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Authors: Jamie Michele
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training.
Or maybe he was buying a present for a lover.
The notion jolted her, but of course he might have a lover. He was handsome. That much was objective fact. Authority radiated from him like heat from the sun. And he had plenty of cash, enough to buy custom-fitted suits and fine Italian-leather loafers. With power and money, for every woman his criminality repelled, another would jump forward to take her turn.
Gold-digging morons.
And yet, he was an attractive man, and he had held her sweetly enough the night before…
No. Women attracted to men like McCrea were victims of their own wishful thinking. They believed that a man could be changed by the love of a good woman. But men like Penard, who trafficked impoverished Russian girls into the slums of Marseille for forced prostitution, and Ménellier, who ran a knife across his last girlfriend’s face when she tried to break up with him, never changed.
That
was the sort of man whom she now followed. Not some mere bad boy with the capacity for reform if only he could meet the right woman. For men like this, there was no reform. To think anything else was the most dangerous kind of romanticism—the kind that could get her killed.
That he’d caught her when she’d fallen last night and not felt her up or thrown her down? Must have been temporary nobility. She’d see no more of it.
She walked past the chocolate shop and noted that its alleyaccess door was behind the counter. It’d be difficult for McCrea to make his way to it easily, and thus she judged it unlikely that he’d choose that shop to disappear through.
She paused a few storefronts away to look at a display of colorful women’s hats. The rich, yeasty smell of fresh breadwafted down the street from one of many
boulangeries
. Her belly growled; she’d forgotten to eat breakfast, possibly dinner last night, too. But this was no time for diversions.
She’d lingered as long as would be rational in front of the haberdashery. McCrea was still picking his bonbons. Irritated, she swung into the shoe shop next door. Shoe shopping seemed a likely salve for a socialite who was just stood up for breakfast, and she could monitor his exit reasonably well from inside, as long as she stuck near the window. Just as she picked up a pair of red leather peep toes, McCrea strolled past, his hands tucked casually into his khakis, a tiny red bag from the chocolate shop hanging from his wrist.
Coolly, Evangeline dropped the shoes and walked toward the exit. As she rounded the door, her target’s long legs disappeared into another shop, this one a large corner market, too big for her to watch from outside, let alone spot its alley doors. In an ideal world, she’d have a couple of partners to trade off the surveillance with, but the Agency rarely set up ideal worlds for its officers. She had only herself, and a mission to find out where McCrea went after his meeting.
She’d have to follow him inside the store to be sure he didn’t slip out the back, but it seemed perfectly reasonable to her that the idle society girl she played might require a trip to a market.
She entered the store, packed with customers, with a charcuterie at the front and floor-to-ceiling steel shelves packed with wine and various French delicacies everywhere else. Deep in the aisles, she examined glass jars of preserved peppers and small tins of sardines, and tried to spot her prey.
There he was, standing near the back of the store by an employees-only door—very likely an exit to the alley—reading the label on a bottle of wine. Spine straight, head down, he looked relaxed and thoughtful, precisely like a man considering what wine he would serve with dinner that evening, or with the chocolatehe’d just purchased for dessert. His long thumb wiped the bottle like a caress.
She endeavored to give the impression of ignoring him, and walked farther down the aisle. Nearby shelves featured sherry, a strong, sweet wine that her mother had loved and
Or maybe he was buying a present for a lover.
The notion jolted her, but of course he might have a lover. He was handsome. That much was objective fact. Authority radiated from him like heat from the sun. And he had plenty of cash, enough to buy custom-fitted suits and fine Italian-leather loafers. With power and money, for every woman his criminality repelled, another would jump forward to take her turn.
Gold-digging morons.
And yet, he was an attractive man, and he had held her sweetly enough the night before…
No. Women attracted to men like McCrea were victims of their own wishful thinking. They believed that a man could be changed by the love of a good woman. But men like Penard, who trafficked impoverished Russian girls into the slums of Marseille for forced prostitution, and Ménellier, who ran a knife across his last girlfriend’s face when she tried to break up with him, never changed.
That
was the sort of man whom she now followed. Not some mere bad boy with the capacity for reform if only he could meet the right woman. For men like this, there was no reform. To think anything else was the most dangerous kind of romanticism—the kind that could get her killed.
That he’d caught her when she’d fallen last night and not felt her up or thrown her down? Must have been temporary nobility. She’d see no more of it.
She walked past the chocolate shop and noted that its alleyaccess door was behind the counter. It’d be difficult for McCrea to make his way to it easily, and thus she judged it unlikely that he’d choose that shop to disappear through.
She paused a few storefronts away to look at a display of colorful women’s hats. The rich, yeasty smell of fresh breadwafted down the street from one of many
boulangeries
. Her belly growled; she’d forgotten to eat breakfast, possibly dinner last night, too. But this was no time for diversions.
She’d lingered as long as would be rational in front of the haberdashery. McCrea was still picking his bonbons. Irritated, she swung into the shoe shop next door. Shoe shopping seemed a likely salve for a socialite who was just stood up for breakfast, and she could monitor his exit reasonably well from inside, as long as she stuck near the window. Just as she picked up a pair of red leather peep toes, McCrea strolled past, his hands tucked casually into his khakis, a tiny red bag from the chocolate shop hanging from his wrist.
Coolly, Evangeline dropped the shoes and walked toward the exit. As she rounded the door, her target’s long legs disappeared into another shop, this one a large corner market, too big for her to watch from outside, let alone spot its alley doors. In an ideal world, she’d have a couple of partners to trade off the surveillance with, but the Agency rarely set up ideal worlds for its officers. She had only herself, and a mission to find out where McCrea went after his meeting.
She’d have to follow him inside the store to be sure he didn’t slip out the back, but it seemed perfectly reasonable to her that the idle society girl she played might require a trip to a market.
She entered the store, packed with customers, with a charcuterie at the front and floor-to-ceiling steel shelves packed with wine and various French delicacies everywhere else. Deep in the aisles, she examined glass jars of preserved peppers and small tins of sardines, and tried to spot her prey.
There he was, standing near the back of the store by an employees-only door—very likely an exit to the alley—reading the label on a bottle of wine. Spine straight, head down, he looked relaxed and thoughtful, precisely like a man considering what wine he would serve with dinner that evening, or with the chocolatehe’d just purchased for dessert. His long thumb wiped the bottle like a caress.
She endeavored to give the impression of ignoring him, and walked farther down the aisle. Nearby shelves featured sherry, a strong, sweet wine that her mother had loved and
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