Which was why it really pissed him off when she managed to give him the slip.
When he realized she was gone, he ran straight to the
métro
and barreled down the steps, shouldering his way through the thick morning throng of commuters crowding the platform.
She wasn’t among them.
He wanted to hit somebody.
How the hell did she
do
that? One minute she was there, the next she’d vanished into thin air. She may be good with disguises, but disguises took time. She had simply disappeared.
Fuck it; it didn’t matter. He knew where they were headed.
He pulled out his cell phone and punched in Pierre’s speed dial. Pierre was waiting at the
Gare du Lyon
, to visually confirm that the Orphans took the express to Marseille.
“They there yet?” Jean-Marc asked.
“Yep. All four present and accounted for. Traveling first class all the way.”
“Four? Ciara didn’t show up?”
“No. Why?”
He grimaced. “I lost her. What about Davie?”
“No sign of him, either.”
Jean-Marc grunted, and hung up.
Damn
. He made his way back to the Saab, trying to decide what to do next. Catch a flight and intercept the quartet at the Marseille train station was probably his best option. They’d no doubt meet up with Ciara there. But it really burned him about the Jag.
Or maybe...maybe she was going by air, and would pick up the car down south. It was, after all, at least a nine hour drive by auto to Marseille.
Then he remembered. At the Micheaud job, when the old lady was leaving...a man dressed as a chauffeur had picked her up. A young, sandy-haired man.
Davie
.
Damn, damn,
damn
.
On his way to the airport Jean-Marc called Pierre back.
“Get over to the office right away. Find out who Davie’s known associates are. And family. The others, too, just in case. See if any of them own a Jaguar.”
There was a pause, then Pierre swore softly. “Sure, boss. I’ll search all the little blighters’ backgrounds and let you know if anything pops.”
By the time Jean-Marc’s flight was taxiing in at Marseille, Pierre had called back. Davie’s father turned out to be a certain Compte de Figeac, who owned no less than two different models of Jaguar. Jean-Marc jotted down the particulars and plate numbers. Then he called Cheveau in Marseille.
“I just landed at the airport. How about picking me up?”
“Oh, la la,
mec
,” Cheveau said with a hearty chuckle. “Another brothel visit so soon?”
Jean-Marc bit his tongue and took the good-natured ribbing, then explained what he needed.
“No problem. I’ll put out a description of the two Jags and have anyone who spots either of them radio in their position.”
“Thanks,
mon ami
. Now, any chance I can borrow one of your radio cars for the day?”
♥♥♥
When the express train pulled into Marseille, Jean-Marc was there. But the Orphans weren’t.
“I cannot believe this,” Jean-Marc growled after searching the train from one end to the other. He then questioned the conductor and porters. Four people matching the Orphans’ descriptions had gotten off at Aix-en-Provence, one stop before Marseille.
He slammed his eyes shut and took a long, deep breath.
He would
not
explode.
He would go about this calmly and rationally, as befitted a
commissaire
of the DCPJ conducting a routine investigation.
He would not think about throttling Ciara.
He would not think about shaking her until her teeth rattled.
He would
definitely
not think about spanking her until she begged for mercy.
He dug his fingernails into his itchy palms and let his breath out slowly.
There. Better.
Which was good. Because he needed every ounce of patience he could get for the next eight long, frustrating hours, while he and the every law enforcement officer within a hundred square miles searched for any trace of the Jag.
When word finally came, it was from the Aix-en-Provence train station. At 11:13 pm, le Compte de Figeac’s Jaguar was spotted in the parking lot.
And the slow overnight train to Paris had just pulled out of the station.
♥♥♥
“Stop that train!” Jean-Marc barked at the officer who had called it in.
“I’m afraid it’s too late, sir. It’s well past the yard limits. Can’t be stopped until the next station, unless there’s a side-track somewhere along the line where it can be detoured.”
“Find one,” he ordered. “I’m on my way. I want to be
on that train
. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
It took him twenty minutes at breakneck speeds with lights flashing and sirens screaming to reach the train, which had been diverted to an old, abandoned depot to await his arrival. He jumped up into the caboose and shook hands with the two onboard rail security agents who were there to meet him. This was not one of the ultra-modern bullet trains, but an old-fashioned slow-moving local.
“What’s going on?” they asked with obvious concern after they’d exchanged credentials.
“I’m chasing a thief,” he explained, knowing he had to tread carefully. His boss had out-and-out forbidden him from pursuing Ciara, and he had no real evidence that she had even committed a crime. Other than his roiling gut.
“A thief? Not a terrorist?” The two agents looked relieved.
“A woman. Not dangerous. And I’m not even certain she’s on the train,” he hedged. “But she probably has stolen valuables with her if she is. I’d like permission to search for her, and if I find her to search any compartment where she’s been.”
The two agents glanced at each other and shrugged. “Sure, why not. Will you need our help?”
He shook his head. “
Non, merci
. But I’ll need a porter’s key.”
Further relieved that a key was all that would be required of them, the agents quickly produced one of the long, silver hex tools that opened all doors and sleeping bunks on the train. “Good luck,” they said as they handed it over.
But Jean-Marc was pretty sure his luck had deserted him nearly two years earlier, on the day he’d met Ciara Alexander.
He didn’t find her on the train. Nor did he find the Orphans.
He’d stalked slowly forward through all twenty-three cars, and now he turned around and searched them all again, twice as carefully. He checked every bathroom, every luggage rack, every connecting area between cars, the dining car and every damn sleeping compartment in the wagons-lit—much to the resentment of several sleeping passengers—and studied the face of every female in every seat.
No Ciara.
He thought of her disguise at the Michaud’s, as an old lady, and despaired. Short of yanking on every head of gray hair, there was no way to tell if she was lurking somewhere under a wig and a pound of theatrical make-up. And if she could do an old lady, why not a man? She could be disguised as a fat guy with a bad rug.
Merde
.
He needed a drink.
Since he was already at the rear of the train, he made his way to the bar behind the closed restaurant car and ordered a bourbon. A double.
And brooded about how she had outsmarted him. Again. It was really starting to irritate him.
This had never happened before. He’d always been completely in control of his investigations. Always smart enough to track the bad guy one way or another, and bring him down. Every time save one—when he’d been personally betrayed.
And now.
Ciara was messing with his head. Making him crazy. She was as unpredictable as he was. She played dirty, like he did. Always found a way to outwit her opponent, as he always had. Until now.
But he
would
catch her. If he had to sell his soul to the devil, he would. And he was going to make her pay dearly.
He slammed back his double and raised his hand to the barman to order another. His fingers grazed the arm of a woman walking by.
“
Ah, pardon
,” he mumbled.
“
Pas rien
,” she politely returned in a silky, smoky voice. She had the pampered, smooth accents of a woman who’d been to a Swiss finishing school, and shared her bed with barons and princes.
Mildly intrigued, Jean-Marc spun his stool and watched her walk past. Model tall and thin, she had henna-red hair cut in a sleek style straight out of the pages of some fancy fashion magazine. She wore a dove gray couture suit—a short jacket and shorter skirt—with black silk stockings and breathtakingly high heels. Red high heels.
Every eye at the all-male occupied bar followed her sultry stroll between empty restaurant tables toward the exit. When she reached the middle of the deserted dining area she paused, and took a last, lingering glance over her shoulder.
Right at Jean-Marc.
Unexpected arousal bolted through his body. The woman was unbelievably sexy, and for a second—okay, two or three seconds—he actually thought about accepting her fairly blatant offer. He was definitely in the mood for some hot, mind-numbing sex. A quick, anonymous fuck with a princess appealed to his bad-ass street side. Two years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. What the hell was wrong with him now? Not that he really had to ask... Despite the acute differences, she only reminded him of Ciara.
He sighed with regret as she continued to walk away, her long, long legs and shapely hips swaying like a samba.
Non
, he couldn’t. Not in this foul mood. Even an anonymous princess deserved to be fucked for herself, not because she reminded him of someone else. Hell, the woman even
walked
like Ciara....
Suddenly, he frowned. And launched to his feet.
His heartbeat stopped dead, then went into hyperdrive.
Non. Impossible
.
Could she...?
With a virulent oath, he tossed a ten on the bar and went after her.
He tore through the first car, scanning the heads of the passengers for the woman. She wasn’t there. He ran through the second car, and the next, and the one after that. Finally he saw her, just a glimpse, disappearing through the connecting door to the car just ahead.
A large lady suddenly stood up in the center aisle and blocked his path as he rushed to catch up. Impatiently, he squeezed past her. The next car was a wagon-lit, consisting of a claustrophobic passageway in aging wood veneer and several closed doors to sleeping compartments. She was already at the other end. Just before vanishing around the corner, she glanced over her shoulder again. Their eyes met.
He started to run.
When he got to the next car, also a wagon-lit, she was gone.
He stood for a moment to regroup, breathing hard and leaning back against the cool glass and metal of the outer connecting door.
She was here
. He could feel her presence, like...a ghost, haunting him. Calling to him.
The sideways motion of the train rocked him side to side, side to side, his knees bending in rhythm to the kachunk-kachunk-kachunk of steel wheels passing over rail joints. The shadow of a scent, exotic and alluring,
unfamiliar
, teased his nostrils.
Was his own mind playing tricks on him? Did he want it to be her so badly he was letting his imagination run rampant? Or was the woman really Ciara, cleverly disguised...
He drilled a hand through his hair and studied the four closed, presumably locked, doors to the individual sleeping compartments.
Which one?
A subtle movement drew his attention to the floor below the doors. There was only one compartment with a tiny strip of light showing beneath. Suddenly, it went out.
His instincts centered. His blood surged.
Without giving himself a chance to think, he stalked forward and rapped. “
Police. Mademoiselle, ouvrez la porte
!”
A moment later the door opened, and she stood there in the darkened compartment. Still dressed in her cloud gray skirt and jacket, she looked impossibly sensual with her flame-colored hair and scarlet lipstick. Her large eyes were heavily made-up, rimmed by black kohl in the Arab way, with long thick lashes framing startlingly turquoise eyes. Turquoise, not green.
He faltered. Suddenly uncertain.
“
Oui
?” she whispered in that sweet, breathy princess accent.
He gathered himself and showed her his
carte
. “
Commissaire
Lacroix of the DCPJ. I would like to search your compartment, if I may,
mademoiselle
?”
She held his gaze for an instant, then bowed her head in graceful acquiescence. “If you wish,” she said, voice still hushed. She stepped aside to let him in.
His body brushed against hers as he stepped past. He smelled a hint of her intoxicating perfume. Goose bumps cascaded over his skin.
The compartment was from another era. Narrow, with plush seats and wood appointments. A tiny bathroom with a folding door was squeezed into one corner. A pull-down bunk was folded up and locked above the bench seat, which could also be turned and made into a bed. All excellent hiding places for something small, like stolen jewels.
“Luggage?” he asked brusquely. She indicated a silver bag on the red velveteen seat. “Is that it?” he asked.
She nodded. “I travel light.”
He emptied the bag. It contained a bottle of fifteen-year-old cognac and a sheer black teddie. He fingered the silky barely-there fabric and sent her a look.
She raised a shoulder and her scarlet lips curved.
His heart pounded. His cock grew stiff. His rational mind tried to decipher clues. Was she Ciara? Or was she a stranger?
Returning the things to the bag, he set it aside and ran his hands over the rest of the seat and between the cushion and the back.
“Shall I turn on the overhead light?” she asked.
“Don’t bother.” The moon shining through the compartment window was plenty for his purposes.
He wasn’t going to find anything. He already knew that. But it annoyed the hell out of him. Out of sheer stubbornness, he brought out the porter’s key and unlocked the sleeping bunk, pulling it open. He ran his hands over the cold, crisp sheets under the pillow, and between the mattress and back wall. Nothing, of course.