“Bon appetit,” Luc said with mock formality as he set down a wooden board crowded with provisions. Glossy black olives, a round of soft cheese that smelled faintly of the herbs growing in the garden, a small bowl of tapenade, and a crusty, rustic boule, still warm from the oven.
“Mmm, that bread smells as good as Omar’s,” Marielle said, sliding into the chair across from Omar.
She’d pinned her dark hair up on the top of her head and changed into her borrowed clothes. She wore a cotton blouse the color of sea foam that highlighted her elegant neck and loose linen pants that pooled around her ankles. The casual outfit accentuated her curves and suited her better than the designer pieces she’d worn on the yacht.
“You bake?” Luc eyed him appraisingly as he slid white and blue platter of cold shrimp and fresh mussels nestled on a bed of ice onto the table alongside the tray.
Omar nodded. “I’m learning.”
“He’s being modest,” Marielle interjected.
“Eh, you look the part, no?” Luc gestured at Omar’s borrowed attire.
He’d swapped his swimsuit and rash guard for a pair of lightweight chinos and Luc’s reinterpretation of the traditional Breton shirt. It had variously sized and spaced black stripes in place of thin, equally spaced navy stripes and a spread collar rather than a boat neck.
They were chuckling when Hanna appeared in the doorway. Her damp hair was twisted into a braid at the nape of her neck and she wore a pale yellow sundress that highlighted her bronze skin. The asymmetrical skirt floated as she walked into the room. She seemed at once lighter and more grounded out of Idris’s shadow.
“Sit, sit,” Luc urged her, pouring a pale red drink from a chilled glass pitcher into four small jelly jars.
Hanna took the seat closest to the doorway.
Luc passed out the kirs, then took the chair across from her and raised his glass to Marielle. “I’m told it was your grandmother’s favorite. Dry white wine with a splash of cassis.”
A bright smile bloomed on Marielle’s full lips. “To Mémé Céline.”
“To Céline,” the others echoed.
Omar sipped his cold drink. The blackcurrant liqueur gave the crisp wine a hint of tart-sweet berry flavor. No wonder Marielle’s grandmother had been a fan.
They drank, and nibbled, and chatted. But Omar’s mind wandered. He kept circling back to Marielle’s revelation that Olivia had warned her not to go to the safe house.
Their only viable plan for getting back to the States involved the Potomac ex-fil team. The safe house in Marseille was supposed to be their rally point, the place where they’d regroup, debrief, and coordinate extraction. Without the house and the team, he and Elle were on their own. On their own with an asset the government had intended to burn. Hanna complicated an already messy situation.
But Olivia didn’t issue warnings lightly. Not only that, she’d bypassed official channels to send the message—bypassed her husband, who was running comms. She must have had a damned good reason.
He broke off a piece of bread and spread tapenade across it. He wagered the fresh bread and salty olive paste were delicious, but he didn’t taste them, still lost in thought.
Hanna peppered Luc with questions about Paris and the fashion scene, which he answered without providing any details or substance about his time there. Marielle asked him about his grandfather, and he sidestepped her questions by talking about her grandmother. Luc Blanc would have made an excellent operative, Omar realized. He was a natural at keeping a conversation going without divulging any personal details.
A faint knock sounded in the front of the house and then the door opened, its hinges squeaking.
“Luc?” A woman called.
Luc stood. “Excuse me. I forgot Sofia Duchamp was stopping by. Her daughter has an audition with the regional ballet next week, and I’m whipped up a new tutu for her.”
He disappeared into the front of the inn. Omar listened to the murmur of voices speaking a language he couldn’t understand. But he could tell from Luc’s reassuring tone and the woman’s high-pitched, rapid-fire questions that she was nervous.
“Lucky kid,” Hanna mused. “Not every would-be ballet dancer gets to wear a custom-made tutu from a talented designer.”
“Oui.” Marielle leaned forward. “Hanna. We need to know what you know.” Her words were blunt but her voice was soft.
Hanna’s hand stilled halfway to her glass. “I told you. I’m not sure yet if I’m going to share it.”
“We blew our cover to get you off that yacht,” Omar said, keeping his tone even. Reasonable. “You said yourself that your handler went dark. We’re the only people standing between you and Idris.”
“I know.” She picked up an olive but made no move to eat it. “And I’m grateful. I am. But?—”
“On the yacht,” Marielle interrupted, “Do you remember when Poppy Jones wandered into the sauna?”