The Man in the Black Suit Read online

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Man in the Black Suit

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  Sylvain Reynard

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  Argyle Press

  Copyright Information

  The Man in the Black Suit, Copyright © 2017 by Sylvain Reynard

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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  Argyle Press

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  First published December 2017

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Cover Design by Heather Carrier Designs

  eBook Design by Coreen Montagna

  Praise for The Raven

  “A fabulous Gothic treat of a book filled with ancient vampires, dark vendettas, and star-crossed love.”

  ~Deborah Harkness,

  #1 New York Times bestselling author

  Discovery of Witches trilogy

  “This book knocks over genre and swirls it into an addicting mix of mystery, romance and fantasy. With nearly lyrical prose and magical characters that step right off the pages, The Raven is going to make SR diehards and newcomers alike nurse an epic book hangover.”

  ~Christina Lauren,

  New York Times bestselling author

  Beautiful Bastard series

  “Reynard never disappoints, especially when it comes to creating well-developed characters and granting readers an invitation to use their imaginations. This dark, sexy tale is nestled in the mysterious city of Florence and will amaze and enchant readers throughout. The author tries the paranormal genre on for size and, not surprisingly, it’s a perfect fit.”

  ~RT Book Reviews

  “I’m loving this series…Sylvain Reynard’s writing is exquisitely beautiful and it evokes such emotion and vivid imagery…Compulsive reading as the reader is swept away in an intriguing sensual romance set in the heart of Florence. Raven and William’s story is addictive and mesmerizing as new meets old with humour, passion, danger and mystery.”

  ~Totally Booked Blog

  “Sylvain Reynard’s dark and mysterious world of The Florentine and its vampires is sensual, passionate and deadly.”

  ~The Reading Cafe

  Praise for the Gabriel Trilogy

  “I found myself enraptured by Sylvain Reynard’s flawless writing.”

  ~The Autumn Review

  “Emotionally intense and lyrical.”

  ~Totally Booked Blog

  “The Professor is sexy and sophisticated…I can’t get enough of him!”

  ~Kristen Proby

  USA Today bestselling author

  “An unforgettable and riveting love story that will sweep readers off their feet.”

  ~Nina’s Literary Escape

  “Sylvain Reynard’s writing is captivating and intense…It’s hard not to be drawn to the darkly passionate and mysterious Gabriel, a character you’ll be drooling and pining for!”

  ~Waves of Fiction

  “A must read whether you’re a longtime fan of [Sylvain Reynard]’s or have never read a word he’s written. The writing as always deserves special mention for its style and beauty.”

  ~Bookish Temptations

  “The story was magnificent, the characters and world complex.”

  ~Romance at Random

  Books by Sylvain Reynard

  ***

  The Gabriel Series

  Gabriel’s Inferno

  Gabriel’s Rapture

  Gabriel’s Redemption

  ***

  The Florentine Series

  The Prince (novella)

  The Raven

  The Shadow

  The Roman

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Cassirer Foundation Museum

  Cologny, Switzerland

  December 2007

  “STOP PESTERING ME,” the museum curator scolded. She smiled at the telephone handset. “I’m almost finished.”

  She was careful not to groan as she surveyed the files that covered her workspace. Her office was dark, illuminated only by the old-fashioned banker’s lamp on her desk. But the lighting was as she preferred it. Fluorescent lights gave her headaches.

  “I’m coming to get you.” Her younger brother’s voice through the phone was tinged with exasperation. “We’ve been waiting an hour.”

  “We?” All thoughts of files and their contents evaporated. The curator straightened in her chair, and the vertebrae in her spine snapped to attention.

  Her brother paused, and she fancied she heard the sound of footsteps as he walked to a more private area. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  The curator grinned. “You brought someone home? Have you introduced her to Maman and Papa?”

  “Yes, and I would have introduced her to you already if you’d arrived home when you said you would,” he huffed. “Is the security system on?”

  “I always keep it on after hours. Thierry is here, doing his rounds.” She glanced at her desk once again. “As soon as I hang up, I’m on my way.”

  “See you soon. Drive safely.”

  She could hear the smile in her brother’s parting words, and she chuckled as she hung up. He worked in London while she curated the family art collection in Cologny. Clearly, he’d met someone special.

  She was happy for him.

  She tidied her desk and organized the files into three neat stacks. She called Thierry, the security guard, and asked him to escort her through the building and outside to her car.

  With a last look at her desk, she retrieved her handbag and coat. Ten minutes later, she glanced at her watch. Thierry still hadn’t appeared.

  She dialed his extension again, but he didn’t answer.

  Conscious of the fact that her brother and his evidently serious girlfriend were waiting, the curator quickly switched off the desk lamp. She walked to the door and entered the hallway. Thierry was still not to be found.

  She checked the doorknob to ensure the office was locked and made her way down the dark corridor. The museum lighting was always dim, so as to preserve the collection. Individual pieces received special, targeted lighting during regular hours but were left to repose in darkness afterward.

  “Sleep well, old friends,” she murmured as she passed one of the exhibition rooms.

  Her heels tapped across the floor as she pulled on her coat and adjusted her handbag. She flicked her long, red hair over her collar as she approached the main exhibit hall.

  Something flickered in her peripheral vision. Startled, she turned her head.

  Flashlights streaked the pitch-blackness of the hall. She could just make out the outlines of figures—some holding flashlights while others tore artwork from the walls.

  They were dressed in dark clothing and wore ski masks. A beam of light glinted off a long knife as an intruder slashed a painting from its frame, damaging the masterpiece irreparably.

  The curator cried out at the carnage. She clasped a terrified hand over her mouth as the sound escaped her lips.

  One of the figures turned and shone a flashlight into her eyes.

  Blinded, she jerked backward, unsteady on high heels.

  Loud footsteps echoed as the intruder raced toward her. She fought
to regain her balance and turned, preparing to run.

  He grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her backward.

  “No!” She dropped her handbag, arms flailing, and tried to free herself. She screamed and sought to elbow him in the ribs.

  He avoided her elbows and struck her with the flashlight. She continued to scream and clasped her hands over his, struggling violently.

  He lifted the flashlight and brought it down on her head.

  Her hands went slack as she slumped against him. She felt herself fall to the floor.

  Everything went dark.

  Chapter One

  Paris, France

  Present Day

  THE MAN IN THE BLACK SUIT exited the limousine in front of the Hotel Victoire on the beautiful Avenue George V, a short distance from the Champs-Élysées.

  Dark sunglasses shielded the man’s eyes. He surveyed the area as he buttoned his suit jacket before walking in step with his bodyguard. The man’s cell phone buzzed as he entered the hotel.

  He removed his sunglasses and stared at the screen. His footsteps ground to a halt, as did his bodyguard, who stood watch.

  The man’s thumb skated across the screen as he scrolled through a series of photographs. His expression darkened. He jabbed a finger at the phone and placed it to his ear.

  “Freeze Silke’s accounts and change the locks on her flat.” He spoke in German, his tone low and commanding. “No, don’t notify her. She’s violated the terms of our agreement in the most egregious way possible. She knows what she’s done.”

  The man ended his call and continued his walk toward the reservations desk. He moved with the kind of fluidity and command that caused heads to turn—as if he were a professional athlete.

  He was very tall with dark hair, large, dark eyes, and a lean, athletic form. With the exception of one glaring deficiency, he would have been termed attractive, even handsome.

  Céline, one of the front desk agents, smiled at him widely. “Welcome back to Hotel Victoire, Monsieur Breckman.” She spoke in French, taking care to look straight into his eyes. “We’ve prepared your usual suite.”

  The man nodded.

  Céline glanced behind him and noted the presence of the large, burly bodyguard. “Will Mademoiselle Rainier be arriving later?”

  “Mademoiselle Rainier will not be arriving.” The guest glared. “Strike her name from the reservation.”

  He pivoted, and his handmade leather shoes tapped against the marble floor as he crossed to the concierge’s desk. The agent stared after him, stunned.

  Settling himself in an ornate chair in front of the concierge’s desk, the man slid his finger across his cell phone screen. “I need to speak with Marcel.”

  “I’m sorry, Marcel isn’t in today,” the concierge replied. “My name is Acacia. May I be of service?”

  The man lifted his dark eyes to meet hers. He was displeased. “I spoke with Marcel yesterday. He was arranging a meeting.”

  “Of course. And your name?”

  The man huffed impatiently. “Pierre Breckman.”

  The woman turned to her laptop and pressed a few keys, her hazel eyes scanning. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Breckman. There’s nothing in your records about a meeting. Would you like me to reserve one of our salons?”

  “No, I would like you to produce Marcel.” He stared at her with mounting hostility.

  Acacia’s gaze strayed to the left side of his face.

  A long scar curved across his cheek and edged toward his mouth. It was white against his tanned skin and very deep, as if someone had attempted to cleave his face in two. He was an elegant man in all other respects, which made the scar that much more jarring.

  His dark eyes narrowed. “Find Marcel. Now.”

  Acacia jolted, her hand moving instinctively to the curls at the right side of her face. She gave him a repentant look. “I’m sorry.”

  The man leaned forward. “Keep your eyes on my accounts. I’m sure you won’t find them repulsive.”

  Acacia glanced over at the bodyguard, who stood at the end of her desk. He was even taller than Monsieur Breckman, standing at six-foot-six and weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds. His head was shaved, and he had pale blue eyes.

  She consulted her laptop. “Marcel booked your usual table at Guy Savoy’s at eight o’clock this evening. Will you be needing a car?”

  “No.” The man sat back in his chair. As if in retaliation for her perusal, he shamelessly assessed her intelligent hazel eyes, her tan and flawless skin, and the black, curly hair she wore in a bob. His upper lip curled. “Marcel said he’d be on duty.”

  “Yes, monsieur. I was called in to replace him.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a member of Les Clefs d’Or.” Her fingers brushed past the jaunty scarf she wore at her throat and touched the gold keys pinned to her lapel. “Marcel is my senior colleague, but I can assist you with whatever you may need.”

  “I don’t need your assistance. I need Marcel.” The man tapped his phone with short, staccato motions. When his call connected, it went to voicemail. “He isn’t answering his mobile. Ring him at home.”

  “I’m afraid Marcel cannot be reached.” Acacia’s voice was strained. She tried to hide her distress by consulting her computer. “He arranged for champagne and fruit to be delivered to your suite, and he noted your allergy to strawberries. Shall I arrange your usual breakfast for tomorrow morning?”

  “I ask you about Marcel and you reply with strawberries.” The guest’s eyebrows snapped together angrily. “Has Marcel left the country?”

  Acacia looked up in puzzlement. “No, monsieur.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “If Marcel hasn’t left the country and he isn’t dead, then why isn’t he here?”

  Acacia forced a smile. “Monsieur Breckman, I would be more than happy to—”

  The man stood abruptly and returned to the front desk, where he addressed Céline. “Tell the manager to find Marcel and send him to my suite. The concierge on duty seems to have difficulty fulfilling the simplest of requests. I asked for Marcel no less than four times, and she refused to assist me.”

  The man strode toward the elevators with his bodyguard, his footsteps echoing angrily through the lobby.

  Céline gave Acacia a smug look.

  Acacia rose from behind her desk and tried to hide her distress. She watched with gritted teeth as Céline dialed the hotel manager and reported the guest’s words. Paul, the other reservation agent, didn’t bother to conceal his eavesdropping on her conversation. He seemed amused.

  Acacia had been a concierge at the Hotel Victoire for only a few months. She worked hard to provide exceptional service without attracting undue attention, hiding behind her navy blue uniform and her desk. Most guests treated her as they treated the furniture: with benign indifference. Monsieur Breckman had been in the hotel less than fifteen minutes and had already made her conspicuous.

  She straightened her navy jacket, sat down, and ignored the desk staff and their reactions. She outranked them in the hotel’s hierarchy but had always treated them with respect.

  Now they were enjoying her embarrassment a little too much.

  She turned to face the manager’s office and steeled herself for his appearance. She was in trouble, she knew. She just didn’t know how much.

  Chapter Two

  ACACIA WATCHED JACQUES ROY, the hotel manager, approach her desk via a series of heavy, foreboding footfalls. He wore an expensive blue suit and a paisley tie that contrasted with the violet of his dress shirt.

  Acacia thought he resembled a blueberry.

  Monsieur Roy waited until he was close enough to speak to her without attracting the guests’ attention. “What happened with Monsieur Breckman?”

  Acacia rose from behind her desk.
She was five-foot-eleven in her two-inch heels and looked down at her five-foot-four supervisor. “He was adamant he speak with Marcel. When I explained Marcel was unavailable, he ordered Céline to contact you.”

  Monsieur Roy’s features grew harried. “Did you explain that Marcel is in the hospital?”

  “No, monsieur. You instructed us not to answer uncomfortable questions about his whereabouts.”

  The manager sniffed. “Your discretion is appreciated, but nothing is more uncomfortable than upsetting a highly valued guest. You could have told him Marcel had an accident.”

  Acacia bit back a rude reply. “Yes, monsieur.”

  The manager straightened the red rose he wore pinned to his lapel. “I will speak to Monsieur Breckman. You will apologize and convince him you can provide the same level of service as Marcel. Be sure to ignore his scar.”

  She swallowed hard. Too late, she thought.

  Monsieur Roy drew himself up to his full height. “This is the second time you’ve had a conflict with a valued guest. I had high hopes for you, Acacia, but you won’t remain at the Victoire if this pattern continues.”

  The manager strutted away like a short, corpulent peacock, while Acacia tried very hard not to unleash her favorite Brazilian profanity.

  After he visited the penthouse, Monsieur Roy returned to the concierge desk and escorted Acacia upstairs. She felt as if she were a criminal awaiting sentence.

  Monsieur Breckman had reserved the penthouse suite, one of the finest rooms in the hotel. The suite featured a terrace that provided a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of Paris. At dusk, one could relax outside and gaze at the Eiffel Tower as it became illuminated.

  Monsieur Breckman’s bald and expansive bodyguard answered the door. In the distance, the guest could be heard in heated conversation. “We’ve lost our intermediary. Replace him or find another buyer. I’m not going to risk—”