The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

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Blurb (#u44686659-9d6b-5e39-86f7-9bb2661287a2)

Praise

Book List

Title Page (#ud1f7923f-4e47-5649-ba2b-0f273948aa67)

Copyright

Author Bio (#u10f1249b-4a92-5318-97ea-208ec84df9d9)

Acknowledgement (#u2a4a72de-9573-5f3c-94aa-a20be7636008)

Dedication (#uc6f028f9-5757-5a20-90a9-fa6b34e620fa)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

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About the Publisher

Chapter One (#ue2c2d852-43f8-5bda-a53e-40cd596f12bc)

A forget-me-not scented breeze ruffled the pages of my newspaper, obscuring the headline that had caught my eye. The fragrant sky blue flowers spilled from planters on the balcony above, perfuming the spring air sweet. Impatiently, I snapped the pages taut, hoping I was mistaken, and there wasn’t bad news on the horizon. For our foreign neighbors, at any rate.

“What is it?” Madame Dupont asked, holding a tiny cup of café noir to scarlet-painted lips. “You’ve practically got your nose pressed against the ink. It’ll come off you know, and you’ll walk around all day with the French Enquirer text written backward across your skin.”

I shook my head ruefully. Only Madame Dupont could think of such a thing. She was a vivacious seventy-something woman who still wore a full face of heavy makeup, with rouged cheeks that were so pink they were almost purple. Her deep hazel eyes were outlined thickly with kohl, and framed by false lashes that looked like exotic ebony fans. Still the twinkle in her eyes was that of a woman half her age, and she had a vitality and spark that was hard to match. Plumes of smoke swirled around her carefully coiffed gray hair, which she pointedly didn’t color, claiming the silvery streaks suited her skin tone. She was never without a lit cigarette encased in an ivory holder, a relic from another era. I’d found it for her at a flea market by the bank of the Seine, and she cherished it.

Of course, when I nagged her about her addiction she laughed high and loud, declaring her vices kept her young. Madame Dupont cast most people in the shade when it came to the business of living, with her beguiling charm, and French sophistication, she was an icon in Paris. In her youth she’d been a famous cabaret singer, and rubbed shoulders with artists around the world, and that glamor had never left her. Sought out by men and women alike who were desperate to be part of her life, and know her secrets. I found it amusing, the way people clamored for her attentions. However, our morning tête-à-têtes were taken on a quiet avenue in Paris, so we could gossip in private without a local spotting Madame Dupont and striking up conversation.

The black and white pages ruffled insistently once more as if reminding me about the article and the distressing headline. “There’s been a spate of robberies in Sorrento, Italy,” I said, handing Madame Dupont the newspaper. “The Dolce Auction House, and the Rocher Estate.”

“What? But we were just there!” Madame Dupont said, donning her diamond-encrusted spectacles and skimming the article.

“Oui,” I said. “Can you imagine?” We were well abreast of our Italian counterparts and what they traded in the antique world. I’d accompany Madame Dupont for an adventure in exotic locales; I couldn’t resist the idea of stepping onto foreign soil and breathing in different air, sitting under different stars. We’d go on buying jaunts when a dazzling collection beckoned. More so, Madame, who owned the Time Emporium, and traveled extensively to source unique clock work. I specialized in French antiques, and only bid for pieces that were from my native country but had lived elsewhere for a while. Between estate sales, auctions, flea markets, and my sources, I had enough in Paris alone to keep me busy, but a little wanderlust in my veins justified the travel.