The Charmers by Elizabeth Adler

that, get something more soothing, though I’d still keep it French, of course. Hurrying to answer the door I asked myself how my mind could fill with such trivia when I had just almost lost my life? Was it a safeguard, so I wouldn’t feel threatened? Afraid? But hell, I was afraid, I was shaking in my flip-flops I was so afraid.
    Chad Prescott pushed into the hall and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Are you alright?”
    His firm hands held me up since my knees were definitely wobbly.
    â€œYes,” I said as calmly as I could manage. Then I spoiled it all by bursting into tears.
    He did not, thank God, put his arms around me and tell me I was okay, it was all going to be alright. In fact he said it very much was not alright. An intruder with a weapon meant business.
    â€œWhat was he after? Do you know?”
    His eyes searched mine, a deep narrow blue, or was it brown? Too dark to tell, and when I thought about it he was about the same height and build as my would-be attacker.
    â€œIt might have been you, ” I said. “ You could have come into my room with a gun and tried to kill me. You want my villa.” I nailed him with my glare.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous.” He turned on his heel and made for the door. “I can see you’re alright. I’ll leave you for the cops to deal with.”
    The whine of sirens could be heard rapidly approaching. In seconds blue lights were flashing outside the window.
    The three cops didn’t knock, they just strode in. One grabbed Chad by his collar, pinning him against the wall. A second went and stood in front of him, gun in hand. It was like a scene in news broadcasts I’d seen on TV. The gun was a Glock. I’d heard the name, and once you’ve seen one, it’s easy to recognize. Whatever, it was lethal looking and I had no doubt it was loaded.
    I asked myself how this could have happened. My peaceful villa, Jerusha’s home, Aunt Jolly’s legacy, the Siamese cat—still on the bed along with the sausage mutt with the soulful eyes, while the damned canary that, despite being covered for the night, now would not shut up. And Verity, whose screams still rattled in my head, and the next-door neighbor who’d obviously bitten off more than he could chew merely by coming to our aid. Even if he did behave like a shit once he got here.
    â€œLeave him alone,” I said to the cop who was holding Chad Prescott, speaking my just-sufficiently-decent French so I thought he might get my message. He ignored me. Perhaps I hadn’t said it right. I tried again in English.
    â€œLeave him,” a male voice said in French from behind me.
    At least they understood him .
    â€œBon soir,” I said to the newcomer, trying a smile. He ignored me and stepped up to Chad, standing so close in front of him they must have breathed the same tiny bit of air. He thrust his face even closer.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he barked at Chad.
    It was a true bark, a fast, authoritative, questioning tone that let you know he meant business. Chad threw back his head, out of breath’s way I guessed, and said nothing. The look of contempt on his face struggled with anger.
    â€œNo, no, it’s alright, he’s not the intruder,” I told the cop quickly. “He only came to help us.”
    I grabbed Verity by her cold hand and dragged her forward so they could see who we were, understand what two lone women had just gone through: a masked man in their house in the middle of the night, with a gun.
    I spilled out the story in English. The cops stared at me like I was a crazy woman.
    â€œPerhaps it would be better if we started at the beginning,” the officer in charge said, also in English.
    I knew that voice; I knew that man. He was the Colonel. The stocky, bearded, uniformed gendarme with the piercing eyes that I’d met after the accident. He was the one who had questioned me, made notes about the small green