Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (22 page)

I
'm still rattled
as I step off the elevator onto “my” floor, when Celeste comes running toward me, arms wide open. She’s wearing jeans and an ivory shirt with little purple bunnies hopping all over it. Her dark hair is in pigtails, but as usual, her hair's falling loose, leaving her adorable tousled.

She's followed by one of the bodyguards, which is typical, but now that Mr. Dumont has informed me we're in danger, it casts a sinister pall over the bright and cheery nursery.

He nods at me, then retreats to the hallway, standing at attention.

“Elle!” Celeste shrieks, throwing herself full-body into my arms and giggling wildly when I tickle her.

“Celeste, you imp, what have you been up to?” Of course, she doesn’t answer in English, and I can barely make out her hyperactive French litany, but I do hear the words for “cookies” and “cook" as she pulls me toward her room.

“You had cookies? You want cookies?” I repeat in English, trying to get her used to both languages. If her father really is thinking of moving to the U.S. next year—Mr. Dumont said he was vetting offers from Harvard and Princeton,
la-di-da—
then I want to make sure Celeste will at least have a working knowledge of English.

"Were they Christmas—
Noël
—cookies,
ma belle
?"

Celeste looks up at me with that sweet elfin face and those serious, deep brown eyes and says something about the kitchen. That's as far as I get. Then she tries to drag me over to her play kitchen, and I see that she's been having a tea party with her stuffed bunny.

“Celeste,” I say. She looks up immediately and smiles so sweetly. “How about some
real
cookies for a tea party?” Suddenly, I realize I haven't eaten all day.

We may be trapped in this townhouse—but at least it's a townhouse with a private chef.

"Come on, let's go downstairs," I say.

I try to ignore the guard who silently follows us.

We make our way to the elevator and down to the first floor, where the massive, renovated kitchen would make a Michelin-starred chef jealous. The room is all gleaming white, from the ceiling-high cabinets to the huge slab of white marble that tops the massive kitchen island.

Celeste finds Kira, the pretty young chef and the only other employee here who does not give me the stank-eye on the regular, and chatters to her in French.

Kira laughs, then looks at me for permission. "Cookies? They are…acceptable?"

I nod. "Oh, they're
necessary
. We're having a tea party."

"Ah,
oui
, of course." Kira leaves her work at the stove and fills a plate with rainbow-colored
macarons
.

I set Celeste up with a small plate of treats and milk; she sits on the end of the long farmhouse table, and I prop Bunny up next to her.

From across the room, Kira gives me a shy smile as she checks on a bubbling pot on the stove.

"Elle, you must try this sauce. It's is—" She presses her fingers together, kisses the tips, then shakes her hand open. "—
fantastique
! Very traditional French sauce."

“That smells delicious,” I say.

Kira smiles, her red hair escaping in tendrils from the bun on the top of her head. When I first arrived at Monsieur Dumont's, the staff seemed distant and cold. It probably didn't help that I was a bungling American, constantly exclaiming over every beautiful piece of art and architecture, not to mention the food.

Mr. Dumont's bodyguards were stone-faced and brusque, which I guess is a good attribute for bodyguards. The maids I saw occasionally wouldn't speak to me.

But Kira—Kira is adorable. And she feeds me well, so what's not to love?

"
Sauce Espagnole
,” Kira says, dipping a spoon in bubbling brown liquid and holding it up for me to taste.

I take the spoon and blow carefully on the glossy liquid. It smells divine.

"
Pour le veau
…I mean, for the veal," says Kira. "Dinner tonight."

The thought of veal makes my throat close. I try to be polite and sip the sauce. I can tell it's divine, but the salt in it overwhelms me. I must be getting truly ill, because I can't take one more lick.

"It's delicious," I say, setting the spoon in the sink. But I must look awful, because when I turn around, Kira looks concerned.

"Are you unwell,
mon amie
?"

"I'm fine. I must just be coming down with something," I say.

Kira begins chopping vegetables with smooth efficiency. "Well, if you ask me, it's criminal that you've been here over a month and haven't taken more than a couple days off," she whispers. "You're probably exhausted."

"I am, but I feel guilty leaving Celeste when her father's never here," I say—when it hits me. Over a month. I count in my head. I've been here five, almost six, weeks.

I'm tired all the time. I've been feeling nauseated for days. I swallow as a new form of nausea builds inside me: I also haven't had my period since I left the U.S.

When I slept with Chase.

This can't be happening. I'm on the Pill. I'm probably just late because I moved overseas, and I'm stressed, and…

I force myself to listen as Kira speaks.

"Well, tomorrow is Christmas Eve.
I
am going home for the holiday. I know you can't fly back to the States, but you should take a sick day if you need to." She opens up one of the huge refrigerators and gestures to shelf after shelf of wrapped meals. "There's enough food in here to feed an army, so don't worry about Celeste going hungry. Even if Monsieur Dumont is not here, John-Paul is very good with Celeste."

Kira stops and stares at me. "Elle, what is the matter?"

I'm about to answer when Celeste leaps from the table and screams.

I jump, thinking she's been hurt, but no—she's just panicked and holding her hand between her legs. The child's speaking French so quickly I can't keep up, and when she realizes that I can't understand her, she turns in a panic to Kira.

Kira quickly grasps the situation, and points her finger toward the hall outside the kitchen.

"
Faire pipi
!" Kira says, telling the child to go, go quickly. I realize Celeste has to go the bathroom, but at age four, sometimes by the time your brain realizes you need the toilet, your body's about to explode.

"Come with me," I cry, taking her hand and running towards the bathroom door. Celeste pulls in front of me as we round the corner into the hallway, but instead of opening the bathroom door on our left, she goes to the door on the right. She stands inside, perplexed.

"Sweetie, that's not the bathroom," I say, peering inside. It's a laundry room and mud room.

Celeste veers away, but instead of going into the bathroom now, she runs down the hall to the next door.

"No, Celeste, that's the garage—"

She turns toward me, tears streaming down her face, and I see a dark spot forming on her jeans.

"Ah, she has messed her pants," Kira says softly, coming up behind me.

Celeste looks down, realizes she's peed her pants, and begins
wailing
.

"No, no, it's okay!" I cry, running to her and gathering her in my arms. I can't believe she's this crushed just because she's peed her pants.

At her sobs, one of the bodyguards—Jean-Paul, the one with the kind eyes—comes running down the hall.

"
Désolée
!" Celeste sobs, at the sight of him, throwing herself in his arms. "
Désolée! Désolée
!"
I'm sorry, I'm sorry
.

I rub her back and tell her she has nothing to apologize for, and that accidents happen, but I realize Celeste can't understand most of what I'm saying. Jean-Paul looks uncomfortable, but he holds the girl tenderly and speaks to her in French.

After a moment, Celeste stands on her own and reluctantly lets go of Jean-Paul's hand. Celeste speaks rapidly to Kira, too quickly for me to really understand what she's saying. But some of my high-school French is coming back to me, because even though I don't understand every word that she's saying, I recognize a few.

She's saying,
I forgot. I forgot.
But not that she forgot to go to the bathroom—I am pretty sure Celeste is telling Kira she forgot which room
is
the bathroom.

I frown and slowly stand. But that makes no sense. Mr. Dumont had told me Celeste had lived here all her life. So how could she have forgotten where the bathroom is?

Of course, she's four. It's not a big deal. Little kids do crazy, hilarious things all the time. But she won't calm down. And then she goes to Kira, pulling on the chef's shirt, begging her with tears in her eyes, and I swear she's saying something like,
Please don't tell him I forgot, please don't tell him, please don't tell him
.

"I can't understand everything she's saying. Is she okay?"

Kira pats the girl on the back and smiles, though it seems forced for once. "
Oui
, she is embarrassed, that is all."

I nod, but I know Kira is lying to me. And she won't meet my eyes after that.

I take Celeste in my arms and we take the elevator back upstairs. I know getting her back into her daily routine will calm her. And myself.

But I can't forget the child's utter terror as she ran from room to room—lost in her own house.

I
wave
goodbye to Celeste through the upstairs windows. Her tiny white hand waves back, floating out from the rear seat of an SUV. Mr. Dumont is nowhere to be seen, of course, but Jean-Paul has been tasked with taking Celeste to Christmas Eve mass. I was supposed to go, but I told him I wasn't feeling well.

Which is true. But while I pleaded that I needed just a couple hours to sleep, that's not what I'm planning to do. I run to my room, grabbing my pea coat and a black winter cap. I stuff my hair in it, feeling like a spy, and then sneak down the back stairwell.

There are ten—ten!—bodyguards in the kitchen. Good thing Kira made enough food for an army, because it feels like there's a small one occupying the house. For a moment, I think of Brooklyn, of the young guys in the safe house, of Chase…

Stop it, Elle
.

I just need a pregnancy test. There's a pharmacy at the end of the block. I have at least an hour of free time before Celeste returns. But more importantly, I have maybe twenty minutes before the crew of large, scary, hungry dudes stop eating and return to their posts.

I know I could just ask one of them to walk me to the pharmacy, and I would have asked Jean-Paul if he were here. But I just—I just have this feeling I don't want a guard, or Mr. Dumont, to know that I might be pregnant.

Perhaps it's stupid of me, but it's how I feel. I think of Chase telling me to follow my gut instinct, and my gut is telling me to keep this thing a secret. Besides, for all the fear Mr. Dumont has tried to instill in me, I've never seen the guards do
anything
except wander around the house. If there really is a threat, it's not against me.

I tuck my hair up higher in the cap. I can sneak through the garden gate to the alley behind the house. If anyone's actually watching this place—which I somehow doubt—they won't know I came from Mr. Dumont's.

I wait until the men get out a new dish from the refrigerator; when they're fully distracted, I edge around the corner and out the back door. I know the tall, thin guy who's usually in the back garden is eating. I run to the rusted gate that leads to a back alleyway; I put the key I stole in the padlock, turn it, and—

"Where do you think you're going?"

I stifle a scream and turn around. Xavier is standing entirely too close to me, his flinty eyes cold and cruel.

"I just wanted to get some fresh air," I say.

He glares at me and steps closer. It's not a sexual move. It's pure intimidation.

"I mean, it's not like I'm a prisoner here, right?" I try to smile innocently, but I can't make it stick.

"You told Jean-Paul you were sick."

Well, he got me there.

I take a deep breath, wondering if I can lie convincingly for once in my life. I need to get to the pharmacy
now
, or I'm worried it will be closed for the holidays. And I might go crazy if I have to spend two more days not knowing if I'm pregnant.

Then it comes to me.

"I
am
feeling sick," I say. "And I need some
feminine
products. If you know what I mean."

Xavier's eyes widen slightly, and he takes half a step back. Figures. Even the biggest, baddest guys get anxious if you talk about a damn tampon.

"I was just embarrassed to ask you guys about, you know, getting something to catch all the blood that's pouring out of me—"

Xavier puts up a hand to stop me.

"I can give you a list of items to buy, but I need a few
very specific
products, and I'm having some clotting issues, so you're going to need to ask the pharmacist for help—"

"I'll take you," he growls. "Just stop talking."

He walks one foot behind me the entire way to the pharmacy. When we reach the doors and he follows me in, I turn and say, in my most haughty voice, "Can I just have one second of privacy? This is personal."

Xavier looks like he's about to say no, but instead he grunts and points at the entrance. "I'll be here. Make it quick."

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I run down the aisles, looking for tampons. Thankfully, they're located near the pregnancy tests. I grab one test—actually, I grab four—hide them in the bottom of my basket, and cover them up with tampons and pads.

I peer down the aisle: Xavier's still waiting at the exit. I could go check out right in front of him, but the pharmacist's counter is open, and a safer distance from the bodyguard's cold gaze. I get in line, and when I reach the front, I ask the woman in the lab coat for a bottle of melatonin.

"
Madame
, I cannot give you that without a prescription."

I stare at the pharmacist in shock. The pretty young blonde cooly returns my gaze.

"But I've been using them already," I say. "In the States, you can just get them over the counter. I just ran out."

The young pharmacist raises her perfectly drawn eyebrows at me. Damn, even the French pharmacists are chic.

"That is the Americans' problem," she says. "They are more lax with their rules. Here, and in all of Europe, you will likely need a prescription."

I know I'm overreacting, but I feel like crying. "But why?"

"How can I give this to you if your doctor has not examined you? Made sure you require it? Ensured that it will not—what is the English word?—
contraindicate
any other medications you are taking?"

"Contra-what?"

The pharmacist rolls her eyes, and the three people behind me in line cough and mutter in French. I ignore them and stare the woman down.

"Contraindicate. It means one drug might react poorly with another. Let's say, I don't know—you are on birth control and you take the melatonin—"

I have a horrible, sinking feeling. I think I might faint.

"The melatonin can cause the birth control to be ineffective—"

I think I might throw up.

"So it would be
contraindicated
to use if you were taking hormonal birth control."

I'm definitely going to throw up
and
faint. So I've been taking my birth control religiously—while also taking pills that would make it completely ineffective.

And then I had sex with Chase.

"I understand," I say weakly. "I understand."

Her eyes widen as I lay the four pregnancy tests on the counter, along with the other stuff. "Just these, please."

I
meet
Xavier back at the front of the store and wordlessly start walking home, hoping he can't see my purchases through the thin plastic bag.

I've only taken a few steps when he surprises me, grabbing my upper arm and jerking me toward him.

I gasp and stare at him in shock. "What are you doing?"

"Let me see the bag," he orders.

"Excuse me?" My heart is pounding. His grip is so tight it's painful, even through my thick winter coat. I try to pull away from him, but he jerks me even harder.

"Why did you check out at the pharmacy counter, Miss Sinclair?"

He reaches for my bag and I instinctually try to hide it from him, but in the quick struggle, I drop it. He drops to his knees before I can move, but he's one second too late—because a bounding puppy runs up to the bag, grabs it in his cute little mouth, and takes off!

"Oh my God!" I take off after the little thing, which is surprisingly fast. I know Xavier's right on my heels, but I ignore him. The puppy moves swiftly through the crowd on the sidewalk, and then veers left. I follow him, losing Xavier in the holiday crowds.
Good
. I turn and slam to a stop. The little thief is standing at the feet of a little old lady, and she's holding my shopping bag.

"
Madame
,
excusez-moi
, but that is my bag," I say, smiling and pointing at it.

That's when I really look at the woman in front of me, and my mouth drops open. Talk about eclectic. She's
maybe
five feet tall.
Maybe
. She's an older woman, owning her beautiful wrinkles, wearing bright orange glasses, a blood-orange hat, and a thick, wool coat dyed neon green.

"This is yours?" she says, smiling. Then she looks inside and her smile drops. Instantly.

I grab the bag back, my eyes welling with tears just thinking about its contents. Could I possibly be pregnant? And if I was, how would I tell Chase?

I'd have to tell Chase.

But how could I bring a baby into this world—his world?

But how could I not?

I blink away the tears, remove the tests from the bag, and quickly stuff them in my pockets. Xavier can look through the bag all he wants. He can flippin'
bathe
in my tampons and pads.

Just, please God, don't let him search my coat pockets.

The woman's alert brown eyes take in my face. "
Ma chère
, why are you crying?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, catching my breath and wiping my eyes. “No reason, except my entire life is crashing down around me.”

“Oh dear,” she murmurs, petting the dog. “And I thought it was serious.”

I bark out a surprised laugh just as Xavier comes skidding to a halt behind me.

"Miss Sinclair, you are coming with me.
Now.
"

I stiffen as he puts his heavy hand on my shoulder and takes the bag. It hits me: I have to go with him. I have this strange desire to fight him, to run from him. But I can't. And not only because I wouldn't leave Celeste—but my passport, my computer, all my money—it's all at Mr. Dumont's house. Even though every cell of my being is screaming at me to
not go back there
…I have to.

The old woman's eyes assess him, and me.

"Merry Christmas. I mean,
joyeux Noël
," I say quietly. I know I sound pitiful.

"Ah, but wait—you asked what her name is."

It takes me a moment to realize the woman is speaking about her dog, and I definitely did
not
ask what the little rascal's name is. At that moment, the puppy looks up at me, and I gasp. It's a Siberian Husky, with two brilliant blue eyes staring right at me.

"Her name is Princess," the woman says, picking up the dog.

"Princess?"

"
Oui
. I would let you hold her, but she is scared right now." The old woman narrows her eyes at Xavier. I can't see him, but I feel his presence behind me, like dread. Like a shadow.

She turns and makes a kissy face at the puppy, who eagerly licks her nose. "But
ça va
, it's okay, Princess." The woman looks up at me, a steady presence underneath all the garish clothing. "Even when she runs away from me, I will always protect her. No matter what happens—I will chase her anywhere."

I just stare at the woman.

Princess?
Chase
her?

"All right, enough with the dog, let's go," Xavier growls, pulling me backward.

I half-expect the old woman to somehow help
me
, but what could she do? And why do I think she—no, I'm imagining things. She couldn't possibly know Chase, could she?

An SUV skids to a stop next to us in the alley, and before I can process what's going on, Xavier opens the passenger door and pushes me inside. As soon as I'm in, I turn around and stare at the woman through the window as the car races away. Could Chase have sent her? Had I truly seen him, here in Paris?

A warm, wonderful feeling spreads through me. Would he really chase me, wherever I ran? But it's immediately followed by a wave of cold, hard fear, almost as fierce as the nausea. Because what the hell kind of danger am I in, if he's watching—but can't get to me?