seventeen | paris

the capital city of France; nicknamed the 'City of Light' due to being one of the first cities in Europe to install street lamps, which occured at the bequest of King Louis XIV in the 17th century as an attempt to restore a sense of safety after the ravages of war

JAKE

May 8th, 19:59 (GMT +2)
7 days until it happens

IT TAKES SEVENTEEN deafening bloody knocks on her door before Rayna deigns to reply. From somewhere in the room, she calls, "Ya akho el sharmouta, I'm coming, I'm coming! Jesus!"

With an impatient glance at my Breitling, I remind her, "We were supposed to have arrived by now and we haven't even left the hotel–"

The door wrenches open beneath my rapping fist and she mutters, "Don't get your goddamn knickers in a twist, or whatever you people like to say."

My biting retort falters.

Mary mother of God, she's beautiful.

Her gown is redder than blood, trickling over each of her firm lines and round curves. A slash down the side reveals the length of her smooth, golden leg. Her slender shoulders are bared, her luminous complexion framed by a shining cascade of black hair. Her high-heels are sharper than a knife, and undoubtedly deadlier.

The first thing I'm wondering is where the bloody hell in all that streaming silk, clinging tighter than skin, she's managed to hide her gun.

The sudden memory of her kneeling on the cot in front of me with her hand shoved down her knickers and my thumb stuck in her mouth hits me in the groin before I manage to banish it away.

My heartrate claws as she wraps her delicate fingers around my wrist. She stretches her plush, glazed lips near my ear and murmurs, "Take a fucking picture, why don't you?" before gliding past me with a faint sway of her luscious hips.

And yeah, she looks bloody ravishing from behind, too.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up to a sprawling mansion in the sixteenth arrondissement. Rayna accepts my arm with a mammoth roll of her eyes to assure me that she does not enjoy my touch. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. In return, I brandish a dashing grin.

As we walk up the marble steps, I do a quick sweep of the estate. Meticulous landscaping, lavish iron-and-stone construction. The state-of-the-art security system is accompanied by hulking bodyguards standing sentry outside the main entrance.

The interior is even more profligate. Dripping crystal chandeliers, twisting mahogany banisters, gleaming gilded frescoes, intricate mosaics. The opulent decor is frayed filthy with wealth.

Incidentally, the host, Jacques Drapeau, is one of Elias Dalton's business associates. The guest-list is exclusive and illustrious, comprising industry moguls, celebrities, and rich nightclub owners who moonlight as human traffickers. A distinguished lot, evidently.

A live orchestra serenades the ballroom as we enter. We insert ourselves inconspicuously into the jewelled swarm of pomp and finery. My palm grazes the warm scoop of Rayna's bare shoulder-blades. Her scent is sultry and sweet.

Close to her temple, I grumble, "Nikitin is at ten o'clock, standing by that woman in blue."

Rayna lifts a flute of champagne off a server's tray. She brings the shimmering crystal to her mouth and glances at me coyly. "I don't know what your plan for tonight is..." Her eyes meet mine, rife with mischief, "but I'm here to have a good time."

Irritation hardens my jaw. "We have a job to do."

She hitches a carefree shoulder, taking a slow sip without breaking eye contact. Her dark lips brush the glass tauntingly. "I do my job best when I'm having fun."

"And I do my job best when I work alone, so I suppose we'll both have to make sacrifices, won't we?"

She tucks a small hand against my chest. Even with the lift of her stilettos, she still has to rise onto her toes to get close to my face. Her mouth lingers an inch away from the corner of mine, and a singe of heat sparks beneath the pressure of her fingertips. The cool tinge of bubbly meets my tongue when she presses the flute to my lips, urging me to have a taste. The pink imprint of her lipstick stains the rim of it.

I wrest the drink from her grasp and hand it to a passing waiter.

"You mean..." She pouts, shaping her features into an expression intended to be disarmingly alluring. I am not so easily enticed. "...you don't wanna dance with me, Jake?"

Ah, fuck. The way she caresses my name with her soft tongue makes my trousers stiffen.

My forehead ticks. "We finish the job first, and then perhaps."

"Then let's get this over with, shall we?" She slips an arm past the lapel of my tux, her breath washing over my throat. Her fingers skim a sensual path along my ribs. Reaching into an inner pocket, she retrieves a thumb-sized case that encloses the tracking bug.

She pulls away and the warmth of her body vanishes. Without another peek in my direction, she sets off. I watch her stride gracefully through the crowd. I can see what she's up to; Nikitin is conveniently positioned between her and the bar.

She's treacherously stunning – it's that siren beauty of myths that bewitches grown men to forsake their fortunes and families only to be swept to jagged wreckage in her blustering wake. She nudges past Nikitin, an expert wobble of her taloned shoes sending her bumping into him. And then she apologizes profusely with a brilliant smile and a gentle hand to his arm, a picture of complete innocence.

The bug has been planted. It's as simple as that.

After a respectable duration, I follow her. She flirts with the bartender in fluent French as she orders herself a drink.

I approach the bar and our elbows skim. "And your finest single-malt Scotch, neat, for the gentleman, please," she smiles.

"Monsieur," he directs at me, "Monsieur Drapeau s'est procuré une belle bouteille de Macallan âgée de vingt-cinq ans."

He pours a deep amber stream of outrageously expensive whisky into an outrageously expensive crystal tumbler. I don't touch it.

Her hair tickles my nose when I grouse near her cheek, "After last night, I shan't be sharing a drink in your company again, Shahid."

That makes her giggle softly. It's a youthful, delighted sound. Unwittingly, my pulse trips.

Suddenly, she's latching her sleek fingernails onto my forearm. I let her tug me a few steps away, out of the bartender's earshot. Hiding herself behind my body, she peers past my shoulder and groans, "Shit." Before I can swivel my neck to see what the fuss is, she shrills, "Don't look." She exhales laboriously. "It's that asshat Steve Jones. CIA. He is always trying to hit on me, I'm so sick of it."

My spine pricks. CIA, huh? "Can't be a coincidence. Do you think he's meddling?"

She shrugs. "Yeah, they probably want to nab Cassidy for themselves."

In the same breath, we both gripe, "Fucking Americans." Something we can agree on, apparently.

She's tweaking the fragile rose-gold band on her right wrist, something I've noticed she does when she's agitated or pensive. "Shit, here he comes..."

"Bloody hell. He better not say something stupid..."

She plasters a sunny smile onto her face. "Steve!"

"Rayna," he greets, leaning in to smack a kiss to her cheek that she deflects with an awkward side-hug. He's lean and blond and pretty, his eyes bluer than a bull's bollocks. "It's been a hot minute. How's it going?"

"Oh, you know. Work." She redirects his attention to me. "Have you two met?"

Steve – what an unfortunate name, poor bugger – hardly spares me a glance. "Yeah, maybe. It's Joe, right?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Rayna, hon..." He flags down a nearby server and gushes, "God, you gotta try these prosciutto-wrapped figs. So damn good."

I nearly open my mouth to say she doesn't eat pork, you twat, but I decide instead to keep quiet. She desperately does not want to be left alone with him, and I still have not exacted adequate revenge for her dragging me through hell these past few days.

"Lovely to meet you, Cedric. I'll let you two catch up."

Her eyes widen, cocoa-brown irises going bitter like shit. Hiding a smug grin, I stride away while the biting stab of her murderous gaze decapitates me from afar.

How wonderfully convenient. Looks like I'll be finishing tonight's job alone after all.

***

Author's Note [Oct. 28th, 2022]:

Yay! You've made it to the end! The next chapter will launch on Friday, Nov. 11th and then we'll have weekly updates from there!

If y'all manage to reach 400 comments per chapter before then, I'll update right away! Dw, I'll reply to as many as possible to get us there quicker 😘

(Guess what happens next chapter? Wink wink wink...)

xoxo Ami