10

Julien handed the necklace over to Akhmadov, the Chechen owner, much to the guy's delight.

"I think this setting for the stone is perhaps better than the previous one. But we can change later if my wife wishes. Though not until after tomorrow night where I shall take great pleasure in her wearing it at a charity event in the Louvre."

He beamed at Julien.

"On the basis that Morozov will find out?"

Julien asked.

"More than that. He'll be there."

Akhmadov chuckled. "When I heard you'd taken possession last night, I was delighted. Don't worry. I have protection. He won't find out from me who was responsible."

Julien headed back into Paris by Uber hoping this was the last he'd hear of the necklace. He hated the work he did, though he felt less guilt about this job because he was righting a wrong. I hope. A feud between Morozov and Akhmadov had led to Morozov having the necklace stolen. Though it was likely Morozov and Akhmadov were as bad as each other.

He had a message from Lors telling him a bonus had been paid and Julien swallowed his sigh of relief that—as yet—Lors didn't appear to know about Ilya. Julien was in a good mood right until he arrived at the restaurant. Veronique stood up at his approach. She was wearing a tight red dress that pushed up her breasts. Her nipples almost showed and his heart sank. Not his usual reaction. He kissed her on both cheeks and they sat down.

She pouted. "You're late."

"Traffic."

"You could have phoned."

"Sorry."

He wasn't.

"I've ordered champagne. I've already had two glasses."

An expensive bottle, for which he would be paying, and he was irritated. A waiter appeared and poured champagne for him. Julien nodded his thanks.

Veronique held up her glass. "To us."

The word rankled. There was no us. There had never been an us. That was not the arrangement. "To an enjoyable evening. How was your day?"

Julien tuned out within moments. She was whining about a handbag she'd ordered that hadn't arrived. He had no sympathy. Though he made all the right noises otherwise she'd sulk. She had sulking down to a fine art. At one time, he'd been amused, but now he was bored.

Fortunately, the food was superb, moules marinière with perfect crusty French bread, which was one of the things he missed the most about France, then steak frites accompanied by a bold Bordeaux. At least his stomach was satisfied. His head wasn't. While Veronique had rarely stopped talking, he'd been thinking about Ilya, wondering if he was okay, what he was doing, where he'd go tomorrow. Better not to know but…

"Are you going to have a dessert?"

she asked.

No, but he knew what would happen if he said that because it was what always happened. He'd pretend to be persuaded, order one just for himself because she didn't want one, but after he'd had a single mouthful, she'd eat the rest. Julien wondered what she'd do if he refused to order one.

"Can't make up my mind."

He played the game. "Calvados-poached pears with cardamom custard and sesame brittle, creme br?lée or chocolate fondant."

He'd like the first, she'd want the last.

"Chocolate fondant. You love that."

She beamed at him.

So fucking predictable.

As she was in bed.

I like that. Don't I? Knowing how she'd suck his cock, the noises she made as she came… So why was he thinking of a slender guy with big soulful eyes and a cheeky grin?

Julien ordered the fondant and after one spoonful, passed it to her. She protested as she usually did, and he said, "then let's leave", and she ate it. It was like some tedious play. Maybe partly his own fault.

All progressed in the usual way, right until he was in her apartment and she was unbuttoning his shirt with one hand while the other was on his zip and it wasn't what he wanted. So why was he letting it happen? Julien took hold of her wrists and held her away from his body.

"Stop,"

he said quietly.

"What's wrong?"

She had every right to look and sound bewildered. He felt bewildered. What he'd been doing with Veronique was uncomplicated. Not much chit-chat, not much laughter. There were no arguments, just hot and heavy sex. Veronique was pretty and available. She came hard, made him come hard. It had been good.

And it isn't enough. It had taken him a long time to realise that. No, that wasn't fair. It had been enough, but it no longer was. Though admitting to himself why appeared to be a work in progress.

"I came over to tell you we're done."

He let go of her wrists. Not true but they were done.

"What?"

Her eyes widened.

"This has run its course."

Oh my God. I'm Cliché Man. Do not say it's me not you.

"You've met another woman."

Her face hardened.

"No, I haven't. I just don't think this is fair to either of us. You want more than I can give."

"How do you know what I want?"

She glared at him.

Julien didn't intend to discuss this. Nothing would change. "Then I know what I want and this is stopping now."

A muscle twitched in her cheek as she shrugged. "We can still fuck, have this last night together and if I can't change your mind, then we say goodbye and you leave in the morning."

No tears, he noted, no anger, no distress. Not what he'd expected.

"I'm leaving tonight."

"You have a flight booked?"

Her eyes widened.

Not for tonight, but… "I wanted to speak to you in person. To thank you."

He knew the moment he said that, it had been a mistake.

"Thank me?"

Here was the anger. He could see her coming up to the boil and it was time to leave. "Thank you for the company, the sex. It's been fun but it's over now."

He picked up his bag. "Take care, Veronique."

Whatever she'd thrown hit the door as he slipped through. Julien hurried downstairs before she pursued him and threw something heavier.

There was a taxi rank around the corner and after he'd asked the driver to take him to Charles de Gaulle, he took out his phone. He'd flown over with Luxe but there was no flight back with them tonight. He managed to get a ticket with Swissair which he had to pay for himself, but he'd be cutting it fine.

"As fast as you can, Monsieur. Terminal One."

Had he really needed to get back tonight? Tomorrow would have done. But some strange gut feeling was telling him to get back to Ilya as soon as he could. Before he left tomorrow. And yet it felt more than that.

He made it just before the check-in desk closed.

It was gone midnight when he opened the door of his flat. It was dark and quiet inside. Had Ilya already gone? The door of the spare room was shut and Julien eased it open. Ilya was in the bed, but the blinds were up. Again.

As he headed over to close them, Ilya suddenly called, "Don't!"

"Don't shut the blinds?"

When there was no answer, Julien walked across to him. Maybe he'd called out in his sleep.

Ilya suddenly opened his eyes. "Ju…lien?"

"Yes."

"Feel…bad."

Julien sat on the bed. "In what way?"

"Hurt. Hot. My arm."

Julien's brain flipped into overdrive. A hand on Ilya's forehead and one look at his arm told him enough. "I have to take you to the hospital. Right now."

He ran to get his car keys, then hurried back to Ilya and pushed his shoes onto his feet. An ambulance was an option, but Julien could get there faster. He lifted Ilya into his arms. Christ, he weighs nothing and he's wet through with sweat.

Ilya's eyes were closed and he was breathing too fast, clinging to Julien as if he were afraid something bad would happen if he let him go.

"It's okay,"

Julien soothed as they went down on the lift. "Don't worry."

"Am worried."

Ilya groaned. "Scooped out of bed by…not-gay stranger." He reached up and dragged his fingers over Julien's chin before clutching at him again. "Oh God. Hurts."

Ilya's touch sent ripples of shock through him.

"You need antibiotics, bratkin."

A smile flittered across Ilya's lips.

Julien put him into the front of his car and fastened his seatbelt.

"Ilya, are you listening to me?"

"Hmm."

"Are you allergic to anything? Is there any medical history they should know?"

"No."

"Don't give them your name or my name. Don't tell them anything. Let me handle it."

"Why…you panicking?"

"I'm not. I just want you to have help now and not in the morning."

"Feel so bad."

"Keep talking to me."

"And not walk…down tunnel…into…the light?"

"Definitely don't do that."

"Thought you and…your pals would…prefer me dead."

"No. Though you might be less trouble. Unless you block the drains."

Ilya gave a choked laugh. "You came back."

"Yes."

"Glad."

So was Julien. Fuck. If he hadn't… But Ilya was still in danger.

The hospital was only just over a mile away. Julien pulled into the underground parking and carried Ilya to the lift that would take them up to the accident and emergency department. There were a lot of people in there, but having Ilya in his arms seemed to trigger a quick response and a wheelchair was brought over.

"No."

Ilya clung tighter. "Don't let me go."

"Just for a minute while I talk to the receptionist."

Julien sat him down, made sure he wasn't going to slip off the seat onto the floor, and turned to the man on the desk. "He has some sort of infection."

"Name?"

"I have no idea. I found him lying at the side of the road."

"Why didn't you call an ambulance?"

"I was in my car. I thought it would be quicker to drive than hang around waiting."

"Does he have any ID?"

"No. I looked. Please can a doctor see him? I'm worried it might be sepsis."

Sepsis was a trigger word and Ilya was whisked away. Except then what was he supposed to do? He'd said he didn't know Ilya so what reason was there for him to stick around? None, but no way was he going home.

He took a seat in the waiting area. His heart was thumping. If he hadn't decided to come back from Paris… Julien leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Even though he had come back, it might be too late. He felt wracked with guilt. He shouldn't have stitched him up. Disinfecting the wound hadn't been enough. He'd needed antibiotics earlier. Fuuuck!

Memories he'd buried deep came surging back. Shit! He couldn't let that happen. Julien took a deep breath. If he was being sensible, he'd grab this opportunity to leave Ilya here. But he couldn't. He sat and he waited and he worried.

"Excuse me?"

Julien looked up.

A young doctor stood in front of him. Julien felt a pang of distress. Once upon a time…

"Are you the one who brought in the patient with the infected arm?"

Distress turned to fear. For a long moment, Julien felt as though his heart had stopped. "Yes."

"Would you come with me, please."

Julien fought the urge to flee and followed him. When he went into the cubicle, Ilya was already on a drip, naked to the waist, monitors on his chest, his eyes closed. He looked so fragile.

"Do you know how he came by his injuries?"

the doctor asked.

"I didn't do it, if that's what you're asking."

"Apart from the cut on his arm, he looks as though he's been whipped. One bad welt on his chest, several bruises, his back is a mess and he has a nasty bruise on his face."

"Nothing to do with me."

"You claimed to have found him lying at the side of the road, so why are you still here? You did your good Samaritan act. There's no need to hang around."

Shit. "I…"

The doctor stared at him. "I'm going to call the police."

"Please don't."

Julien thought quickly. "Okay. I do know him, but I only met him yesterday." He lowered his voice. "He was being held by his father against his will and forced to undergo some sort of gay conversion therapy. Part of that involved being hit with a belt, along with being given electric shocks. He was stabbed in the arm when he escaped. I gave him a lift."

"Do you know his name?"

"Yes, but I'm not going to give it to you. It will put him in danger."

"He's in danger now being treated without access to his medical history. He could be allergic to the antibiotic we're having to give him."

"He told me he had no allergies and there was nothing significant in his medical history. He's not lived in the UK for six years and he's only been here for just over a month. He won't be registered with a doctor."

"There may be records from when he lived here."

"It's possible."

Julien did understand the wish to see Ilya's medical information, but he still hesitated.

"Our records are completely confidential unless he signed something under duress giving access to his records to another person. Even then, I don't have to disclose everything. Especially not to his father. Doctors can't give information about him to anyone without his permission."

Even knowing that, Julien wished he didn't have to reveal Ilya's name. "If I give you his name, will you do your best to make sure it's understood he could be under threat from his family?"

"Yes."

"Ilya Morozov."

"Thank you. Do you know how old he is? His date of birth?"

"No. Can you tell me how he is?"

The doctor huffed. "You're not a relative."

"I'm not, but I brought him in and I've been sitting worrying…"

"Hopefully, we've caught the infection in time. Bringing him here was the right thing to do."

Julien nodded.

"Was it you who stitched him up?"

"Yes."

"Neat work. Where did you learn to do that?"

"Same sort of place as you."

"Come back tomorrow. He should be a lot better."

"Can I give you my number as the only contact?"

"Okay. I'll write it on his chart."

Julien gave his first name with his number—one of his numbers—then took a last look at Ilya's pale face before he went home with an uncomfortable lump in his throat.