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Chapter 8

Ruby & Marcelo

Ruby

The wheels scraped the runway. The bump jolted me awake.

Cold morning air filled the cabin. The Air France attendant's soft French crackled overhead. I rubbed my stiff neck, and my nose collided with a scent—cold cedar, expensive dry tobacco, mixed with the heat I'd trapped inside the coat wrapped around me.

I looked down. A navy bespoke suit jacket encased me, its soft wool collar pressed against my chin.

My brain short-circuited for three full seconds.

Then all the blood in my body rushed to my face.

Oh God.

I fell asleep?

Under his coat?

I turned my head stiffly and met Marcelo's unfathomable gray-green eyes.

He'd set down his financial paper and was watching me, his face tilted. He wore only a fitted white dress shirt now, tie knotted perfectly, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His expression was flat as still water—no mockery, no intrusive curiosity. As if waking up under your boss's jacket was nothing at all.

"Sleep well, Ms. Caldwell?" His voice carried the low rasp of morning.

"Mr... Mr. Moretti." I fumbled the jacket into a fold and thrust it at him with both hands. "Sorry, I didn't know... I didn't mean to fall asleep, this jacket—"

"The back of the cabin runs cold." He took it without touching my fingers, then stood and draped it over his arm. "If you catch a cold your first day in Paris, the schedule gets complicated. Come on. The car's waiting."

He buttoned his cuffs and headed for the cabin door.

I sat there and exhaled hard. My nerves unwound slightly.

He'd been distant. Professional. Maybe all that ambiguity had been in my head after all.

Outside, Paris morning air hit us—damp and cool. The sky hung low and gray.

A black Mercedes waited at the VIP exit. The driver, middle-aged in white gloves, nodded when he saw Marcelo. "Good morning, Mr. Moretti."

"Morning, Claude." Marcelo rattled off something in rapid French.

I'd taken French in college, but this was too fast. I caught nothing.

Probably nothing important anyway.

Claude loaded our bags and opened the door.

I slid into the back seat. Marcelo followed. The door shut, sealing out the world.

"We'll check into the hotel first," Marcelo said. "You can rest. Change. We have a few exhibitions this afternoon."

"Okay." I nodded, trying to look professional.

The car cut through Paris streets. Haussmann buildings slid past. Corner cafés. Pedestrians.

Twenty minutes later, the black sedan pulled up outside a luxury hotel near Place Vendôme.