ASHES TO ASHES
Lust to dust
Vanessa Finaughty
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Vanessa Finaughty
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Second Edition
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All characters portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover picture: by author
In memory of Raymond Paulus
(3 July 1980 – 27 August 2006)
For your friendship, support, and being a kindred spirit. Your support has always remained with me, and you would have loved the end of this novel even more than I do. You are an irreplaceable friend-come-muse.
Chapter 1
The widow wept quietly in the front row. A hazy blue light, cast by the stained-glass windows that reached nearly to the ceiling, added an eerie atmosphere to the late afternoon memorial service. The priest’s lips moved and his deep voice droned, but twenty-seven-year-old Michelle’s brain didn’t register his words. Her mind was almost completely focussed on the fact that she was finally safe from Mathieu Cousteau. She wondered briefly how many were there for the same reason she was – to allow the relief of his death to sink in properly.
Mathieu’s ashes were displayed at the front of the vast cathedral in a coffin-shaped wooden chest, standing upright on a base about the size of her hand. Like a bonsai Dracula’s coffin. Michelle swallowed the unexpected giggle that bubbled in her throat at the thought. She sat near the middle of the room in an aisle seat, the pews behind her empty. The cathedral could seat a few thousand, she estimated. From her seat, Michelle was barely able to see the chest, but was reassured that there was no longer any chance Mathieu would make good on his threats. Her thoughts drifted back to her first encounter with him, which seemed a lifetime ago, but was, in reality, a mere three weeks earlier.
“You’ve been asking questions about me. And now your superiors at Xitia A&M ask those same questions!” Mathieu growled, pointing a long, bony finger at her.
“So what?” Michelle snapped.
“I will not be ruined by a little girl with high morals who knows nothing of the real world.”
“And I will not be a part of your sick, twisted games!”
“You will do your job. You will keep your mouth shut. You will not speak of what you think you know.”
Michelle shuddered, brought back to reality as those at the memorial rose to their feet to sing a hymn. She dutifully rose, too, but remained tight-lipped. The hymn was one about the deceased’s soul resting in peace, and Michelle fervently hoped that Mathieu burnt in Hell. Her thoughts returned to that fateful encounter.
“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t plan on going public with what I’ve discovered about you, Mathieu. But only because I don’t want to lose my job. I want nothing to do with you, though. I’ve already handed your account over to a colleague.”
“Your refusal to write my ad will create questions in your bosses’ minds. You will take the job back. You will write the ad that I have asked of your company!”
“I won’t.” She folded her arms.
“You will be sorry.”
“I already am. Sorry that I ever heard about you.”
A chill crept up her spine as Mathieu murmured, “Such a pretty face. Such lovely bone structure. The skin would do nicely as a pillowcase. And the skull… would make a beautiful ashtray.”
Mathieu reached out as if to touch her face, then winked at her when she flinched, dropped his hand and turned to walk away.
The mourners began another song, but Michelle still refused to join in. Instead, she wondered if she would have been half as afraid of Mathieu as she had been, had she not been living alone in a foreign country. She raised her head and gazed at the one hundred and fifteen foot high, arched ceiling, trying to shake the feeling of impending doom that had come over her. For some odd reason, the ceiling, along with the Gothic look of the chapel, made her think of the long-dead painter, Michelangelo. To the best of her limited knowledge of history, though, the artist had never set foot in this particular church. In fact, she knew nothing whatsoever about the artist, other than that she was pretty sure he was Italian. These were stupid, meaningless thoughts to run through her mind at a time like this, but anything was better than the unsettling memories.
Those around her sat again, and Michelle breathed a sigh of relief – surely that meant the already hour-long service was drawing to an end. She frowned when the priest continued with a sermon that seemed to be only halfway through. Michelle fidgeted, knowing there was no way she would be able to sit through another hour, or even another ten minutes, of hearing about how wonderful Mathieu had been. She was about to get up and sneak out when the priest called upon members of Mathieu’s family to say a few words about him. This piqued her interest – she had been wondering ever since his death what his relatives really thought of him. She settled back on the hard pew and folded her arms again.
A tall, cadaverous man stepped up from the front row and cleared his throat. “Mathieu was a kind, gentle and caring man. He fought for those unable to fight for themselves, no matter what the cost to himself.” He paused to allow a sudden coughing fit from another man near the front to pass, then continued, glaring at the culprit, “He was a good father and a loving husband. We will miss him dearly.”
The more the man sang Mathieu’s praises, the more nauseated Michelle grew. A second person went up to speak; an elderly woman who required the assistance of a younger man to help her from her seat. This woman, too, said only good things about Mathieu. Sickened, Michelle reached for her handbag and stood quietly, making a beeline for the back of the cathedral, and earning herself a stern glance from an older man across the aisle. Out in the foyer, she took a deep breath. How could his family not know what he was? Or did they know, and not care? Or were they part of it? Perhaps they were simply doing what many did when someone died – pretending to have liked the deceased, out of some silly, superstitious notion that speaking badly of the dead would bring bad luck. Disgusted and disappointed, she headed for the exit.
The clinking of wine glasses in one of the rooms that led off the foyer caught Michelle’s attention – various wines and cheeses were laid out on trestle tables, presumably for after the memorial. What the hell – she hadn’t eaten yet, so why shouldn’t she have a free meal, courtesy of Mathieu Cousteau? Although… What to do while she waited for the service to end? The bell tower. From the top, there would be a magnificent view of Paris.
Michelle studied the map in the foyer, then made for the stairs leading to the bell tower. She kept a loose grip on the metal handrail as she ascended, trying to ignore the thick, orange-coloured, sticky grime that rubbed off on her hands. She mused, unimpressed, that a major tourist attraction like the cathedral should be better maintained. About halfway up, she regretted the urge to head to the tower – if she recalled correctly, there were at least three hundred and eighty-odd stairs leading to the top, and her side already ached. Once more, she thought about her conversation with Mathieu.
“I’m curious. What made you investigate me?”
“The information you wanted in your ads. It seemed off, as if there was a hidden message there that I couldn’t quite figure out. I can’t explain it. It was just a feeling.”
“And you usually refuse to do the job you’re paid to do because of ‘feelings’?” Mathieu raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t usually have ‘feelings’.”
“Interesting.” Mathieu appeared to be considering something.
Michelle glared. “Stay away from me, or I’ll lay a charge of harassment against you.”
At that, Mathieu laughed, his eyes glinting dangerously, and the contemplative look left his face. “I’ve worked hard to get to the point I’m at now. Stay out of my business, Michelle. A lot of innocent people will get hurt if you don’t.”
Michelle reached the top of the stairs and leant against the wall, crossing her arms over her stomach in a futile attempt to be rid of the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her at the memories. Her best friend since she had moved to France, Angelique, had said the memories would fade with time, but Michelle had hoped to be free of the nightmare now that Mathieu was dead. She drew a ragged breath as more memories came flooding back.
“I don’t believe in curses. You can threaten all you want, but you’ll never be able to follow through on those threats.”
“Don’t be so sure of that, my lovely.”
Michelle drew her jacket tighter around herself, as if the action would prevent Mathieu from undressing her with his eyes, which she was certain was exactly what he was doing.
“Stay away from me.” She turned to walk away.
“One thing before you go.” Mathieu placed a cold hand on her arm. “There are far worse things than death.” He leered.
Michelle took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and reminded herself that Mathieu was dead. Nobody was coming to hurt her. Nobody cared anymore, now that he was gone. Still breathing heavily, she stepped over to a small, arched window, and gazed out over the city. The Eiffel Tower stood out in the distance against the early evening sky, and, closer, the river was flat and still beneath the stars. As beautiful as the view of Paris from this height was, Michelle didn’t want to be alone. What if she was wrong and it wasn’t over yet? Would anyone hear her if she screamed? Probably not. She reprimanded herself – she had no reason to scream; Mathieu was dead. She was safe.
Even so, Michelle descended the steep stairs, and reached the bottom in nearly half the time it had taken her to get to the top. Without thinking, she wiped her hands on her trousers. The muck from the hand railing stuck to her hands, but what little had come off was barely noticeable on her black slacks. She went in search of a bathroom. Eventually finding one, she tried to wash the grime from her hands. A good while later, after much scrubbing, and feeling decidedly cleaner, Michelle headed back to the main foyer – the service should be over by now, and she was keen to get stuck into the wine and cheese.
After a few minutes of wandering through the wide corridors, Michelle realised that she was hopelessly lost. Before she could panic, however, she spotted a set of doors that led into a small chapel. Entering, she saw that the smaller area was tucked away behind the pulpit of the main chapel in which Mathieu’s service had been held. Thankfully, the service was over and only a few people milled about. Michelle stifled a giggle as she imagined the look on the aged priest’s face if she had barged in behind him.
Michelle moved towards the open doors at the other side of the main chapel, and entered the area where the snacks were being served. At the entrance, someone handed her a glass of white wine. Not wanting to be rude, she accepted it with a smile and wandered further into the room before bringing it to her lips. Condrieu, she guessed when she tasted it. A typical, full-bodied white wine, with a strong, distinctive taste of apricot. She tried not to gag. She would have preferred red wine, but what the hell; Mathieu’s money was probably paying for it, so she would drink it.
Michelle drank the first glass quickly and found another without delay, while eyeing the cheeses. Not that many choices: Chaource dices, a slightly acidic cheese, which went best with port or champagne – although Michelle saw neither drink available – and Abondance, which should be served hot, but was lukewarm already. Michelle decided not to eat anything after all, but spent the better part of the next hour standing in a corner, sipping wine, observing the family, and wondering why on earth she had asked questions about Mathieu in the first place. Sure, he had been a cruel man who hurt people – children, no less – but was that really her problem? Of course, after enquiring about him and his activities, it had become her problem.
A sharp, nasal voice cut through Michelle’s thoughts. “And where is Pierre?”
Michelle turned to find a middle-aged woman glaring at Mathieu’s widow, a strangely pleasant shiver running down her spine at the sound of the stranger’s name. Pierre.
“He had things to attend to. He’ll be here soon.”
“Soon? It’s a bit late now, isn’t it? The service is over. I don’t know why he’d bother now.”
So, perhaps this Pierre was also glad Mathieu was dead. Glad or didn’t care. Michelle realised she was grinning at the thought when the sharp-nosed woman turned and scowled at her.
“He’s a busy man. You know as well as I do that, despite the arguments, he loved Mathieu very much. Family is important to Pierre,” was the annoyed reply from Mathieu’s widow.
Michelle lowered her eyes, gulped down the rest of her wine, and hastened on unsteady legs to find the bathroom again. Many wrong turns later, she found it, and took her time freshening up. She felt drunker than she’d been in a long time, and tried to remember how many glasses of the horrible wine she had consumed, but was unable to count further than three.
Briefly, she considered that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to be so gleeful over another’s demise, even if they had been someone who deliberately hurt others. What if, somehow, her joy over Mathieu’s death came back to her in a bad way? Karma could be a bitch. Besides that, she wasn’t ordinarily a bad person, and was beginning to feel vaguely guilty for being happy that he was dead.
Yet again, her thoughts drifted to that conversation.
“What are you doing in my office? I told you to stay away from me.”
“I heard you weren’t the one to write my ad.” Mathieu’s cold blue eyes held Michelle’s glaring green ones captive.
“What’s your point?” Michelle held the tall man’s gaze, refusing to admit, even to herself, how deathly afraid she was.
“You’ve also been asking more questions about me. Why do that if you really want to be left alone?” He leant over her desk.
“Get out!” She rose to her feet, unable to hide her fear and anger any longer.
“You have three weeks to enjoy your face. Then it’s mine. Unless, of course, you back off.” Mathieu grinned, revealing too-white teeth.
Deciding it was probably best if she stopped thinking about the man and went home, Michelle made her way back down the now-gloomy corridors. It wasn’t long before she realised that she was once again lost.
“Great,” she muttered.
Then the same doors she had come through earlier, leading to the smaller chapel, confronted her. The doors were closed now, but Michelle pushed them, and they swung open, surprisingly quietly. Both chapels were empty, but voices came from the foyer. Either the place wasn’t very soundproof, or most of the mourners were getting ready to leave.
As she made her way past the priest’s lectern, she spotted the ashes. Morbid curiosity drew her closer to examine the box that rested on a silver cloth. As she had guessed earlier, the chest was small enough to balance on her palm. Adorned with gold-painted carvings, the solid-looking chest had holes in the lid, which Michelle thought was rather odd. Wasn’t the family worried the ashes would spill out? She ran her finger along the carvings, trying to make out what they were. Strange symbols she couldn’t guess the meaning of.
“You have three weeks to enjoy your face. Then it’s mine.” The words echoed in her mind once more.
The corners of Michelle’s lips twitched upwards into a wry smile: or yours is mine? Impulsively, she lifted the box and held it up to the light, jiggling it.
Michelle slurred in a mock whisper, “I’m sorry, did I shake you up?” She giggled and shook the chest again as if it was a gift box she was trying to guess the contents of. “You seem a bit ashen; are you having trouble keeping yourself in one piece?”
Michelle giggled again, then caught herself and almost expelled the contents of her stomach trying to keep the insane laughter in, and glanced about to see if anyone had heard her. She was still alone.
The thought came unbidden again. Or yours is mine?
Should she or shouldn’t she? Part of her insisted that stealing the chest was horribly wrong and immoral. Another part advised that she’d have a constant reminder that Mathieu was dead and gone, unable to hurt her. The voices outside faded. They would most likely be locking up soon. Michelle remained deathly still, indecisive.
Chapter 2
Michelle clutched her handbag as she left the cathedral, casting furtive glances into the foyer behind her to see if anyone was paying her particular attention. At any moment, she expected to hear shouts of ‘thief! Stop her!’, but only the stone gargoyles atop the roof paid her any heed. She shuddered. Most people thought of the gargoyles, which had been added as decoration to the cathedral to hide the drain spouts around the building, as charming, but, on this night, their gaze felt sinister as their beady stone eyes seemed to follow her down the granite walkway. One gargoyle in particular, tongue stuck out in an ordinarily cute gesture, its hands resting against its cheeks, seemed to shift in the early evening shadows.
Michelle increased her pace, knowing full well the gargoyle had not moved an inch, but unable to shake the feeling of being watched. She fumbled with her car keys, then hastily climbed into her silver Citroën. The black leather seats were cool, and she relaxed slightly at the reassuring crunch of tyres on gravel as she pulled away.
She hated driving through town alone after dark. Some inner sense always insisted that she remain indoors after nightfall. Stupid, childish fears, yet qualms she had never been able to rid herself of, especially after the incident with her first – and only – steady boyfriend a few years ago. Turning a corner, almost halfway home, she recalled the spicy scent of sandalwood and violet leaves – Green Irish Tweed cologne? – that she had smelt just as she had left the cathedral. A pleasant shiver coursed through her as she imagined what the man wearing her favourite men’s cologne, if that’s what it had been, looked like.
Lost in thought, Michelle hardly noticed as headlights, rapidly gaining on her, appeared in her rear-view mirror. A black Peugeot raced up behind her, then drew up alongside. Michelle jerked in surprise, clutching the steering wheel. She turned her head towards the Peugeot and another jolt shot through her, this time… somehow different.
The man at the wheel of the black car glanced at her briefly, his eyes wild and panicked. The wind from his open window blew a pitch-black fringe into his face, hiding his captivating eyes for a moment. Michelle’s heart leapt and her breath came in ragged gasps. She had the distinct feeling she’d met him before… somewhere. Her throat constricted as the stranger turned his steering wheel and bumped the side of her car. Sweaty hands slipping on the wheel, she slammed on brakes. The Citroën slid across the road, slowing considerably, and the stranger swerved in front of her, blocking her path.
Michelle’s car came to a halt, diagonally across the lane. For a moment, Michelle and the man stared at each other, eyes locked, and she thought there was a hint of something else in his eyes – uncertainty, perhaps? Just when she thought he’d get out of his vehicle and she’d discover if her years of martial arts training were worth anything, the Peugeot’s engine revved as he backed the car up and sped off into the night.
<><><>
Pierre cursed himself, stupid, stupid, stupid!
Good grief! Never mind getting his brother’s ashes back, he had almost killed Michelle with that stupid stunt. Shaken, Pierre sped along the road in a desperate attempt to get far enough ahead of her that she’d not be able to give chase. Why would she give chase? The question flashed through his mind, and he shuddered. Because she was different. Unpredictable. How could he possibly know that about her? He pressed harder on the accelerator, furious with himself for ruining the one chance he had had to retrieve the ashes. She had seen his face; he knew it. She would recognise him in a heartbeat. Recognise him as the man who had tried to kill her. Obviously, this would make his new mission considerably more difficult.
Why the hell had Michelle taken the ashes? Pierre had been so desperate to get Mathieu’s ashes back… So desperate that all semblance of rational thought had deserted him. He had acted stupidly and irrationally – completely unlike him. It was almost as if someone else had taken possession of him for that short time, to thwart his intentions. Maybe Frédéric would help. Then again, no; he didn’t want his friend any more involved than he already was. If Frédéric knew too much, he’d figure out what was really going on, and that wouldn’t be good for their friendship at all.
Pierre cursed himself again, fervently wishing time would reverse so he could approach Michelle in a different manner. The first time he had seen her, during one of her conversations with Mathieu, he had felt mild curiosity, but now, after seeing the look in her eyes tonight, he knew they were twin souls, meant to be together. It complicated matters somewhat, but Pierre was confident he could find a solution. He just had to make her realise that, too. It didn’t matter to him that they seemed to be on different sides as far as the Mathieu situation was concerned. She would change her mind once she got to know him, he knew.
Michelle was still at risk, though. Pierre would have to convince Adrien – the crime boss he worked for – that she was an asset; he just wasn’t sure how he would go about that yet. He couldn’t let her be disposed of, no matter what; if that meant crossing Adrien, so be it. Pierre didn’t relish the prospect, but the mere thought of anything happening to her turned his blood to ice water.
<><><>
Shaken, Michelle remained motionless, until hooting from behind brought her back to reality. She raised a hand in apology to the other driver, then manoeuvred the Citroën back into the correct lane and headed for home, this time keeping a wary lookout for the crazy man who had almost run her off the road.
At home, Michelle turned on all the lights, dropped her handbag onto the kitchen counter, and reached for the telephone next to it. She dialled her best friend’s number and sighed when she heard an engaged tone. Great. Angelique was probably on the phone with the latest guy she had met, despite the fact that she probably had plans with the same man for later. Her friend liked to get ‘worked up’ before a date, and, not surprisingly with her good looks, never had a problem finding a man who enjoyed doing the same.
Still trembling, Michelle reached for her handbag, afraid to touch or even look at the chest. She wasn’t afraid of many things, but, since her encounters with Mathieu, she had become skittish and, quite frankly, pathetic. Her hand hovered over her handbag and she jumped when the telephone rang. Putting a hand to her forehead, she answered the call.
“Mich! How was the memorial? And guess what… I have a third date with the same guy tonight! We’re going dancing!” Angelique’s lyrical voice gushed.
“A third date? Wow, you must really like this guy. As for the memorial, it was…” Michelle hesitated. “It was horrible! I shouldn’t have gone! Everyone had such nice things to say about him; it was almost as if it was someone else’s memorial and not his; it made me want to vomit. I stole his ashes, and someone tried to run me off the road on the way home!” Michelle blurted, barely stopping for breath.
Angelique was silent for a moment, then childish glee filled her voice as she exclaimed, “Michelle van Wyk! You did what?”
Anyone else would have been disgusted at the idea of stealing the ashes from a memorial service, but not Angelique.
“You heard me. I don’t know why I did something so stupid. I didn’t mean to. I mean, I didn’t plan to! It just… sort of… happened.” Michelle’s lower lip quivered as she struggled against the tears forming in her eyes.
“What are you going to do with them?” Angelique, excited at this final insult to Mathieu, had clearly missed the tremors in her friend’s voice.
“They’re in my handbag. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them! It was a stupid thing to do. Geez, I need to get them back!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’d probably get caught taking them back, and then you’re going to have some awkward explaining to do! I’m fairly sure it’s illegal, too.” Angelique giggled again. “You don’t need that kind of trouble because of him. Hey, why don’t you put them on your desk at home? Nobody ever goes into your home office, and you’ll have a daily reminder that Mathieu is gone. Gone, gone, gone!”
The corners of Michelle’s mouth twitched upwards. That wasn’t such a bad idea, actually. Feeling less of the childish fear that had prevented her from opening her handbag earlier, she unzipped it, removed the chest, and placed it on the counter.
“I suppose so. Hey, did you not hear that I said I was almost killed tonight?”
“Oh, yes. The running off the road. Hey, you made it sound like a minor thing! I thought it was just a drunk driver or something?” Angelique’s voice took on a concerned tone. “What happened?”
“I don’t really know. I kind of recognised the guy, but I’m not sure from where. He deliberately steered into my car, and then he stopped in front of me to block the road.”
“Geez, Michelle! Have you called the police?”
“What would I tell them? I didn’t even get the license plate.”
“Okay, but you said you recognised him? So if you remember later…”
Michelle shuddered. “Do you think… that maybe it was one of Mathieu’s friends?”
Angelique paused. “I don’t know. Do you really think they will come after you now that he’s dead? I mean, you don’t even know who they are! Listen, I’m going to cancel my date tonight and come over. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Just in case.”
Michelle smiled. Angelique cancelling a date? It was unheard of. She must be really worried about her.
“No. I’ll be okay. I promise. I have Max, remember?”
“Oh yeah, like a cat is going to be much use against one of Mathieu’s slimy friends!”
“Really. I’ve already locked the house for the night. I’ll set the alarm as soon as I get off the phone, and double check all the locks, okay? Please don’t worry about me.”
It took some convincing, but, eventually, Michelle persuaded Angelique not to cancel her date.
<><><>
Pierre, concealed behind the shrubs near Michelle’s front door, listened through the partly open window to her telephone conversation. So, she hadn’t intended to steal Mathieu’s ashes. He breathed a sigh of relief… Thank goodness. Too many things could go wrong with rituals of the sort that he thought she may have been planning.
On the downside, she now had him pegged as a murderer. Even worse, as one of Mathieu’s lot, who she had a completely wrong perception of. Just great. She had recognised him from somewhere. Where on earth…? Then it hit him – she must have seen him somewhere in the building where she worked. He had recently begun working for the same company, on a freelance basis, and had noticed her in the lift one day shortly after he had seen her conversing with Mathieu. He had wondered at Mathieu being so aggressive and threatening at the time, but soon realised that his brother simply hadn’t wanted another innocent person to get hurt, and had tried to scare her away. At least she couldn’t recall where she had seen Pierre before, although he suspected that it was just a matter of time before it came to her.
As she spoke to Angelique, Pierre wished he could see her, and had to restrain himself from peering in. If she saw him, it would make this already big mess completely unfixable, he was certain. He visualised her. Her auburn hair blowing in the light breeze outside the cathedral; her slim body hunched as she moved towards her car. Pierre closed his eyes and tried to imagine what her skin would feel like. Probably a damn side better than this bush. A shudder of desire rushed through him and he jerked, opening his eyes. He didn’t even know what colour her eyes were – it bothered him – and here he was fantasising about her.
I haven’t said a single word to her…
Yet here he was sitting outside her window thinking luridly of her…. He felt like a stalker. A dirty, sick person who was invading her privacy. He hated that. He could barely stand to wait for the day when she would realise they were destined to be together; then he wouldn’t have to resort to eavesdropping to get close to her. When she began locking the house, he decided he would go home and think about the best way to word his declaration of true love, and a warning of the impending danger Adrien posed. Then, tomorrow, he would go to the office – he had to hand in some new photographs to one of her colleagues anyway – and he would warn her. She would feel safe at work, less threatened, and he needed her to feel safe; otherwise, she’d never listen to him. And hey, maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t recognise him from earlier that evening. It had been dark, and she had been scared. Maybe she wouldn’t realise… Maybe… If luck was on his side.
<><><>
Michelle set her burglar alarm and double checked the locks, then, before she could consider what was inside the chest, grabbed it and went into her office. She set it on her desk, but decided she’d not be able to work with Mathieu’s remains so close, so placed it on top of the filing cabinet just to the left of her desk. Still feeling as if she had made a grave mistake, Michelle stood in the centre of the room and listened to the ominously silent house. Not even Max could be heard crying for his food, as he usually did the second she arrived home. Come to think of it, where was the tortoiseshell cat?
Afraid that something had happened to her pet, Michelle went in search of him. She eventually discovered the usually bold cat hiding under her dressing table. It was a mission and a half to get him out, and, when she had him in hand, Max gave her a scalding look and complained loudly. Wondering what had got into him, but thankful that he was okay, Michelle led him to the kitchen and took his food from the cupboard. When she turned back, Max had vanished again. Surprised, she shrugged it off as a cat thing, and placed his food on the floor for when he finally decided it was suppertime.
Michelle didn’t feel particularly hungry, and, after nibbling on some leftover pasta from the previous night, she had a quick bath and climbed into bed, leaving the lights on. Although she usually slept in the nude, that night she opted for light silk summer pyjamas… Just in case. Since she and Angelique had discussed the possibility earlier, Michelle had been worrying about whether or not she was truly safe. Perhaps she should hide Mathieu’s ashes in the morning…. It wouldn’t do for his friends or family to discover that she was the thief. Especially not if they already wanted to hurt her. Logic dictated that, with Mathieu gone, so was the threat he had posed. However, with each passing minute, the little voice of warning in the back of her mind grew more insistent. Half an hour later, Michelle rose and padded into her office, placed the chest containing Mathieu’s remains inside the bottom drawer of her desk, then went back to bed.
<><><>
Halfway home, Pierre turned the car around and headed back towards Michelle’s house. Sickened by his lack of rational thinking when it came to her, he was, nonetheless, determined to keep her safe – no matter what. After all, it was his fault she thought she was no longer in any danger – if Mathieu had been alive, she would know, and be more careful. He had ruined both the opportunity to warn her, and his chance of befriending her.
Pierre would sleep under the shrubs he knew grew in her backyard along the house’s wall. He would just have to figure out which was her bedroom window – those were the shrubs that would be his bed tonight. It would be uncomfortable, that was for sure, but he would be woken immediately if anyone tried to break into the house – and he had no doubt that those who wanted to silence Michelle would make her suffer before killing her. He would hear any sounds of struggle or torture, no matter how muffled, at that proximity.
Pierre knew Frédéric would probably think he was being ridiculous, but he disagreed. Michelle had locked up the house, and he had heard her set the burglar alarm, but he didn’t doubt for a second that Adrien’s henchmen could disarm the alarm and creep in, if they chose to. It wasn’t really all that ridiculous when one looked at the bare facts.
When he arrived, all the lights remained on – Michelle hadn’t gone to bed yet. It was still early, though, and not everyone went to sleep early during the week. Pierre drove his car around the block and parked it under a large cedar tree two blocks down. He walked briskly back to Michelle’s house and slipped into her backyard through the newly varnished wooden side gate.
It didn’t take him long to figure out which window belonged to her bedroom – she was drawing the curtains as he crept into the yard, and, for a moment, seemed to look at him. There were no lights in her yard, however, so she failed to notice him crouched beside the garage wall. Pierre made himself as comfortable as he could under the shrubs – which wasn’t very comfortable at all – and tried to stay alert. It wasn’t long before his mind again drifted to thoughts of Michelle, and he imagined her slim body pressed hard against his, her smile teasing him to touch her, the feel of her flesh – in his mind, silken-soft.
<><><>
Michelle drifted off to sleep, with Max shuffling about under the dressing table again and thoughts of the dark-haired stranger playing in her mind. Where had she seen him before?
The tall stranger flicked his black fringe from his eyes with a shake of his head, and pointed an accusing finger at Michelle. “You shouldn’t have got involved with him!”
“He’s dead now. He can’t hurt me!” she retorted.
“Is that what you think?” the man growled as he took a step towards her, his chest muscles seeming to ripple in the moonlight.
Michelle backed away. “Don’t you dare threaten me!”
He laughed harshly, his blue eyes gleaming. “You think that was a threat? It’s not me you need to be worried about!”
At that, he closed the distance between them, and grabbed Michelle’s arm roughly.
“Let me go!” she yelled as he dragged her towards his Peugeot.
Michelle tried to twist out of his strong grasp, bringing them face to face. A wave of pleasure coursed through her as she caught a whiff of his cologne – a vague scent of sandalwood and violet leaves. The man leant down, and a jolt of electricity shot through her as his lips touched hers. The dark road vanished as he caressed her back, and she heard singing. Behind them, the priest from Mathieu’s memorial led the singing, oblivious to the man and woman behind him, locked together in a passionate embrace. The stranger’s hands moved lower to cup her buttocks, sending a rush of desire through her.
An engine revved somewhere, then the cathedral’s walls thundered inwards and headlights bore down on them. The stranger released Michelle, and his eyes widened. Then the vehicle was gone, and he drew an arm back and swung his fist towards her face. Michelle flinched at the expected impact, then shuddered with pleasure as the stranger pressed down harder onto her. They lay in her bed, once again feverishly locked together. Michelle felt his hardness through his jeans, and realised she was naked. Wanting nothing more than to be as close to this man as she possibly could be, she reached for his zipper. As she pulled it down, a ripping sound cut the air and they were standing in a vast expanse of snow.
The sound came again – a wet, sticky tearing – and Michelle’s eyes widened in horror when she realised the source – the handsome stranger stood silently, arms limp at his sides, as invisible hands peeled the skin from his face, strip by strip. The tearing sound grew louder with each additional piece of skin ripped loose, the bloody pieces sticking to his neck. His lips moved, but the invisible, ghostly hands’ now-thunderous mutilation of his face rendered him silent.
Finally, Michelle thought she could hear ‘run’.
As he toppled face down in the crimson snow, Michelle turned and fled.
<><><>
Pierre tried to focus on his priorities, but his attention kept wandering back to lurid thoughts of Michelle. He had watched her at the memorial service, and had followed at a distance, using the sound of her boots to guide him, when she had gone exploring. Certain members of their family, however, knew what he had done to his brother, and loathed him for it, and the fact that he was now on their hit list, too, had prevented him from showing his face, in case Michelle panicked and drew attention to him. He wasn’t sure if they would actually kill him, although anger at Mathieu’s demise might push some to try, but prison was a far more horrifying thought to Pierre than death. When Michelle had gone up to the bell tower, Pierre had decided to do what he had come to do, and returned to the chapel.
Bile rose in Pierre’s throat as he remembered how his uncle had spoken of Mathieu. He knew this particular uncle was well aware of Mathieu’s extracurricular activities, and, as such, his kind words put him in the same category as Mathieu, as far as Pierre was concerned. Backstabbers. Pierre shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and shifted in the bushes in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position. Their grandmother had spoken next, and Pierre softened slightly at the memory. The old woman was completely unaware of any of her family’s ‘projects’, and had had a soft spot for Mathieu. Pierre frowned as he considered how much Mathieu’s relationship with their grandmother had irked him.
The frown quickly turned to a deep scowl as he recalled his stupidity shortly before Michelle had stolen his brother’s ashes. Impulsively, he had begun the ritual that would ultimately destroy Mathieu’s soul, when he should have swapped the ashes as he had planned, and then returned home to perform the ritual there instead. He recalled his heightened senses as he had lifted the lid, opened the translucent plastic packet inside to expose the ashes, and then the coppery taste of blood and the eye-watering pain as he had bitten into the underside of his thumb, held it over the chest, and allowed the crimson liquid to drop into the chest and mingle with Mathieu’s ashes.
Cold fear of being caught had consumed him when he heard footsteps approaching fast, and he had quickly closed the container and hidden behind large pot plants grouped together near the back of the room. That was when Michelle had stolen the ashes, and delayed his plans considerably. He would have left the ashes of burnt books he had saved to ensure that nobody went looking for the real ashes, but it was pointless, as she had taken the entire box and not just the ashes inside, as Pierre had planned to do. He had almost accosted her outside the cathedral, but had decided against it at the last minute. If Michelle had turned her head as she left the building, she would have seen him. Only her fascination with the gargoyles had spared him from being noticed.
Pierre’s main concern now was to retrieve his brother’s ashes. He then had to do what needed to be done: a simple matter of revenge. If he played his cards right, Michelle would never know the truth. She had complicated matters by stealing the ashes, and he had to keep her from delving further into Mathieu’s business, at least until after she had realised that she was destined to be with Pierre. Then, and only then, would she accept the truth, without turning her back on him.
Pierre fantasised about the day Michelle would truly be on his side. He tingled in anticipation, and it was a strain not to stroke himself. His thoughts, coupled with the fact that the bushes were making him itch, kept him awake for a long time before he eventually drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter 3
When Michelle woke up the next morning, she was covered with perspiration, the duvet was damp, and her shoulder-length auburn hair clung uncomfortably to the nape of her neck. She was dismayed to realise that she was incredibly aroused. Fragments of her dreams from the previous night clung to her memory, but stubbornly refused to be revealed in full. Some of the dreams made her shudder in horror, while other parts left her strangely sad.
Most of what she recalled, however, made her desperate to get as far as possible away from the stranger who had tried to kill her. He spelt trouble; she could feel it in her gut. Michelle swung her legs over the side of the bed and scowled. She had a horrible suspicion that she hadn’t seen the last of him. Trying to shake the thoughts from her mind, she had a quick shower, dressed for work, and went into the kitchen to feed Max. Weird – his bowl was still full from the previous night.
She headed back to the bedroom and crouched by the dressing table. Max was still there, curled against the wall. He mewed pitifully when he saw her. What on earth had got into the animal? Michelle decided to take the cat to the twenty-four-hour vet that evening if he still hadn’t come out to eat.
“I’ll be back later, baby. Eat something, huh?” she whispered to the cat as she stood.
<><><>
When Pierre opened his eyes the next morning, he was amazed that he had slept at all. Between the hard ground, the shrubs’ prickly thorns, itching, and the need to get his revenge over with so he could relax and enjoy being with Michelle, he had resigned himself to a very long night – with no sleep. He began to stretch, then jerked his legs back under the shrubs – if Michelle saw him, he would be in big trouble. Not only with her, but if she reported him to the police…
Pierre ached all over, and was certain his muscles would refuse to obey if he tried to stand right at that moment. He listened intently, trying to hear if Michelle was awake yet. He could tell it was still early morning, the dawn not yet quite having pushed back the night. He had dreamt that night…. Erotic dreams of him and Michelle entwined together, her eyes fastened on him, filled with a look of adoration…. Also, the other dreams… Dreams where she had died horribly in front of him, and he had been unable to save her.
Pierre clasped his forehead. No, he must think positively. She was still alive, and if anyone could protect her from Adrien, it was him. Then the thought struck him – the house was deathly silent, and surely she should be up and getting ready for work already? What if…?
Pierre jumped to his feet, and was forced to lean against the side of the house – the cramping in his legs had turned to pins and needles, and he was unable to stand without support. What if she had been killed during the night? He had been so tired; maybe he hadn’t heard the commotion. They might have subdued her quickly, taped her mouth, and then hurt her at their leisure….
He imagined her broken body sprawled across her bed, the sheets slick with her blood, her face no longer recognisable. A whimper escaped him, and he clamped his lips together tightly. No, it wasn’t possible. He would have heard something. Unconvinced, he edged towards the window and peered inside, still leaning against the wall for support. The bedroom was empty, the bed unmade… No signs of a struggle, however. No blood. He breathed a sigh of relief, then jumped when Michelle walked into the room, her pretty face a mask of concern.
Pierre jumped back from the window, not sure if he had been seen. She was alive. She was okay, but… What had made her look so concerned? Had Adrien’s henchmen left her a message of some sort during the night? It would be just like them to toy with her a bit, scare the living daylights out of her, before getting down to business and killing her.
Pierre shuddered at the thought, then, deciding that she hadn’t seen him at the window, he crept towards her gate again, the cramps still attacking his legs, although not as painfully as before. He would make sure she left for work safely, then go home and shower before heading to her office. He would sort his work out first, then find Michelle’s office. Then…
“Do or die,” he whispered.
<><><>
As soon as she arrived at work, Michelle’s boss stormed into her office to tell her that one of her colleagues, Felicite, was off sick, and she would have to deal with their new freelance photographer until her colleague was well enough to return to work. Michelle nodded, not especially perturbed at the news. It wouldn’t take long to look through a few photos and decide which options would be best for each of their clients’ ads.
Michelle set to work, checking her emails first, and scowling when she saw that there had been a mix-up of the information printed in two of their clients’ ads. The one client, in particular, was never happy with anything they did for him, and Michelle sometimes wondered why he didn’t simply take his business elsewhere. Of course, it wasn’t her place to ask this question.
Around midmorning, the receptionist called to inform her that the photographer was on his way upstairs to see her. She thanked the woman, grimaced, and continued working – she preferred not to waste a second of her day. A minute or so later, someone knocked on her door.
“Come in,” she called.
“Hi. I’ve come with the…” The voice trailed off.
Michelle caught a whiff of Green Irish Tweed cologne, looked up, and froze. Her heart fluttered, then beat wildly, and she barely prevented herself from bolting out the chair or yelling for security – or both.
In a choked voice, she asked, “What do you want?”
The dark-haired stranger who she had spent most of the previous night dreaming about stared at her, his stance rigid. He looked almost as shocked as she was, and Michelle realised that he had expected to see her as much as she had expected to see him. She now knew where she recognised him from – she had seen him in the corridor a few days ago, coming out of Felicite’s office.
A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed before he cleared his throat and replied, “I’m the new photographer. I’ve come to give you my latest pictures. I was told Felicite isn’t at work today, and you would be handling this.” He glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand, then asked, “Miss van Wyk?”
Michelle suppressed a shudder, and tried not to notice how the muscles in his arms bulged under his dark blue shirt, which complemented his ice-blue eyes perfectly. She also did her best to ignore the intensity in his gaze, and his seemingly good-natured face. She considered calling security, but cast the idea aside – she had only been working for the company for a little under three months, and could not afford to be labelled a trouble-maker and possibly lose her job. She wasn’t sure if the company would stand behind her ordering the best photographer in the business off the premises. She knew that was how her boss, and everyone else, for that matter, thought of him, because all she had been hearing since he had produced his first set of photographs was how fantastic he was.
Michelle took a deep breath and replied, “Yes. You can leave them on my desk, and I’ll get our accounts department to sort you out once we’ve made our decision. Do you have an email address where I can contact you?”
Michelle asked the latter as an afterthought, dreading the thought of having to speak to him over the telephone, or even worse, seeing him again. She knew she may have to be the one to discuss the relevant image adjustments, depending on how long Felicite stayed off work.
The photographer cleared his throat again, at least having the grace to look nervous, and said, “Unfortunately not. But my cell number is on the CD cover. If you need to get hold of me, you can call me on that.”
The photographer looked down, shuffling his feet, then seemed to realise he was expected to give Michelle the CD. He looked up at her again, then moved to stand in front of her desk. He held the CD out to her, and she flinched; hadn’t she just told him to leave it on her desk? Why did he have to make things even more awkward for her? Doing her best to act cool, Michelle took the CD, glancing at the cover. So that was his name: Pierre Dumaine.
“Thanks. Will that be all for now?” she asked, trying to sound as professional as possible under the circumstances.
Pierre smiled, catching her off guard. “Well… there is one more thing. A question, if I may?”
Michelle’s heart dropped. He was going to bring up his murder attempt; she was sure of it. Still trying to act cool, she replied, “As you know, Felicite usually deals with this sort of thing, so I may not be able to answer your questions, but I’ll do my best. What is it you want to know?”
Pierre glanced behind him as if to make sure that they were alone, then murmured, “I was wondering… Would you…?” He coughed, seemingly nervous. “Would you maybe… like to go for lunch with me today?”
A faint blush had crept into his cheeks. Michelle was incredulous. First he tries to murder me, and now he asks me out for lunch? What the hell is wrong with the man? Surely he isn’t serious?
He wiped his hands on his black trousers and raised an eyebrow, waiting for her response.
Eventually, she found her tongue, angry with him for mocking her, and replied coldly, “I don’t think it’s very professional to mix business with… personal matters.”
Pierre didn’t look terribly surprised at either her tone or her rejection, but he did look rather disappointed. Maybe he had wanted a second chance at killing her, or maybe he had thought she was someone else, and that’s why he had driven off as soon as he’d seen her face. She pondered that last thought, wondering what the intended victim could have done to deserve being murdered. Then another, more chilling, thought hit her: what if he was a friend of Mathieu’s? Was it possible he was the same Pierre she had heard Mathieu’s widow discussing at the funeral? The man who had, apparently, had better things to do than attend Mathieu’s memorial service. If so, he couldn’t be a friend of Mathieu’s, could he?
“Maybe just coffee, then?” His voice cut into Michelle’s thoughts.
Michelle scowled, the intensity of her need to be polite waning – she wouldn’t lose her job for merely snapping at him, surely. Her scowl intensified. “What part of ‘no’ is not clear to you? I don’t want to have lunch with you. I don’t want to have coffee with you. I’ll be happy if I never see you again. Now, will that be all?”
Michelle looked down again and typed furiously, her eyes boring into the computer monitor in an attempt to will Pierre out of her office.
He opened his mouth as if to respond, then appeared to bite back the words, and replied stiffly, “No. That’s all, thanks. I’ll wait to hear from you about those photos.”
With that, he turned on his heel and practically stalked out.
<><><>
Well, that hadn’t gone so well, Pierre thought as he closed the door. He had been about to ask her out for coffee a second time, but she would have only rebuffed him again. He hadn’t given up hope, though. He could tell by the look in her gorgeous green eyes – he had taken note of the colour – that she was attracted to him. Her harsh words had hurt, but he knew she was only afraid of the intensity of her feelings for him. She would get over it; he was certain.
Pierre could use her attraction to him to gain her trust – after all, he thought, most women would eventually give in to a man they were attracted to, no matter what the circumstances, given enough prodding. As he took the lift down to the parking garage, he frowned. When had he become so sexist? Even if it was true that most women would give in to him, he already knew that Michelle wasn’t most women – she was different. Fragile and vulnerable, yet… He sensed the strength beneath the surface.
He would have to find a way to speak to her. He had almost blurted everything out to her in the office, half convinced that she would understand, but she hadn’t seemed to be in a receptive frame of mind, so it would most likely have been counterproductive. He had to wait for the right moment to present itself.
<><><>
“Good riddance,” Michelle muttered under her breath as the door closed.
The scent of Pierre’s cologne lingered, and she was unable to concentrate on her work. After a few minutes of staring blankly at her computer monitor, she inserted the CD he had left on her desk into the CD-ROM. She had to go through the photos, so it may as well be now, while the man was still on her mind.
Browsing through the CD, Michelle realised that her colleagues had not exaggerated Pierre’s professional skills – he truly did know how to take an excellent photograph. She despised the fact that he was good at his job. She had half hoped to be able to complain to her manager about him and reject all his photos, but now she knew she would not be able to do so.
Sighing, Michelle continued to go through the photographs, trying to pick out the best ones for the advertisement. It took her the better part of an hour, and she was exhausted by the time she was done. Still, Pierre’s cologne remained, taunting her. She shuddered. She had spent most of the last hour also desperately trying to force memories of the previous night’s dreams from her head. What the hell was wrong with her? This wasn’t normal, to have erotic thoughts about someone who wanted you dead, was it?
Michelle picked up the phone to call Angelique – her best friend would talk sense into her, she knew. She dialled Angelique’s cell number, not wanting to go through the reception at her friend’s work – her managers were rather uptight about personal calls, and the receptionist knew Michelle’s voice. Angelique often received work-related calls on her private cell phone, so that wouldn’t be an issue.
“Mich! How are you feeling today?” Angelique gushed.
Michelle laughed – Angelique must have seen her caller ID. “Are you very busy now?”
“I’m never too busy to have a chat with my best friend!” Angelique giggled.