Page 21 of The Devil Wears Orange
He’s thankful the caffeine will keep him awake for the long drive ahead and wonders what he has gotten himself into; he’s an academic and while, yes, he is called from time to time as an expert to help Interpol, he has never been left alone to infiltrate the ring, not counting Switzerland, yet even that was meant to be temporary. This is a first for Jack. He only wishes he wasn’t so intrigued by Charlotte and wonders how she got caught up in all of this.
The rain pounds the windshield and Jack turns the wipers to full blast. Headlights of a car behind them bounce off his rearview mirror, high beams temporarily blinding him. It seems that with every turn, the car follows. Paranoia gets the better of him, but, given the circumstances, he can’t be too careful and takes random turns. Still, the car continues to follow from a distance.
It can’t be Favreau’s men because he made it clear he doesn’t have the resources. Jack skirts his eyes toward a sleeping Charlotte. It’s possible her crew wants her back. His hands tighten on the steering wheel. Jack accelerates, makes a turn onto Quai Henri IV, then a left onto Voie Mazas, before hitting Quai de Bercy. When he drives onto the ramp heading to A6 and merges onto the A10/E50, he realizes he hasn’t shaken the vehicle.
Chapter 11
Jack inspects the rearviewmirror, occasionally twists his body around to ensure no one follows. It was a good half-hour into his journey that the car finally stopped trailing them. Or perhaps he merely lost sight of the vehicle, and it’s still lurking at a distance, waiting patiently for Jack to let his guard down. In the hours since he last saw them, Jack has remained on alert.
This country road he’s driving on is endless. Beside him, Charlotte shifts, agitated, Jack’s jacket strewn over her for a blanket. She mumbles nonsense in her sleep, a sporadic mix of whispers and bawling.
“Charlotte,” he whispers, “where’sMistress In A Red Dress?”
Charlotte sucks in a breath. “Red’s out this season. Floral’s in.”
He shakes his head. It’s a dumb thing to attempt, but people with guilty consciences have been known to talk in their sleep. Or perhaps only in films. “Who are your people?”
No response.
“Charlotte, who are your friends?”
“No friends.” Suddenly disturbed, Charlotte shakes her head, and her eyes fly open. She bolts upright, twists her neck to peek out the window behind her, then returns her gaze straight ahead. She grimaces, clasps her hand to the back of her neck, and stretches in slow movements. “Where am I?”
“France,” he says in a deadpan voice.
“Very funny,” she groans. “Besides, that cow we passed wearing a beret and scarf and singingLa Vie en Rosegave it away.”
He chuckles. “We’re almost there.”
At a hand-painted sign that readsChateau Emilie, Jack turns onto a dirt road and through an open iron gate, then down a long avenue of trees, lavender planted by their feet. A floral scent fills the car. Finally, an 18th-century home, tucked behind a walled garden of oleanders and English roses, appears.
Charlotte sits up in her seat. “What is this place?”
“A vineyard I stayed at last year. The owners, Philippe and Marianna, are quite friendly.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says before a look of unease clouds her face. “Do they know about me?”
“Philippe is a Luddite, if I remember correctly. You’re safe. The village is ten minutes away, and I doubt they care what happens in Paris. They keep a different pace here.” He parks at an angle near the villa’s grand wooden door.
Climbing out of the car, Charlotte stares at the home until a French bulldog’s bark breaks her gaze and she looks down.
“That’s Marcel,” Jack says. Pointing to chickens scratching about in gravel, he continues, “and that’s Chicken. One next to it is also Chicken. Hard to tell the little buggers apart. Here comes Duck.”
“You meanPoulet, PouletandConfit de Canard.”
“With a nice red.”
“Bordeaux.”
“Naturellement.”
Jack smiles at this little exchange. Turning, he looks out to the swathe of pruned vines he knows are picked by hand for the estate. “If it was a little later in the summer, we’d breathe in the bouquet of the vineyard.”
“I’ve drunk enough wine in my life to smell that bouquet.”
The front door flies open, both Jack and Charlotte spin around. Philippe, short and seemingly pudgier since Jack’s last stay here, rushes over.
“Professor Jack! We were thrilled to learn you were coming. The room is nearly ready,” says Philippe.
