Page 58 of Rogue

“Figure it’ll take two. One in the head for setting me up.”

“I didn’t . . .” Jesus, it’s no use reasoning with him, when it seems like he’s ready to believe I’d intentionally do anything to harm him. “And the other?” I gasp, sensing the truth buried deep within his answer.

He places his hand over my left breast, squeezes gently, then without another word, turns and stalks off into the miserable Parisian rain.

He loved me. He loved me once.

My gaze follows Jaxson to end of the roadway and, as he disappears around the corner, I let out a low sigh of relief and regret. Tugging my skirt back into place, I step into the road, my movements hampered by the object of my failure that is snagged on my sandal.

I shake off the traitorous material along with any lingering pangs of remorse. I’ll shop Paris lingerie stores for a replacement. A little thong therapy might help ease this overwhelming sadness inside. Silk, and so bleeding tiny, it’ll redefine the wordminiscule. Not that I’ll ever let him get too close again.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Jaxson the distraction—it’s a far-too-fitting rhyme.

My eyes track the path Jaxson’s taken. Back toward the direction we’d come . . . back to . . . Novák’s cafe . . .

I scoop up my satchel—when had I dropped it?—and take off running. Not after him per se, but desperately needing to getaheadof him, to backtrack to the cafe, to find out if Novák’s shown his ugly mug. To get to him first.

When I arrive just south of the cafe, the Mercedes are gone.

Just as well.

“Pas de parapluie?” a young man about my age asks, gesturing strangely. It takes a second to realize he’s pretending to be putting up an umbrella.

Oh la la. The rain—that’s right.

I shrug, realizing how I must look, like a drowned rat whose head has been held under water by a viciously manipulative cat. The man shakes his head and moves on.

And so do I.

I’ve got to get it together if I’m going to outwit and survive Jaxson. I’ve been so careful in my movements, so sure to cover my tracks. Yet he keeps managing to track me down. How?

The answer is as clear as the sky overhead—which is to say it’s not.

Patience, remember? You’ll figure it out.

En route to the swank lingerie store I passed on my way here, I make a pit stop into Paris’s version of Staples. Except purchasing a disposable phone and calling Francis isn’t part of today’s plan.

Instead I get down to business: the business of waiting for the pictures to be developed. Two copies of each. One for the French police, on which I write “people of interest” on the back, place in a postage-prepaid envelope, and quickly scribble the wordsUrgent: Gendarmerie Station-Montmartre.

I struggle over what to do with the second set of pictures. Keep them? US Homeland Security—I have their address recorded in my little back book? Or . . . the third option?

He doesn’t deserve it.

But it seems my fingers are itching for a little payback. I find myself writing a note on the backside of the most incriminating photo, where I’ve done a bang-up job at capturing all five faces. Hey, Paris brings out the artist in everyone,oui? My message sounds like something you’d send home while on vacation, my twisted version of a postcard.

Enjoying the scenery. Except for the thorn in my side, the same one that’s so fond of pricking you. Alive and flourishing. As am I—sadly, the player hasn’t located me yet.

All my love (gag me), Kylie.

I scribble out the address to the Ranch. No return address—of course. Then, before I can change my mind, I drop both envelopes into the mailbox on the sidewalk outside.

Just doing my job. Hope you choke on that, you misguided bastard.

And despite everything that’s transpired between us, I lie and cover for Jaxson. Yeah, if anyone is going to kill the smug-faced misbeliever, it’s going to be me.

The rain slows to a sprinkle, the boulevard springs to life again, and Jaxson be damned. Because, come hell on a high Montmartre breeze, by the time my present is delivered stateside, Novák’s last glimpse of Paris will be my smiling face.