that coursed through the thoroughfare with little concern about speed limits.
When we reached the motorcycle, Luc removed our headgear from the saddlebags and I stuffed my tote inside. I fastened my hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck, strapped on the shiny blue helmet, and climbed onto the backseat. At this moment I didn’t bear any resemblance to the serious prosecutor who made it a point to appear like a complete professional in the office and courtroom.
Luc looked at his iPhone before he pocketed it. “Brigitte e-mailed me when you were napping. Belgarde’s already called to ask her about the dead girl,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s going to drive to her mother’s tonight and stay till all this blows over in town.”
“So I guess she’s taking the kids?”
“Yes,” he said, getting into place on the bike.
I was talking to his back. “And you want to see them before she goes?”
“I’d like to.”
“I don’t blame you, Luc. Just drop me at the house and I’ll meet you at the restaurant whenever you like.”
He reached back with one hand and stroked my thigh. “Thanks, darling.”
“You worry about the silliest things. I’m pleased you want to see them. They don’t need to have this murder case churning around them, just because you and Brigitte knew the victim.”
I was well aware that figuring out how to maintain his intimacy with his children was a major stumbling block to Luc’s plans for a second restaurant in New York.
The narrow side streets of Cannes were packed tight with parked cars and commercial vans. I nestled into my usual position against Luc’s back and swayed with him as he maneuvered the territory he knew so well. The first few blocks were almost on flat ground, filled with shops selling all the luxury goods for which the French were known. But then the streets began to merge together, more modest businesses and residences side by side, as we climbed out of the busy city headed due north on the Boulevard Carnot.
I was daydreaming with my eyes closed once we left the dramatic scenery of the old harbor and grand buildings. The highway was a drab road, with strip malls built up on either side. Traffic was already intense, and Luc began to weave among the cars that started and stopped at each intersection and traffic light. He was an impatient driver, and I was used to the rhythm he set as he picked up speed to charge the great concrete hill.
The bike dipped sharply to the left and seemed to kick into a higher gear. My head snapped back, bringing me out of my reverie as I tightened my grip around Luc’s waist.
“Easy!” I screamed out to him, but the word was lost between the noises of the engines and car horns all around us.
Luc was on a tear, passing three cars on the right as he gunnedthe powerful Ducati to surge forward. I grabbed at his lean frame to find some skin to pinch to express my discomfort, and when I did he simply shook me off and continued at the same breakneck speed.
It must have been the day’s events that were getting to Luc, and maybe Brigitte’s sudden decision to leave town with the two kids, pressuring him when he least needed another concern. I twisted my head around to the left to check where we were and whether there was any reason—other than his nerves—for this erratic driving pattern.
I could see that he had skirted a bad collision a hundred yards back, a four-car pileup that would have everything backed up until it was cleared.
Luc was trying to say something to me now, but it was impossible to hear him. I leaned in against him and could figure only that he was trying to tell me to hang on. When I turned to the right and looked back, I could see why: two men on motorcycles, both in leather jackets with upturned collars, wearing polarized sunglasses beneath large black helmets, seemed to be in serious pursuit of us. They were also off to the right on the shoulder of the paved road, following in the very path Luc had
When we reached the motorcycle, Luc removed our headgear from the saddlebags and I stuffed my tote inside. I fastened my hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck, strapped on the shiny blue helmet, and climbed onto the backseat. At this moment I didn’t bear any resemblance to the serious prosecutor who made it a point to appear like a complete professional in the office and courtroom.
Luc looked at his iPhone before he pocketed it. “Brigitte e-mailed me when you were napping. Belgarde’s already called to ask her about the dead girl,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s going to drive to her mother’s tonight and stay till all this blows over in town.”
“So I guess she’s taking the kids?”
“Yes,” he said, getting into place on the bike.
I was talking to his back. “And you want to see them before she goes?”
“I’d like to.”
“I don’t blame you, Luc. Just drop me at the house and I’ll meet you at the restaurant whenever you like.”
He reached back with one hand and stroked my thigh. “Thanks, darling.”
“You worry about the silliest things. I’m pleased you want to see them. They don’t need to have this murder case churning around them, just because you and Brigitte knew the victim.”
I was well aware that figuring out how to maintain his intimacy with his children was a major stumbling block to Luc’s plans for a second restaurant in New York.
The narrow side streets of Cannes were packed tight with parked cars and commercial vans. I nestled into my usual position against Luc’s back and swayed with him as he maneuvered the territory he knew so well. The first few blocks were almost on flat ground, filled with shops selling all the luxury goods for which the French were known. But then the streets began to merge together, more modest businesses and residences side by side, as we climbed out of the busy city headed due north on the Boulevard Carnot.
I was daydreaming with my eyes closed once we left the dramatic scenery of the old harbor and grand buildings. The highway was a drab road, with strip malls built up on either side. Traffic was already intense, and Luc began to weave among the cars that started and stopped at each intersection and traffic light. He was an impatient driver, and I was used to the rhythm he set as he picked up speed to charge the great concrete hill.
The bike dipped sharply to the left and seemed to kick into a higher gear. My head snapped back, bringing me out of my reverie as I tightened my grip around Luc’s waist.
“Easy!” I screamed out to him, but the word was lost between the noises of the engines and car horns all around us.
Luc was on a tear, passing three cars on the right as he gunnedthe powerful Ducati to surge forward. I grabbed at his lean frame to find some skin to pinch to express my discomfort, and when I did he simply shook me off and continued at the same breakneck speed.
It must have been the day’s events that were getting to Luc, and maybe Brigitte’s sudden decision to leave town with the two kids, pressuring him when he least needed another concern. I twisted my head around to the left to check where we were and whether there was any reason—other than his nerves—for this erratic driving pattern.
I could see that he had skirted a bad collision a hundred yards back, a four-car pileup that would have everything backed up until it was cleared.
Luc was trying to say something to me now, but it was impossible to hear him. I leaned in against him and could figure only that he was trying to tell me to hang on. When I turned to the right and looked back, I could see why: two men on motorcycles, both in leather jackets with upturned collars, wearing polarized sunglasses beneath large black helmets, seemed to be in serious pursuit of us. They were also off to the right on the shoulder of the paved road, following in the very path Luc had
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