Chances are being responsible for his death may have haunted them. And I couldn’t care less about Marcel Dupont.
The only time he’ll be missed is when he isn’t there to help Father Robert with Sunday Mass by handing out Holy Communion and collecting donations to the church.
Marcel Dupont: parishioner by day, demon by night.
Trudging out of my heavy thoughts, I answered Bob truthfully with a small shrug, “I’m fine.”
His eyes trained on my face a long time, searching for deceit before he smiled again. “Good girl. Proud of you, Cat.”
On his way out of the kitchen, he hooked his hand behind my neck and pulled me forward to plant a fatherly kiss on my forehead.
The loud rumbling of an engine pulls me from my thoughts. Standing, I remove my gardening gloves and place a hand above my eyes to block out the midday sun. My brow furrows as I realise the thundering noise is coming from the barn.
Surely, there isn’t a job during the day. We never do jobs in daylight.
The large barn doors open, and out speeds a sleek, black, sporty motorbike. Even though I can’t see the driver’s face due to it being covered by a helmet, I don’t have to guess to know it’s Marco.
That body was in my dreams last night. It’s hard to forget. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.
My eye roll is subtle.
Of course, he has a motorbike.
The bike speeds up, and I expect it to careen past me, but instead, it slows.
Marco slows to a stop a few feet away from me, letting the engine of the bike idle. He slides the front of the helmet up, allowing me the view of his handsome face, and says loudly in way of greeting, “Pussy cat.”
My feet shuffle forward a step. “Afternoon, Marco.” My curiosity gets the best of me. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
His face bunches and his hand flies to his ear, letting me know he can’t hear me. I step forward, closer to him. Almost foot-to-bike, I ask again, “Where are you headed?”
Marco smirks. “I could hear you fine before, just wanted to ask if you wanted to head into town without yelling at you.”
Head into town?
With him?
I’m confused.
“Head into town...with you?” His expression doesn’t change at all, so I add, “On your bike?”
It’s then that he grins, and I have confirmation to my questions.
I quickly utter, “I’d better not.”
A flashback of last night’s dream assaults me hard and fast.
“Get on your hands and knees. Face the end of the bed.”
I fight a gasp as my cheeks flame. My shaking hand flies to my now-heaving chest.
Marco—still seated on his bike—leans closer to me. “That wasn’t a no.”
My feet step away from him in silent answer.
You killed a guy last night, but you’re scared of a man you work with because you had a hot dream about him? A dream he doesn’t even know about?
For once, my brain makes a good point. Standing taller, I step towards the bike again and announce, “Actually, I’d like to go to the library, if it’s not out of your way.”
Marco makes a stern thinking face before breaking out into a beaming smile. “Tell you what—I’ll drop you off at the library, do what I need to do, then I’ll come meet you there and we’ll get something to eat.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He stands from his still-idling bike, lifts the seat, and hands me the spare helmet. Robotically, I place the helmet on my head and climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around him. We speed away, and a final thought chills me to the bone.
Bob is going to kill me.
***
Never having ridden on a motorbike before, I silently curse myself for not wearing something warmer. Even though today is a nice day, I’m still freezing my butt off as Marco speeds along the dirt road to get to town.
Doing my best not to think about my arms wrapped around his taut stomach, I almost shriek in surprise when I hear a voice sound in my helmet, “Thanks for coming with me. I need an alibi for today.”
Oh, so that’s why he asked me to come with him.
Urging down the disappointment clenching my heart, I answer cheerfully, “No problem. I love the library.”
We spend the rest of the ride in a comfortable silence, and without thinking, I close my eyes and lean my helmet-covered forehead against his back. I haven’t noticed I’ve fallen asleep until Marco gently runs his thumb over the hand that grips his stomach. “Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty.”
My body—not quite wanting to separate from my portable hot water bottle—squeezes his waist tighter as I snuggle deeper into his back.
My senses finally come to me as Marco’s rough chuckle rumbles in my ear. His chuckle stops suddenly, and his body stiffens. As I begin to unwrap myself from him, he grips my hand tight. “Shit. I’m sorry, Cat. You had a rough night. I should take you back. You need rest.”
I respond a little too quickly. “No!” Realising a second too late my shout probably burst his eardrum, I ignore his subtle flinch and utter quietly, “No need for that, really. I’m fine.”
He counters with, “You can barely keep your eyes open.”
I fire back, “That’s just because you’re so big and warm.”
His body shakes in silent laughter. As soon as it dawns on me what I said, I quickly step off his bike, remove the helmet and hand it to him. Averting my eyes, I mutter, “I might’ve drooled in your helmet. Sorry.”
Without looking back, I turn and head for the entrance to the library.
I hear Marco shout, “I’ll be about an hour.”
With my back to him, I lift my hand in a wordless wave to confirm I heard him. The bike’s engine rumbles away, and rolling my eyes at my behaviour, I make my way inside.
Chapter Ten
“Ah, bonjour, Catarina!” Ms Fontaine, the old librarian, happily but quietly greets me. “Comment allez-vous?”
My rehearsed response comes out smoother than expected. With a small smile, I quietly reply, “Très bien, merci.”
Her subtle wrinkles crease further at the corners of her eyes as she smiles at me. “You haven’t been here in a while. I was wondering if I’d ever see you again,” she sniffs.
Oh, Ms Fontaine. So adorably dramatic. Making my way closer to the counter, I feign outrage. “And never see you or my beloved books again?” I lift my nose. “I’d rather fall into a sleep like death.”
She chuckles. “Sleeping Beauty. Charles Perrault. Very clever.” Her calm stance stiffens slightly as a mask cloaks her expression. She leans forward and whispers, “He’s here today.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand. “On his own?”
Ms Fontaine nods solemnly.
“How did he get here?”
Her small shrug tells me that her guess is as good as mine.
My anger simmers. This is unacceptable. With a curt nod, I leave Ms Fontaine to find him. I know where he is. He always sits in the same spot. He likes the view. He hasn’t told me that, but I just know it. It’s the same reason I sit there.
My feet move of their own accord, and once I spot him, a small smile graces my lips. I shake my head and bite my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing.
Oh, dear.
If anyone else attempted to do such a thing in a library, they would be asked to leave. But not Tomas.
Never Tomas.
I knock on the side of a chair, or as Tomas sees it, the door to his fort. My head peeks in, under the mountain of pillows he has taken from the children’s corner to build his cocoon of safety. “May I come in, Tomas?”