“I’ll be the judge,” the man says, much too casually, holding up a cluster of glittering sapphires on a golden chain.
The largest piece. Maybe he’ll take that and be satisfied.
Lord Aaron and I…liberated this particular set of jewels from a friend. Her family. Their most treasured possession. Guilt has hollowed my insides, but if this man really can sell me my freedom, it will have been worth it.
The Frenchman is studying the sapphires and, I assume, estimating their worth—when surprise dawns in his eyes an instant before flaring into anger. “Where did you get these?” he demands, thrusting out the necklace with a sharp jangle. “How did you break into the Palace of Versailles?”
Something about his tone assures me that if I don’t answer honestly and immediately, he’ll have no qualms about ordering his henchman to shoot me. “I didn’t break in. I broke out.”
“Out? You’re from the palace?” He stomps toward me without warning, and before I can so much as blink, he flips the cap off my head and grabs my chin with rough fingers. He twists my face from side to side, scanning my features in the dim light as I let out a stifled mew of pain. His mouth sets into a grim line before he glances down at my discarded corset and kicks it savagely. “Your pretend past getting boring? Ready to join the twenty-second century? Tired of living in your stolen palace? Of wearing your stolen jewels?”
“They’re not stolen,” I lie. “They belong to my family!” My heart pounds so hard the sound fills my ears.
“They belong to France!” the man snaps, his grip tightening. My face will be bruised tomorrow—assuming I live that long. “Just like our palace, our land, and everything else you godforsaken Louies have taken from us.”
Lord Aaron and I didn’t expect a smuggler with standards. And we certainly didn’t anticipate patriotism. “I’ll take them back,” I say. I’m begging, falling to pieces, but I don’t care. I can’t care. “I’ll find something else; I just need a little time.” I can’t imagine what I could possibly bring him that would be worth half a million euros, but there must be something….
The man throws my bag to the ground at my feet and lays the necklace of blue stones gently, almost reverently, atop it.
“Bonne nuit, mademoiselle,” he says, touching the rim of his hat in mock salute as he backs into the darkness of the catacombs. “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure.”
“Wait!” My voice cracks, the desperation bleeding through. “Please. Let me bring you something else. Something you’ll accept. You said five hundred thousand. Maybe I—”
“That was before I saw your face,” the man says, and I can tell he’s turned away from me, though I can no longer see him in the blackness.
“I’m not like them.” My voice is weak. Until last week I never considered whether those words were true.
He gives a derisive snort. “The fact that you’re a Louie isn’t what concerns me. I don’t like you people. I hate it when my contacts send you to me. But if you were a different one, I might take the job for no other reason than to thumb my nose at that ridiculous boy-King of yours. But not you, Mademoiselle Grayson. Not you.”
I can’t stifle a gasp at the sound of my name; I’m still unused to my own renown. He steps back into the light, and I wish he’d stayed in the shadows as his eyes rake over me with a glint that’s equal parts loathing and lust.
“You thought I wouldn’t know who you are? Do you have some crazed illusion that any reasonably well-informed citizen of Earth wouldn’t recognize your face in a second? With more cameras in the world than human eyes, it’s hard enough to make a nobody disappear. But you? Not even remotely worth the risk.”
“I can get the cash; I’m sure I—”
“Impossible,” he says, and though he cuts me off, he sounds more like he’s talking to himself. “Not even for a million euros. Not for two million. The surgery alone would be…”
I’ve heard businessmen talk like this before. No matter how much he might hate me, he loves money more. Money—and the challenge. I almost dare to hope.
“Five million. In euros,” he emphasizes, and my hope shatters into pieces—five million pieces. “None of those credits your people throw around as though they were worth something.” He rolls his eyes and adds, almost to himself, “Absurd currency system.”
“If I bring you five million euros,” I manage between clenched teeth, “you’ll take the job?” There’s no way I can get it—even in the months I have. But I have to ask.
He studies me, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to meet his eyes without squirming. “I’m good enough. Even for you. If you truly think your pathetic life is worth five million euros, then, yes, I’ll take the job.” He shrugs. “But it’s an easy promise to make, seeing as how there’s no way anyone at Sonoma would let a citizen—even your lofty self—get their hands on so much real money.”