Page 8 of Skotos
He turned away, his mouth quirked. “Just . . . think of what Sparrow and Egret might do, then do the opposite.”
A laugh slipped free. “You had to bringtheminto this, didn’t you?”
“It’s a fair point, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent,” I said through chuckles. “Especially Egret. He’d dive headfirst into that fancy tower of sugary goodness, damn the consequences. All Sparrow would do is die of embarrassment.”
“Right after she tore him a new asshole, you mean?”
I spat another laugh. Sparrow and Egret were dear to us, so much more than occasional partners on missions. They were family. And Lord knew we were as dysfunctional as a family got . . . and I loved it.
A moment later, our car came to a halt. A uniformed footman opened the door with a polished bow, and we stepped out into the crisp night. Small stones on the courtyard’s walkway crunched softly underfoot as we approached the staircase.
That evening, the Élysée had dressed for the occasion, and she was spectacular.
Soft spotlights lit the façade from below, casting long, elegant shadows and accentuating every curve of the columns and delicate ornamentation carved into its stone. Wreaths of lush laurel and draped flags in French and Swiss colors adorned the outer balcony railings, fluttering in the spring breeze. Hundreds of lanterns with frosted glass glowedalong the perimeter of the gravel drive, illuminating the way like a trail of starlight. A massive French Tricolor snapped crisply atop the main roofline, flanked by smaller diplomatic banners placed with precise symmetry.
Along the grand staircase, a deep crimson carpet stretched, its rich hue standing out starkly against the limestone steps. White-gloved, uniformed guards from French military services stood at ceremonial attention on either side of the main entrance, their polished boots gleaming and sabers sheathed at their sides. Large floral arrangements—white roses, blue delphiniums, and scarlet anemones—flanked the arched double doors, echoing the colors of the French flag in scent and bloom.
I whistled low enough only Thomas could hear. “The French sure know how to throw a party.”
He smiled. “We should go home sometime, have you meet my family. We can compare notes afterward. They aren’t into all this gilding, but the opulence? You might never pick your jaw up off the ground.”
Thomas Arthur Jacobs was not my beloved’s full name.DuPontwas legally how it ended, though he rarely shared that tidbit with anyone. And yes, he was one ofthoseDuPonts, American royalty possessing more wealth than most small nations. Despite our years together, I still had not met his family, only the driver who’d been part of his life since childhood, hisgaydriver who held Thomas’s secrets closely enough to make clandestine services jealous.
The more I thought about it, Thomas was right. We would need to correct that familial oversight once we returned to the States.
“Messieurs, bienvenue,” said an usher from his perch on the bottom step.
We followed, ascending the wide limestone steps flanked by tall columns and golden lanterns. Inside, the marble foyer seemed to glow from within. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, detailed with painted cherubs and curling gilt accents. A chandelier the size of a small car sparkled with hundreds of lit candles—actual candles, not bulbs—and beneath it, diplomats mingled in murmured French, German, Italian, and the occasional clipped English.
As we approached the inner entrance, a man with a long ceremonial staff banged it once on the marble.
“Messieurs Kirk Wainright et Alan Archer, attachés américains.”
There was no elaboration, and I was grateful for it.
Kirk and Alan were the aliases we’d been given upon returning to Paris a few missions ago, when we finally settled into our flat and routine assisting the French in their rebuilding efforts. It still felt odd, having aliases in German, Hungarian, and Swiss, all in addition to our bird-like code names favored by the CIA’s predecessor organization, the OSS. There were times, when we were in the field, I almost forgot who I was supposed to be in the moment. Returning home, to ourParisianhome, certainlymade all of that easier, bringing us back to Alan and Kirk—or Will and Thomas, in a blessed moment of privacy. Having so many identities somehow made our own names feel more precious, more intimate, something to be used only between us, the rest of the world be damned.
“Monsieur.” The staff-wielding man urged us on, jarring me out of my fog as we moved forward into the heart of the Élysée. Thomas strode forward, head high, as if he’d been here a hundred times, his gaze steady and body relaxed.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop gawking.
Every inch of the palace was a masterclass in opulence. Gilded mirrors lined the walls, each reflecting the glint of golden candelabras and the dizzying shimmer of beaded gowns. Velvet drapes the color of crushed cherries framed enormous windows so tall I could barely see their top in the ceiling’s unlit darkness. Oil paintings—portraits and battle scenes, long-dead kings and queens, and mythological allegories—loomed over us, their eyes following every step we took. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Napoleon was likely staring down from some celestial seat.
My shoes squeaked faintly on the polished parquet floor as my fingers itched to trail along the intricate molding or race over the hand-carved banisters on the grand staircase.
We passed through throngs of men and women, leaders of their lands and rulers of the free world. We entered salons and vestibules, each more ornate than the last. The scent of beeswax polish and fresh flowers wove together like a tapestry, and somewhere ahead, music swelled into a warm, welcoming waltz.
Thomas gave me a sidelong glance and smirked. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?” I said, still craning my neck to take in a ceiling mural of Greek gods hurling lightning bolts.
“The ‘I was raised in the Midwest and this is all too shiny to be real’ look.”
I grinned. “Can you blame me? I’ve never seen so many people pretending to be relaxed while stomping all over six hundred years of history.”
“Welcome to diplomacy.”
