15. Jean-Paul

Jean-Paul

Saxon

I 've seen a lot. Good and bad, rich and poor, wild and weird, I've seen a lot of shit in my life.

I'm not prepared for the level of decadence and extravagance that meets us on the other side of the stone tunnel.

Torches—literal, actual torches—line stone walls that arch a hundred feet overhead into a cathedral-like vault ceiling. The torches burn crimson through some fancy chemical process, shedding an eerie glow on the massive room.

A table runs the length of the room, dozens of huge silver candelabras with lit candles adding to the lighting, each candle dripping wax. Each place is elaborately set with fine china, heavy, ancient-looking silverware, crystal goblets, and linen napkins twisted into swan shapes on each plate.

The table is laden and groaning with plates of food in a cornucopia straight out of a medieval scene: entire turkeys, whole roasted pigs, platters of apples, berries of all kinds, citrus fruits, bananas, pomegranates—every fruit you can think of. Bowls of yogurt chilling on trays of ice. Wheels of cheese. Roast beef, prime rib, whole chickens. Roasted ears of corn, bowls of tossed salad and silver tureens of dressing, bowls of vegetables.

Servers pour pitchers of wine and ale—pitchers which they refill from actual casks on a far wall.

The real piece de resistance , however, is the glass cages lining the perimeter, beneath the crimson-flame torches. Each glass cage is ten feet tall and six feet wide and filled with water. Within each cage is a couple, male and female, nude, with cables running to facemasks that provide oxygen. Their hair streams upward in a constant current.

The couples in each cage dance and twist and writhe, mimicking sex. Or, perhaps, actually engage in sex—it's hard to tell, but it's certainly eye-catching and provocative.

Jean-Paul is seated at the far end of the table, on a gold-gilt throne lined with crimson cushions, the throne itself on a dais. The woman in the body paint lounges at his feet, her fingers idly petting the tigers that lay panting and bored on either side of her.

Jean-Paul could be thirty, he could be fifty—his face is unlined, his hair thick and black, his figure powerful. His eyes speak volumes, though, even from this far away.

They go to me. He gives nothing away, facially, but his eyes remain on me for a long, long time, before going to Terra.

We stand in the opening where the tunnel gives way to the room, waiting. I can feel Terra's confusion, so I squeeze her hand and wait.

Jean-Paul leans down and murmurs in the woman's ear—she nods, once, and rises, her motions lithe, graceful, and seductive. The tigers follow her.

She comes up to us. Gazes up at me, her eyes rendered purple by contacts, and then at Terra. She gestures, stepping aside. The tigers seem to recognize this gesture and precede us back in the direction of Jean-Paul and his throne at the head of the table, where a pair of seats wait, empty, nearest him.

I know a cue when I see one, and pull Terra into a slow, stately walk behind the tigers, following them to the seats. I pull out the chair farther away from Jean-Paul for Terra, but before she can sit, Jean-Paul's voice washes over us.

"A delicacy so rare as your companion should have the seat of honor, do you not agree?" His voice is low, quiet, smooth, sharp as razors, and curls perfectly with an elegant French accent.

"Of course, sir," I murmur, guiding her to the seat closest to him. "Darling," I say, sliding the chair in as she seats herself.

When I'm seated, Jean-Paul spends a moment regarding me silently; all the while, couples filter in and are shown their seats by servers. So far, we're the only couple to be shown our seats by Tiger Lady.

Laughter rings out, a woman.

"Let me see it, please," Jean-Paul says, the polite tone and phrasing in no way hiding the command of the statement.

I fish the coin from my pocket and lean across Terra to hand it to him. He takes it from me, examining it closely. Taps it with a fingernail.

"Saxon Oliver Cabot." He glances at me, at Terra, and then goes back to his examination of my coin. "Thirty-one. Youngest of three brothers—your next oldest, Silas, was my best mover. Your eldest brother, Solomon, did wet work for the CIA, work so far off the books there aren't any letters or organizations or ranks by which to classify him. You, however. You, Saxon… you are an artist. Or you were."

"Was, sir."

"You fucked us over." His eyes fix on mine. Daring me to deny it. "You fucked me."

"Yes sir. I did."

"I don't like being fucked. I prefer to do the fucking."

"A sentiment I share, sir."

"I know your current employer—or, well, I know of him. I know no one who can claim to have met him, in person, but anyone who is anyone in this world of ours knows of him."

"So I hear, sir."

"Let's go back to you fucking me."

"As you will, sir."

"You spent six months watching your assigned target, only to sleep with her, kill my men, help her escape, and then vanish yourself. In the process, you destroyed a year's worth of planning which would have rid us of the Marccione family and the Moreno cartel."

I take a sip of whiskey, feeling my heart pound. "I hadn't intended to discuss this here, sir. I was hoping to get a few minutes of your time alone, later."

The pair of seats opposite us, the other places closest to Jean-Paul, are empty.

"I wish to discuss it now, here. Does that meet with your approval?" You could slice ribbons off of paper with his voice.

"Your party, sir."

"Quite." He reaches down and scratches the ears of a tiger. "What do you think of my pets?"

"They make me nervous."

A smile, a dangerous one. "Well of course. I haven't trained them, you know. They're tigers . Everyone knows you can't train them. One day they'll snap, I'm sure, and murder everyone. What a party that will be."

I grin. Fake as fuck, and he knows it. "Yeah, that would be something to see."

He gestures at my plate. "Eat, eat. We will return to our discussion later." His attention turns to Terra. "As for you, my dear. You've made quite an impression. Your dress is all anyone can talk about."

Terra looks like she might puke. "I've been making my own clothes for a while. It just sort of turned into a business."

"The mayor of Boston's wife wore one of your dresses to a Christmas party." His smile is soothing, complimentary. "That's something to hang your hat upon, surely."

She looks freaked out that he knows that. "Uhhh, yeah, I…it happened sort of by accident. But she was happy with the dress, and I've gotten a few more commissions out of it."

"I believe I owe you and your friends somewhat of an apology, I hear." He drops this bomb with a straight face, chin in hand, goblet of bloodred wine in the other.

"Um…what?"

"Some of my men rather rudely interrupted the nuptials of your friend Emily. They were under the orders of one of my lieutenants, who has…overstepped his authority in his eagerness to impress me."

"That's part of what I wanted to discuss, sir," I put in.

"I'm aware. But I'm speaking to the lovely Miss Terra Siobhan Connelly, at the moment."

"Of course, sir." I fork a few slices of prime rib onto my plate, as well as some salad. "You want anything, babe?" I ask Terra, working hard to sound casual.

Terra shakes her head. "I'm so nervous I'm a little queasy."

Jean-Paul laughs at this, sounding and appearing genuinely amused. "The first truly honest thing anyone has said in my presence in a very long time." He lays his hand on hers. "Just breathe, my dear. I'm a horrible, evil old dragon, it is true. But you , at least, have nothing to fear."

Terra glances at him. "You're not old."

Another uproarious laugh. "Ah, flattery. A weapon like no other, when wielded with sufficient skill."

He reaches for a small bowl, using the small spoon to dollop a few spoonfuls onto Terra's plate. "A truly decadent yet sprightly crème br?leé, my dear. You must try it. It soothes a fluttering stomach, I've found. I rarely eat much at these things, but this creme brulé is not to be missed."

"Two bites and my ass will go up three sizes," she says. "But thanks anyway."

Jean-Paul is displeased by this statement. "One cannot ruin perfection, my dear." His gaze is wickedly perceptive. "Are you a glutton? A food addict?"

Terra's silence is equally sharp—anyone else, and I'd be warning him against entering this particular danger zone. Kenny Loggins' theme song is playing in my head as it is, but I dare not interrupt Jean-Paul.

"No." Terra's answer is curt, bordering on rude.

"Have you been forbidden by a doctor from eating certain foods? Have you been told you must reduce yourself to a certain number or you will surely die?"

Terra swallows hard. "No."

"Are you seeking entry into a competitive sorority of some sort, in which one's weight is a barrier to success?" He pauses, thinking. "The Rockettes, for example. Or the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders?"

"Um…no."

Jean-Paul gestures at me. "Has my newly resurrected friend here made you feel inadequate because of your appearance?"

"God, no! The opposite." She takes my hand and gazes at me with that emotion she refuses to name. "I wouldn't have had the courage to come in here tonight if it wasn't for him."

"I do understand hyperbolic exaggeration, but let's take your claim—that if you took two bites of this delicious crème br?leé, your backside would increase. Would Saxon, whom you so clearly adore, cease to be attracted to you?"

She laughs. Ducks her head. "The opposite, if anything."

"Well then. Q.E.D." He takes a bite, speaking with his mouth full, somehow able to make even that seem elegant and sophisticated. "Eat the crème br?leé."

Terra picks the smallest, innermost spoon, delicately scoops a small bite, and tastes it. Her eyes widen. "Holy shit. Do you have the Keebler Elves locked up in your kitchen?"

Jean-Paul belly laughs. "You've discovered my secret! I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you." He lets a beat too long of a silence to elapse before he winks at her. "A joke, my dear. A joke. You never know, with me, but it was a joke, I assure you."

Terra just rolls her eyes at him. "Well, hold off on the murder until I've finished my crème br?leé, please."

Jean-Paul directs a look at me. "You've managed to find a woman with wits to match her beauty, Saxon. I do believe you are outclassed."

"And well do I know it, sir."

"It was a question of honor, Mr. Jean-Paul." Terra puts her spoon down in the bowl and levels a bold, fearless look at him. "The thing with Camilla."

Jean-Paul freezes with his own spoon halfway to his mouth, blinks once, owlishly, and then replaces his spoon in his bowl and sits back. "Elaborate, if you please."

"I know nothing about your world." She waves a hand at him, at me. "But I've met her. Camilla, I mean. And from what Saxon has told me, she wasn't interested in being a part of this world."

"I am aware," Jean-Paul says, his voice dangerously quiet. "You said it was a question of honor."

"I know who Saxon was, before. He's told me. Not everything, of course, but enough. He did his job, and he did it well. You yourself just said he was an artist." She looks at me. "He drew a line, Jean-Paul. She was innocent. Not lily-white—she knew where the money she spent came from. But her hands were clean. He was faced with a choice. It was a question of honor, and he chose." Her gaze goes to Jean-Paul, and I feel the dice rolling, ones and sixes, ones and sixes. This gambit of hers will either mean snake eyes—a hole in both of our heads—or double sixes.

"It is also my personal estimation, as worthless as it may be to you, that giving him the assignment you did, for the reasons you did, was a strategic miscalculation, and he saved you from making a terrible error."

"Pardon?" Now his voice is seductive, oily.

I squeeze her hand. "Terra. Stop."

She ignores me. "I hear the warning in your voice, Mr. Jean-Paul. But have you really thought about what would have happened had Saxon gone through with his orders?"

"I've thought of little else, my dear."

"He may have been an artist at what he did, but…what guarantee do you have that her family would have assumed it was the Morenos? What assurances do you have that the Morenos couldn't have proven it wasn't them? I think what would have been the more likely outcome—and this is just me conjecturing—is that they would have compared notes, seen the Ca—seen your organization's signature all over it, and then you'd have been faced with a fight against both families combined. And while that was going on, the rest, the little guys that survive on the scraps after you big sharks are done, they'd have been nibbling at your borders, looking for weak spots. And they'd have found them because all your resources would have been devoted to fending off two enemies at once."

Jean-Paul is silent for a long time. "I see." He taps his spoon against his bowl. "Any other insights to share?"

She shrugs, smiles. "Nope. I'll leave the business to you men."

Jean-Paul arches an eyebrow. "Business?"

"Well, sure. You didn't think we waltzed in here without an ace in the hole, did you? You think we'd crash your party just for funsies?"

Jean-Paul turns his gaze to me. "They may be on the inside, but she has quite a pair of big brass ones, as you Americans so crassly put it."

"No shit," I mumble.

"Your ace in the hole, then." He resumes eating his dessert.

I pick at the prime rib—for appearances. I'm shitting myself, on the inside. "I have a way to solve your issue with Mr. Carmichael and his overzealous vendetta against me." Pause, for effect. "You'd also stand to gain an ally instead of keeping an enemy—an ally who could help you get rid of the Morenos for good. Something that benefits you both."

A frown at me. "Mr. Carmichael…why does he hate you?"

I shrug. "Fuck if I know, sir. Never met the asshole, far as I know."

"Well, he hates you."

I shrug. "He can get in line. Lotta people hate me. Once upon a time, I'd have faced off with him and ended it that way. But I'm a changed man. I don't kill anymore. But he is a thorn in my side so this benefits me, too."

Jean-Paul regards me, his expression opaque. After a minute, he nods. "Very well. Let's retire to my salon." He rises elegantly and smoothly, dabbing his lips with a napkin. "Come."

Terra freezes, a spoonful of crème br?leé in her mouth. She swallows it. "Me too?" She asks, around the mouthful.

Jean-Paul smiles at her with paternal affection. "Of course, my dear. I am relying on your advice to avoid any further tactical errors."

She blanches. "Sir, I wasn't implying—"

He cuts over her. "I know what you were and were not implying. I believe you are one hundred percent correct in your assessment. I am not perfect. Only almost." He grabs his bowl and spoon. "Bring the crème br?leé, if you please."

Terra snags her bowl, the tureen, and her glass of whiskey, which she hasn't had even a quarter of, the smart girl.

Jean-Paul waves at her. "Leave the cheap swill, darling. We'll have the good stuff in my salon." Sal-AWW

When Terra looks confused, I touch her glass. "He means this."

"Oh." She sets it down, and I see her hand shaking like a leaf.

"Breathe," I whisper.

"Did I fuck up?" She sounds on the verge of crying. "Is he going to do unpleasant things to us?"

"No, honey. I don't think so. Just breathe and keep doing exactly what you're doing." I rest my hand on the bare small of her back, guiding her after Jean-Paul.

"He's fucking terrifying," She whispers. "But…I kinda like him."

I laugh and turn the laugh into a cough. "I have a feeling he'd get a kick out of that."

We follow Jean-Paul, accompanied by his body-painted girlfriend or whatever she is, and her tigers, through a doorway, down a shallow, curving stair, along a corridor with walls of bare stone warmed by thick handwoven tapestries and carpets, lit by more modern Edison bulbs in ornate wrought iron sconces fashioned to look like torches. The ceiling is a barrel vault, and each stone looks soot-stained, aged and ancient in a way I doubt you can fake.

"Jean-Paul?" Terra queries. "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"This castle…" she pauses to reverently run her fingers along a tapestry that looks like it could be every second of a thousand years old. "Is it what it seems? Or is it a clever reproduction?"

He gives a dry chuckle. "It is precisely what it looks like, my lovely. It is my family's ancestral home, exactly as it stood for a millennia."

"But…"

He forestalls her question with the answer. "I am the last of my line. When my father died some ten years ago, of esophageal cancer, I was faced with a choice: retire from my business here in the US or move to France and administer the family estate there. I could not do both. Seeing as I am—for a plethora of reasons, most of my own doing— persona non grata in my home country, and indeed most of Europe, it was a simple choice. Business-wise, at least. I had, and have, however, an enduring love for my home—this place." He extends his arms and spins in a circle while walking forward. "So, I left the estate and family business to my younger sister and had the family seat moved here and rebuilt, stone by stone. It was, I admit, a heinously costly endeavor, even for me. The work of rebuilding it without erasing the sense of age, the weight of centuries…it was painstaking. A true labor of love." He pauses. "The laborers are all buried in the foundation, of course."

Terra gasps, and Jean-Paul cackles.

"My ancestors would have done exactly that, but I am not so wasteful. They were artisans and craftsmen. Plus, how could I have buried them in the foundation if I needed them to continue the work?" He laughs again. "I jest, of course. I do have an unfortunate predilection for bloodily removing problems, but never en masse , and never wastefully." He glances at her. "Have you heard the one about the fountain?"

Terra gulps. "Um…yes."

"An exaggeration. There is a kernel of truth to the rumor, of course. The ghastly, comical fountain in my courtyard is in fact the result of an assistant who thought he was doing my bidding. I did want a fountain, but something more like the replica of the Trevi out front. There was no such fountain at our estate in France, just a measly old crumbling Roman bust, hardly worth the expense and hassle of moving. Anyway." He leads us left through a doorway and into a low-ceilinged room, wood-paneled, plush-carpeted, and furnished with deep leather couches and heavy mahogany tables, lit by a glassed-in fireplace that gives off light but no heat. "I was heartily displeased, I admit, but I did not kill the poor bastard. He was barely old enough to shave, and it was my mistake for not being more precise. I merely cut off his fingers." A laugh. "Another macabre jest. No, I scolded him, reassigned him, and kept the fountain as a reminder of my own hubris. Plus, I always get a good laugh whenever I see it. And my dear, in my line of work, one needs a good laugh."

There's a wooden sideboard on one wall, elaborately carved with lions' heads and hawks and prancing deer, upon which is a crystal decanter of whiskey, several upturned tumblers, and another decanter of dark ruby wine with more upturned goblets.

"Whiskey or wine?" He asks Terra.

"Um…wine? Please?"

Without ceremony or production, he splashes a big pour from the decanter into a glass and carries it to Terra, indicating that she should sit.

She takes a sip, and her eyes bug out. "Um…I'm not a sommelier, by any means, but…Jesus. This is…"

Jean-Paul grins. "From the vineyards back home. I'm not certain how old it is, but likely a hundred years or so. Even the best wines lose potability after too long." He shrugs. "I would be hard-pressed to put a value on the bottle, honestly. It has never been sold, only produced for private consumption. I will say that many French kings have desired, striven, and machinated to get their hands on a single bottle, over the centuries. So, you are among a very rarified crowd who can claim to have drunk of that vintage."

Terra looks at the wine with suspicion. "I never know if you're kidding."

Jean-Paul finds this hilarious. "I know! I myself never know when I am going to be serious. Keeps one on one's toes. But in this, I am quite serious." He looks to me, then. "As for you, my friend. Whiskey?"

"Of course, thank you, sir."

He pours generously from the whiskey decanter. Hands me one. "Curious?"

I sip. Inhale my shock. "My father was a whiskey connoisseur. I can't place it, but I know it's the best I've ever tasted."

"Yamazaki fifty-five year. The bottle went for over a million at auction." He grins. "I have a handful of bottles, obtained as a gift for services rendered to some business acquaintances in Japan."

"No shit? I've heard of it. My dad bid on a bottle, once, but the other guy wasn't about to lose, and Dad let it go. Bid on and won an entire cask of Macallan twenty-five year."

Jean-Paul nods. "Your father knew whiskey; I know that much. I also know he was a real dick."

A bark of laughter burst out of me. "His dickishness was renowned far and wide, it seems."

"Quite." Jean-Paul takes a seat in a deep, plush, well-worn armchair. Sips. Gestures at me with the index finger of the hand clutching his tumbler. "So. I am quite eager to hear this."

"I've spoken to Camilla. She's as eager to avoid conflict as you are. You are both in strong positions, Jean-Paul. She is several times the businesswoman her father ever was, from what I hear."

Jean-Paul gives me a droll look. "You are not making a very good case for having let her live."

"I'm not trying to. I made the choice and I stand by it. She was innocent. Killing her was wrong. I had absolutely no compunctions for any other hit, Jean-Paul. Not one. But an innocent woman just trying to live her life and keep out of her father's shit?" I shake my head. "I'm here. In front of you. I accept the responsibility and the consequences of my decision. You want to execute me for it?" I spread my hands. "I'm unarmed. But that's not why I'm here."

Jean-Paul nods, sips. "Very well. Continue, then—why are you here?"

"Because I believe I have a solution that meets my needs, yours, and Camilla's. Without bloodshed." I tip my head. "Well, mostly. See, I want to be left alone. I want to go back to Club Sin with Terra, live my life, and put my Cabal days behind me. I don't regret them, Jean-Paul. I have issues with the human trafficking, but I realize there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it."

"I find it distasteful as well, as a matter of fact. I am making inroads toward ending our involvement in that arena. It is not entirely my choice, but my word has sway."

"It's risky, too. Government agencies really get a hard-on for taking out traffickers."

Jean-Paul smiles. "My argument exactly."

"Anyway. That's my need—just leave me the fuck alone."

"Jarrod being the obstacle to this."

I sip—fucking hell, it's good whiskey. "You have a problem with Jarrod, too, I believe. He's overstepped his boundaries. The attempts on my life, okay, fine. But endangering innocent civilians like Terra, Emily, Tom, Yates, and Kaleigh? No good. Plus, his goons threatened and roughed up hotel employees. Not a good look."

"No, indeed. But he's a favorite of certain factions in the hierarchy. Not me, obviously. He gets results, but messily. I can't unilaterally eliminate him, however, without risking blowback on me. I have some additional room, now, due to the messes he's made in his failed attempts to bring you in."

I laugh. "Bring me in? He's trying to kill me, Jean-Paul. If the order is to bring me in alive, he missed that fuckin' memo."

"So it seems." Jean-Paul cups the glass in his up-turned palm, rotating the tumbler with his fingers, idly watching the golden liquid slosh. "I'm not a patient man, Saxon. The solution?"

"Getting there. Now, obviously, Camilla Marccionne's needs and desires are not, I don't expect, very high on your list of considerations. But when they overlap with yours? That's a ripe business opportunity. See, after I shot our way of the clean-up attempt, she was injured. I put her in a cab and sent her to a hospital. Or so I thought. The cab, however, was owned and driven by a lackey of her father's, assigned to watch her. He took her to her father. She suffered. Horrendously. He tortured her. Her brothers tortured her. They allowed their men to rape her repeatedly. And then they leaked her location to Cabal men, who did the same."

Jean-Paul's expression turns stormy. "Oh?" His voice takes on that soft, seductive, razor-sharp quality. "I was not aware of this."

"Camilla, understandably, did not take this well. She murdered her father, her brothers, and all of the Marccione men who were part of the event, as well as all of the Cabal men. Except one, who she hasn't been able to catch up to."

"Jarrod."

"Bingo."

"That makes sense. Several of my men turned up dead around that time, and it seemed targeted, personal. We were never able to lay it at her feet specifically, so I was never able to countenance the order to move on her. I suspected it was her, due to the intensely brutal nature of their deaths. I had nothing to do with the actions of the men, however." He gazes into middle distance, fury on his features. "I do not, and have never, countenanced rape. Only weak, pathetic men engage in rape. Our business may be criminal, but that does not mean we should be monsters. We kill our enemies—those who seek to kill us. We are professionals. We have fucking standards ." He looks at me. "Camilla can take care of my Jarrod problem, you're saying."

"Yes. But my solution doesn't stop there. I propose an alliance. Cabal and Marccione. Work together to eliminate the Morenos—they're the heaviest movers in the sex trafficking industry—Camilla, for obvious reasons, is against it. You're against it." I lift my glass, sip, swallow, and keep talking. "I'm talking about trafficking. Forced prostitution, sexual slavery. Voluntary sex work that profits everyone? Fine. Camilla has girls of her own."

"Her reputation in that field has been a problem for us. Girls leave us to work for her." Jean-Paul taps the glass against his front teeth. "An alliance. Hmm. Eliminate the Morenos. Get out of trafficking." He stares at nothing, talking out loud. "She could run the brothels and escorts and we could provide the muscle and business fronts. Our shells and shelters are far superior to hers. Divvy up the east coast, once we've taken over Moreno territory." He looks at me. "And she's open to this?"

I shrug. "I brought it to you first. But I think she will be, as long as the negotiations are fair. You both want the Moreno cartel off the map. Neither of you wants conflict with the other—the Morenos would step in and clean you both up—Terra was right on that score."

Jean-Paul stares at me, expression opaque. Finally, after a long silence, he nods. "Set it up."

I fish my burner from my pocket and dial Camilla. She answers on the third ring. "Saxon. You've captured Jarrod?"

"Not quite. But I can deliver him to you."

"What's the hold up? I expected faster results from you, honestly."

"Remember when I told you that you'd have to trust me? This is where that trust happens. I have a proposal."

"I'm listening."

"I'm sitting in a private room with Jean-Paul DuPlessis."

A sharp intake of breath greets this pronouncement. "You're selling me out, you bastard."

"Hardly. Trust, remember."

"What business could you have with him?"

"Me? None. You? Plenty."

"What business could I have with my enemy?"

"Rival, Camilla. Not enemy. And what if I said he was willing to explore a business alliance with you?"

I can feel her shock across the line. "I want Jarrod."

"Your revenge on Jarrod solves a problem for him."

"I see."

"He'd like to move the Cabal out of trafficking, following a model more like yours. You'd run the front of the house, so to speak, he'd run the back, and you split the profits."

She sighs. "If we were allies, we could eliminate the Morenos. I wouldn't have to worry about them at my throat. Nor would he." A pause. "I didn't relish the thought of getting into bed with the Moreno cartel, honestly."

"Everyone wins."

A long, long silence. "And your cut of the deal?"

"Everyone involved forgets my fucking name. You and Terra can hang out if you want, I don't give a shit. I just want to be left alone. You handling Jarrod takes care of that."

"I accept."

I cover the mouthpiece. "She's in."

"I'll have my lawyers draft a contract, hers can look it over, and we willmeet in a neutral location to sign and shake on it." Jean-Paul swirls the last sip in the glass.

I relay this to Camilla, who agrees.

"And when do I get Jarrod?" Camilla asks.

Jean-Paul eyes me, after I've relayed this query. "That's trickier. I can't just hand him to her, and she can't just snatch him."

I sigh. "It's gonna be me, then." I scrub my forehead with a knuckle. "Send him somewhere. I'll ambush him, take out his men, and vanish him. No blowback on you or Camilla."

"One final job," Jean-Paul says.

I shrug. "It's got to be the right location. I have to be able to eliminate his men and isolate him without killing him or them."

Jean-Paul snorts. "Your vow of non-violence is somewhat of a limitation, Saxon."

"It's not a vow of non-violence, it's a vow to not kill ."

"Still. A difficult task. Jarrod is not an easy mark."

"I'll manage." I glance at Terra. "There's no convincing you to sit this one out and let me handle it alone?" Her only response is a single sarcastic bark of laughter. "Thought so." I glance at Jean-Paul. "Dead-end road, lots of cover. Isolated. No witnesses, no collateral damage. I'll need a rifle, an MP5, and a sidearm."

Jean-Paul nods. "I have a place in mind. Go back to the party. Enjoy the food. Rest here tonight while I make the arrangements."

He rises, and Terra and I take that as our cue to get up as well. He pauses in front of Terra.

"If Saxon fails to hold your interest, there is a place here for you, Miss Connelly. You are a remarkable individual."

Terra smiles at him. "I appreciate the offer, Mr. Jean-Paul. And, you know…you kinda scare the shit out of me, but I also sort of like you."

Jean-Paul laughs at this. "Your honesty is refreshing, my dear." He tosses back the last sip, sets the tumbler on a side table, and heads for a door. "I'll be in touch with the location. At your leisure, Ambrosia will show you to your quarters."

Ambrosia—the body-painted woman, bows in my direction. She spent the entire conversation sitting on the floor with her back to the door we came in through, her tigers' heads on her lap. You wouldn't think you could get used to the presence of live, unchained tigers, but apparently, you can.

Jean-Paul disappears alone through the door, opposite the one we came in through, and Ambrosia opens that door, gesturing.

Terra pauses near the woman. "Rude question, but…can you talk?"

The woman is tall and slender, with a dancer's figure, the paint on her body, now that I take a moment to really look, is a reproduction of Van Gogh's Starry Night , the star-swirls centered on her chest, the blue background wrapping around her lower half. Even her face is painted. Her hair is black, and loose, glossy, hanging down her back. She's barefoot.

She opens her mouth—no tongue.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

The woman shrugs.

"Can I pet them?" Terra asks. "The tigers?"

The woman's eyes widen, and a smile crosses her face. She presses her hands onto each tiger's backside, and they both sit.

"Untrained my ass," I mumble.

The woman rolls her eyes, shakes her head. She takes Terra's hand and slowly guides it to the nearest tiger's shoulders—the huge beast rumbles and huffs, its head rotating to gaze at Terra curiously. It does nothing else, however, as Terra gently, carefully strokes its back. The woman removes her hand from Terra's, cautiously. Terra bites her lip, gingerly stroking the animal's black-and-white striped fur, growing in confidence as it fails to pounce on and maul her.

The beast nudges her hand with its huge head, exactly like a house cat demanding ear scratches. Terra giggles at this, somewhere between terrified, shocked, and amazed.

The tiger allows her to scratch its ears for a while, and then, much like a house cat, rises and lazily wanders away, thus ending the petting session.

"Thank you," Terra says. "That was amazing. They're beautiful."

The woman nods, an elegant gesture of acknowledgment. She kisses each tiger on its head, and they both nuzzle her, purring and emitting gentle snarls of feline happiness.

She leads us through the door and back to the party, which is in full swing.

"It worked!" Terra hisses in my ear.

I wrap my arm around her waist. "Thanks to you. You're a fucking marvel, you know that?"

She blushes. "I was terrified. I thought for sure I'd gotten us killed."

"He likes you. More proof of how incredible you are. Balls of steel, baby."

She laughs, leaning into me. "I was too scared to even come in here."

"But you did."

She blinks up at me. "I did, didn't I? And everyone liked my dress."

"Obviously."

She takes my hand, turns the palm to face her, and kisses it, as we take our seats. "As long as you're with me, I feel like I can do anything."

My heart swells. I can't speak, can only swallow hard. "Same, baby. Same."