Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) by Michelle St. James

of us is wrong.”
    His nod was slow. “Indeed.”
    They pulled in front of the Ritz-Carlton, and she looked up, admiring the facade of the old palais that now housed the hotel. Like much of Vienna, the building was a mixture of styles — Renaissance, Baroque, and Gothic influences all at play in the old building. The sky was just beginning to darken, the lights on the old building making it the epitome of old world glamour.
    Julien exited the car and came around to open Charlotte’s door. She stepped out of the car and waited as Christophe did the same. He buttoned his jacket, took something from Julien, and started into the lobby where he headed straight for the elevators.
    She didn’t have to ask about their luggage, the room key. She knew how men like Christophe Marchand operated. They moved through the world like it had been made for them, expecting every crowd to part like the Red Sea, refusing to bother with the minutiae of everyday life. Standing in lines, waiting for service, carrying luggage.
    Men like Christophe Marchand did none of those things.
    She usually didn’t like those kind of men. They were pretentious and self-important, more interested in the trappings of their life than actually living it. But as they stepped into the elevator she felt none of these things. Maybe it was his introspection, the feeling that he was always deep in thought. Maybe it was those eyes, the story that seemed to be lurking there like a piece of art covered in layer upon layer of dust.
    They didn’t speak as they were whisked to the top floor, and she was suddenly desperate to escape to her hotel room. His presence was too big, almost oppressive in its silence. Her thoughts were running away with themselves. Her body, too, judging by the race of her pulse when he brushed against her arm holding the elevator door open for her. She needed space and time to gather her thoughts, to remind herself why she was here.
    They emerged into a spacious, marble-floored foyer, an expanse of plum colored carpet stretching to a bank of windows, Vienna glittering in the night sky beyond the glass. The furnishings were Biedermeier in style, although almost certainly reproductions. It had the feel of a plush jewelry box; black floors, dark furnishings in rich textures — velvet and suede, silk and leather. And all of it broken up only by the glitter of an elaborate chandelier overhead and an enormous and elaborate gilded mirror reflecting the light from the city beyond the windows.
    “I hope you didn't book this room for me.” She spoke the words for propriety’s sake, but she already had the feeling this wasn’t her room. “It’s far too luxurious. I can’t possibly afford it.”
    He crossed the room, set the key on a lacquered console. “It’s not for you. It’s for us.” He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “And before you object, let me clarify; you are my responsibility while you’re here, and while I doubt the men who threatened you in Paris have the resources to follow you here, I’m unwilling to take the chance. The expense is nothing.”
    She knew he meant it, and she was surprised to feel a shiver of excitement run up her spine. She wasn’t used to being taken care of. She was the one who took care of things. Who loaned her mother money when she was between jobs. Who held her hand when she’d been dumped by her latest boy toy. She was the one who went to Paris to resolve her father’s affairs, to make arrangements for his funeral.
    There was no parental safety net. No siblings to buffer her from the world. No close friendships to provide solace or guidance.
    “You’ll have your own room, of course,” he continued, gesturing to an open door to one side of the living room. “And a private bath.”
    “Thank you.” What else was there to say? There was no point fighting it. Christophe Marchand was in charge.
    For now.
    The elevator beeped as it arrived at their floor. Christophe strode toward it, and a