The Bookseller Read Online Free PDF Page A

“You were quite a catch.”
    â€œWere? Thanks a lot.”
    He smiled at her mock outrage and looked down at the two books beside him. “Hey, this may sound weird but I bought you a couple of presents. OK if I mail them to you?”
    â€œOh. No, I really don't think—”
    â€œA couple of books for your collection. One's a Hercule Poirot mystery, first edition, and the other is…kind of like an Oscar Wilde, but more personal.”
    â€œYou're very thoughtful. But you're right, it would be weird. Please don't send them.” Her voice caught and he knew she was about to cry. “Please, I thought I'd got past all this, you're making it difficult again.”
    â€œOK, don't worry about it. I'll keep the books.”
    â€œI'm sorry. I really am.”
    â€œMe too. Take care of yourself.”
    He hung up and dropped the phone on the bed. He picked up the Rimbaud and looked at the cover, then set it back down. He didn't feel much like homosexual love poetry, either.
    But what had he expected from Christine, really? They'd been matched up by socialite friends after their first marriages had ended, and they'd talked about being in love because of the fun they had, and the sex. But had they ever gotten around to falling in love? Marriage had seemed easier the second time around, especially without the pressure of new careers to distract them. And the gloss had been thick. His job as security chief in Washington, DC, had been prestigious and was followed by an exciting two years as head of security at the London embassy, with parties and meetings with heads of state and celebrities from all over the world.
    And, of course, his stories from the FBI. All this had entertained Christine, kept her starry-eyed and impressed. She had been, too, an intelligent and attractive companion, someone he could discuss international politics with until their third or fourth martinis drowned all semblance of coherent thought.
    It took a while for him to discover that everything she knew came from books or television. Not until the last year had he realized that, despite all her wonderful traits, a sense of adventure was absent. And adventure, the curiosity to explore a place or thing in person, to lay hands on it and see it with his own eyes rather than just read about it, that was what drove Hugo Marston. They had traveled, sure, but with her family wealth they had done so in comfort, even when in Mumbai or Windhoek. Perhaps especially then. Hugo, from a modest background, had been seduced by this comfort and had slipped into his wife's travel habits. He hadn't noticed until too late that he'd not inhaled the scents of the Cairo markets, or haggled poorly with a vendor in downtown Delhi, but instead had watched from the car as their driver did it for him. But even knowing all this, he'd still believed they had a chancebecause knowing someone was more important than what the movies and novels described as love.
    He picked up both books and put them on the bedside table. As he did so, the Agatha Christie fell open and a business card fell to the floor. He picked it up: it was the card of a Paris bookseller, one Hugo had visited once, maybe twice, over the years. It bore the seller's name, address, and hours of operation. Hugo looked down at the books. He would have liked to add them to his meager collection, but the damn things had just become keepsakes of a marriage ended, and they were unhappy reminders of what had just happened to Max, too. As he imagined selling them, his mind searched for reasons not to, and came up blank. One thought, a vague one, was that they might be connected with Max's kidnap, but it was a possibility easily dismissed: bouquinistes weren't kidnapped for books worth a few hundred dollars—if they were, a seller would go missing every day. And if the man called Nica had been after one of the books, Max would simply have told Hugo to hand it over.
    Hugo ran a hand over his face,