Paris, Île Saint-Louis
The truth of it was, if Icky hadn’t twisted his arm Eddie Grant would be home making love to Aurélie instead of following a rented butler into Henri Gascon’s gilded living room. Aurélie knew precisely what he’d rather be doing, and felt much the same way. She squeezed his arm harder and pulled him into the buzzing crowd of middle-aged men in business suits and women in cocktail dresses, who paused every few minutes to extend their glasses to a passing waiter.
They drifted apart, only to regroup and resume their bright gossip about the next weekend in the country or Christmas in Antibes — the holidays were only three months away and the late-afternoon air gusting gently through the open windows already carried the snap of winter.
“Ah, the well-mannered Paris cocktail party,” Eddie murmured to no one in particular as the butler handed them off to an elderly waiter, who extended a silver tray.
“Monsieur Grant, Madame Cabillaud. May I offer you the last two glasses?” Eddie looked up in surprise. “Georges! I thought our Christmas party was your last. Did you decide not to retire?” He took the champagne and handed one glass to Aurélie.
“I did retire, but I still do the occasional party just to round out my month.” Eddie looked around the crowd in search of friendly faces. It would be a few minutes at most until Aurélie was lured away to debate her new book dissecting the effects of the French Revolution on the ordinary citizens of Paris. She loved the give and take, and defended herself with vivacité d’esprit, a quick-witted energy that could charm the most curmudgeonly academic.
The attention and the public acclaim were her oxygen. “There’s Jeremy,” she whispered after they found a place near an open window, “over at the piano. You can talk to him until the dog-and-pony show begins.” As the pianist shifted to Mozart, their friend Jeremy Bentham worked his way toward them.
“Jeremy,” Aurélie said. “Édouard is very glad you’re here. He doesn’t really like talking to bankers.”
“I don’t usually run into you at affairs like this, I suspect for the same reason,” Eddie added. “Have you seen our host?”
“Henri is bending somebody’s ear over near the piano. He called to invite me and I have a little money to invest, so I thought it would be a nice way to see how the really rich live, and maybe have a little ice cream at Berthillon,” Jeremy replied. He dissembled easily for the benefit of the guests around them; in fact, both he and Eddie were at the party as a favor to their friend Icky Crane, a CIA department head. Icky was a college friend and Army buddy of Eddie’s and both had served under Major General Bentham in the first Gulf War.
Last Stop: Paris Description:
A full-throttle adventure through modern Europe and the Mediterranean in a book that’s part thriller, part mystery, and all rollicking ride (Kirkus)
At long last, Eddie Grant has the chance to find and punish the evil genius who murdered his family ten years before. With the help of his friends and the lovely Aurélie (plus a little from the CIA) he brings the long saga to a resounding end.
Kirkus Reviews called Last Stop: Paris “An exhilarating journey that will satisfy the most avid thriller reader.”
