Read The Sapphire Affair (A Jewel Novel Book 1) Online
Authors: Lauren Blakely
The Sapphire Affair (A Jewel Novel Book 1)
ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY
The Caught Up in Love Series
(Each book in this series follows a different couple, so each book can be read separately or enjoyed as a series, since characters cross over.)
Caught Up in Her
(a short prequel novella to Caught Up in Us)
Caught Up in Us
Pretending He’s Mine
Trophy Husband
Stars in Their Eyes
Stand-Alone Novels
Big Rock
Mister Orgasm
(2016)
Far Too Tempting
21 Stolen Kisses
Playing with Her Heart
(a stand-alone Seductive Nights spin-off novel about Jill and Davis)
The No Regrets Series
The Thrill of It
The Start of Us
Every Second with You
The Seductive Nights Series
Night after Night
(Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night
(Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night
(Julia and Clay, book three)
Nights with Him
(a stand-alone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights
(a stand-alone novel about Nate and Casey)
The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing
Sinful Love
The Fighting Fire Series
Burn for Me
(Smith and Jamie)
Melt for Him
(Megan and Becker)
Consumed by You
(Travis and Cara)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Lauren Blakely
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503935471
ISBN-10: 1503935477
Cover design by Michael Rehder
Cover photography by Regina Wamba of
MaeIDesign.com
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Present Day
In truth or dare, everyone knows you should pick dare.
Truth is too risky. It gets you in trouble. But Jake Harlowe had always been drawn to trouble, and maybe, somewhere inside of him, he wanted to tell her the truth.
Even if the truth would lead to more trouble.
As Steph marched to the end of the dock, then spun around, fixing him with a challenging stare, he knew there was only one answer to the question she was about to ask.
“Truth or dare?” she asked, the moonlight framing her stunning, sun-kissed face, the ocean breeze sweeping through her hair, the smell of salt water wrapping around them.
“Truth,” he said easily, reaching for his beer bottle and taking a drink as gentle waves lolled past them.
She arched an eyebrow and raised her chin. Her tough-girl stance, and it made her even sexier. Damn, she was hot when she was feisty. “Tell me the truth for real. Did you know who I was the night you met me?”
He scoffed. “I knew you were the hottest woman I’d seen in ages,” he said, somehow unable to resist slipping around her question to give her a compliment.
She stared at him. “That’s not the whole truth.”
“Fine. I knew you were a pain in the ass,” he added.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I knew you were going to drive me crazy.”
“You drive me crazy, too,” she countered, parking her hands on her hips.
“Sounds like we’re just about even, then.”
“No. We’re not. Because you still haven’t answered the question. Did you know who I was?”
“No,” he said, setting his beer on the railing. He stepped closer to her and grasped her bare arms. Her skin was soft and warm. “I’ve told you a million times. No. No. And more no. And I could ask you the same damn thing, too. I could ask if you knew who I was. But I’m not asking. Because it doesn’t matter right now. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He let go of her arms and gestured from him to her. “This? This isn’t about who knew what when. It’s about the fact that I can’t get you out of my head.” He tapped his skull. “It’s about the fact that I’m not supposed to get involved on a job. It’s about the fact that even if I weren’t about to break that rule in spectacular fashion, I should absolutely not break it with you, of all people.”
She pressed her teeth into her lower lip, and the tiniest sliver of a smile appeared on her face. Oh hell, he was going to have a field day kissing that smile away all night long and feeling her melt in his arms.
“But you’re going to? In spectacular fashion?” she asked, her tone soft and inviting now.
“No more questions, Steph. Your turn is up. It’s mine now. So, what’ll it be? Truth or dare?”
She licked her lips and raised an eyebrow. “Dare.”
Smart woman. She was smarter than he was. Or maybe she just wanted the same thing—a dare to match the truth.
“I dare you to kiss me right now,” he said with a grin, knowing she wasn’t going to back down, because this woman backed down from absolutely nothing.
She inched closer.
He raised a hand in a stop sign. “I need to give you fair warning. This time, I’m not going to stop at just kissing you.”
Her eyes glinted. “You’d better not.”
CHAPTER ONE
One Week Earlier . . .
Any door that didn’t put up a fight concerned Jake.
This one in particular was giving off too-good-to-be-true vibes.
As Jake pushed on the heavy green entrance at the edge of the cobblestoned courtyard, still slick from a cold rain this morning, it opened smoothly into the apartment building.
He gave it a side-eye glance.
He was more than ready to use his most reliable tool, a lock-picking kit that he carried with him at all times. Didn’t need it now, and that unnerved him. But, given the zigzaggy history of this case so far, maybe the rest of it would be easy all the way.
He’d take easy.
The door creaked shut, leading him to the empty foyer of the tiny building. A row of rusty, once-coppery mailboxes lined the wall, with surnames like Durand and Fournier. Circulars and envelopes lay untouched on the stone floor, having been spit up by too-f boxes. Probably meant the building drew transients. Judging from the dilapidated state of it, that was a good bet. Jake peered up the curving staircase and took the first step, expecting it to groan—not from him, though he was certainly a sturdy, solid man, but from the weight of years. This building had seen a handful of centuries and could probably whisper tales of horse-drawn carriages and blood in the street from the French Revolution.
Watching both his back and the path up, he climbed the steps that were so timeworn they had dips and grooves in them. When he reached the second floor flat that he’d tracked down as the most likely location for the treasure he sought, he stood flush to the wall. From that angle, he had a read on the hallway, the stairs, and the door to the flat. Scanning the surroundings once more for prying eyes or ambushes, he was satisfied he wasn’t being watched. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for a cough, a bit of chitchat, any signs of activity.
If the guys were inside the flat, he’d have to improvise. But hell, that was his stock-in-trade. In this line of work, you had to be ready to make it up as you went along. For now, the coast appeared clear. After rapping his knuckles twice on the door just in case, he waited.
Nothing but silence rang in his ears. He surveyed the cramped hallway once more. All was quiet. He removed that handy-dandy lock-picking kit from the back pocket of his jeans, quickly worked open the old French lock, and slipped inside the thimble-size studio apartment. He gagged, covering his mouth with the neck of his gray pullover. The garbage strike in Paris took no prisoners in this home. It reeked of rotten fruit, moldy bread, and unwashed laundry.
He shook his head in disgust. Fucking pigs.
Lowering the neck of his shirt, he did his best to breathe through his mouth as he riffled through a few cupboards and drawers, then spied under the couch.
Nothing but papers, dust bunnies, and bottle caps.
Where could it be?
He turned in a tight circle, hunting for nooks, crannies, and hiding places, when he noticed a small bureau in the corner. Clothes were piled high on top of it. Something about the bureau called out to him. Whispered what it might hold inside. His fingertips tingled. He kneeled down, cracked open its doors, and nearly pumped a fist in victory when he spotted the prize.
A gorgeous, glorious Stradivarius.
With a new, long, and unsightly scratch down the body. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Bastards didn’t even treat something this precious with care.
Reaching for it from amid a mountain of dirty clothes, he gently grasped the neck of the instrument in one hand. Unzipping his backpack, he removed the violin case he’d brought with him, because a goddamn Strad needed to be carried in a padded home. He tucked the rare instrument inside, closed the case, and slid it inside the large backpack. The violin was safe and shielded, and only if you looked closely could you make out the shape of the case pressing against the nylon of the pack, the end of the neck stretching the top.
So be it. No one would get that close to him. That’s how he rolled.
Then he heard the sound of voices floating through the window from the courtyard below. Speaking French, but with an Irish accent.
His pulse spiked.
Yup. Don’t trust easy. Someone was always lurking around a corner.
Adrenaline surged in him, his veins pumping with the thrill of getting the hell out of Dodge with the prize. He closed the door on the bureau, crossed the five feet in the tiny apartment to the front door, and exited, shutting the door behind him. He adjusted the straps of his pack so the bag hung low on his back. As he headed down the stairs, he grabbed a pair of shades from the front pocket and covered his eyes.
Just an average guy, visiting friends in this building. Nothing more, nothing less.
When he reached the entryway, he strolled straight past the two men as if it were business as usual.
“Nothing but bills,” one of them muttered with disdain, grabbing some envelopes from the mailboxes. Their backs were to him.
Hell of a time to be checking the mail. Some might call that a lucky break. Jake certainly did.
He reined in a grin as he made it to the courtyard without them noticing, or seemingly caring about the unknown American in their building, who was walking at an angle to shield the outline of the million-dollar instrument’s home. He exhaled, his breath leaving a faint imprint on the chilly air. The men were in his rearview mirror now, probably trudging their way upstairs, where it would take them a few minutes to realize what was missing from their mess.
Served ’em right.
A few minutes was all he needed. A few minutes gave him plenty of time and space and distance. He hoofed it across the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the street ahead, when his boot hit a wet stone.
Squeak.
Like a goddamn burglar alarm.
He winced in frustration from the louder-than-hell sound the sole of his shoe had made. Damn rain.
So much for those minutes he’d been betting on.
The men spun around. One peered at him, narrowed his eyes, then pointed at his back, speaking French in an Irish brogue.
Ah, hell. Guy must have spotted the shape of the instrument.
Jake understood enough French, thanks to having lived overseas. But he didn’t need a dictionary to decipher
bloody bastard
. That translated in any language, and those guys wanted the violin on his back.
There was no way in hell he’d let them near it.
He’d been on the trail of the Strad for nearly a month, and had been tracking it here in Paris for a full week. He was prepped and ready to go. He’d paid a taxi driver to wait for him by the curb, so he’d be peeling away from Pigalle any second. Jake didn’t need much time to make it to the street, then to his getaway vehicle, then out of the country.
Bon fucking voyage.
He took off, hightailing it around the corner of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk, narrowly sidestepping a trio of already inebriated twentysomethings, who stumbled out of a club with red neon lights that were blinking faintly in the March afternoon. Stopping in his tracks, he scanned for the idling car.
A garbage truck was parked in the spot the cab had nabbed minutes ago, and men were dumping cans of trash in the rear of the vehicle. The cab was gone.
Naturally.
He’d opted for a taxi rather than a car service so there’d be no trail, no name attached. Just his luck that today of all days the garbage strike ended.
Improvise.
He raced nimbly around the drunks, hoping their wobbliness would serve as a roadblock for the guys on his trail. The sound of footsteps intensified, but he continued his assault on the sidewalk, running quickly. Outpacing enemies was second nature. He sped around the corner, darting down a quiet side street that cut across at an odd angle on the way to the edge of Montmartre. Should be easy to grab a taxi there. Slip into a cab, glide into traffic, make the getaway. No need to worry about the first cab; he’d find another, no problem.
But as he curved past a lingerie shop at the end of the block, he stopped short, coming face-to-face with the two men. Mere feet away.
Of course.
They knew this neighborhood better than he did.
The taller of the pair glared at Jake and bared yellowed teeth. “Give back the Strad, and you won’t get hurt,” he hissed, rolling his
R
s in a way that almost made his threat sound classy, as he brandished a gleaming silver knife.
The blade, though . . . it ruined the sophisticated feel of the moment.
“In theory, that sounds like a fair deal. But I’m going to have to take a pass,” Jake said, and swiveled the other way, then flinched as cold, sharp metal dug into his forearm. Oh, that hurt like a son of a bitch, and blood spurted out from his arm. “So, the
bloody bastard
comment? That was literal. Well, so’s this,” he said, then jammed his elbow in the gut of the yellow-toothed guy. Briefly, Jake clenched his fist, tempted to throw a punishing punch. But even though he could easily land one or many, he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. A street brawl would only draw more attention, and right now, he needed less.
As the great Kenny Rogers said, you’ve got to know when to run.
And when to motherfucking sprint.
Six years in the army served Jake well right now as he sped away, lengthening his stride and barreling past a boisterous scarf-and-coat-wearing and espresso-sipping crowd at a café. The sounds of French chatter about work and politics, art and the news, fell on his ears, and not a single person at the café seemed to care that a man was running like a receiver for the end zone, as red leaked from his forearm.
He gritted his teeth. Damn cut smarted.
A siren blared and Jake cursed. He’d have a hell of a time explaining to the French police that he was simply retrieving a stolen item.
Officer, I know it sure looks like I made off with this priceless instrument, but in reality, I was stealing it back. Yes, I’m a modern-day Robin Hood.
Cops, generally speaking, weren’t the friends of men like him, men who were called when the law couldn’t or didn’t or wouldn’t help. He snapped his gaze toward the sound of the siren. Mercifully, the bleating came from a white ambulance. Well, that was good for Jake, bad for whoever was lying on the stretcher inside.
Up ahead, he spied his goal—a busy boulevard, thick with cars and green taxis. He wondered if his disappearing cabbie had come to hunt for fares here.
From behind, the men shouted at him in English as he ran. The red awning of a butcher shop came into view, and the scent of roast chicken from a rotisserie cart parked outside it drifted into his nostrils.
Smelled fantastic. His mouth watered.
If he were in a movie, he’d yank the chicken grill into the middle of the sidewalk and trip the bumbling men, who’d double over in pain as Jake took off into the sunset, leaving them in the dust while nibbling on a tasty cooked chicken. But life wasn’t a movie. It was full of risks, and it was up to him to get away with this million-dollar object and return it to his client. No return, no pay. Simple math.
He blasted by a gray-haired French woman in a tweedy skirt and knit hat pushing a shopping bag, as he muttered,
“Excusez-moi.”
Then, mere feet away, he spotted a jewel.
Better than an emerald. Prettier than a pile of greenbacks.
A green taxi.
Passengerless and idling at a red light. He sprinted to the door, grabbed the handle, and slid inside.
The cabbie arched a bushy eyebrow.
“Oui?”
Jake gave the address of his hotel in the seventh arrondissement. Then added in French,
“Quickly, please.”
“How fast?”
“As fast as you can.”
“It’ll cost you extra.”
“Yes. I know,” he said drily.
The light changed, and the cab peeled away, leaving two Irish Stradivarius thieves in his wake on the outskirts of Montmartre. His breath came fast as he settled into the backseat, slinging the backpack around to his front. Blood from the knife cut drizzled along his skin. Tugging at the waistband of his shirt, he wiped away the blood. The cut wasn’t deep; it was merely a superficial wound.
“You running away from something?” the cab driver asked in French as he tore through side streets toward the Seine.
“No. I don’t run away. I’m returning something to its rightful owner.”
That was what he did.
Several hours later, his forearm was cleaned up, his shirt had been changed, and the seven-figure violin was safe and sound and heading home. He stepped out of the terminal in Florence, greeted by a gleaming black town car and his client, Francesca Rinaldi, with jet-black corkscrew curls and outstretched arms.
“Do you have it?” she asked, breathless.
“I told you I did,” he said, because he’d called her on his way to the airport, telling her he’d tracked it down. For a brief moment on the flight from Paris to Florence, he’d wondered what it would sound like to pluck one of the strings on that violin. He was intrigued, simply because it was a damn Stradivarius and he couldn’t help but wonder if it would actually sound like a dull twang after being manhandled by criminals who thought they could get a cool mill for something that everyone knew was missing, or if it would still sound like some kind of siren song, as it was supposed to.