18h15

Captain Charlotte “Coco” Brunhild stared at the man seated opposite her. He was much smaller than her, with thick eyebrows and a bulbous red nose with long protruding hairs. He’s a keeper, she thought to herself, musing it was no wonder he was at a speed dating event on an unseasonably warm Sunday evening in Paris.

The man surveyed her with eyes wide and sore as if he had been rubbing them continuously or spending an inordinate amount of time staring at screens. Coco glanced at his hands; they were calloused, and it made her shudder. His attention moved to her chest. When getting dressed, Coco had removed the cleanest item she could find from the laundry hamper, which just happened to be a t-shirt emblazoned with the logo Tasty, which she had found in a thrift store once and had never quite fitted her.

Coco gestured with her fingers, moving them between her chest and eyes. ‘Up here, sailor,’ she informed him breezily. ‘At least until you buy me dinner,’ she added with a wink.

‘What’s ya name?’ the suitor asked, still staring at her breasts. His voice was as low as his chances of ever seeing them up close, Coco mused.

‘Fanny,’ Coco answered.

He licked his lips, his eyes lighting up. ‘I like fa…’

The loud buzzer sounded their minute was up. ‘Thank fanny for that,’ Coco cried despondently, signalling for the next man along to occupy the now empty seat opposite her. She blew her former companion a kiss before turning her head to face his replacement. Her eyes widened in horror. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she hissed under her breath, glancing around in panic.

Mathieu Moreau’s wide lips pulled into a mischievous smile, flashing her with a perfect grin. He leaned forward, tongue tracing along his lips. He pushed himself back in the chair, running his hand through golden curls that bounced around his fingers like honey spilling around a spoon.

‘This is a speed dating event, n’est pas?’ he answered, his voice as golden as his hair. ‘I’m here to date. Aren’t you?’ he asked, fixing her with one of the sweetest, most innocent looks she thought she had ever seen. She wanted to kiss him harder than he had ever been kissed before while simultaneously slapping the silly out of him.

Coco leaned forward. ‘I am undercover, you asshole,’ she hissed through a tight, forced smile, desperately hoping no one noticed the interaction between them.

Mathieu pushed himself back in the chair again, his t-shirt riding up and revealing the rim of the Calvin Klein underwear he favoured and abs so tight a dime could bounce off them. And they did. Coco knew because she had tried. Kid isn’t playing fair. She ran her fingers through her hair, frizzy dyed-blue locks cascading over her shoulders.

Mathieu shrugged. ‘It doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, and I can’t be around to protect you,’ he said. As light as his voice was, there was no mistaking the depth of it. Coco did not necessarily believe in such things, but there was something about the expression; he’s an old soul who has been here before, which seemed particularly applicable to the man she occasionally shared a bed with.

‘I don’t need your protection,’ she glared at him, and she meant it, as much offended that he thought she might be the type of person who would as she was at herself for secretly taking an affected breath when he spoke the words. She was no damsel in distress who needed saving.

He smiled, and her heart melted. Coco suppressed an impatient sigh. Mathieu Moreau. Even his name affected her, which burned her soul in ways she did not comprehend. Now in her forties, Coco’s life had been a series of complications and disasters. With two children before she had hit twenty-one, Coco had learned early that the type of man she was attracted to was not necessarily a keeper. Not that she laid all the blame at their feet. Coco knew her own limitations and faults, and she owned each and every one of them. She saw no sense in choosing a man just to change him if she herself had no intention of changing. She had been happily single for a long time, and it suited her. Her last attempt at a relationship resulted in two further children, whose father was now residing in a prison cell after committing some particularly heinous crimes. Coco realised then that her base instincts when it came to men were severely flawed, and she had no intention of testing the theory ever again. And yet… and yet, Mathieu Moreau was not taking the hint, no matter how hard she tried to slap it into him.

  Coco and Mathieu had first met two years earlier, she, a police captain out of the Commissariat de Police du 7e arrondissement with more strikes against her name than a baseball player, and he a twenty-year-old monk with more money to his name than Coco would ever see herself. She supposed the fact he had a troubled family history also appealed to her because that was one pain she understood all too well. Despite everything, the attraction had been instant, and he had looked at her in ways no man of the cloth should, and for her part, her interest had been more about what was under the robe than why he wore one.

They met while Coco investigated a murder in the monastery he called home, but by the end of their acquaintance, he was no longer a monk, and she was no longer wondering what he hid behind his robe. Since then, that had been the extent of the thought she had given to their involvement. She was, depending on when asked and by whom, approximately twice his age, with four children under her belt and more baggage than an airline. And despite all that, as well as the fact Mathieu was richer than Rockefeller, his pursuit of her continued to be surprising and somewhat unnerving.

To make matters worse, as far as she could tell, he was practically perfect in every way and with seemingly no annoying faults. He may be perfect, but she had realised that in her life, there was no such thing as perfect.

The loud horn signalled their minute was up. ‘Thank fuck,’ she murmured.

Mathieu stood, leaning over, pressing his lips against her cheek, and swooning her with his scent. ‘I’ll be waiting at my place for you when you’re done chasing bad guys,’ he said.

Coco nodded with defeat while stealing a look at his ass as he swaggered towards the exit.

‘Hey sexy,’ the next man to occupy the seat said.

Coco turned her head. This was the mark and the reason for her being at the speed dating event. Nico Santino, general thug and all-round asshole with an arrest record as long as his arm. He’d been in and out of juvenile detention and prison for most of his twenty-five years - crimes ranging from theft to drug dealing, sexual assault to attempted murder. Nico had been born into a crime family and was likely to die in one; the sooner, the better if the escalations in his crimes were anything to go by. Coco had always believed in redemption, but she had also been a cop long enough to know that some people were simply past saving.

‘What’s with the blue hair?’ Nico asked, pointing at Coco's unruly mane.

Coco fluffed it with her hand. It was charged with static and seemed to be trying to get away from her. It also smelled of men’s shower gel, which she had used as a shampoo. ‘Matches my language,’ she responded in what she hoped was a flirtatious manner but suspected was anything but. She was in no way attracted to the punk, and though she found faking it generally easy, she found men such as Nico Santino problematic. Coco liked a bad boy, but often had trouble deciding how bad was too bad. ‘And those?’ she asked, pointing at the extensive tattoos on his arms.

Nico grinned proudly, pointing at a large tattoo on his bicep of a skull with blood dripping from it. ‘This one is my favourite,’ he informed her.

Coco nodded. ‘I can see why,’ she agreed. ‘For sentimental reasons?’ she asked tartly.

Nico laughed. ‘You could say that,’ he responded cheerfully before his eyes arrowed into angry pinpricks. ‘A reminder of what happens to people who cross me.’

Coco tapped blunt fingernails against the table. ‘You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you? I like it,’ she added decisively. ‘A man of principles really floats my boat.’      

Nico frowned at her as if he was unsure what she meant.

Coco looked around the room. It was small, with damp walls and peeling wallpaper. You would have to be at a low ebb to force yourself to spend your Sunday evenings looking for love in such a depressing place, she thought. A broken patio door spilt onto a terrace lined with broken plant pots. It led to a busy market, filled even at this time of night with the sounds of a lively neighbourhood filled with rambunctious chatter in a language Coco did not recognise.   

She glanced at the other women, and they all bore the telltale air of women who, for whatever reason, had the life sucked out of them but were not yet ready to give up on it. Coco both admired it and found it depressing at the same time. One of the women had given up altogether on speed dating and plonked her not insubstantial frame onto a decrepit stool in front of an old piano that had clearly seen better days. The woman’s small, heavily ringed fingers moved slowly across the keys, though the piano was clearly long out of tune. Still, it did not seem to bother her. Instead, her head lolled to the side, her eyes closed as she murmured some long-forgotten tune. Coco offered her a smile, hoping that, at the very least, she was finding what she wanted for the evening, even if that was just a respite from whatever awaited her at home.

Coco faced Nico again. Nico was not desperate. Nico was altogether something different. Primarily, an asshole who had been showing up at speed dating venues the length and breadth of Paris for several months, seeking out prey who might just be desperate enough to invite him to their house where he would royally rob them blind without even giving them an opportunity to glimpse what other tattoos his body might be hiding.

So far, his embarrassed victims had reluctantly come forward after spending a night tied up in their bathrooms while he cleared their homes of anything of value. They had all given the same detailed description, easily attributable to Nico. Still, being the seasoned pro that he was, he had always presented seemingly unbreakable alibis for the times of the robberies. Leaving only one thing to do: catch the scoundrel in the act.

‘So what do you do?’ Nico asked.

‘I’m a massage therapist with a speciality in feet,’ Coco blurted, forgetting what her cover story was meant to be. She had been bored when Commander Demissy, Coco’s superior, an officious and regimented woman with little time for Coco, had explained the plan to Coco for what seemed like the twentieth time. Coco had taken great offence when Lieutenant Cedric Degarmo, the muscular gym bunny who worked with Coco, had leaned in and whispered in her ear that they had selected her for the undercover operation based purely on her appearance as a desperate old woman. Coco had twisted her fingers between his legs, ensuring that whatever Cedric did next, he would be walking with a severe pain in his groin.

Coco lifted a leg onto the table, the sole of the boot she was wearing flopping over, freeing itself from a piece of silver tape that had been holding it in place. ‘Obvs they’re meant to do that,’ she blurted with bravado. ‘It’s the style.’

Nico gave her a doubtful look, his attention already turning to the next table and presumably toward a more suitable victim.

Coco thrust her chest forward, hoping to at least entice him with some of her greatest assets. ‘What do you say you and I bust outta this joint and hit my place for a little bit of wink-wink?’

Nico gave her the once over, his expression suggesting he did not see what was in it for him or that it was even worth his time. An expression Coco felt like gleefully slapping from his face if only she had a chance. Instead, she gave him another, she hoped, sexy smile. ‘It’s just that since my husband ran off with his bitch whore secretary, the big empty penthouse he left me gets awfully lonely.’

Nico’s eyebrow raised at the mention of a penthouse. He smiled. ‘I could get us something to get the party really started if you like,’ he said with a relaxed flick of his shoulders. ‘Only money’s a little short right now, so I dunno…’

‘Not for me,’ Coco said proudly, words she never would say in her real life, she was sure. ‘The bastard may be screwing the whore, but at least my avocat made sure he didn’t get to screw me over.’ She pursed her lips. ‘So believe me when I say money’s no object, sailor,’ she informed him. ‘No object at all.’

Nico clasped his hands together. ‘Now, that’s music to my ears, sexy lady.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Then let’s get out of this shithole and really party.’

Coco secured her boot back into place and clambered up. ‘Party! You said the magic word. I’m gonna get my party on!’ she exclaimed excitedly, wiggling her hips and following him to the exit, ignoring Mathieu lingering in the corner. His smile made clear his intentions, and she hated him for it.