The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  “Bien,” he says, forcing my attention back to him. “I couldn’t let go either.”

  “I’m different now,” I point out.

  His eyes rise to the tight curls clinging to my scalp. My hand instinctively reaches up to touch the short afro.

  “I like it,” he says, his eyes dropping down to entrap mine. “It allows me to see more of your face.”

  Before the rest of my body can catch up with how fast that makes my heart beat, his hand reaches out to stroke my cheek.

  “André,” I whisper.

  “Hate me, love me, just don’t let go of me,” he says, leaning in to kiss me.

  The passion is still there, heavy and weighted deep in my core. The feeling surrounding it is like a warm glow sending the heat all the way to my fingertips and toes, making my entire body tingle.

  His tongue risks finding mine, and I smile against his lips, wanting to bite it if only to taste more of him.

  André slides closer to me until our bodies are pressed into my corner of the backseat. My hand slides up the smooth fabric of his shirt, gliding over the hard muscles beneath it.

  That same loss of sanity that allowed him to take my body back in the apartment corrupts my brain. Now, I want him even more, again and again.

  His hand slides between us to cup my breast over the fabric of my dress. I feel my nipple instantly harden under his palm.

  “Nous sommes arrivés,” the driver announces.

  “That was quick,” I breathe as André groans with annoyance and pulls away.

  “Le Marais is not far from the Louvre.”

  “Is that where we are?”

  “Why not start with the thing brought us together? Art” He says.

  I roll my eyes, then smile and look round in search of the infamous pyramid. All I see is one long, continuous wall of brown stone, intercepted with arches on one side and arched windows on the other.

  The driver opens the door for him and André steps out, reaching back to take my hand and help me out. Instead of letting go, he holds on as he gives the driver another set of instructions in French.

  As he walks me through one of the arches, I can’t help but imagine this under different circumstances. We probably look like a couple on their honeymoon, spending the day checking off one of the obligatory Parisian landmarks.

  And like most seemingly happy, carefree couples the truth is hardly so idyllic. The handsome man in black slacks and a white button-up shirt, ever so slightly wrinkled from hate sex is an admitted killer with a dark—and ridiculously complicated—ancestral history. A man who has worked for a secret order that wants to bring back the Third Reich. A man who had me sent to prison.

  A man I can’t help but still feel a burning passion for.

  I feel myself get slightly faint and stop in my tracks, despite André’s arm pulling mine. He turns to face me with a look of confusion on his face that quickly transforms into one of concern. He walks the two steps back to me and one hand comes up to cup my face.

  “What is it?”

  “What are we doing?”

  His gaze softens with understanding and he pulls me into an embrace. It reminds me of being back in the bathroom of the Gild Hotel, back before I knew all the cards André was playing with. Now that I know the whole truth—or what I assume is the truth—for some reason, it feels even better.

  “I think,” he says, his palm on my neck as one thumb strokes the fine curl of baby hair at the nape, “we should start with something even better than art.”

  His hug slackens and I pull away to look up at him. “Like what?”

  He grins and winks at me. “Something you’ll like.”

  Five minutes later we’re at a crepe stand and I’m salivating at the offerings. Chocolate, powdered sugar, Nutella, honey, bananas, strawberries. I feel like Charlie in the Crepe Factory.

  When we finally reach the front of the line, any restraint I had about what to order gradually disappears.

  “One with chocolate…and Nutella…and strawberries.”

  I can see Andrew grinning in my periphery and I elbow him even as I smile at my eventual death by sugar. When I get it, I can feel the warm, squishy softness of the thin pancake through the wax paper.

  The first bite is sickly sweet even to my extreme tolerance level when it comes to all things confectionery.

  “Feeling better?” he asks with a grin.

  I smile around the bite in my mouth, allowing the sugar rush to soothe the last of my anxious nerves. He allows me to take my time, savoring each bite while the mass of tourists pass by us in droves. The fanny packs, socks with sandals, sullen teenagers with their parents, obnoxiously loud groups of young people with their friends, and tired toddlers throwing fits take away from the romantic appeal of the city but I’m still in awe of it all.

  When I swallow the last bite, I nod. “I’m ready.”

  André looks at me with that thoughtful expression and a hint of a smile curls the left side of his mouth. “Not quite.”

  My brow rises in mild surprise, going up another centimeter when he reaches out one hand to plant under my chin. His thumb comes up to the right side of my mouth and strokes it. When he pulls it away, I can see the mix of dark brown chocolate and light brown Nutella on the tip. He pulls it into his mouth to suck on.

  The smile on my lips twists with pleasure as I watch his jaw work to suck the sticky, sweet substance and swallow it.

  “Feeling better?” I ask with one eyebrow raised in amusement.

  His eyes gleam with intensity as he answers. “Absolument.”

  Chapter Forty

  André

  “Amazing,” she says with awe.

  Elle—I’m forcing myself to use her alias even in my thoughts if only to protect her—mimics the rest of the crowd, her head tipped back as she stares up at the glass pyramid above us.

  I allow her the moment. It’s not every day that one sees the inside of the Louvre for the first time. When her neck begins to strain, she brings her head down, twisting it back and forth to get the crick out.

  “Allons-y,” I say, taking her hand to lead her into the first part of the museum.

  The Egyptian section is first and is an enticing start to the tour of the museum. Elle pulls away to look at one of the dioramas. I stand back from the crowd to allow her to explore while I ponder everything that has happened since JFK airport back in New York.

  I know why she was headed to Paris, though I don’t know what her exact plan was once she arrived. Murder did cross my mind, but that’s not her style. It would have been fitting for her to beat me at my own game, doing something to land me in trouble with the authorities.

  Confessing everything to her was the only way I knew to pierce that shield of animosity. Her reaction back in the apartment was understandable. Her reaction when we first got out of the car a moment ago was troublesome.

  Fortunately, I know just how to calm her. The taste I got of the chocolate and Nutella from the side of her mouth was enough to make me nearly gag. But it did the trick.

  Whatever makes her happy.

  I smile as she comes back to me, the pleasure written all over her face.

  “This is so incredible,” she sighs, looking around at the displays. She turns back to face me. “I know it’s touristy and so cliché, but can we see the Mona Lisa?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Toward the end. There is a lot to see between here and there, and it will take a while to get there.”

  “How big is this museum?” she asks with a look of skepticism.

  “Big,” I say with a grin as I take her hand and lead the way.

  Half an hour later, we still haven’t reached it. The throng of people crowding the way isn’t helping.

  “My God, you were right—this place is huge. We could spend an entire week here.”

  “Oui.”

  “It’s too bad we can’t see it all. Some of this looks so interesting.”

  I slow down and look back at her. “
Do you have any other plans?” I ask, one eyebrow raised.

  She blinks a few times as though the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Her mouth purses into a smile and she shrugs. “I suppose not.”

  “Bien, we have all the time in the world, so we can see whatever you like. But first, the smile.” I say with a grin, enjoying the one that touches her lips.

  When we arrive, that smile disappears as she sees the crowd obscuring the view of the Mona Lisa.

  “Come,” I say, barely hesitating as I lead her to the edge of the crowd and work my way through. It’s either my height or self-assured presence, or just my ability to attract blind luck that has almost everyone making way for me. There are, of course, a few murmurs and growls of dissent, quickly silenced by one hard look from me. Once I’m near the front, I draw Elle forward in front of me, just behind some restless children who seem to have already lost interest in the world’s most famous painting.

  “It’s smaller than I thought,” she remarks, her head cocked to the side in wonder.

  “But still magnifique, no?” I say, moving from around her to watch her in profile

  “Oh, of course,” she says, her eyes still trained on the masterpiece.

  Eventually, she feels my eyes on her, and that dimple appears in one side as she turns to face me. Before she can speak, a large man jostles her as he tries to get past and snap a picture with his phone.

  I growl my complaint, causing him to flinch in startled fear.

  “It’s okay,” Elle says, placing a calming hand on my arm. “I’ve seen enough.”

  I glare at the man a moment longer then relax, taking Elle’s hand to make our way back through the crowd.

  “Wait a second,” she gasps, looking up at the painting across from Mona Lisa. “How in the world did I miss this when we came in?”

  Wedding at Cana by Paolo Veronese takes up almost the entire wall, the largest painting in the Louvre. The individuals captured on canvas are the size of the few people standing in front of it as they too discover the less well-known painting.

  Elle drags me toward it, her mouth open in awe. She isn’t the only one impressed. Even though I’ve been to the Louvre enough times to know almost every piece on display—a few made available in a roundabout way via my own handiwork—I find myself drawn into the vibrant colors and exquisite detail.

  We admire it for a while until we’ve had our fill, then leave the exhibit and slowly work our way back toward everything we passed on the way there.

  “There’s something I’ve been wondering,” Elle says after a good hour of exploring, her brow now wrinkled in thought as we wind our way through the crowds. “It didn’t take me long to figure out that the painting Gaultier had on display was a fake. He never filed an insurance claim. But…why not announce the vandalism to the world? Surely he must still have the real thing hidden away somewhere. So he’d either admit the one on display was a fake, maybe as some sort of decoy? Or lie and say that it was the real thing and pretend that it would be repaired. The sudden closing of the gallery had to be even more suspicious, right?”

  “I wondered the same thing,” I reply, looking ahead as we walk.

  I too was surprised to find out that the painting was a fake—it was the missing message Noémie wrote to Victor that convinced me—once I managed to get past the thick glass with the same glass cutter I left in her desk drawer.

  “He definitely has the real one somewhere,” I say with conviction. “He wouldn’t have bothered making the painting public in the first place if he didn’t.”

  “Part of the reason I didn’t get a longer sentence was because he wouldn’t testify.”

  “Elle—”

  “Don’t, André,” she says softly, squeezing my hand for good measure. “I understand why you did what you did.”

  Even though framing her really was my only option, the guilt still eats at me. I’m pleased to see she seems to have come out the other side without too much damage, either physically or emotionally. Hopefully, the various resources I used to make sure she was looked after while in prison did their jobs. I’d led the Werwolf Order off her scent by both destroying the painting (even if it was a fake) and keeping her out of the picture for at least eighteen months, convincing them that she was no longer a threat.

  Georgette—the last remaining direct claim to the painting—dying in the meantime was an unexpected surprise. It inadvertently added another layer of protection, though one that I would have prevented if I had any power to do so.

  “Was that part of your plan? Coming to Paris to confront him as well?” I ask, pulling her aside so I can focus not just on her words but her facial expression and body language.

  Her jaw tightens and she nods. “More than that, really. I wanted answers but I also wanted…”

  “Revenge,” I finish for her. “We can still steal it. He has a chateau just outside of Paris. I know there’s a small collection housed inside, which is also where Noémie most likely is.”

  Her eyes flash in surprise at the suggestion, but there’s a quick spark of vicious righteousness before it fades and she seems to wilt. “I don’t have any more claim to it. What little Georgie had, she left to me, but…the painting wasn’t hers. It belongs to your grandmother now. Besides, the only reason I worked so hard to get it was for her.”

  “You deserve that painting more than anyone…and I’m going to help you get it.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Elle

  André’s announcement overshadowed any further interest in the art in the Louvre. With the people surrounding us, it was hard to concentrate on any conversation it would have led to, not to mention the idea that we were basically incriminating ourselves to any listening ears.

  Now, we’re walking down the dirt paths of the Jardin des Tuileries nearby. The wide walkways give us more breathing room to talk in private as we slowly wander.

  “I still think Celeste should have it,” I say.

  “She would understand,” he assures me.

  “It isn’t even about understanding, it’s about fairness.”

  “So she’ll buy it from you, as originally intended. She’s a very wealthy woman. You’ll have more money to get settled now that you don’t have a job.”

  The wrinkle in my brow remains as I stare ahead. As much as I love the idea of getting back at Gaultier, especially in this manner, it all feels wrong. It’s partially because Georgette isn’t around to share it with, as much as she was opposed to the idea in the first place.

  “When you meet her, you’ll see she’s in agreement with this idea.”

  That has my brow softening with shifted interest. “When will that be?”

  André stares ahead with a frown. “Eventually.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  “Non,” he agrees, shaking his head, before perking back up a little. “We can FaceTime, like with Georgie.”

  Something about the natural way he uses Georgette’s nickname fills me with a conflicting mix of jealousy and warmth. I’m glad she had him with her at the end, but I can’t help feeling sad that I wasn’t there too, even if he had a point about it being worse for if I was dead. I’m sure he explained all that to her by way of reassurance, which makes me feel a little better, her knowing I was at least safe.

  “How often did they talk?” I ask, falling back into the here and now.

  A smile broadens across his face. “A lot. Georgie, she’s impossible not to like.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask with a laugh.

  “You’ll see. I love her, of course.”

  “Do you think she’ll like me?”

  He stops and turns to me, eyes wandering over my face as though there’s nothing there to dislike. “She’ll love you, probably more than me,” he says with a grin.

  A rush of pleasure fills my veins. I feel myself being drawn back into the world of the Ardants, enjoying the thrill of the history and intrigue surrounding that family tree. Maybe it’s because my ow
n roots have always been shriveled and dying. My dad’s side never showed any interest in getting to know me, which I’ve happily come to terms with. My mother’s side refused to have anything to do with us, something else I’m happy to forget about. It’s only the Ardant lineage—and of course the Howards—that have shown me anything resembling love.

  Love.

  A warm tingle fills my stomach as I stare at André. The intense heat of passion is still there when I think of him, but this new feeling seems even more overwhelming, making my head slightly dizzy. Not quite love…but perhaps something even more powerful.

  “Let us sit for a moment,” he says, perhaps sensing how overcome with emotion I am.

  We manage to find a bench to ourselves. I settle next to him, close enough to feel his body heat. It’s nice.

  For a few minutes, we just enjoy the scenery, drenched in the pleasant spring weather. My image of this city has always been the sort of sentimental appeal of lovers holding hands, stylish women strutting their way down quaint streets, seductive men charming anything with a pulse. The reality is a bit more…realistic, but somehow more enjoyable. I watch as two children laugh and chase one another. A group of giggling tween girls tries to talk over one another. A harried mother pushes a stroller with a screaming baby. An old man uses a cane settle on a bench across from us to take a break from walking.

  “Now I have a question,” André says, bringing my attention back to him. I note the grin on his face. “How exactly were you planning on getting your revenge on me?”

  I bite back the smile on my face. “I did my research after I got out of prison—we didn’t have internet access inside. There have been quite a few thefts in the world in the past fifteen years. I figured at least a handful of them had to be yours.”

  He gives me a conceding nod, the grin on his face deepening. “So you planned to turn me in?”

  “Of course,” I say with a shrug, “Don’t you think you deserved it?”

  He laughs. “I think you’re more cut out for this than you think.”