“Would you like something to drink, Marc?”
Marc’s shy smile got hidden in the folds of Morbier’s coat. He leaned down to pet Miles Davis, who’d pranced up to sniff him.
“We’ll take a raincheck, Leduc,” he said. “We can’t be late for the special event at the Vincennes Zoo. Just wanted to drop this off.” He thrust a grimy folder on her desk. “Now you know what I know,” Morbier said, giving her a meaningful look. “That’s if you want. Drop it off later.”
After the door shut she sat down. She stared at the folder, dog-eared with a coffee stain on the cover.
Her cell phone rang several times. Miles Davis barked and jumped on her lap. She ignored the phone. She reached for the folder, but her hands shook and she couldn’t grasp it. The shadows lengthened. She didn’t know how long she’d sat staring at it before she grew aware of the streetlights shining in from rue du Louvre. Miles Davis growled. Pounding sounded on her office door. Loud and insistent.
Aimee opened the door.
Yves stood on the landing, his suitcase behind him. Charcoal stubble shaded his chin. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket, and looked good enough to eat. And he was going away.
“You stole my thunder, Aimee, grabbing the front page and bumping my Defense Ministry expose,” he said, coming in. He grinned. “But if anyone did, I’m glad it was you. Reuters seems interested. They’re making the appropriate noises.”
“Is that why you disappeared?” she asked.
“I couldn’t tell you what I was doing, you were working for the minister’s wife. Martine wasn’t too happy with me either. She won’t run the story. But I understand, it’s family. She knows I’ll go elsewhere with it.”
Before she could speak he handed her a thick envelope.
“You could come with me,” he said, his dark eyes locking on hers.
“It’s just not that easy.”
“True. It’s very simple,” he said, brushing her spiky hair down. He ran his fingers along her chin. “There’s an open-dated ticket in there, departure and return good for a year.”
She stiffened. “I’ve got a business… Miles Davis…”
“There’s computer crime in Cairo. Matter of fact, all kinds of crime, too,” he said. He held out another ticket. “Miles Davis has a seat but he’ll have to spend some of the flight in a doggie carrier.”
He enveloped her in his arms and kissed her hard. Hot and searching. She didn’t want him to stop, but he did. “My taxi’s waiting.”
From her window she watched the red brake lights as Yves’s taxi pulled away on rue du Louvre. To the right the western palace of the Louvre lay dark and tomblike. But on the lighted quai the trees had flowered, fragrant and leafy.
She set the tickets next to the folder on the desk and opened the window. As she sat down to ponder the course of her life, the late-night traffic hum reached her ears, Miles Davis nestled in her arms, and she inhaled the first breath of spring.
