Lucky Ce Soir by Deborah Coonts

Author:Deborah Coonts
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781944831660
Publisher: Chestnut Street Press

Chapter Twelve

“LUCKY?” THE voice, male. “Lucky, are you okay? Talk to me.”

Jean-Charles. Where was I? Why did he sound so scared? I struggled to remember. I tried to move, to open my eyes. Nothing seemed to work.

Breathe, Lucky. Breathe.

I focused on calm, on breathing slowly, on trying to feel, to remember.

Christophe! His face swam before me. Scared. Worried. Someone must tell him I’m okay!

The warmth of adrenaline flooded through me. My eyes flew open. Blinking rapidly, I brought Jean-Charles into focus. Worried, just like his son. I managed to grab his lapel with one hand. “Call home. Tell Christophe I’m okay.” My voice didn’t sound like mine.

“But you are not okay.” Jean-Charles could adopt the wrong emotion in any situation—it was one of his best things.

Pragmatism in the face of panic didn’t work for me. “Do it.”

He knew when to argue and when to just suck it up. Smart man, he pulled out his phone.

A sea of faces all looking down at me circled at the edges of my periphery. Someone said something about calling the police and an ambulance.

I worked myself to one elbow. The world swam then righted. “I’m okay. Give me a minute.” More wishful thinking than truth. My body was numb, quiet with shock. That would change.

Another voice in French, another one I recognized. This one I didn’t trust. “I am the police.”

Emma Moreau. And Jean-Charles.

I remembered.

How long had I been out? I analyzed the faces staring at me. Most looked concerned. One looked terrified. The driver, I’d bet. He wrung his hands and muttered for anyone who would listen, “I dodged the man. It was instinct.” Tears still streaked his face, so I couldn’t have been out long.

They’d been here together, Jean-Charles and his “old friend.” Perhaps at one of the cafés ringing the Trocadéro. I hoped not at my favorite, Carette.

“She was right there,” the driver continued as he wrung his hands. “Nothing I could do.”

Except maybe run over the bad guy instead of the good guy next time, I thought. He clearly didn’t have Dorothy’s instincts when it came to dropping houses…or cars…on people. “Where is the man who ran into traffic?” I actually managed most of that in French as I tested my feet. They moved. A good sign.

The somber look from the faces in the crowd, not a good sign.

A man close to me winced. “A bus.”

“Dead?”

“Oui.”

He held out a hand and helped pull me to a seated position. “You can move, oui?”

I wiggled, gingerly testing all the various parts. My head throbbed, but everything responded, albeit reluctantly. I touched the epicenter of the pain on my temple. Hell of a goose egg. Above me, I heard Jean-Charles ask for Christophe. Finally, the man had seen a glimmer of truth—do what I ask; it’s more expedient that way. Especially if he wanted me to do something.

As I tried to rise, Jean-Charles put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. He pressed the phone to his chest. “Just a minute and I will help you.

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