Глория Голд – Black Widow (страница 1)

Глория Голд

Black Widow

Chapter 1. Rain and Cigarette Smoke

Commissioner Henri DuPont stood by the window of his office in the Criminal Police on the Quai des Orfèvres and watched the rain lashing the Seine. Not the light, romantic kind pictured on Parisian postcards, but a cold, autumnal, Nordic downpour that forced passers-by to huddle in their coats and hurry for cover.

Today, the Sophie Legrand case had resurfaced.

"The Black Widow" – that's what the newspapers had already christened her, reveling in the death of her third husband, François Sarkozy. Officially – a suicide after a major gambling loss at the races. Unofficially – an astonishing sequence: three wealthy husbands, three tragic deaths, three inheritances. Too neat a chain for mere coincidence.

The case had been closed due to pressure from above; there was a lack of evidence. But the old Comte de Laroche, the last deceased's uncle, who had come to the station with a cane and tears in his eyes, would not let DuPont's conscience rest. His conscience – the last thing not yet archived in this building.

Henri reached for a stack of papers. His gaze fell on the pocket watch lying on the desk. It had belonged to his father and had stopped on the day he died, many years ago. 21:34. An eternal reminder that not all mysteries are solved, and not all justice triumphs. He slipped the watch into his waistcoat pocket, feeling the familiar cold of the metal.

He did not summon her to the station. Instead, he booked a room at the Ritz. The arena had to be neutral, yet comfortable for the prey. So she would relax. So she would make a mistake.

The taxi braked sharply at the hotel, jolting Sophie Legrand out of her thoughts. The driver muttered something under his breath about eternal traffic jams. She did not wait for him to get out and open her door. Slamming the door loudly, she strode with a light, almost dancing gait towards the main entrance, leaving behind the irritated driver and all that dreary weather. Her appearance was like a flash of light in the grey Parisian gloom.

The doorman, an elderly man with impeccable manners, swung the heavy door open for her, and his stony face was momentarily illuminated by respectful admiration. Sophie gifted him a dazzling, practiced-to-automatic smile and slipped inside. The warm air of the lobby, saturated with the scents of expensive perfumes and flowers, enveloped her. Without slowing her pace, she headed for the reception desk, her haute couture red dress leaving a trace in space like a comet's tail.

"Bonjour, I have a meeting with Monsieur Henri DuPont," she said in her low, enchanting voice.

The receptionist, a young man with perfectly styled hair, was momentarily flustered under her gaze.

"Monsieur DuPont is already waiting for you in room 313,Mademoiselle Legrand."

Sophie nodded and turned towards the elevator. In its polished brass, she caught her reflection. A tall, slender brunette, in whose eyes a whole history swirled. Sometimes it seemed to her that she was looking at another woman – the one who lived behind an impenetrable mask.

Approaching the door of room 313, she froze for a second, feeling a lump in her throat from sudden nervous tension. Then, straightening her back, she knocked firmly three times.

The door swung open, and a tall, dark-haired man appeared on the threshold. He was not as she had imagined. There was no officialdom or deliberate staidness about him. His dark brown suit fit him impeccably, the light pink shirt emphasized his tan, and in the gaze of his dark brown eyes was a cold, scanning clarity.

"Danger," the inner voice instantly signaled in her head.

"Monsieur DuPont, I presume?" Sophie made her voice sound languid and relaxed.

"Commissioner DuPont,"he corrected her softly but firmly. "Please, come in."

He gestured for her to enter. The room was luxurious, but the impersonality of an expensive hotel hung in the air. Sophie entered and gracefully sank into a low leather armchair, demonstratively adopting a pose that advantageously emphasized the line of her legs.

DuPont walked to the window and swung it open. A fresh breeze burst into the room, carrying with it the distant hum of Parisian streets and the smell of wet asphalt. Then he turned to her, and his appraising gaze slid over her from head to toe. Sophie's breath caught for a moment. She felt defenseless, almost naked under that hard, soul-penetrating gaze.

"I invited you here to ask a few questions about the death of your third husband," he began without further preamble, sitting down in the armchair opposite. His posture was calm, but the energy emanating from him was as tense as a bowstring.

Sophie leaned back in her chair, gracefully crossing her legs.

"According to my testimony,I was at the country estate that night. And, as you must know, that can be confirmed by fifty witnesses."

"Fifty witnesses from high society," DuPont said skeptically, pursing his lips. "An amazingly close-knit community."

"Isn't the investigation officially closed?" she asked with a naive look that wouldn't fool a child.

"Formally – yes," Henri replied, feeling his irritation grow. This woman was playing with him like a cat with a mouse. "But there are nuances. And there are persistent relatives."

Sophie smiled condescendingly. Then she took a pack of thin ladies' cigarettes from her purse. Holding the cigarette with her long, gloved fingers, she looked at him questioningly. He accepted the challenge.

Henri leisurely took a stylish silver lighter from his pocket. He lit it with a confident motion. Sophie slowly leaned forward, placed her left hand on his wrist – a light, almost weightless touch, but it sent shivers down his skin. She stared intently into his eyes, taking a deep drag.

Usually, this technique worked flawlessly. But Henri merely withdrew his hand and returned to his seat, maintaining an impassive expression. He saw a flicker of bewilderment in her eyes before she settled deeper into the armchair.

"No, mademoiselle, that number won't work with me," he thought with satisfaction.

He took out a cigar, unhurriedly clipped the end, lit it. The cigar smoke mixed with the smoke of her cigarette – two wars, two tactics. Then he walked to the bar, giving her time to realize her first failure.

"What will you drink?" he asked, half-turning.

"A dry martini,"she replied without hesitation.

He poured the drink into glasses and was about to approach, but Sophie was ahead of him. She briskly jumped up and was beside him in a few seconds. This caught him off guard. He silently handed her the glass.

"What shall we drink to? To our acquaintance? Then we should do it as confidants," she said with her most charming smile.

Henri smirked.

"Mademoiselle Legrand,you apparently do not realize the seriousness of your situation. The relatives of the deceased consider you guilty."

"But I have an ironclad alibi, the case is closed. Soon I will inherit. And you, as I understand it, have no evidence," Sophie said mockingly and, bringing the glass to her sensual lips, took a large sip.

Henri watched her with interest. She was playing the role of a frivolous Parisienne, but in her eyes, he read a sharp, calculating mind. She was irresistible, and he had to make an effort not to succumb to her charms.

Sophie walked over to the open window and, leaning her elbows on the windowsill, looked out. Henri's gaze slipped over her slender legs. As if sensing this, Sophie instantly threw a quick glance over her shoulder from under her lush eyelashes.

"Tell me, Mademoiselle Legrand," he began, changing tactics, "why did you divorce your first husband, the Comte de Saint-Simon?"

The expression on Sophie's face changed instantly. The mask of frivolity fell away, revealing something real, vulnerable, and fierce.

"Don't you dare say that name in my presence!"she exclaimed.

Henri knew the reason for the breakup from the society columns but did not expect such a fierce reaction. And certainly did not expect large, genuine tears to roll down her cheeks. Her shoulders trembled, her weakened fingers unclenched, and the glass, slipping out, shattered on the floor, splashing martini.

Henri jumped up and rushed to her. Now she seemed completely lost, a little girl. He put his arm around her shoulders, feeling her whole body tremble, led her to the couch, and sat her down. The girl buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her soft, silky hair, inhaling the scent of expensive perfume, and thought: "The greatest actress or…"

Having calmed down a little, Sophie pulled away and looked up at him with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes. And suddenly, Henri saw before him simply a beautiful, unhappy woman in need of protection. He couldn't resist – his lips themselves reached for her cheek to dry the tears. It was an impulse, foolishness, a violation of all the rules.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and her lips pressed against his in a passionate, burning kiss. Henri lost control. His mind screamed of danger, but his body wouldn't listen. He covered her face, neck, and hands with tender but scorching kisses.