Read The Paris Secret for Free Online Page B

great time on his dime. I wasn’t about to ruin the rest of my trip. If I had to be stuck somewhere, Paris wasn’t too shabby.
    I took a long, hot shower and changed into the jeans and black sweater. The jeans were a little loose, so I used one scarf as a belt, another to tie back my hair into a ponytail. I dabbed on a little lip gloss to complete the look. Figuring I looked pretty good for a suspected murderer, I headed downstairs.
     
    At first I wasn’t sure he was cop. The guy following us on the RER commuter train to Versailles blended right in. He looked like an aging athlete whose muscle had turned to fat. His polo shirt was rumpled, as though it had been bunched in the bottom of a suitcase too long.
    I didn’t point him out to Brian and Jarrod because I didn’t want to spoil their day when they’d been so nice to me. He seemed just like a tourist amongst all the other tourists headed to Versailles. He sat in front of us and opened a newspaper, but I caught him casting furtive glances in my direction over the paper. And as he flipped through the pages, I noticed an unusual red birthmark on his right forearm.
    That’s when I realized that like the rest of us tourists he was headed to the Palace of Versailles, one of the most famous sites in France. But unlike us he carried no camera or any other sightseeing paraphernalia. And then I caught a whiff of something familiar—a combination of sweat, stale cigarettes and disinfectant clung to him. He smelled just like the police station. It wasn’t a smell I’d soon forget, and he reeked of it.
    Brian and Jarrod were oblivious to his presence. They concerned themselves with the day’s itinerary and where to eat dinner that evening. As they debated, I made eye contact with the cop and gave him my best dirty look so he would know I was on to him. He returned my glare and smirked at me. What Bellange and Bernier hoped to accomplish by having this guy follow me around was beyond me. If they wanted to waste police time and resources following a dead end, that was their business. But Juliet Rice’s killer was roaming free and that made me furious. The cop followed us off the train, hanging back about twenty feet as we made our ten-minute trek from the train station to the palace.
    We wove our way around parked cars and tour buses in the dusty, crowded lot located in front of the gilded palace gates. Numerous African vendors in flowing tunics and skull caps hawked everything from handbags and sunglasses to T-shirts and 3-D puzzles of Versailles. The cop from the train was accosted by a particularly persistent vendor who kept shoving a fake Gucci bag in his face. I hurried through the gates and was moving so fast, my heel got stuck in a crack between the cobblestones, pitching me forward. A drop-dead gorgeous guy in dark sunglasses caught me before I ended up flat on my face. Even through the fabric of my sweater, his hands were warm. The gentle way he held me and the subtle tang of his cologne made me forget we were in a crowded courtyard. The stranger made sure I was steady on my feet before letting me go.
    “ Merci, ” I mumbled, embarrassed. He flashed me a dazzling smile and my heart beat a little faster, then he disappeared into the crowd. Boy, did I need to get a grip on myself. Men were the last thing on my agenda.
    I couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer size of the place, let alone the palace’s gold detailing glinting in the bright September sunlight. It was easy to imagine Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI’s carriage rumbling across these very cobblestones hundreds of years ago.
    Long lines formed at several entrances to the palace. People were taking pictures and babbling in English, French, Chinese, Spanish and other languages I didn’t recognize. Dozens and dozens of tour guides held up signs and shouted instructions to groups of people who followed behind them like chicks trailing after a mother hen.
    “Crap! The marble court’s being renovated.