Page 23

23

Hugo

“ H ow do I look?” Jo asked, opening the door to her apartment.

Hugo’s mouth suddenly felt so dry, it was hard to get the word out. Even such a short word. “Wow.”

“Just wow?” she asked, smiling and giving a little twirl.

“Just wow. What are you wearing?”

“It’s an LBD. A Little Black Dress. Or at least, I hope it is,” she added, her lips curling up in a small smile. “Sorry. Blind humor.”

Hugo took her hand in his, bringing her closer. “It’s certainly little. And it’s certainly black. But it doesn’t make me want to take you to a dinner with the mayor.” The dress hugged her butt and slim legs, then flared gently to her knees. He looked down to the high strappy sandals on her feet. On any other woman, the sandals would have simply been sexy heels—a killer pair of shoes. But he knew how careful Jo was about the shoes she wore when going out onto the street. Those high, strappy sandals were a show of trust if he’d ever seen one. And he was determined never to let her down.

She laughed, raising her hand to graze his face. He loved the way she touched him. “You said you didn’t want to go to the dinner before.”

“But now, I want to go even less.” His hand ran down her slim waist, past her hip, her thigh, to where the dress disappeared, giving way to those sexy, sheer stockings. And found they ended mid-thigh. God. He was going to come in his pants if he wasn’t careful.

“These stockings cannot be legal.”

“You like them? Imagine what I’m going to let you do to me as soon as we get home, after the dinner.”

Hugo groaned. “You’re definitely going to kill me. Tell me you’ll still be wearing that little black dress and those heels when I take you.”

Jo nodded, licking her lips. Her faint blush told him she wasn’t unaffected by her words. “I promise,” she said huskily, but then seemed to get hold of herself. “Is your tie crooked? I wish I could straighten it for you.”

“It should be straight. Alex did it for me.” The tie felt tight, but he didn’t tell her that. He knew that was how ties were meant to feel.

“He and Yvette are coming, right?”

Hugo nodded. “I’m pretty sure Yvette invited Alex along to make sure I wouldn’t back out.”

“I’ll make sure you don’t back out. I love the idea of dinner with the mayor. We’ll probably get to eat something delicious.”

“I just hope whatever they serve is cooked.”

Jo laughed. “You’re a real optimist sometimes, Hugo.”

Hugo wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in close. “I don’t need to be a ray of sunshine when I’m walking right next to one.”

“Is that a compliment?” Jo smoothed her dress. “You don’t think the bump shows too much?” she asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“I don’t think it shows enough.” He caressed her belly over the dress. “I can’t wait until a few months from now.”

Jo blushed, her faint smile lighting something inside him, even as a sense of unease lingered in his chest about the evening ahead. He knew the discomfort was all on him—his family was firmly working class, not a champagne-and-chandelier kind of family. He couldn’t help feeling that he wasn’t so much a guest as the performing monkey of the event, even though he knew that wasn’t the case. The mayor wasn’t like that. Yvette wasn’t like that. But still, the sense of unease lingered.

“Are you okay, Hugo?” Jo asked, seeming to sense his discomfort. Her hand brushed lightly against his.

Hugo squeezed back gently. “All good. We’re at the car.” He opened the car door for her and helped her in. Not that she needed much help, as she easily ducked her head and rolled into the car. He walked around and settled into the driver’s seat. The glow of the dashboard illuminated the soft lines of her face. She’d done something with her hair today, piled it up behind her head. It looked lovely, but then, she always did.

“You really don’t have to do this, you know?”

“You don’t want to go?” he asked, doubtfully.

Jo laughed. “I do. I’ve never been to a fancy French dinner. But I know this isn’t exactly your idea of fun.”

He chuckled. “It’s not that. I just … I’m not exactly a dinner party kind of man. They’re all going to wonder what you’re doing with me.”

The smile slipped from her face. “Don’t say that. Please.”

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for—the smile disappearing from her face, for sure. He wanted that smile back. “Alex and Yvette will take care of us.”

“I’m just sad I won’t be able to drink the champagne. Do you think they’ll serve champagne?”

“I’ll look at the label and get a bottle for you for as soon as the baby is born,” he promised.

Her mouth rounded in a small ‘o’ of surprise. “Really?” It seemed to Hugo, she was talking about more than champagne.

“I read the article. They all think we’re married,” Jo said, lightly.

“We are married.”

Jo let out a soft laugh. “You know what I mean.”

For an instant, Hugo wondered if they might finally be getting to the conversation they’d been skirting around—about where the two of them were heading, and what would happen once the baby was born. But then the lights of the hotel came into view, and Hugo realized the time wasn’t right.

“Here we are,” he said.

“Tell me about the building.”

“It’s a five-star hotel—built in an L-shape, with a garden and a pool in the middle. My team and I were called here last year, when there was an incident in the pool area. The chef was barbecuing something and almost barbecued the cat, who climbed up onto a tree, and wouldn’t come back down.”

“And you guys were called in?”

“One of the guys in the team, Lorenz, is a great climber. He brought the cat down.”

“A climber, an ice swimmer—talk about an all-rounder. But I meant, tell me more about what the building looks like.”

Hugo liked that she felt comfortable enough to ask for more details, so he didn’t tell her it just looked like any fancy hotel to him. Instead, he told Jo about the sprawling front lawn and perfectly trimmed hedges, nestled against the backdrop of the Mont Blanc massif. About the wood and stonework building, which looked deceptively rustic. About the warm glow of chandelier light that spilled through the large windows, standing out against the cool hues from the darkening sky. It looked inviting and tranquil—though not inviting enough that he’d be willing to shell out one thousand euros a night to sleep there.

He looked at Jo. Her eyes were closed, and there was a dreamy look on her face—she looked like she was imagining everything he’d been describing.

“And there’s plenty of parking,” he added, chuckling, as he chose a spot, glad that at least he wouldn’t have to leave his car with a stranger.

Jo squeezed his arm, her voice soft. “Thank you.”

A uniformed doorman opened the door for them. Hugo’s suit and tie still felt too tight. He wondered if it was too late to turn around. And there was Yvette, floating towards them in an emerald cocktail dress. “Jo. Hugo. You made it.” She headed for Jo first, grazing one of Jo’s hands so Jo would know where she was. “You look beautiful. Here, take my arm, I’m going to introduce you to the mayor and his wife. They’re so looking forward to meeting you.”

Jo

Jo hadn’t had that much fun in a long time—even if she couldn’t drink the champagne.

At dinner, she was seated between the mayor and Yvette, with Hugo across from her. She had a feeling this was the kind of dinner where she should have found herself between two men, but guessed Yvette had wrangled the place settings to make sure Jo felt comfortable. It worked.

Across from them, it seemed like Hugo, too, was having an okay time. He was letting Madame Ambassador do most of the talking, in that crisp, deliberate tone of hers. She used expressions like rather splendid and most agreeable , which Jo hadn’t thought people actually used.

“She’s a conversational catalyst,” Yvette whispered in Jo’s ear. “She has enough stories to fill a month’s worth of dinners.”

Jo laughed. “I like her. She sounds friendly.”

“She’s a hundred years old.”

“She can’t be,” Jo said, listening to the voice.

“Maybe not. But she’s not a day under seventy.”

“I have to admit, Yvette, I’m having fun.” The conversation thankfully hadn’t centered around the rescue, except at the very beginning of dinner, when the parents had insisted on thanking them—again. The father, a man with a loud and confident voice—CEO of his own company, if Jo had to guess—had started to offer Hugo something, but had stopped mid-sentence, as if only just realizing the impossibility of finding something equivalent to the life of his wife and three children. The ambassador and the mayor had quickly taken over the conversation, saving everyone the embarrassment.

The waiter served the next dish. “Sole meunière with new potatoes and parmesan-roasted asparagus,” he said in his thick French accent. Jo was grateful for the description, and for the mayor, who informed her where on her plate things were located, so she wouldn’t stab porcelain looking for her food.

“Thank you. You seem to have experience eating out with blind people,” she said.

“My grand-mère is blind—has been since I was a little boy. So I know a little bit about it,” he said carefully, “though I don’t pretend to be an expert.”

“That might be the only thing Pierre doesn’t think he’s an expert in,” Yvette piped in. The mayor laughed, and Jo envied their easy familiarity. She missed her colleagues—missed working with other people. And she knew she was lucky. Not many jobs allowed one to change countries at a moment’s notice and still be able to work. But nights like tonight made her realize how important human connections were. If she hadn’t met Hugo, she’d be— Alone .

“What?”

Shit . Had she spoken out loud? “I said, I appreciate it,” Jo said. “When you go blind, they teach you to walk and sit and lock and unlock your door. But nobody spends much time teaching you how to find the food on your plate. Which happens to be an important skill.”

The mayor chuckled warmly at her remark. “Indeed, I imagine it is. My grandmother used to say that if you can navigate a plate, you can navigate life. She’d whack me with her cane if I tried to help too much.”

Jo smiled. “Sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

“Stubborn as an ox,” he added fondly. “She’d insist on doing everything herself—except when it came to dessert. Then she demanded we describe every option to her in detail. I’m convinced she could tell how decadent something was just by the sound of it.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Jo said with mock seriousness. “The word ‘ganache’ definitely sounds more indulgent than, say, ‘sorbet.’”

She took a small bite of the fish. It was light and flavorful, perfectly cooked. Somewhere to Jo’s left, the mayor’s wife laughed at something somebody else around the table said. Though she sounded like an older woman, she had a happy, girlish laugh.

“Hugo keeps staring at you,” Yvette said in a very low voice. “He’s more interested in you than in anything or anyone else in this room. Which is saying a lot, because Hugo has always loved food, and this is a great meal.”

“It is a great meal,” Jo said quickly. “And Hugo’s just looking out for me.”

“Right,” Yvette said, in a tone that clearly said she knew better. Jo’s heart started racing. Hugo was just looking out for her. She’d come to him with a problem—several problems—and he’d found a way to solve them. Now he was just following through on that promise. If the physical relationship that had developed between them was out of this world Jo couldn’t read too much into it. She wouldn’t. And she had to take care of him, too. Hugo might be strong, but he wasn’t invincible, and he was working on his own issues. Since he’d been staying at her place most nights, she knew he’d been sleeping better, but he still woke up once or twice a night. The nightmares still plagued him. They might always plague him, which was why they had to find a way to strip them of their power. She made a mental note to ask him about the online therapy sessions later that evening, when they got home.

A new message on her phone caught her attention. Checking that the volume was as low as it would go, she tapped to allow her screen reader to read her the subject line. Message from B .

Her heart skipped a beat, even as she shook herself. There were lots of people whose names started with B. It didn’t have to be him. It couldn’t be him. She had patients with that name. Her lawyer’s name was Brendan. That started with B as well. There were so many possibilities. But she couldn’t go on not knowing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, popping an ear bud into her right ear, knowing she was being incredibly rude but unable to help herself. She had to listen to the message. “It’s work. I have to listen to this.”

Yvette made an agreeable sound. Jo tapped on the screen.

Found you .

There was an attachment, which her TalkBack app described as a photo of a man carrying a woman out of the water with mountains in the background.

Next to her, Yvette and the mayor still spoke, but Jo barely heard them. The lively sounds of the dinner table faded into the background, until the only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart—loud enough that she wondered how others couldn’t hear it as well.

Suddenly, all the pieces clicked into place. She remembered that moment. She could almost hear the cold water rushing in her ears. She’d heard the sound of the camera clicking. The boy had taken pictures of the whole thing. One of those pictures must have ended up on the internet. All her efforts of the last six months, undone with a single click of a camera.

Jo gripped the edge of the table, trying to keep her breathing steady. Found you . The two words burned into her mind, simple but dripping with intent.

Her finger hovered over the screen. She wanted to delete the message, erase it from existence, pretend she’d never seen it. Deleting wouldn’t make it go away, though. If the photo was out there—if Horns had sent it—then she wasn’t safe anymore.

“Jo?” Yvette’s voice broke through the fog in her mind. “Is everything alright? You look pale.”

Jo forced a smile, though her hands trembled. “Yes. It’s just … work things.” Her voice wavered slightly, and she hated herself for not sounding convincing. Her stomach clenched as she fought back a wave of nausea. She’d been so careful, hadn’t she? Moving countries, changing her number, her email, using her mother’s maiden name … she’d made sure there was no trace of her old life online. And yet … it had all been for nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Jo said abruptly, standing. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing curious glances from the other diners. She grabbed for her cane, hanging from the back of the chair. “I need some air.”

Hugo

If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have missed it. But he’d been watching her all night. How could he not, when she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen? Her obvious enjoyment at the food—which was way too fancy for his taste—thrilled him. He’d never thought of himself as having a food kink, but he’d been hard all evening just from watching her eat. Her soft laugh, her quick wit, the way she tilted her head just slightly as if listening not just to their words but to the unspoken things behind them—all of it fascinated him. He could barely listen to the ambassador beside him, who nevertheless didn’t seem to need much help to carry on a conversation.

She’d been having fun, having a relaxed, distended conversation with Yvette and with the mayor. Which was why the change, once she started paying attention to something on her phone, was so evident. Her posture stiffened first, slim shoulders drawing tight. Then her expression followed, the warmth vanishing from her face as her jaw clenched.

Hugo had seen that look before. It was the look of someone caught in the grip of fear. Beside him, Madam Ambassador droned on, but Hugo could hardly hear her anymore.

Jo’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as she stood up. She didn’t rush, but pulled out her cane and, after whispering something to her dinner companions, made her way carefully towards the door. Her hand on the cane shook something fierce.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the ambassador. “I need to check on my wife.”

He strode out the door, thinking he’d catch up with her right there, but she was much further away than he’d expected, had reached the giant hallway already. She stood beside a round table holding an enormous vase of flowers, holding on to the table with one hand as if for support.

He leaned in, his voice low. “Jo?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even seem to hear him.

“Jo,” he said again, more firmly this time, keeping his tone steady so as not to alarm her.

Finally, she turned her head toward him. “Please go back to the party, Hugo. I—I need some air.”

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping closer. He placed a tentative hand on her arm, feeling the tension in her muscles. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

She hesitated, the silence stretching between them. Finally, she turned her face toward him, her lips parted, but no words came out.

Hugo’s gut churned. “You’re scaring me,” he admitted softly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she visibly shivered. Jo made no attempt to check it, but her back stiffened further. Whatever was bothering her, it was in that message. His hand shook with the urge to take the phone from her, but he held himself back. “Tell me what’s going on, Jo. I’ll do my best to help.”

The tension in her shoulders radiated out, filling the space between them like a palpable weight. For a moment, Hugo thought she wouldn’t answer, that she would keep whatever was eating at her locked away behind those carefully constructed walls.

Finally, she drew in a shaky breath. “It’s nothing,” she said, her voice brittle and unconvincing. “Just … work stuff.”

“Work stuff,” he repeated, his tone carefully even. “Jo, this doesn’t look like the reaction of someone dealing with a tough deadline.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he thought she might brush him off again. Then her shoulders came back, her back straightening. “Actually, I do need your help, Hugo.”

“Anything.” She probably wouldn’t realize just how literally he meant the words.

“I need you to take me home. I need to pack.”

“Pack?” His stomach twisted.

She took a shaky breath. “I don’t need much. Just my books, and?—”

“Stop. Hold on, Jo. Tell me what’s going on.”

“If you won’t help me, I’ll call a taxi?—”

“I’ll help you. The car’s right outside.” His fingers wrapped gently around her upper arm. “But first, tell me what’s going on.”

She shook her head, her expression conflicted. “It’s better for you not to know. Safer.”

He changed tacks. Blind or not, he could tell she was instants away from running. “Show me the message.”

“What message?”

“The one you listened to at the table.”

“I … It’s not safe, Hugo. The less you know?—”

He forced himself to keep his touch on her arm gentle. “The less I know, the less I’ll be able to help. Let me help you, Jo. Let me see the message.”

She pressed the pad of her thumb against her screen and pushed the phone towards him. Her hand trembled as he took it from him. The message was short.

Message from B.

Found you.

And a single attachment, the same picture he’d seen on the English newspaper website. Himself, carrying Jo out of the water. You couldn’t even see her whole face, since part of it was turned towards his shoulder, but you could see enough to know it was her.

There was a second message, one that was still unread. Hugo read that one, too.

Message from B.

Miss me?

There was no attachment, this time.

“He found me,” she whispered on a shaky breath.

A cold anger stirred in his chest, that someone would scare her like this.

“Who’s B, Jo?”

“You said you’d help me pack.” Her expression crumpled, and she took a shaky breath.

“I said I’d help you,” Hugo said. He’d been very careful about his choice of words. His hand gently rubbed her fingers, which were cold to the touch. “To do that, I need to know more, Jo. Who’s B?”

Her words were a soft hiss of air. “My sister’s killer.”

Hugo’s mind raced. His protective instincts rose to the fore. Suddenly, so many things made sense. The books on the shelf, signed Jolene M. Hills. The name change. “That’s why you came to Chamonix. You were running from him.”

“I have to leave, Hugo. It’s not safe here, now that he’s found me. Not safe for you, either. So please help me pack.”

Hugo almost snorted. She didn’t seem to realize there were limits to what she could ask from him. Protect her with every drop of his blood, with his very life, yes. But stand back and watch her pack, watch her live with this fear? No fucking way. His pulse thundered in his ears. Whoever this man was, he’d just made a big mistake.

He gripped her icy hand tighter in his. “Come on. We’re going to your place to get your things, and then we’re going to my place.”

“Your friends …. the mayor … what are they going to think?”

“Forget them. They can have dessert without us.” He softened his tone. “You can send Yvette a message from the car.”