Now he could pour all his energy into the case he’d been handed. Closing it successfully would secure his job. Probably get him the promotion that had eluded him for so long. A raise. Those were the things that mattered.
Fuck Ciara Alexander and her soft, pliant curves.
From now on there was only one thing he wanted to concentrate on. And that was catching
le Revenant
.
Chapter 6
Being picked up by the police was definitely not what Ciara had in mind when she’d let the air out of the tire of Davie’s dad’s Jaguar XJ-12 on this lonely stretch of country road seventy miles outside of Paris.
The week had ticked by slowly. Each morning she’d awoken in tangled sheets caused by nightmares that Jean-Marc had somehow tracked her down and come for her. To throw her in prison. And worse...
Seeing the distinctive white, red and blue radio car marked with the triangular emblem of the
police nationale
rolling to a halt behind the Jag reminded her just a little too much of those nightmares. She dabbed moisture from her upper lip and smoothed a hand down her dowdy brown gown.
It was the weekend of the Michaud’s soiree. The day of her big job.
Davie had...borrowed...the Jag from his parents’ country estate carriage house. “They’ll never miss it,” he’d assured her. “They’re in Quebec for a few weeks.”
Davie hadn’t spoken to his parents in years, but he had lunch with his old nanny once a month, so he always knew what was happening with them. And on what days he could liberate the car.
Typical bad luck that a police patrol was the first thing to drive by after she’d deliberately deflated the Jag’s back tire. She’d counted on someone else stopping on their way to the Michaud estate to help out a stranded fellow guest. And give her a ride to the exclusive end-of-season soiree. Thus solving her tiny problem of not having an invitation.
If she weren’t about to have a freaking heart attack, she might have laughed at the cosmic irony. But at the moment she needed all her energy to maintain her composure and stay in character.
Chill, Ciara, they’re not here to arrest you
, she told herself. They were just doing what cops did, helping an old lady in distress.
Tamping down on her speeding pulse, she watched a uniformed officer emerge from the vehicle and approach her. For effect, she fanned her forehead with a bit of lace from her sturdy handbag. Praying her disguise would stand the test.
Of course it would. Disguises and slipping into different characters were her specialties. Between Davie’s coaching and her own gift for languages, she could become anyone from an East End street urchin to an East European countess. Even looking carefully, no one would ever guess that the aristocratic old lady with a flat tire was really an American who’d just turned thirty-one. The uppity accent would throw off the cops once her robbery was reported, if by some miracle the old lady was remembered.
Yes, the disguise was perfect. And she could handle these cops, too.
“
Madame, vous avez besoin d'aide
?” asked the young, blue-clad officer, with a small bow.
Smiling at him, she daintily lifted the hem of her matronly gown and resisted the urge to scratch her cheeks. Masquerading as a sixty year-old woman might render her as good as invisible, but the fake wrinkles could be torture in hot weather.
“Why, thank you officer,” she answered in flawless upper crust French.
“A flat tire?” he asked, glancing at the Jag.
“So it seems.” She aimed for an air of pompous entitlement. “If the officer would give me a ride to the Michaud estate, I would greatly appreciate it. It is just up the road.”
The man looked uncomfortable. “Taking passengers in the patrol car is against regulations,
madame
. But I would be happy to—”
“Young man,” she interrupted haughtily, “Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”
The officer sputtered, but before he could reply, a deep voice came from the passenger side of the cruiser. “We’re going the same place. Give the lady a fucking ride.”
She froze in her tracks, every one of her nightmares swirling into terrifying reality.
That voice
.
The officer glanced at her contritely and she drew herself up, mainly to hide her fear and dismay. “W-Well!” she stuttered, seizing onto the man’s obvious belief that it was the crude language that had shocked her to the core.
“Don’t mind the
commissaire
,” the officer said. “He’s in a foul mood. Come,
madame
.” He extended a hand toward the radio car. “We will take you.”
Yes, but where?
She forced herself to follow him, sliding into the back seat. Praying Jean-Marc would not turn around.
She couldn’t see much of him, just his broad shoulders and dark hair as he leafed through a thick file in his lap. He didn’t look up, but in the rear view mirror she saw the reflection of his left eye. Unmistakable porcelain blue. Outlined by the familiar sculpted brow, and a frown of concentration.
Another shower of nerves skittered down Ciara’s spine. What business did Jean-Marc have at the Michaud soiree?
As if she didn’t know. He’d predicted she’d strike at Club
LeCoeur
, hadn’t he? Somehow the man had gotten inside her head, knowing her next move almost before she did.
Okay. Okay. She was
not
going to panic.
She considered her options. She didn’t have to do this laydown. There would be other paintings, other pieces of silver and jewelry. She could go to Spain, or Italy, so she wouldn’t have to worry about Jean-Marc and his uncanny insight.
Except, Sofie was depending on her. Right now. Beck would not wait much longer for his blackmail money—he’d already threatened Sofie again. Ciara must protect her, and keep Beck placated until they could come up with a fail-safe plan to take care of him for good. No, she could not fail today. She must proceed.
The sun was just dipping below the horizon, painting a rosy pink glow over the rolling fields of green, heavy with ripening vegetables, neat, endless rows bursting with their fat bounty. Even in the stale confines of the police car, the French countryside smelled verdant and ripe. Expectant. Abundant.
She loved the country. If she ever got her million, this was where she’d live. Far from the ugly urban chaos where she’d grown up, the decaying towns that stretched on and on, one after the other without respite. Instead, she’d be in the clean, nurturing country, within a stone’s throw of the most beautiful city on earth, Paris.
In just a few minutes, the fields gave way to stately trees, pristine lawns and the long, majestic entrance drive of the Michaud estate. Bypassing the valet, the officer parked the cruiser behind the manor house, next to a jumble of catering vans.
Ciara looked around, getting her bearings. Where was Ricardo? Davie had managed to get Ricardo hired on at the last minute as a waiter for the sizeable party. She didn’t like giving the Orphans an active role in a laydown, but if the job was risky they usually insisted on one of them playing backup, to stage a diversion in case things went south. She just hoped Ricardo wouldn’t give either of them away if he saw her being escorted into the house by the police.
The officer held open the service door and accompanied her through the kitchen into the public rooms, apologizing for not taking her in via the grand front entrance.
“Nowhere to park,” he explained. “And valet service for a police car...” He made a face. “Not a great idea.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” she said, grateful the whole invitation issue had been neatly skirted. “It’s rather exciting having a police escort. I shall be the talk of the party.”
The pitying smile he returned assured her that unless she walked in with Brad Pitt on her arm there was no way in hell she’d be the talk of anything, let alone this gathering of the glitzy and glamorous.
For a split second old insecurities swamped over her. Her stomach squeezed with nausea before she could remind herself that this was exactly the image she’d striven for with her disguise.
She dared a peek over her shoulder at Jean-Marc, who was still following them, a few paces behind. When he saw her glance, he gave her an absent nod then continued to scan the other guests.
She wanted to jump for joy that he didn’t recognize her. Or maybe fall to her knees with relief. Her confidence returned with a surge. She was really going to pull this off. If her own lover couldn’t identify her, nobody could.
Making her way through the crowded grand salon, she thought to rid herself of her unwanted escorts by slipping through a set of double glass doors outside to the sprawling courtyard. Even in the growing darkness, she could see the gardens were spectacular. Flowers scented the cool evening air and soft music wafted in from somewhere beyond the bordering box hedge.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Behind her an explosion of glass shattered on the paving stones. She spun, clutching at her overstuffed bosom, and it wasn’t all acting. Visions of Jean-Marc drawing his gun, calling “Halt! Thief!” and firing when she tried to escape whirled through her imagination.
Damn, she had to calm down. She was nervous as a cat.
In reality, a tray of drinks lay scattered on the ground in a glistening puddle of crystal shards and still bubbling liquid that reflected the brightly colored lanterns overhead. In the middle of it all stood Ricardo and a short man dressed in white, both cursing and gesturing wildly. Ricardo’s eyes shot to her, dismayed. She gave him a smile of reassurance and shook her head slightly.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured to the officer, who seemed stuck to her like glue and must have been the cause of Ricardo’s consternation. She had to get rid of him. “Perhaps you should do something about those two before they come to blows.”
With a grunt, the officer deserted her for the fray.
One down, one to go
. She steadied her nerves and turned to politely thank Jean-Marc and get the hell away from him. But he had disappeared.
Uneasiness crawled through her. She swept her gaze over the crush of people crowding the artfully lit gardens, seeking him out. He was nowhere in sight.
For a minute she stood paralyzed with indecision. Should she call it off? A minute turned into two, and then three, as she wavered between caution and necessity.
The hum of a dozen conversations buzzed in her ears but no one said a word to her. No one even looked at her. A handsome young waiter passed by with a tray of fresh champagne flutes, another with a plate of hors de oeuvres, but neither paused to offer her anything.
All of which served to make up her mind.
She would not change the plan.
One point three mil
. There wouldn’t be another opportunity such as this. Not without weeks or months of research. Far too long. Sofie needed that money now. Jean-Marc or no, she wouldn’t put this off. She couldn’t.
“Right,” she murmured softly. “Off to the trenches.”
At a slow, dignified stroll, she crossed the elegant courtyard back toward the manor house, humming to an old melody that drifted in from a dance floor set up on the lawn behind the gardens. Under her sensible old lady flats, the paving stones winked up at her. They weren’t ordinary brick cobbles, but granite, or porphyry, or some other natural stone that reflected the twinkle of lanterns and the hundreds of fairy lights adorning the trees and paths, as well as the matching sparkle of diamonds, sapphires and rubies hanging from the throats, ears and wrists of every lady there.
Jewelry worth a fortune...
Don’t switch horses in mid-stream, Ciara.
She’d heard that expression more than once, in the old movies that had kept her company while her mom was out working her loser job waitressing at a local dive, and whatever the hell she did after closing time. Ciara had learned a lot from those old movies.
No, she wouldn’t switch horses, as tempting as it was. The plan was set. The arrangements made. No changes.
She re-entered the house through a second set of mullioned double patio doors and found herself in a massive salon, also filled with partygoers dressed to the nines. Quickly she scanned the framed art crowding the walls. Valois hadn’t been able to pinpoint her target’s location, so she’d have to wander around the chateau until she spotted it. She recognized a pair of ornately framed old masters, several stunning impressionists, and a large Henri Rousseau. Gorgeous. There were a dozen others, mostly older paintings. But no Picasso.
She slipped unnoticed through the throng to a paneled door that led toward the rear of the house. Weaving past the guests she made her way to the narrow back servant’s staircase, and up to the second level. There, the crowd thinned considerably.
It took her just a few minutes of searching to find the Picasso.
And less than two to make the switch.
♥♥♥
Five minutes later Ciara was settling into the back seat of the Jag, which Davie had reinflated the tire on and driven to the front of the house, dressed as a chauffer.
“Got it?” he asked.
“Rolled up in my purse,” she affirmed, closing her eyes briefly and easing out the pent-up breath it felt like she’d been holding since she’d spotted that police car earlier. Not to mention running into her lover,
le commissaire
.
She didn’t even want to think about how wrong things might have gone tonight.
But they hadn’t. Thank God.
Opening her eyes, she took one last look at the Michaud mansion as Davie pulled away from the front entrance.
Her heart stalled. High in a second floor window stood a man holding back the curtain and looking down. Watching her.
It was Jean-Marc.
Chapter 7
“
How could you let this happen
?”
The Countess Michaud’s voice screeched like nails on a chalkboard, making Jean-Marc wince.