Reynaud's Redemption, стр. 21
Getting rid of that buffoon will be a credit to the population.
Baptiste pushed the door closed and leaned against it. François lay on a king-size bed on the far side of the room. The long, satin curtains on the grand windows remained shut, blocking out the midday sun. At the foot of the bed, a sheet lay crumpled at François’ feet. His hands lay across his belly, clasped together with his fingers interlocked. The thin, white pajamas he wore stuck to his skin and sweat dripped from his brow. Baptiste would have thought him dead from his positioning. The only telltale signs of life were the wetness of his skin and the slow rise and fall of his chest. Baptiste smiled and stepped closer.
“Someone has passed on,” François stated, not turning to look at Baptiste. “Who was it?”
“Tomas is dead, François. I am sorry.”
François turned to look at him. His eyes shifted over his form in a searching fashion. He parted his fingers and extended his arm to hold his palm out in front of Baptiste. He scoffed low in his throat then relaxed onto his pillow again as he retracted his hand.
“You carry Tomas’ magic within you, yet claim to be sorry that he is dead. A contradiction, no?”
Baptiste clenched his fists at his sides and narrowed his eyes at the old man.
“Is that to be my fate too, mon ami? I have long known your plans, young Baptiste.” His voice was soft—his French accent strong. “You have always had a heart for power. Many years ago, I wondered why Madame Cousteau chose Reynaud over you. In time, I knew why.”
“And why is that, François?” he asked through gritted teeth.
François looked up at Baptiste and smiled. “One who feeds off power is never full and always hungry. You are made stronger with magic that was not given to you at birth. I am aware that you seek to add mine to what you have taken, but I am not so weak as to give up my life force just yet.”
Anger flowed through Baptiste as the old man turned away from him, closing his eyes—essentially dismissing him. Baptiste growled low in his throat and stormed out. Martin jumped to his feet, seemingly ready for Baptiste’s next orders. In smooth succession, Baptiste turned to walk toward Martin and slapped his face. The blow sounded like the crack of a whip. Its intensity knocked Martin back onto the sofa. Baptiste continued past him and left the room.
Chapter Seven
Baptiste grunted as he rifled through a stack of papers in an open folder on his desk. With a low growl, he slammed the top of the pile and snatched the phone from its cradle.
“Maxwell, get in here,” he commanded and whacked the receiver back in place.
He rocked his chair back and waited. Maxwell, a tall, thin man, with no hair, rich brown skin, dark eyes, and a thick goatee, entered moments later.
The man had been his most trusted worker for almost twenty years. Maxwell was just a boy of seventeen living on the streets when he was caught stealing from one of his establishments. He pretended to be a worker from a different store and liberated food and money from them. Finally caught, he was brought before Baptiste for punishment. When the full story was told, Baptiste found the boy to be clever, resourceful. He thought Maxwell mirrored many of his own qualities and instantly took a liking to the boy. Deciding there were obviously changes that needed to be made in his organization, Baptiste hired Maxwell on the spot to make them.
With his notebook opened and pen out, Maxwell took the chair before his boss and crossed his legs.
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I have looked through this stack of papers ten times and I cannot find the monthly reports for Maison Douce,” he told him, pointing at the paperwork. “Who is supposed to collect them?”
“That would be Andrew, sir.”
“Well then, where the hell is he? Why isn’t he doing his job?”
Maxwell’s brow rose. “Andrew was one of the young men I had to, umm, dispose of last week, Mr St John,” he reminded him.
Baptiste was lost for a moment as to what Maxwell was trying to tell him, then recognition widened his eyes.
“Oh yes, him. Well then, get someone else from his little group to retrieve the reports.”
“Andrew and the men that followed him were in charge of several small tasks at Maison Douce, sir. All five of them were terminated in the same manner.”
Baptiste threw his hands up and jumped from his chair. “Good grief, Maxwell. Am I running this business by myself? Surely you’ve put someone else there. Who is running that house now?”
“I put Luke in charge of the day-to-day business.”
“Well, why hasn’t Luke found a replacement for Andrew and his men so that I have my paperwork?”
“No one knows they are actually missing yet but us, sir.”
Baptiste fixed narrowed eyes on Maxwell. “I need those papers, Maxwell. Fix this.”
Maxwell left his chair. “Of course, sir. I will inform Luke that others will be coming to Maison Douce at once.”
“And Maxwell,” he called out, causing the man to turn. “Make sure Luke is dealt with for this inconvenience.
“Yes, sir.” Maxwell hesitated at the door. “Mr St John, might I suggest a visit from Desiree?” he added as a second thought. “You seem to be in need of some stress relief.”
Baptiste wrapped one arm around himself and tapped his chin in thought. An image of long, sensual legs, ample bottom and a generous mouth appeared in his mind’s eye. Her beautiful body covered in a black satin corset and fishnet stockings had ridden him to completion on many occasions. Baptiste shook his head hard, dissipating the thoughts. He was in no mood for that today.
“No, send