The Sheik's Son(85)

“You seem intent on following me and my family. I want it to end.”

She looked around the room. Books lined a shelf and a small wooden table was flanked by two chairs. A nautical painting of a ship afloat on a stormy sea dominated one wall. The stark room was befitting the man who stood before her, dressed in all black—a sharp contrast with his red hair and blue eyes.

“Yes, I have been following you,” he said bluntly.

He watched her in return. He saw that she had taken great care to dress in a subdued, dove- grey gown and black cape. It was a sensible dress and not alluring, though her face was picture-perfect.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why am I intent on following you?”

“Yes.”

“Because you are a traitor to your country and the monarchy,” he said smoothly.

“You’ve proof of this?” she whispered, sliding into one of the two wooden chairs.

He watched her mouth and cursed her beauty. He could easily subdue her and take her, but that wasn’t at all what he wanted. He would like to break her spirit, but that wasn’t his goal either. She was a small link to the greater prize and the power he meant to have. There was so much more at stake here than this one woman.

“I do.”

Sophie looked around the sparse room. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To hold an intimate conversation without being disturbed.”

Sophie locked eyes with him at the word “intimate.”

“Have no fear, madame. I have no desire for that.”

“What do you want then?”

“Your assistance. Or I will have to arrest you.”

“And your proof?” she asked.

“Ah, yes. My proof.” He removed two items from his coat pocket and placed them before her on the wooden table. “You sealed your own fate.”

One item was the simple note that she had written at her grandmother’s urging, to thank him for attending the ball. The other item was her last pamphlet, damning in its radical contents. It was undeniable that the same hand had written both, and with Sophie’s signature at the bottom of the card, he indeed held the proof that she was Jean Inconnu.

“Contrary to the silly novels in a matter such as this, I require neither your money nor your precious body,” he told her.

Sophie looked away from him and then back. “You don’t want money?”

“Not at all. Would I go through all this for some measly Francs?”

“I don’t know, inspector. You are a complete stranger to me.”

“Well, I would not.” He stood towering over her and then moved quickly away, taking the two handwritten items with him. “Do you recall what I told you when we met at the ball?”

“You said many things, inspector.”

“Yes I did. But most important is my desire to be the youngest commissioner in Paris. You said it was a lofty goal.”

“So it is,” she repeated.

“I also mentioned that I have no scruples. What say you?” His cold blue eyes watched her face.

“When you say no scruples, do you mean the killing of innocent people?” Sophie countered.

“Perhaps. But today I am giving a foolish young woman the opportunity to help me instead of earning a residency in a jail.”

“Helping you?” Sophie asked.

Alain turned toward Sophie and looked down at her. “It is not a compliment to say that you are beautiful. You must know it well yourself, having been told many times by many admirers.”

Sophie didn’t know how to respond so she remained silent.

“How long do you think you would last in jail?” Alain asked. “It would only take one night for several guards to have their fill of you. You will not be treated with respect or concern. They will rape you, one after the other. They will take you in any manner they like and discard you like rubbish when they are finished.”

“Please,” Sophie said.

“Do you know what jailers are like? Coarse, common men who like a quick tumble, ale and meat. Many of them don’t read and few write. They view women like they do their dogs. Each has a purpose.”

Sophie flushed under his scrutiny and words. “What do you want of me?”

Inspector Vennard smiled then. “Yes. Now we come to it. The reason for all of this. You know that you were always a means to an end. You were never my intended target, only a pretty stepping stone.”

“What are you saying?” Sophie asked, confused.

“I knew early on that you were the writer. To think Marie or dear Grand-mère was the writer was absurd. But I knew you would and could write such things. After your trips to Madame Necker’s salon and her influence upon you, I saw it clearly.”