Page 55 of Angel Eyes

Eventually.

I admit, I’d been surprised Gabriel hadn’t tried to accompany her home. It was exactly the sort of Prince Charming bullshit I would have expected from him. Instead, he’d stood in the doorway as she disappeared up the street, hands in his pockets, gazing after her like she hung the stars in the sky.

So much the better for me.

I followed her, walking at a distance but close enough so she remained in my line of sight until she entered an apartment building on the Île Saint-Louis. I sidled up to the mailbox, reading the names listed there. There were only four. Two of them were male and one was preceded by the salutation Madame. That left one name at the very top next to the slot for the third-floor apartment: Mlle. Juliet Chandler.

Thirty well-spent minutes on the internet later, I probably knew more about Juliet than some of her closest friends. Twenty-eight years old from New York City, an associate at a corporate law firm, and currently a creative writing student at AUP.

I’d flipped over to her social media, and what a gold mine of personal details that was.

She frequently participated in blood drives because her blood type was O-negative. She was in a sorority in college and attended a reunion in the Hamptons with her sorority sisters last summer. Apparently, Jell-O shots were involved. She hates roller coasters, loves The Band Camino, and has a tiny freckle above her belly button.

Thank you, bikini picture.

I leaned forward in my seat, pressing a few buttons on the touchscreen display until the sultry sounds of Debussy’s “Beau Soir” floated from the car speakers.

Finding her again hadn’t been difficult. I simply kept tabs on her social media, and sure enough, she posted a photo that led me directly to her. Scoping out her location and devising an excuse to talk to her? Easy. Disarming her with my unassailable charm? Surprisingly less so.

And wasn’t that refreshing.

I rested my head back, my lips hooking into a grin.

What a curiosity Juliet Chandler was. At a distance, she was just another cliché nice girl, but up close, there was a fire burning in her eyes.

And no one enjoyed playing with fire more than I did.

On top of that, she was quick-witted, discerning, and showed a propensity for loyalty—all characteristics I held in high esteem. Under different circumstances, I might have even liked her.

Too bad she was just a pawn.

Twenty

Cristian

The car pulled up to the centuries-old building of Lutetian limestone, a timeless fixture standing alongside the Seine and a representation of everything Marcel’s stood for.

Elegance, commitment, and excellence.

From the moment I first set eyes on the property, I knew no other place would do. The previous owners, a couple operating it as an Italian restaurant, had told me they were interested in selling at some point, but perhaps in a year or two.

I politely convinced them to reconsider.

In the end, I had gotten the fading beauty for a steal. The prior owners either hadn’t wanted to undertake the expense of renovating the place or lacked the vision necessary to restore the landmark to its former glory. My money was on the latter, but either way, it worked out. A property such as this one needed a truly innovative mind and an abundance of resources to revive it.

And I just so happened to be in possession of both.

Passing through the wrought iron double doors, I stepped into the entryway that was all dark wood paneling and antique furnishings. In decades past, the first floor had served as the dining room, and, to display the restaurant’s history, I’d preserved as much of the original interior as possible. That is, except for the lighting. Sentimentality aside, every restaurateur worth his salt knows excellent lighting is the cornerstone of ambiance, and I intended to set the tone from the moment our guests walked through the front doors.

Speaking of lighting …

I strode past a team of electricians huddled over a wiring diagram and proceeded to the elevator. It chimed as I reached it, the vintage doors sliding open to reveal Caleb, his navy eyes widening when they connected with mine.

“Try not to look like a deer in headlights, Caleb. It’s unbecoming.”

“Right,” he said, pushing a hand into his blond curls as I joined him in the elevator, pressing the button for the sixth floor. “Max just messaged me to say you’d arrived, and not a minute too soon. I was afraid I was going to have to tackle Gauthier to keep him from leaving. Fortunately, I was able to get Amélie to distract him in your office for a bit.”

I lifted a brow, casting him a sideways look. “While I applaud your ingenuity, I’m afraid I can’t have you pimping out my staff.” I masked a smile as he barked a laugh.

---