Page 71 of Thorns of Love

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I remarked dryly.

“Me either. If I hear from her, I’ll call you, but I doubt she’s coming back to New Orleans.”

I stilled. It would be the first thing I’d thought she’d do. “Why not?”

“Because she’s determined to find out who killed Adrian.”

Click.

TWENTY-FIVE

TATIANA

Paris.

The City of Love. The City of Light.

Christmas lights glimmered. The Eiffel Tower lit up like a magical kingdom, pulling you into his charm with the ambience of love and holidays. The weather was cold and crisp, but the city didn’t rest. It was in full swing, music on the streets, busy cafés and beautiful lights and decorations everywhere you looked.

And we could see it all from our hotel room at Triangle d’Or. Hotel Marignan Champs-Elysées was romantic. So freaking romantic that I actually regretted not having my husband here with me.

I sighed.

Twenty-four hours. I had done a good job of destroying his chances at following us because we had yet to see a single Russian man. Although Isla’s phone had blown up with messages and calls from her brother demanding she call him.

She didn’t.

“Let’s go have fun,” I squealed.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but I’d be damned if I’d let our evening go to waste. We had at least several evening hours to burn.

“Yay! I’m ready.”

Five minutes of digging through the clothes and we both settled for a dress. Although we’d freeze our butts off. But you cannot be in Paris and not dress accordingly. I opted for a dark blue knee-length dress that flares from my waist down and a pair of nude Louboutin Pigalle heels.

I twirled around. “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous.” On the other side of the bed, Isla twirled around. Her nude dress was more subtle than my blue one, but it only accented her natural beauty. “And me?”

Her pink Louboutin Dolly Pumps gave Isla an extra three inches and matched her wide belt around her slim waist. The accessory and color coordination was perfect. It was sophisticated but didn’t make her look too young.

“You should wear this tomorrow,” I remarked. “Marchetti will drool.”

She grinned, her cheeks flushing. “I have something better for tomorrow. I bought it in the lobby earlier.”

I shook my head. “No credit cards, right?”

“All cash baby.”

“Such a good accomplice,” I commended her.

She bowed lightly. “I aim to please.”

Ten minutes later, we roamed the streets of Paris. I’d been to Paris a long time ago with Vasili when I was barely ten. It was a vastly different experience now.

Hand in hand, we started walking down the sidewalk. Silence followed us but it was a comfortable one. I sucked in a deep breath, the cold invading my lungs. Compared to Russia, it wasn’t as cold. Yet, compared to New Orleans it was freezing. I wrapped my coat tightly around myself and glanced at Isla to ensure she wasn’t cold. Both of us wore similar black dress coats and matching black French Berets.

When I handed it to her, she protested but I insisted. I told her “When in France, you wear a French hat.”