Page 10 of A Life Betrayed

“Mr. Beauvais,” she said, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “One of the girls wants to see you.”

“I’m not interested,” Mathias said brusquely and stepped past her.

“She said it was important,” the woman said, lowering her voice.

Mathias stopped, immediately suspicious. He gave her a short nod and turned to his second. “We’re done here.”

As Jacques peeled off, Mathias followed the hostess to one of the private enclaves around the back of the main stage. She shutthe curtain behind him and disappeared without another word. He stood in the middle of the cramped room, unwilling to sit, let alone touch anything. It had been years since he’d last been back here, and he was in the enviable position of no longer having to prove himself. His status afforded him the ability to wieldnoas a power play, and he was free to act as though he was above the club’s inferior offerings. Still, the room conjured a familiar unease in his stomach.

The curtain parted, and a slight girl with wavy blond hair slipped into the room. She wore a sheer robe over top of her skimpy outfit and clutched it to her chest as though shielding herself. “Sorry to bother you,” she mumbled nervously. There was a rough edge to her Quebecois, revealing a small-town pedigree. “I-I just thought you should know.”

“About…?” he asked curtly.

She shrank and refused to meet his eye. “She was the one who contacted me. My boyfriend’s court date is coming up, and she said she could get him off—”

Mathias knew where this was headed. “In exchange for what?”

The girl’s eyes, wide with panic, flew to his face. “I didn’t agree to anything. I didn’t tell her anything!”

Mathias tempered his agitation. He had little patience for hysterical women. “What’s your name?” he asked evenly, changing tack, which appeared to calm her somewhat.

“Lauralie.”

“Now, Lauralie, what did this woman want you to do?”

The girl ran her tongue across her lips. “Get close to you. Give her information.”

Mathias almost laughed. To think he would confess his sins to a piece of ass. “Did she say who she was with?”

Lauralie shook her head. “No, but she was definitely a cop—Anglo. Her French was prissy. And she mentioned something about a federal case.”

“She gave me her number so I could get in touch,” the girl added. “Said her name was Allen something.”

Frances Allen.So his suspicions had been correct. The inspector wasn’t a chump, like Lapierre, and she wasn’t here to play games. “Well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint,” he announced.

Lauralie balked. “What?”

“Call her,” Mathias instructed. “Tell her you have some information and you’ll meet her at the dep across the street.” He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and held out a handful to the girl.

She took them gingerly. “Now? What if she can’t—”

“She’ll be there.”

Lauralie grimaced. “You’re not going to do anything?”

“That depends on what you’ve told her.”

“Nothing,” she whispered, shaking her head vigorously. “Honest to God.”

“Then I’m not going to do anything.” Mathias watched as she slipped her hand into the robe to pull out her phone.Not yet.

Frances peered at the gloomy contents of her fridge and weighed up her options. She’d meant to pick up groceries on her way home but seemed to be leaving the office later and later each day, only to bring work back with her anyway. The kitchen table was currently piled with filing boxes of records that she’d spent the last few nights trawling through. She was looking for someone close enough to Mathias to have the inside scoop but motivated enough to risk turning on him to cut a deal. She was beginning to understand why the investigation had gotten nowhere—an informant like that might as well be a fucking unicorn.

She closed the fridge and scanned the empty kitchen as though a warm meal might magic itself into existence. The rest of the apartment was equally sparse. Work was paying for it while she was stationed in Montreal. The place was nothing special—a simple studio that came with a bed and basic furnishings. Frances was still living out of the duffel bag she’d brought with her when she’d left Ottawa. If there was anything she happened to need—clothes, cutlery, a decent frying pan—she went out and bought it.

She gave a defeated sigh and reached for her keys. It would have to be takeout again. That was one thing she did like about Montreal—there was always something open, and it was almost always good. Even in the depths of winter, the city managed to maintain an air of vibrancy, its residents conditioned to simply carry on as usual despite the relentless pummeling of snow.

Frances was pulling on her boots by the door when her phone rang. She saw who it was and fumbled to pick it up.

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