That Time in Paris by Logan Ryles (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📗

“Great. Are you ready?”

Kevin acquired a black Mercedes sedan to ferry them to the gala. He drove without a word, chewing gum and glancing from time to time into the rearview mirror.

Wolfgang ignored him, sinking into the back seat and watching Paris flash by. The city was alive now, with lights on every building, glimmering like a million stars as the Mercedes bounced through streets and whizzed down the highway.

As they topped a hill and turned south toward downtown, Megan tapped on her window. “Look.”

Wolfgang leaned over, peering through the glass. In the distance, he made out the elegant, curving outline of the Eiffel Tower, shooting up from the Parisian skyline like a giant in the night. It was so much taller than he expected, framed against the black skyline with just a couple of marker lights.

“Have you ever been?” He asked.

“I’ve been someplace a lot like it, once,” Megan said, her voice a little wistful. “Never here. I thought it was usually illuminated at night.”

“Maintenance,” Wolfgang said. “I read about it in a travel brochure.”

Megan said nothing, and Wolfgang sat back, his focus drawn away from the distant tower and back to her legs, crossed over each other with casual elegance. She leaned back and closed her eyes, and for a moment, Wolfgang just stared. He was conscious of Kevin glaring at him through the rearview mirror, but he didn’t care.

Screw this guy. I’m done worrying about him.

After another ten minutes, Kevin turned onto a quiet street, and Wolfgang saw other cars lined along it: Mercedes, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and a smattering of supercars purred in neat lines, all gently circling through the hotel’s main entrance. Wolfgang leaned close to the window, admiring the display of opulence and wealth, his attention settling on a bright-red Ferrari with gloss-black wheels. Wolfgang knew very little about cars beyond basic brands, but this car was beautiful in every sense of the word, hugging the ground and rumbling with the restrained power of its massive Italian engine.

Wolfgang pictured himself behind the wheel of a car like that, rocketing up the California coast. He imagined riding with the windows down, the radio playing, and somebody special sitting next to him.

Focus, fool. You don’t have time for this.

Wolfgang shelved the daydream and turned his attention to the people gathered around the cars. A small crowd of men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns stood in knots, laughing and migrating inside.

Megan pressed her earpiece into her right ear, then turned to Wolfgang. “Got yours?”

Wolfgang nodded, slipping the earpiece out of his pocket and into his ear.

“Keep it in your ear this time,” she said.

A valet approached Megan’s door, bowing and opening it in one smooth motion. In a flash, Megan’s icy expression melted, replaced by a smile both warm and austere. Wolfgang felt his heart lurch, and he hesitated a moment in the car, watching her walk.

“If she gets hurt,” Kevin said, “I’ll kill you.”

Wolfgang cocked his head, almost willing to let the threat go, then he smacked Kevin on the arm. “Kev, you couldn’t kill me if I was tied to an electric chair. Keep the motor warm, will you?” He slid out of the car, adjusting his tie.

Megan waited at the bottom of the steps, glancing back at him. To his surprise, she reached out for his arm, and he accepted while trying to disguise his satisfaction.

Act or no act, it still felt great for her not to be glaring daggers at everybody.

They ascended the red-carpet stairs, arriving at the admissions guard at the top.

“Mr. and Mrs. Listener, Toronto,” Wolfgang said.

The guard smiled and bobbed his head, then checked his iPad.

Wolfgang stiffened a moment, suddenly realizing he’d never received confirmation from Lyle that the hack was successful.

“Welcome to the gala, monsieur, madame.”

The guard nodded them in, and Wolfgang relaxed a little. So far, so good.

“Charlie Lead, all systems, check.”

“Charlie Eye, I’m live. Satellite is back online.”

“Charlie One, we’re in.”

“Charlie Two, on standby.”

Wolfgang started to speak, but Megan just shook her head. “Relax, hot stuff,” she said. “You’re as tense as Kevin.”

Wolfgang flushed, following Megan through the hotel’s double doors and into a stunning lobby. Bright lights glistened from chandeliers, reflecting off marble flagstone flooring and illuminating rows of oil paintings that lined every side of the lobby and proceeded into the halls. Everywhere, people in expensive evening attire gathered, admiring paintings and murmuring as they sipped champagne. White-gloved servers scurried in and out of the main lobby, replacing champagne flutes and serving hors d'oeuvres.

“Just like the movies,” Wolfgang whispered.

Megan rolled her eyes. “Why do you think I didn’t want to come?”

“I’m not sure, actually. I was wondering about that.”

Megan shot a sunbeam smile at a server bright enough to blind him, and accepted a champagne flute.

Wolfgang waved the server off with a polite smile.

“You should drink,” Megan said. “You’ll stick out if you don’t.”

“I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Why the hell not? Are you sober?”

They drifted closer to a row of paintings as Wolfgang scanned the room for any sign of Raven. The American was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m not sober. I just don’t drink. Why didn’t you want to come to the party?”

They settled in front of an obscure art piece that may have depicted a battle, or a sunrise, or a circus—Wolfgang really had no idea—and continued to scan the room.

“Let’s just say I’m not much for tropes,” Megan said.

“Tropes?”

“You know. The hot spy girl dressing up for a party to catch the bad guys.”

“So, you admit to being hot. I’m relieved. I was starting to think I was seeing visions.”

Megan stared at him a moment, and he almost thought she’d slap him. A smirk played at the corner of her mouth, and she took a sip of her champagne, leaving a lipstick smudge on the flute. “That’s almost funny.”

“Kind of my move,” Wolfgang said with a self-deprecating shrug. “Why don’t you like tropes?”

“Hypothetically?”

“If you like.”

“Okay. Hypothetically, dressing up like this makes me feel a touch objectified.”

“Hmm. I can respect that. But