The French Detective's Woman (18 page)

She didn’t move. How had he found her?

“What’s the matter,
mon ange
? Afraid of something I might find?”

“L-Like what?” she stammered.

He shrugged easily, but it was far from a casual gesture. Every muscle in his body was tense, his gaze on her hawk-like. “Jewelry. Silver. Paintings. Money.”

Her heart literally stopped in her chest. Stupid as it was, she’d hoped she was wrong. But his description left no room for doubt.

When her heart started up again, it felt heavy, painful, in her chest. She wanted to sink to the floor and weep. Not because she’d been found out. But because it was Jean-Marc who’d done it.

She forced a laugh. “Hardly,” she said, gathering every bit of strength within her. As much as it would kill her to lie to him, she had to deny everything. It would do neither her nor the Orphans any good if she just rolled over and meekly went off to prison. “If I had jewels and money, would I be living in a dump like this?” she asked, gesturing at the surroundings. It was a definite step down, even from her postage-stamp Latin Quarter apartment.

Something flitted through his eyes. Doubt?

Yeah, right
.

“In that case,” he said, “you won’t mind if I have a look around?”

She took a deep breath and strolled into the single room of the studio. “Knock yourself out.”

He wouldn’t find anything. There was nothing to find. Certainly none of the stuff he was looking for. After switching apartments the other day, she’d even rented a locker at a local gym to keep her wigs and makeup and disguises in. This place was clean. As had been the Orphans apartment on rue Daguerre when they searched it earlier.

Even so, her nerves were nearly in shreds by the time he’d finished examining every nook and cranny of the three-hundred year-old artist’s garret—every cupboard, behind every piece of furniture, even popping the windows open to look around outside them.

If possible, he was even more furious when he ran out of places to tear apart. Luckily she didn’t have a lot of possessions to put back in place.

He stalked up to where she was nervously sitting, planted his hands on the chair arms and leaned into her face. “You’re a very clever woman. But I take betrayal very personally. I
will
find evidence and put you behind bars, if it’s the last thing I do.”

She shrank away from the disgust in his tone. “Who’s betraying whom here?” she muttered.

His eyes narrowed. “Nice try, baby. But if you thought seducing me would keep you out of prison, you’ve made a big mistake.”

“Jean-Marc, it was you who seduced me,” she reminded him, stilling her shaking hands. “If you’ll recall, from the night we met I did everything I could to stay away from you.”

His jaw clenched. “And now I know why. Because you are
le Revenant
.”

There it was, out in the open. Her pulse sped.

“No. Because I knew we would end badly. Please believe me, Jean-Marc. Whatever you think I’ve done, betraying you was never part of the plan. I would never betray someone I...like.”

He wheeled back. “Do
not
pull that crap on me, Ciara. This situation is bad enough without pretending we’re any kind of friends.”

She gave up and closed her eyes, leaning her head back on the uneven stuffing of the easy chair. “No. And I guess lovers doesn’t count.”

She could hear his breaths, shallow and harsh, and felt the air crackle with tension around them. He was still standing close, practically touching her knees. The musky, acrid smell of him, of his anger, nearly choked her with the need to reach out to him.

But it was over between them. Now that he knew.

Wasn’t it?

She opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her, his expression savage. Desire, potent and irrational, raced through her.

“Are you insane?” he spat, eyes flaring. “You think I’m going to fuck you again? When I know who you are,
what
you are?”

“Do you?” she softly challenged. “Know who I am?”

Did anyone? Anyone on earth?

Bald disbelief washed through his expression. He spun and paced away, then turned back to her. The skin of his throat was mottled red beneath the black stubble. “I do. You’re a thief! And that’s all that matters.”

But...he was getting hard.

The fine wool fabric of his suit trousers stretched and distorted over his lengthening arousal. She felt herself grow damp between her legs.

Okay, yeah. She
was
insane.

“Is it?” she managed. “All that matters?” She stood, and mutely dared him to come closer. Taunting his outrage.

Playing with fire
.

“You don’t care—”
his wrath was woven tight with incredulity
“—that I’d throw you in jail in a hot minute?”

“I wouldn’t respect you if you didn’t do your job,” she said.

And suddenly she realized it was true. She would hate him if he turned out to be another Beck, corrupt and immoral. Better to land in prison than fall for scum.

God, was she falling for him
? She attempted a smile. Failed.

His mouth opened, then snapped shut. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

Frankly, neither did she.

He shook a finger at her. “You,” he said, stalking past her, “can forget it.” With that, he swept out the door, slamming it behind him.

She stood perfectly still for a long time, half expecting him to come crashing back in, grab her, fling her to the floor and...

Wishful thinking, obviously. Or mental illness.

Well, at least now she didn’t have to come up with any more lame excuses. She wouldn’t have to avoid him. Because next time she saw him he’d probably be putting her in handcuffs.

And unfortunately, it wouldn’t be for a night of kinky sex.

♥♥♥

As it happened, the next time Ciara saw Jean-Marc was the very next morning. She was astonished to find him propping up the building across the street, watching her door. And although his handcuffs were displayed prominently in their case on the front of his belt, he didn’t make a move for them when he spotted her coming out.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, marching across the narrow street to confront him.

“Waiting for you.” His sharp-angled face was neutral, his fury from last night gone. Or at least carefully hidden away.

“Why?”

He unpropped himself. “I’m tailing you.”

“Tailing me.” She regarded him with a spike of annoyance.

“Everywhere you go, I go.” He smiled. The serpent was back. “I happen to know your last job didn’t come off quite as expected. And it’s still your time of month.”

“Ex
cuse
me?”

His teeth gleamed in the morning sun. “To steal something. Rent due? Bills piling up? Eh?”

His smug, arrogant attitude made her want to kick him. Good thing she wasn’t a violent person. She thought about Beck’s threats and clenched her still-tender jaw.
He was a cop
, she reminded herself. He wouldn’t care about that.

“
Va te fair foutre
,” she suggested tartly, raising his eyebrow.

She turned on a toe and stalked off toward boulevard de Clichy, the main tourist area in this arrondissement. She had things to do, but not with Jean-Marc’s shadow glued to her ass.

Half an hour later, she emerged from the maze of souvenir shops, triple-X theaters and sex boutiques minus one arrogant tail.
Take that
, she thought, sliding on the hat and pair of sunglasses that she always kept in her oversized handbag. She trotted down the steps of the entrance to the
métro
. Luckily she’d put on heavy make-up that morning to disguise her bruised face. Nothing made a woman more noticeable to others than potential abuse.

Making a quick decision, she got off at the la Chapelle stop and walked through the tunnel to Gare du Nord. Around the corner there was a no-questions-asked business that did mail-forwarding and rented out lockers. There she kept with an envelope of fake IDs, a wig, extra tools and a small amount of money, again for emergencies. After extracting a driver’s license with a different name, the tools and a hundred euros in cash, she used her Swiss account’s debit card to buy a ticket for the Thalys train going north to Brussels.

As annoying as he was, Jean-Marc had hit the nail on the head. Rent and tuition were due in a few days, taking up nearly all of the money the princess’s bracelet had brought in. Hugo’s new job barely paid for food, let alone make a dent in Beck’s blackmail. Neither Valois nor Davie had come up with anything more profitable yet. Fencing few good pieces of jewelry would hopefully stave off Beck for now. She needed a fast lay-down—outside of Jean-Marc’s jurisdiction.

A favorite with daytrippers from Belgium and Germany, the high-speed Thalys train to Brussels was usually liberally sprinkled with ladies toting newly-acquired Hermès luggage stuffed with expensive designer fashions—jewelry included. Not that train work wasn’t tricky. Most people kept their real valuables in the overhead compartment by their seat, only leaving their larger, unwieldy suitcases in the communal rack by the door. So striking on the train itself was unproductive. Instead, she’d pick out a couple of promising targets and hang around the taxi stand to overhear where they were staying in Brussels, then hit one of the hotel rooms later in the afternoon or evening while the lady went out for a meal or more shopping.

Unless you had an inside accomplice, hotel jobs were only slightly easier than the train. Which was why she almost always avoided them. Hotels had plain clothes security and cameras; maids and maintenance people were everywhere. It was a real measure of her desperation that she was taking the risk now. But she had no choice.

Settling into her plush seat with a good view of the communal luggage rack, Ciara surreptitiously studied the single women who stowed cases there as they came onboard, looking for a likely candidate who matched her own size. The pretty boho skirt and blouse she’d put on this morning were cute, but she’d stand out like a sore thumb in the rarified atmosphere of the upscale Brussels hotel her potential mark would no doubt be staying in.

There. A slim blonde wearing this season’s Donna Karan. Nothing too flashy, but definitely classy. Ciara watched with satisfaction as the blonde stowed her Louis Vitton rolling bag and sashayed down the aisle to the far end of the car where she had a club seat facing the opposite direction. Perfect.

After waiting until the blonde had settled in, Ciara nonchalantly went and pulled the suitcase off the rack, and slipped into the tiny restroom across from it. Moments later she came out wearing the wig she’d grabbed from her locker, along with a soft lilac silk suit from Chanel and matching kitten heels that were only a tad loose. From her fingers dangled a gold handled Ponte Veccio shopping bag which contained her own clothes and purse. Sliding the Louis Vitton back into the luggage rack, she casually made her way through the connecting door into the next car. Easing a breath from her backed-up lungs, she took her time strolling through the other first class cars, scoping out the ladies most likely to have jewelry worth stealing.

She wasn’t disappointed. By the time the train pulled into Bruxelles Midi station, she’d picked out four older, obviously wealthy candidates.

One was met on the platform by a husband and whisked off. One hurried toward another track and got on a connecting train. But the other two went straight to the taxi stand. One of them gave the driver the name of a grand, aristocratic old hotel—which still used real keys instead of cards with magnetic strips.

Ciara’s choice was made.

Chapter 14

After following the woman’s taxi to the hotel, Ciara perused the brochure rack until she’d registered, then preceded her into the elevator and got out on the same floor. Exchanging a friendly nod, she noted the woman’s room number, then as soon as the door was closed went back to the elevator and returned to the lobby, carefully checking the locations of the security cameras as she went.

In the lobby she cast about for a lounge bar with a good view of things, where she could sit and read the novel she’d picked up on the train and wait for the woman to come down.

She’d just finished a quick lunch when her mark rushed into the lobby and straight into the arms of a grey-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman. The woman had changed into a gorgeous Roberto Cavalli day dress, which probably meant a leisurely luncheon for the couple, and enough time for Ciara to safely complete her task.

She had one more cup of coffee just in case the woman had forgotten something, then strode purposefully back to the elevator and went straight up to the room, keeping her head down and face averted from the security cameras. She pulled on her gloves. The lock wasn’t an easy type to pick, but Valois had taught her well. After several pulse-pounding moments she heard the distinctive
snick
of the cylinders yielding. She slid into the room and closed the door behind her, heart thundering with nerves and adrenaline.

Turning on the light, she went for the suitcases. Nothing but clothes. Lots of them. Expensive. She quickly checked the dresser drawers. Bingo. Bottom drawer. A small jewelry case was tucked in back. She grabbed it; emptied it onto the bed. And let out a low whistle.

Jackpot. The real thing. Emeralds and opals. Antique mine-cut rubies. Several high quality pieces of amber in thick gold settings. A magnificent pair of diamond earrings with matching pendant.

She lifted the pendant. It was a huge pear-shaped diamond, as were the earrings, in a surprisingly plain setting. Newish.

Ciara tamped down a prickle of guilt. Normally, she carefully researched her jobs in advance so she only took recently acquired pieces. People tended to make a lot bigger fuss over missing heirlooms than impulse baubles. She could be fairly certain this woman was insured to the hilt, but...some of her pieces were obviously old. No doubt treasured possessions.

After a minute of inner struggle—conscience against necessity—she sorted the jewelry into two piles. Old and new, according to style. Dumping the pile of old pieces back into the case, she snapped it shut and surveyed what was left.