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snow ramp. Savard was already practically dead as they’d watched through binoculars him waiting on Roman Lacaille – only they hadn’t known it.
      You’ll be safe. We’ll be watching every moment, guarding your back. Weeks of meetings before Savard was finally confident enough to go ahead. ‘Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you,’ they’d assured. Yet Savard had died like a trussed chicken, his final moments filled with terror.
      Michel was now doubly determined to nail the Lacailles, but now only one witness remained: Georges Donatiens. And Donatiens was practically family, engaged to marry Jean-Paul Lacaille’s only daughter, Simone, the apple of his eye.
    Michel opened his eyes again, taking in the horror of what had happened to Savard in an effort to will himself on; but already he knew it was an almost hopeless quest. They’d have to move mountains to get Georges Donatiens to testify.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
    THREE

    This was Georges Donatiens favourite time of day, that hushed, suspended moment just as the first morning rays broke through; especially given who lay beside him and what they’d been doing.
      Simone. He admired her for a moment in the soft first light, the long sweep of her olive-brown back, her wavy black hair slightly in disarray and spilling over one shoulder. He gently traced down her spine with two fingers. The trick, as always, was to touch her so lightly that she wouldn’t awaken. He pulled the sheets lower to give his hand freer range, then continued tracing down, down, until he reached the cleft of her buttocks. He felt a subtle tremor run through her body, her subconscious registering that it liked what he was doing, but hopefully not enough to make her stir. Not yet.
      He held his hand motionless and held his breath too, suddenly conscious of his own heartbeat in the lull, until her tremoring subsided. Then he started tracing slowly back up the ridge of her spine. If he was really careful, sometimes he could spin it out for a few minutes. Tracing delicately, as light as spider’s feet, up and down, each time being more daring, going lower, deeper between the cleft of her buttocks, feeling the heat there and her slightly damp from the night before. Or was that just from now? Revelling in her light trembling, almost seeing the goose bumps raise as the first light hit her body, pausing again breathlessly like a frightened schoolboy each time she looked close to…
      She groaned throatily and moved one leg. He waited a few seconds beyond the groan dying, but with one leg now pushed wide, he felt drawn to go still lower rather than higher. Her heat and moisture pulled him in like a magnet, and he couldn’t resist pushing his luck that extra inch by probing gently with one finger. She groaned again, he froze… and was about to pull his hand away when her leg shifted back again, trapping him, and the groan became a soft purr.
      ‘Uuhhhm… c’est bon.’ She rolled towards him, bringing her left leg up so that it rested on his thigh. She smiled at him and blinked. ‘Good morning.’
    ‘Good morning.’ Georges smiled back tightly.
    One of her hands traced deftly down his stomach, and she watched his expression closely as she gripped him and started gently stroking.
    A short hiss of pleasure, his eyes closed for a second before shaking it quickly off and glancing towards the alarm clock. 7.22 a.m. Georges started mentally totting up the time for coffee, shower, dressing and driving the six miles to Cartier-Ville.
    ‘Look, Simone, I don’t have time for this now. I’ve got an eight-thirty breakfast meeting with your father. I won’t make it if we fool around.’
    ‘If you can’t handle the beast, you shouldn’t wake the beast.’ She pouted challengingly, still stroking.
    ‘Who said that?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Voltaire, maybe Rabelais.’
    ‘Sounds more like Cousteau to me.’
    Another small shrug, then she quickly