Parlez du site à vos amis!
The only thing she really knew about Paul Cormier was that he was dying.
The blood from the wound in his chest had soaked through his white silk shirt and white linen suit and was running in small rivulets over the white marble tile.
The old man opened his eyes as Mattie Sharpe crouched helplessly beside him, grasping his hand in hers. He peered up at her, as if he were trying to see through a thick fog.
“Christine? Is that you, Christine?” Even in a croaked whisper, his accent was elegant and vaguely European.
“Yes, Paul.” Lying was the only thing she could do for him. Mattie held his hand tightly. “It's Christine.”
“Missed you, girl. Missed you so much.”
“I'm here now.”
Cormier's pale blue gaze focused on her for a few seconds. “No,” he said. “You're not here. But I'm almost there, aren't I?” He made a sound that might have started out as a chuckle but turned into a ghastly, gurgling cough.
“Yes. You're almost here.”
“Be good to see you again.”
“Yes.” A hot, torpid island breeze wafted through the front hall of the Cormier mansion. The silence from the surrounding jungle was unnatural and oppressive. “It's going to be all right, Paul. Everything will be fine.” Lies. More lies.
Cormier squinted up at her, his gaze startlingly lucid for an instant. “Get out of here. Hurry.”
“I'll go,” Mattie promised.
Cormier's eyes closed again. “Someone will come. An old friend. When he does, tell him…tell him.” Another terrible gasping sound drained more of the little strength he had left.
“What do you want me to tell him?”
“Reign…” Cormier choked on his own blood. “In hell.”
Mattie didn't pause to make sense out of what she thought she'd heard him say. Automatically she reassured him. “I'll tell him.”
The hand that had been clutching hers slackened its grip. “Christine?”
“I'm here, Paul.”
But Cormier did not hear her this time. He was gone.
The horror of her situation washed over Mattie again. She struggled to her feet, feeling light-headed. Without thinking, she glanced at the black and gold watch on her wrist as if she were late to a business appointment.
With a shock she realized she had been in the white mansion overlooking the ocean for less than five minutes. She would have been here two hours earlier if she hadn't gotten lost on a winding island road that had dead-ended in the mountains. At the time the delay had made her tense and anxious. It occurred to Mattie now that if she had arrived on time, she probably would have walked straight into the same gun that had killed Paul Cormier.
The toe of her Italian leather shoe struck something on the floor. It skittered away across the tile.
Mattie jumped at the loud sound in the eerily silent hall. Then she glanced down and saw the gun.
Cormier's, probably, she told herself. He must have tried to fight off the intruder. Dazed, Mattie took a step toward the weapon. Perhaps she should take it with
Lire des autres livres
He twisted in his seat to look at her, a ready smile on his face. For a minute there he was worried she was going to call his bluff. This woman’s head game was way too cunning. She’d run circles around him if he wasn’t careful.
“Rosie,” he acknowledged, patting the space next to him and bidding her...
Cet homme est un caissier, véritable produit anthropomorphe, arrosé par les idées religieuses, maintenu par la guillotine, ébranché par le vice, et qui pousse à un troisième étage entre une femme estimable et des enfants ennuyeux. Le nombre des caissiers à Paris sera toujours un problème pour le phy...
It was March 1, 1986. By then, every day bled into the next like an endless waking nightmare for my family, especially for my mom. I remember prescription pill bottles taking up a whole shelf in the bathroom closet. My mother may not have been able to pull herself together enough to do laundry or co...
Plus encore : on y relève l'emploi systématique du pilier cantonné, analogue à ceux de Chartres, Rd= et Amiens, élest-à@e en croix celtique inversée; pilier qui m7apparaît être la signature de la fraternité de constructeurs qui érigea ces trois églises et que je pense être - sans pouvoir l'affirmer...
Une sonnerie stridente interrompit brutalement mon rêve dans lequel je conversais en toute civilité avec le poète Hâfez, une tasse de thé à la main, alors que des femmes parfumées s'affairaient sous les tonnelles fleuries. Un coup de poing sur le réveil n'arrêta pas le son désagréable. C'était le té...