Chapter Five

THE NEXT MORNING, Acacia visited her local dojo much earlier than usual so she would have time to search for Marcel’s journal.

She kept secret the fact that she studied martial arts. Luc had known, of course. When they were together, her daily visits to the dojo had coincided with his time at the gym.

Her mother had enrolled her in Brazilian jiu-jitsu classes as a child, in the hope it would enable her to defend herself. Indeed, the classes had proved successful. When she came to France, she switched to karate. Acacia prized the quiet confidence martial arts gave her as much as the strength it gave her body.

She arrived at the hotel forty-five minutes before her shift and parked her motorcycle near one of the pedestrian entrances to the Victoire’s underground parking lot, which was across the street from the hotel.

She took care to survey her surroundings before she switched off her bike. Avenue George V was always busy—cars parked here and there, traffic consistently moved down the street, and pedestrians dotted the sidewalks. She was cautious as she approached Marcel’s motorcycle, which was parked nearby.

The Avenue ran through a neighborhood that housed luxury boutiques, including Hermès, Bulgari, Givenchy, and Saint Laurent. The street had two medians shaded by mature trees. Tall buildings lined both sides. Owing to the number of parked cars and vans, there were many places to hide.

Other motorcycles flanked Marcel’s. Remnants of police tape could still be seen clinging to his bike, but the area had been swept clean.

Acacia looked under the motorcycles and Vespas in search of his journal. She looked on the street, the sidewalk, and checked the gutters. She even peered into a nearby garbage bin. The journal was not to be found.

It occurred to her as she scanned the area that there was something odd about the attacker’s choice of location, which was across the street from the hotel. Given the busyness of the street, the assault must have been seen. But no witnesses had come forward, with the exception of the person who’d stumbled upon Marcel’s bleeding body and called the police.

Being a concierge was in some respects like being a detective. One had to solve problems, find things, and on occasion, locate people. Acacia wondered if Marcel had found something that put him at risk.

She walked the short distance to the hotel’s service entrance and changed in the staff room, arranging her concierge pins with pride on her navy blue uniform. At the beginning of her shift, she sat behind the concierge desk and placed her journal next to the hotel’s laptop. She checked the day’s calendar and reached for her pen. It was gone.

Thinking she’d knocked it to the floor, she pushed her chair back and looked under the desk. The pen sat on the floor to the right, underneath one of the desk drawers. She reached forward to retrieve it and as she withdrew, her hand brushed against the drawer.

But instead of the solidity of wood, she touched something else. Puzzled, she felt along the bottom of the drawer. Someone had attached what seemed like a book to the underside.

“I need the concierge.” An imperious voice sounded above her.

Acacia sat up and pushed her chair closer to the desk. She smiled at a well-dressed, elderly woman. “Yes, madame.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Monsieur Breckman enter the lobby, dressed in another black suit and surrounded by a security detail that had swelled to six men.

She wondered if he always wore black suits. She wondered if the Earth would cease moving on its axis if he wore, say, navy blue.

He was headed toward the reservations desk. When he caught sight of her, he switched direction, as did his security detail, who trailed like a series of large, dark-suited ducklings after their mother.

The elderly woman sniffed, as if Acacia’s momentary distraction was a waste of her valuable time.

Acacia widened her smile and gestured to one of the chairs. “I am the concierge, madame. How may I help you?”

The woman refused to make eye contact and adjusted her Chanel jacket. “I don’t want to speak with someone from Spain. I want a French concierge.”

Acacia kept her smile firmly in place. “I’m from Brazil, but I live here in Paris. I would be happy to assist you.”

“Go and find a French concierge.” The woman settled herself in one of the chairs, not bothering to look in Acacia’s direction.

“Good morning, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Breckman addressed Acacia as he approached the desk. He looked down his nose at the elderly woman. “When you’re finished with the concierge, I need to speak with her.”

“I don’t deal with foreigners,” the woman said primly. “I’m waiting to speak to a French concierge.”

The man rocked back on his heels and his dark brows snapped together. “Foreigners? And where are you from, madame?”

The woman brushed her fingers across the gold insignia of her Chanel handbag. “I am from Lyon.”

“Really?” Breckman’s eyes glittered impishly. “Then you must be familiar with Lyon’s history.”

The woman frowned up at him. “Certainly. I’ve lived there my entire life.”

“Then it’s almost certain you, too, are an immigrant.” The man examined the ceiling, as if deep in thought. “If I remember my Lyonnais history correctly, Roman immigrants arrived from Vienne in the first century. Were you there then?”

The woman sputtered, but Monsieur Breckman continued. “What about the Burgundian refugees who escaped from the Huns in the fifth century? Surely you remember them, given how long you’ve lived in Lyon?”

“How dare you!” The woman reddened in outrage.

“How dare you, madame.” The man glared. “As the revolution taught us, to be French is to be devoted to the principles of liberté, égalité, and fraternité. Since it’s you who has abandoned those principles, it’s you who has ceased to be French.”

Acacia rose from behind the desk and interrupted. “Madame, I can introduce you to one of my colleagues, if you prefer.”

“Fascism and xenophobia have no place in France,” the guest continued, his brown eyes glittering. “They have no place in the world, although it appears, sadly, they’ve taken residence in Lyon.”

“I’ll be speaking to the manager about this outrageous conversation.” The elderly woman stared daggers at Monsieur Breckman. “I’ve never been so insulted in all my life.”

The man bowed. “Please give Monsieur Roy my best regards. He knows where to find me.”

The woman gave him a haughty look and followed Acacia to the reservations desk, where she was introduced to the blond, blue-eyed Céline.

When Acacia returned, Monsieur Breckman was already seated in the chair opposite her desk. His security detail had drawn back, with the exception of Rick, who stood at his elbow.

She sat down and opened her journal.

The guest angled his head in the direction of the reservations desk, his gaze sharp. “Does that happen often?”

“Monsieur, I—”

“Mademoiselle?” His eyes met hers, his tone more of a command than a request.

She shrugged, all too conscious that the lobby was filled with guests and other staff. “How was your evening?”

The man ignored her question as he surveyed the other guests. “Anti-immigration sentiment is on the rise in Europe. I didn’t expect to find it here.”

“Paris is the whole world.” Acacia attempted to defuse the situation with humor.

“So they tell me,” he responded, his eyes finding hers. “You’re more restrained than I.”

“A concierge provides service through friendship.”

“Friendship with a xenophobe? Sounds unlikely.”

“We cannot choose our guests, but we can choose how we respond.” Acacia looked toward the desk, where the woman from Lyon appeared to be giving Céline a difficult time.

Her eyes moved back to the man sitting in front of her. “If someone hates me and I respond with hatred, all I’ve done is reinforced their hate. If I respond with kindness, I’ve changed the conversation. Perhaps on the receiving end of kindness, the person who hates me will see a better, peaceful way.”

Monsieur Breckman made a sound that came perilously close to snort. “You censure me for deriding her?”

“No, monsieur.”

The guest gave her a hard look.

Acacia lifted her pen pointedly. “How was breakfast this morning? Was everything to your liking?”

“Now that I think about it, the hotel staff isn’t very diverse.” He turned in the direction of Céline again.

“There’s diversity in the staff, I assure you.” Acacia’s gaze strayed to her desk. She was eager to retrieve the mysterious item attached to the drawer, but not in front of him.

“Am I keeping you from something?” The guest’s eyes moved from her face to the desk.

“No, monsieur.” She flushed. “How was dinner at Guy Savoy’s last evening?”

“A work of art. The chef himself greeted all the patrons. Have you met him?”

She smiled wistfully. “I’ve not had that pleasure.”

“Really?” Monsieur Breckman seemed surprised. “I was told you send guests there regularly.”

“That’s true.”

“You’ve never dined there yourself?”

“I toured the restaurant once. I was impressed with the location. The building they occupy used to house the French mint.”

He studied her. “It must be vexing to arrange all these lavish experiences for your guests but never experience them for yourself.”

“I prefer to think of it as an opportunity.” She leafed through her journal to the previous day’s entries. “With respect to the items you gave me yesterday, I was able to return all of them except the gifts from Modiste. I’m sorry, but they don’t accept returns of custom-made items.”

“Damn.” He met Acacia’s eyes. “They’re of no use to me.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to avoid making an impertinent remark. “If I may make a suggestion?”

“Certainly.”

“Since the items are unworn, they could be donated to charity. There is a local organization, Vision du Monde, that would auction the items, discreetly, and give the proceeds to children in need.”

“That’s an interesting proposal.” He scratched at his chin. “Fine.”

“I’ll see that the items are delivered, along with a short explanation. The receipt will be issued in your name.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’d prefer the donation be made anonymously?”

He gave her a look that was its own reply.

“Very good.” Acacia made note of their conversation in her journal, ignoring the feel of his eyes on her.

“I hadn’t thought of donating the items to charity. Do you encourage guests to make charitable donations?”

“Many of our guests are already involved in philanthropy. Sometimes when I’m problem solving for a guest, an opportunity arises to help a charity. It’s up to the guest to decide, of course. I simply present a range of solutions.”

“I see. Obviously the clientele here can afford to be generous. But those who can afford to be generous seldom are, in my experience.”

“A donor needs to be sufficiently motivated.” Acacia smiled. “They need to see value and purpose in donating to charity.”

“You missed your calling. You should have gone into philanthropy.”

Acacia’s smile widened. “We can all do our part to help others, no matter our occupation.”

The guest frowned.

“Is something wrong, monsieur?”

“You’re very different from the concierges I usually deal with. You mentioned yesterday you speak several languages. How many?”

“Six.”

Monsieur Breckman looked impressed. “And they are?”

“French, Portuguese, English, Spanish, Russian, and Arabic.”

“Arabic?” the guest repeated. “Why Arabic?”

Acacia’s response was a reflex. “Arabic is important in the service industry in Paris.”

“And you studied art at the Sorbonne?”

“Yes.” Acacia had no intention of expanding on her response.

For a moment, she contemplated mentioning Marcel’s journal. It was possible it contained private and unflattering things pertaining to Monsieur Breckman and other guests. If the contents of the journal were made public, it could be embarrassing for him.

But then he spoke. “How old are you?”

She turned to her laptop and pressed a few buttons. “Monsieur, I don’t think—”

He interrupted her. “I could find out through other means, but I’m giving you the courtesy of asking directly. How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.” Acacia’s words were clipped. She drew a deep breath through her nose and fought the urge to squirm.

“Thirty-five,” he repeated, as if the number were a revelation. “Then you wouldn’t have been at the Sorbonne at the same time as…” He rearranged his position in the chair. “I’ve decided to extend my stay. Since Marcel is unavailable, I thought I’d avail myself of your services.”

“How can I assist you?” Acacia positioned her pen over her open journal.

The man consulted his expensive wristwatch. “I want a new, bespoke suit.”

“Would you like to visit the tailor or have him see you in your suite?”

“Have him come here. Tell him I’m looking for a black suit, and I’d like it finished in time for a dinner engagement this evening.”

Acacia restrained a laugh and resisted the urge to point out that he already possessed at least two black suits, according to her observations.

“I’m sorry, but a respectable Parisian tailor will require at least two fittings and a minimum of seventy hours of work. Some of the tailors require more.”

“Really?” The man tried to sound surprised, but failed. “Monsieur Roy made it sound as if you were a miracle worker.”

“I’m a concierge, not a saint.”

The guest’s eyes took on a new intensity. “Nor am I, mademoiselle, I assure you.”

Acacia felt something flare between them—a spark of attraction or warning, she wasn’t sure which.

She lowered her gaze. “I can recommend a couple of tailors from Rue de la Paix and you can choose, or would you prefer I choose for you?”

“You choose, but pick the best. I’m in need of a couple of custom shirts and a new tie, as well. I’d like the tailor to get started as soon as possible. I’m not sure how long I’ll be in Paris.”

Acacia recorded his requests in her journal. “I shall do my best, monsieur.”

“I’m sure you will.” He looked as if he were resisting the urge to smile.

“Will there be anything else? Do you require dinner reservations? Or would you like tickets for a show or to a museum?”

The guest grew thoughtful. “There may be one or two other things.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

The man scowled. “I don’t see how this could give anyone pleasure. You speak six languages and studied art at the Sorbonne. Wouldn’t you rather be employed in the art world? Not being abused by racists?” He waved at her uniform. “Or trotted around as a minion to the manager? I fail to see how someone with your intelligence and education could be content to work in such an environment.”

His speech pierced her. Anger, hot and violent, burned in her middle.

A torrent of ugly words stood gated at the back of her throat. He had no idea, no idea why she did what she did. Or that she had an exit strategy.

She clutched her pen so tightly she thought it might break.

The man’s gaze fixated on her pen, his expression morphing from displeasure to something else.

Acacia focused on her breathing, a technique she’d learned through her martial arts training, and moved her hand to her lap.

As she breathed, she noticed Monsieur Roy had chosen that moment to walk through the lobby. She was grateful she hadn’t given voice to the anger fighting to escape her pursed lips.

The manager nodded at Monsieur Breckman, who returned his nod, and disappeared in the direction of the marble courtyard, seemingly unaware of Acacia’s show of temper.

“I spoke without thinking.” The guest’s voice was low.

Acacia kept her hand and her pen in her lap. She avoided his eyes. “You had additional requests?”

“Mademoiselle.”

“Monsieur?” She took a deep breath.

The guest placed his hand flat on the desk, next to her open journal. “Acacia, I apologize.”

She visualized her anger as a wave, watching in her mind’s eye as it retreated with the outgoing tide. She felt her body begin to relax.

She lifted her pen to the journal. And waited.

In her peripheral vision, she could see the guest move his hand, bypassing his scar to rub at his forehead. “Everything about this visit has gone straight to hell. First Silke. Then Marcel.”

Now Acacia’s eyes ventured to meet his.

“I apologize,” he repeated firmly. “You’ve been nothing but professional in the face of ugliness, mademoiselle. I’m sorry to have contributed to that ugliness. It’s not who I am.”

There was something open about his expression at that moment. The man looked contrite.

Acacia glanced up at Rick, who didn’t bother making eye contact. She wondered what he’d do if she spoke to him directly. She wondered what he’d say if she dared criticize his employer.

“The Victoire is very fortunate to have you,” the guest continued. “I doubt they realize precisely how fortunate.”

Acacia ignored his compliment. “I’ll be sure to make arrangements with the tailor. Now, if there isn’t anything else…”

“A round of drinks for you and the staff, with my compliments.”

Acacia’s eyes widened. “That isn’t necessary.”

“It is.” Monsieur Breckman’s tone was firm.

Acacia elected not to argue with him. A gift of drinks for the staff would certainly improve morale, in the wake of the attack on Marcel. “I’ll make arrangements with the bar.”

“Thank you.” The guest smoothed the silk of his tie. “Out of curiosity, have you ever received a request you were unable to satisfy?”

“A guest once asked if I could provide a bespoke suit in a couple of hours.”

He grinned, and his smile almost obliterated his scar. “Touché.”

“You mentioned you have a dinner engagement this evening. Will you be needing a table here at the hotel or would you like me to make a reservation elsewhere?”

“I believe my associate has already made arrangements.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. “There’s one more thing I’d like you to help me with.”

“Yes?”

“In my travels, I’ve been searching for a relic of St. Teresa of Avila. I’d like you to acquire one for me.”

Acacia’s mouth fell open.

She shut her mouth quickly and recorded the request, deciding she would not be mentioning Marcel’s missing journal.

“Can you help me?” His eyes were searching.

Acacia kept her expression neutral. “I will research the matter and present the options to you.”

The man’s face showed signs of admiration. “Thank you. That’s all for now.”

He stood and buttoned his suit jacket.

She looked up at him. “Monsieur, as I mentioned yesterday, I was unable to find any notes from Marcel on your meeting. Were you able to discover the details?”

He looked over his shoulder swiftly, so swiftly he’d turned back to Acacia before she’d even realized he’d moved.

He placed his hands on top of the concierge desk and leaned over her. “Forget about the meeting,” he barked in a whisper. “Don’t mention it again, to anyone.”

Acacia moved her chair back, out of reach of the guest’s long arms.

Rick grabbed his employer’s elbow.

Evidently his touch was enough to capture the guest’s attention. He withdrew immediately.

Monsieur Breckman smoothed his hair back from his forehead and adjusted the sleeves of his suit. He marched through the lobby toward the rear of the hotel, his security detail forming an impenetrable wall around him.

Rick glanced over his shoulder, his eyes trained on Acacia.

She was frozen in place. A guest had never threatened her before. There was no mistaking his tone or the look in his eyes. The fact that Rick had to intervene made the situation all the more menacing.

Acacia didn’t waste any time. She ensured no one was watching her before leaning over to retrieve the item from under the desk. It took several tries to dislodge it as it had been attached to the drawer with wide, sticky tape.

Acacia placed the item in a file folder, away from potentially prying eyes. She carried the file folder to the staff room and barricaded herself in the adjacent bathroom. Only then did she examine the contents.

It was a leather-bound journal, remarkably like the one she owned. She undid the clasp on the cover and opened it. On the flyleaf, in Marcel’s handwriting, was his full name and contact information.

Her thoughts moved to her colleague, lying unconscious in the hospital.

She leafed to the last page. There was an entry that included today’s date and the following words:

Breckman. 10 PM. Important. V.

Acacia scanned the previous entries and searched for any reference to Pierre Breckman. He was named, along with Silke Rainier, but there was nothing unusual in Marcel’s notes—just remarks about breakfast preferences, an allergy to strawberries, the gifts Marcel had been asked to procure for Silke, and a dinner reservation at Guy Savoy’s.

There was no indication as to who Breckman was supposed to be meeting that evening at ten o’clock, unless one of the person’s initials was a V.

What was Marcel doing? And why was he attacked?

Monsieur Breckman might have threatened her, but he couldn’t control her thoughts. And at that moment, she was thinking the connection between him and Marcel was something sinister.