Chapter 24

24

He leads me down the street to where his car is parked. I really think he's at his most attractive when he's doing mundane things.

Right now, he can't find his car. He's peering this way and that, shielding his glasses with his hand to block the sun. He seems flustered. It's kind of adorable.

"Sorry. I thought it was down here. I didn't expect to see you," he adds like the two things are related.

"It's fine. We don't have to go farm-to-table. There was a café in the garden at Versailles. We could hide behind a hedge. Eat apple slices."

He looks at me, blinking, like I've said something shocking.

"What?" I ask.

"I just think you're cute. That's all." He's killed me. I'm dead. His eyes drift until they land on what we're looking for. "Oh, thank God! There's the car. Sorry." He shakes his head. "I'm not usually like this."

"What are you usually like?"

"Worse." He hurries me to the car. He seems rushed, like he can't wait to spirit me away. I need to stay on guard. You can't trust anyone, especially not someone you're supposed to kill.

A man in a neat suit and a black hat is waiting in the driver's seat, reading Le Monde .

"Change of plans," Jonathan says to him in Persian. "There's a little restaurant, east of Plaisir—" He pauses, turns to me. "It's twenty minutes away. Is that all right? You don't have plans?" He is my plans.

"Nothing important."

"Near the Sainte-Apolline Forest," he says to the driver. "I'll direct you." He opens the door for me. "I better call ahead."

I climb into his fancy car and chalk up another difference. Jonathan-on-the-train wore an ill-fitted suit and crooked glasses. This Jonathan is dressed flawlessly and has a driver. This Jonathan has money .

As I fasten my seat belt, I remember his suitcase. Those weapons weren't cheap. I decide it's better not to bring that up. Arming my mark is not a good way to kill him.

He slides into the seat beside me. He smiles a little awkwardly, then shifts like he's not sure how close he should sit.

As we wind along the French roads toward the restaurant, Jonathan gets on the phone. He spends the full twenty-minute drive convincing the owner of the restaurant to open on a weekday, just for us. He doesn't back down, even though they seem pretty firmly against it at first. It's patently impressive.

He starts with compliments.

He's been to the restaurant many times. Over years. Before everyone else knew about it. It's the experience of a lifetime. How is Renaud?

Jonathan has a very special woman he's trying to impress (that's me). He knows this is short notice, but he met her on the sleeper train from Florence to Paris, and he was too ill to get her number, but now he has run into her again— quelle chance! —in Versailles, of all places.

"I saw her in the Hall of Mirrors," he says. "Imagine. You are looking for a woman for months. Dreaming of finding her, and then you see her a million times at once."

He says all this in French. I don't think he realizes that I can understand it.

He would be more than happy to pay double the market value for our meal—which he knows is at least double what they charge (which sounds like a lot).

This is where I see his first real weakness—and it's a big one. I'm a trained assassin on a reconnaissance, remember? And I'm very good at my job.

He's determined to pay too much, and that, my friends, is a sign of a guilty conscience. As he insists on paying double—no, triple!—what they normally ask, he rubs his palm with his fingers. I remember this move from the train. His tic.

He doesn't just want to take me to lunch. He wants it to hurt. He wants to punish himself for the pleasure of my company.

The owner agrees, of course. They're French after all. They understand that pleasure and pain pair perfectly.

When Jonathan gets off the phone he has a slight sheen. His sweat smells like Tom Ford.

"You're going to love this place," he assures me. "It's really special."

"That's really super of you," I say. "To care so much." He takes a deep breath. I brush his wrist. Then I lean in. "But you don't have to go to so much trouble…" He might be dangerous, psychotic, deranged. But he's also a man, and sex is the easiest entry point for murder. I'm not saying I'm going to sleep with him again, but it's not bad if he thinks I am. "I'm gonna fuck you anyway."

He inhales sharply. His hand closes around mine. And his fingers are so thick. His grip is so strong. I realize he could crush me.

I wonder what that would feel like.