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“Oui.” Putain, yes. There was a chance they would simply lose their ability to shift and become nothing more than human. After spending nearly forty years living with his beast, his darker half shaping who he was, Alain didn’t fancy losing it. But it beat the alternative. For there was also a possibility, as part of Cordelia’s curse, they would cease to exist when she did.

Chapter Four

There were two ways into Alain d’Louncrais’ apartment to search for the grimoire. The first required knowledge of where he lived. According to Cordelia, with the best private investigators money could buy, she hadn’t found a hint of where that might be. Which left Grace with the only other option. Get invited there by the man himself. From the way the sultry brunette was leaning into him, it was going to take more than a satin ball gown and expensive shoes. She would have to throw her dignity under the bus. Compete with a woman who’d most likely been born into this world of money and fancy shindigs and make a play for a man who was way out of her league.

“That’s Solange De Labruyère,” said Madam de Poitiers. “She’s the curator for the Bibliothèque nationale de France. I can’t imagine they’re talking about her recent acquisitions, can you?”

Grace fiddled with her wineglass. Am I that transparent?

“Non. She is looking for a personal invitation to the appartement-terrasse of the Maison de Paon.” Madam des Poitiers made an indelicate noise in the back of her throat. “Her and every other woman in this room.”

Grace included. But for entirely different reasons.

“May zon de pon?” Grace mumbled the unfamiliar words. “I don’t understand what that is?”

“The Peacock House. It’s an apartment building in the seventh arrondissement where Alain has a…what do you Americans call it? A penthouse suite.” Madam des Poitiers ran her gaze over Grace. “You should, how you say, throw your hat in the ring, non?”

“Yes. I mean, non. Yes, that’s the saying, but…” The Peacock House. That sounded like something she could find on Google. “Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît. I need to use the les toilettes.”

Grace ditched her champagne flute and made a beeline for the restroom. Once locked in a bathroom stall, she pulled out her phone and typed her request into the search bar. And there it was. The Peacock House. Cordelia could have saved the money she’d spent on investigators. All Grace had needed was access to the right people and Wi-Fi.

Grace was out of the restroom in a flash, pardoning her way through the crowd. She lifted her dress and raced down the stairs, across the foyer, past the startled doorman and out onto the street as if the Father of Lies himself were on her tail. She had an address.

Halted at the curb, searching for a taxi with its light on, she shivered, as much from the cold night air as from what she was about to do. Breaking into Alain d’Louncrais’ fancy condo wasn’t going to be easy. There’d be all manner of security—locks, cameras, perhaps a doorman—just to get into the building. There could be a dedicated and locked lift to get to his floor. How on earth was she—

The phone number.

Grace retrieved the crumpled piece of paper from her clutch. No name. Just a number. Ten digits. A French guy had given it to her at Cordelia’s manor house. Told her to call it if she needed assistance in Paris. She’d shoved it into her purse this evening as an afterthought, with little intention of using it. Coming on this mission was bad enough. Taking help from the group of tattooed men clogging up Cordelia’s parlor had not seemed like a smart idea. Her hands shook as she unlocked her phone.

She was in a foreign country, contemplating breaking into a man’s apartment to steal from him. Not just any man. One who could afford to attend fundraisers and live in what she suspected was a very exclusive part of Paris, in a building that had its own name. A man who could afford the best security gadgets and firms. A man who had a direct line to the council.

She glanced back to the entrance of the Cluny Museum. It wasn’t too late to go back inside. Maybe she didn’t have to do this. Maybe…she should tell Alain d’Louncrais the truth. Then what? He’d give her the grimoire? No, of course he wouldn’t. He’d send her packing. Maybe he would help her, bring the full weight of the council down on Cordelia. And Cordelia would use her wealth to disappear, and Grace might never see her mama again.

Her mama’s face smiled at her from her home screen. A picture Grace had taken on her mama’s wedding day to Bernard King. Her mama had been so happy. And Bernard was so sweet and kind. He was nothing like the other Kings Grace had come to know. She couldn’t risk it.

Balderdash. She had no choice but to go through with her mission. Grace dialed the number.

The call connected after the second ring. “Dubois.”

“Um, hello. My name is Grace Williams. Um, I was…ah…given this number by—”

“What do you need?”

O-kay. “I…ah…I need to get into a penthouse apartment in the seventh arrondissement in Paris. I’m not sure—”

“Give me the address. I’ll deal with the security.”

Right. Grace rattled off the address. “I’ll call you when I get there?”

“No need.”

“Well, how will you know when I—”

The line went dead. Grace stared at her phone. She could only imagine what this Dubois was going to do—hack the system, send an accomplished burglar to meet her, or a clandestine S.W.A.T. team.

Gee willikers, what have I got myself into?

Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, she hailed a passing taxi and gave the driver the address. The event wasn’t due to finish for another two and a half hours, but who knew how long she’d have before Alain would stumble home with the gorgeous woman in the red dress on his arm. She needed to get in, find the grimoire, and get out as fast as she could. As soon as she broke the ward on his door, Alain would know. She’d have to hope to heck she could get out of the country before he caught up with her.