Into the Devil's Underground by Stacy Green Page B

stay.
    “Still feeling the same?” The paramedic softly probed her face, checking for fractures. “No new pain, nausea, lightheadedness?”
    “I’ll make sure to aim away from you if I have to throw up.”
    “I’m used to it. Last shift a drunk heaved all over my brand new uniform. It’s impossible to get the smell of Jack Daniels mixed with vomit out of your clothes.”
    “Lovely job you have.” Emilie glanced around the cluttered ambulance. “Please tell me picking up drunks isn’t a regular occurrence.”
    “I would, but this is Vegas.”

5
    H E HID IN plain sight, blending into the crowd with little effort. The woman commanded his attention the moment she stepped into the room. Her auburn hair, swept into a loose twist, glowed under the recessed lighting. The white dress made her look like an angel. She walked with her shoulders back and her arms crossed over her chest. She was mesmerizing.
    She stopped in front of the painting. Minutes ticked by, and still she remained. What was it about the Renoir that had captured her attention?
    He moved forward, nodding to other patrons. He was appreciated, even revered, here. No one suspected his dark torment.
    The woman remained in front of the painting. His eyes lingered on the smooth skin of her back and the exquisite line of her neck. She was lovely, although her profile was not perfect. Her lips were plump and slightly large for her petite nose, and a small mole—a beauty mark—adorned her naturally pink cheeks.
    “Excuse me.” He pitched his voice low to keep from attracting attention. He drew out his words into formal English to hide his distinct accent.
    She jumped at the intrusion and turned to face him. “Yes?”
    Her eyes rendered him speechless. For a moment he was trapped in the past, unable to distinguish this new woman from the secrets that haunted him. He’d thought the resemblance would end when they were face to face, that he would be able to focus on the real business, if she were in fact who he’d been looking for all these years. But his prior plans floated to the back of his mind.
    “Can I help you?” A modulated voice, laced with curiosity and apprehension.
    “Forgive my intrusion, but I couldn’t help noticing your admiration of the painting. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
    She studied him, unsure of his intentions. He smiled and stuck his clammy hands in his pockets, forcing his attention back on the painting.
    “Yes,” she finally answered. “It’s very special to me.”
    “Why?”
    Sadness drifted across her face, but her lips twisted into a wistful smile. “This painting is how my grandparents met.”
    “Really?”
    “Paris had an exhibition of Renoir’s work. This painting turned out to be a great pick-up line. Mémé was flattered he thought she looked like the Girl.”
    He gazed between the woman and Renoir’s famous Girl. “I assume you’ve inherited your grandmother’s lovely auburn hair?”
    A brief ripple, followed by curious eyes. But that was all. She didn’t remember him. “Yes, but all Mémé shared with the Girl was her hair.” She smiled. “Grandpa just didn’t know how else to approach her.”
    He stepped closer. She smelled like sweet jasmine. How could he resist?
    “Fascinating. How long have they been married?”
    “Until his death in 1978.”
    “Is your Mémé—”
    “She died five years later.”
    Triumph waltzed through him. “I’m sorry. But they have a beautiful story, don’t they? We often take life’s simple moments for granted.”
    She nodded and went back to the painting. He did the same, sipping champagne. How much did she remember? How much had she been told? “I can tell you appreciate the importance of our histories.”
    “The past is an important part of life,” she said, still gazing at the painting with a look of passionate reverence, the way a nun bows before the statue of Christ. “It can affect us forever. A split-second decision can change everything.”
    In that