nicolette is all about the gardens, though. Sometimes I wonder if she’s part fairy.
An open-air sculpture museum catches her attention as well, as dancers have begun to practice.
“We could pretend to be salsa dancers,” she whispers to me.
I imagine dancing with her, warmed under the sun’s brilliant rays to the tune of lively music.
Nope. We don’t have that luxury, not now. “Stick to the plan, Nicolette.”
She heaves a dramatic sigh. “If you say so.”
The sun shines like a consecration, as if the universe itself doesn’t know who we are and what we’re about to do.
Nicolette is magically six inches taller than she was, a buxom blonde, wearing snug designer jeans and silver platform heels. She went to town using the jewelry and makeup, and had to nearly beat me off her when I tried to have a quickie before we left.
I’m masquerading as her husband, a jewel dealer from England with a shaggy mop of hair, thin, wire-rimmed glasses, chinos, and a dress shirt.
We had to leave through the back door to make sure Maman didn’t see us, but Thayer caught us in the driveway. He watched us leave while shaking his head.
“That wig will leave a red mark if you leave it on too long!” he finally shouted at me as I pulled out of the driveway in a red Corvette. “We have a wedding in a few hours, Fabien.”
We parked the car and decided to take a walk.
“The mission, if you choose to accept it,” Nicolette whispers to me, “is to walk into Auclair’s and leave with one diamond tennis bracelet and a jewel-encrusted ring.”
“Easy,” I say with an eye roll. “Make it harder.”
“Alright, then,” she says. “Come out with a job offer, too.”
“Oooh, now that seems a bit more challenging, doesn’t it? On it.”
We Parisians like the open air, and it comes as no surprise that Nicolette is especially drawn to the bouquinistes, featuring every kind of book one could imagine.
I decide to test her skills, to see how well she plays her role. We pause at one of the green stalls that line both banks of the Seine. They’re weather-worn and faded, as if they grew alongside the Seine itself, watered by the flowing water.
“I love how many bookstores there are,” she whispers.
“There’s good reason they call the Seine the river that runs between two bookshelves. So tell me, Antoinette,” I say, clearly enunciating each word in an English accent. “What are you reading these days?”
“Oh,” she says with a pretty, tinkling laugh, getting the attention of the stall owner, an older woman with an abundance of steel-gray hair and spectacles perched on the edge of her nose. “You know.” She drops her voice to a low register. “All the sordid romance.”
“Ah, do you, then?” the woman asks Nicolette in French. “A woman of exquisite tastes.” She gives Nicolette a bold wink. “And I daresay the husbands like when my customers read the romance, no?”
She pulls a small hardcover book off a shelf and shows it to Nicolette. “See this one? Such a plain cover, not a word on it. But let me tell you, this one will light a fire under you.”
“Ooh, you’ve piqued my interest,” my fake wife croons. “How much?”
They quibble over the price until Nicolette finally agrees.
“Merci beaucoup!” she says, waving as we leave the store.
“Oh, no need to thank me now. He’ll be thanking me later.”
“Excellent,” I mutter. “Your first disguise and you have to pretend to be a disgruntled wife? Like I can’t get it up?” I grimace.
“She was the one that made that assumption, to be fair,” Nicolette says with a smirk.
“Still, I did my job.” I open my jacket to reveal a second book tucked surreptitiously inside.
“Fa—Henrique,” she whispers. “You didn’t! Not from that little old woman. How could you?”
I roll my eyes. “Relax. I’ll slip her a few euros later.”
“Deal.”
So she has scruples when it comes to stealing. “The elderly are off limits, then?”
“Of course!”
“What if the security guard you need to get past is an old man?”
“Well…” She does that thing where she furrows her brow. “I… Well, that’s different. It’s not his talisman.” She gives me a sidelong look. “Was this a test?”
“Of course.”
“Well. You passed,” she says with a pout.