Of course, he would never compromise his newfound liberty by appearing in public. Not yet.
“You must relax, Your Highness.” Larinna’s voice in his beloved Sanskrit tongue interrupted his thoughts. He let her ease his head back into the fleece-lined opening of the bench. She continued her ministrations, a little harder, a little deeper into his taut muscles. He let out a satisfied breath. He’d missed this during the five years he’d just spent in hell.
Impatience made him lift his head again, unable to stomach the waiting, his sharp gaze taking in the surroundings.
“Are you satisfied with the accommodations, sire?”
He grunted. Rich draperies pooled around the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. Magnificent frescoes covered the walls.
This was how he was meant to live. It was in his soul. Literally, in his blood. It was bad enough his own people had turned him out in favor of democracy, but then Nick Jarrett had destroyed the second empire Karim had built. And he had to pay for that.
As though on cue, the gentle trill of a phone cut into his thoughts.
He hoisted his girth from the massage table, vaguely aware that he’d nearly toppled Larinna, and grabbed a cell phone on the bed. “Yes?”
“The Scorpion has struck.”
Karim breathed steadily, letting Claude Marchionette’s thick French permeate his being. Praise Allah, he’d done it. He dropped onto the bed and glanced down at his naked body, his cock already arched from the massage. “Do we have both sets?”
“Of course we do, Karim.”
Disgust rolled through him at the use of his first name, but he didn’t bother to chastise the Frenchman. They still needed each other. “How did you find the genuine vases?”
“I placed a very good woman in charge of security,” Marchionette boasted. “Now I have completed my job. I expect the same from you, Karim.”
Karim despised the subtle threat, but managed to control his response. “In a matter of weeks the counterfeit vases will travel through the usual underground and quickly be revealed as fake.”
“And you will destroy the real vases,” Marchionette reminded him. “The world will only know that one set ever existed and that set is a forgery. As you know, this is the only reason why I would jeopardize my career and life to assist you. The Plums must be destroyed.”
As if he would ever ruin such beauty. “Of course. You may consider it done already.” In fact, the Pompadour Plums would join the other priceless art he collected and would someday be given a place of honor, when he managed to reseat himself on his throne. But they had another purpose, first. Scorpion bait.
He hung up without giving the self-important French bastard an opportunity to threaten him again. Loathing rolled through him. That’s what Nick Jarrett had stolen from him: not just his freedom, but respect.
The Plums were a bonus, really. As much as he wanted them, he wanted the Scorpion more. It had been easy enough to put his organization back in place from that minimum security/maximum discomfort hellhole of a jail. But his spirit hadn’t been moved to action until the day that he received a letter from France. A single page, bearing the four most motivating words he’d ever read: Nick Jarrett is alive.
Oh yes. The Scorpion still lived and breathed. In France, working for the government of the United States. On art crimes—what a joke.
He stroked himself absently while he tried to erase the impudent tone of Marchionette’s voice from his memory. That idiot hadn’t thought of any of this. All he did was agree to make it easy, and his price was stupidly low: destroy the real Plums and let the fakes be “discovered.” If the man had any balls or brains, he’d want money, too.
Karim was the genius behind this plan. He’d figured out a way to get the FBI to produce the imitation vases he would sell on the black market. And he’d even ensured that if the genuine article was tracked and found, there could only be one perpetrator of the crime: Nick Jarrett. All the while, the Scorpion would be crawling directly to him, on his belly, stinger out. To be crushed.
And if not, there was always Plan B. B for Boston.
The phone rang in his hand. When he answered it, he could tell immediately that something was wrong. Surjeet’s voice never cracked.
“What is it?” Karim demanded.
“There is a problem, Your Highness.”
Had he lost the vases? “What?”
“The Scorpion is not alone. I followed him, and he left with the American curator.”
Karim spat out a curse. The only person in France who could tell the vases apart in a matter of minutes. “She was supposed to have been under Marchionette’s control,” he rasped.
“I tried to distract her, but she knew where the vases were.” Surjeet cleared his throat nervously.
Why? Why would Nick Jarrett compromise himself and bring a woman along? His gaze moved to the generous body of his own traveling companion, who stood a few feet away. Of course. Jarrett would use a woman for the same reason he did. Protection.
“Does this change anything, sir?” Surjeet asked.
“Not yet. Deliver the vases as instructed, quickly. You may not have much time.” Karim mentally reviewed his plans and the placement of his men. “The Scorpion will be closely watched, don’t worry.”
“What about the American?”
He could not take the chance of the esteemed Dr. Coulter getting her hands on the vases and ruining his plans. “Do exactly what we discussed with the vases.” He watched his cock harden as an idea formed. “Then I want her out. Gone. It should be easy to make it look like the Scorpion killed her.”
Without waiting for Surjeet to respond, he dropped the phone on the floor.
Larinna stooped to pick it up, then held out the bottle of massage oil. “Would you care to continue, Your Highness?”
He muttered a Sanskrit word under his breath, as he stroked and engorged himself. Yes, a woman could be used for many things. How ironic that the Scorpion and the Prince had so much in common.
Chapter
Eight
J anine hoped Luc knew what he was doing, because it looked like they were trapped between a sea of limousines and six hundred drunken gala guests. Around the perimeter of the main building, uniformed guards, police, and plainclothes Secret Service had formed a blockade.
“Will they let us out?” she asked.
He shot her a threatening look. “No questions for a few minutes, all right? Just follow me.” He led her toward a two-foot-wide pathway between the chapel and the main entrance of the palace. She cursed her high heels as she jogged to keep up with his long strides. Along the shadowy walls of the west wing, he moved so quickly, she nearly stumbled. When they reached a steep set of stairs to the gardens, he stopped suddenly.
“Can you manage these?” He sounded doubtful and ready to dump her in the nearest fountain.
She peered down into the massive labyrinth of gardens beyond the steps, then bent over to slide her sandals off. “Of course.”
As they darted past a series of geometric pools, an icy spray misted her, sending a chill over her skin. He didn’t seem to notice as he slowed and scanned the landscape.
“Now where?” she asked, rubbing her arms with a shoe in each hand.
“This way. Into the trees.”
L’Orangerie was the only section of the gardens not bathed in decorative lights. He tugged her deeper into the dense orange groves, the sweet fragrance of citrus and pomegranates nearly suffocating her. Dirt and stones stabbed her bare feet. A sharp branch scraped her bare arm; her hair and dress were snagged every few feet by twigs. Where was he going?
They zigzagged through the grove until she saw the lights of the pièce d’Eau des Suisses, the fountain at the edge of the palace grounds. The only thing left was an impenetrable wall of shrubbery that surrounded the gardens.
“How are we going to get out?”
“Through the exit,” he said, as calmly as if they’d chosen a more traditional departure. “Straigh
t ahead.”
Tucked in the middle of the ten-foot-tall barrier of foliage was a waist-high iron gate that probably functioned as a service entrance. He shook it once, clattering a thick metal chain. Without another word, he braced himself on the gate and hurdled it in one smooth movement. Turning, he reached for her.
“Hold your dress,” he commanded, sliding his hands under her arms and hoisting her up with the ease of a parent lifting a child.
The opening led to a narrow street lined with wrought iron gaslights, a row of sandstone homes, and a few parked cars. The suburbs of Versailles. He guided her to one of the cars and opened the passenger door.
“Get in,” he said.
As she slid onto the cold seat, a jagged tear in the leather scratched her exposed thigh.
Tossing his jacket in the backseat, Luc jumped in and yanked down the visor. Slapping it back in place, he reached in front of her and snapped open the glove box. He patted the inside quickly, then swore softly. Bending over, he reached under his seat, feeling around with his eyes closed.
“Voilà,” he said, producing a key and stabbing it into the ignition.
As he whipped the Volvo out of its parking spot, she asked, “Was this waiting here for you or did you just steal it?”
He merely drove down the main boulevard, loosening his bow tie so it hung open from his shirt collar. His dark hair flirted with his collar, and his powerful arms and chest seemed overwhelming in the small space of the car.
Janine forced herself to look away from the compelling image he made. Better to think about what she was doing, not who she was doing it with. “Where are we going?”
He took his eyes off the road long enough to let his gaze slide all the way down her dress, then back to her face. “You ask a lot of questions for an uninvited guest.”
She plucked an orange twig out of her hair and flicked it onto the floor. “Yeah? Well, you run pretty fast for someone with nothing to hide.”
He didn’t respond, his attention frozen on the rearview mirror. “We have company.”
“Who?” She rolled down her window to get a better look at her side view mirror. A white car had appeared, perhaps half a mile behind them. “Who is that?”
“The Police Nationale. Close your window.”
She did, but kept an eye on the mirror. “It’s okay. You’re not speeding or running red lights; we haven’t done anything wrong.”
His eyes never moved from the mirror.
“Have we?” Janine looked again, seeing the blue light bar across the roof of the car. It wasn’t on…yet. Luc kept the speed steady and watched the rearview mirror, his expression taut and intense. Her heart dipped. “You just stole this car, didn’t you?”
“Do you want to find the Plums?”
She glared at him. “I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question.”
“Then you must do precisely as I tell you.” He turned a corner and the police car followed. “Believe me, we do not want him to request the carte grise. We do not want him to ask for registration, insurance, or identification or anything. Is that clear? We want him to leave us alone.”
His tone left no room for an argument.
“Okay.” The lights were closer. “How do we do that?”
“Take off your dress.”
She felt her jaw go slack. “What?”
“Take off your dress.” He repeated the words slowly, as though she couldn’t understand plain, ridiculous English requests. “Someone may have reported you as missing after the theft. You are a suspect. They will detain us for hours.”
“A suspect? That’s ridiculous.” She shook her head and looked at the reflection of the car again. They were no closer. “Anyway, they won’t recognize me.”
“Every minute, the Plums get further away and out of our reach.” He waved a hand toward her. “They’ll be looking for someone fitting your description, wearing a long white dress. It’s your choice if you want to stay and argue with the French police, or get on the road to the vases.”
She opened her mouth to disagree, but closed it again. “Don’t you think stark naked is just a tad more conspicuous than a simple white dress?”
“Not for what I have in mind.”
What did he have in mind? “We didn’t do anything. We’re innocent and we’ll explain that to them.”
He pierced her with a deadly look. “If they arrest us, you will never see your Plums again. Ever. Believe me.”
Fear clutched her heart. It was bad enough if someone took the Plums to sell them on the black market. She couldn’t take the chance that someone would destroy them. The blue light of the police car suddenly flashed.
She reached under the arm of her dress and began to slide the zipper down. She had nothing but sheer white panties underneath. No bra. No slip. No significant coverage of any kind. “Don’t you dare look,” she warned.
A flicker of a smile tipped his lips. “Of course not.”
She slid the fabric down her torso. The air blowing through the vents shocked her skin.
“Put it on the floor,” he instructed, still intent on the rearview mirror. “Under the seat.”
She slipped the material under her backside and down her legs, stashed it as instructed, and covered her bare breasts with crossed arms.
“No.” Luc grasped her wrist in his hand. “Put your head in my lap.”
She stared at him.
“Janine.” His voice was as intense as his focus on the mirror. “Do as I say.”
“Is that necess—”
He palmed her head and pushed her into his crotch. She grunted in discomfort as the gear shift lever poked her ribs. “Sorry,” he said. “Stay there. We need the element of surprise on our side.”
She ignored the order enough to turn her head and peer up at him. With his left hand, he stripped the tie out of his collar and in one yank, popped the tuxedo studs and ripped open the shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Undressing.”
Her face was pressed against solid abdomen muscles, and the back of her head thumped against the steering wheel. But that wasn’t the worst part. Under her ear, she felt a very definite bulge. Wasn’t this pretend?
Steel-like stomach muscles contracted against her face. “We’re being pulled over.” His perfect American accent stunned her. Flawless, flat, and midwestern.
She struggled to lift her head, but he held her in place as the car slowed and veered to the right.
“Wait,” he ordered in that bizarre American English. “Wait till he’s reached the window, then sit up so that he can see you. All of you.” As he spoke, his fingers fumbled with something in his lap. Good God, he was opening his pants!
She pushed her head against his hand and looked up just as he looked down. “We don’t need total realism, okay?”
His eyes glinted for a split second. “Ne t’inquiétes pas,” he whispered, French again. But at that moment, she was worried.
A blue light flashed in the rearview mirror.
“Wait…Wait…,” he ordered. “Okay, now.” He burrowed his fingers in her hair and gently guided her head up. Just as she cleared the steering wheel, a beam of light flooded the interior of the car and something metal rapped hard against the glass.
Luc lowered the window. “We’ve been busted, honey,” he said with an odd little laugh, the American accent even more pronounced. As he released his hold on her, she jerked out of the light, leaning into the passenger seat.
The policemen saluted.
Janine almost choked, but then another man appeared at her door, wearing a matching blue uniform.
Good God, they were surrounded.
The one at Luc’s window said something in French, but she didn’t catch it. She was too surprised by the goofy look on Luc’s face. He suddenly didn’t look anything like Luc Tremont. His square jaw had gone slack, his hair mussed.
“Um, Officer.” He chuckled awkwardly and struggled with his fly. “Gee. We’re, uh, we are…we
ll. I don’t speak French, sir. We’re trying to find our hotel. The Cheval Rouge. Do you have a clue where it is?”
Suddenly, the light bathed Janine. She blinked, frozen for a split second. All of you. Isn’t that what he’d said?
She put her hands on the seat and leaned right into the light, offering the policeman a clear view of her breasts and her boldest smile. “Are we in trouble, Officer?” she drawled. She couldn’t see his expression, but as he jerked the light away, she could sure see Luc’s. A mix of surprise, admiration, and lust.
She leaned into her seat to let him handle it from there, half expecting the other policeman to whip her door open and drop her on the street.
The officer said something else in French, but sounded a shade less intimidating.
Please don’t haul me into a French jail naked, she prayed silently. Oh, that would really seal her fate in the art world. Albert would turn over in his grave.
No, he wouldn’t. But Albert would turn over in his grave if someone made porcelain dust out of those Plums and eliminated their place in history. What was a little breast exposure compared to that?
Luc squirmed in his seat and tucked his shirt in. “Really sorry, Officer.” He grinned at the man. “We’re on our honeymoon.”
At least he didn’t try to pass her off as a hooker. The cop just stared at Luc, and Janine held her breath, waiting for the inevitable. License and registration, please.
“Honey. Moon.” Luc repeated slowly. He pointed to Janine and then to himself. “Mar-i-age,” he said in butchered French. “Last week. Last Samedi. Nous avons our mar-i-age.”
“L’hotel n’est pas loin,” the policeman said pointedly, not returning the smile. “Allez maintenant.”
Luc nodded eagerly. “Oui. Yes.” He turned to Janine. “It’s not far. I think he said it’s not far.”
“He also said ‘go now,’ ” she whispered back.
The policeman illuminated the park. “Là, monsieur. Tout droit et trois kilometres à gauche.” Behind her, Janine was aware of the other officer moving to the back of their car.
Luc continued to nod eagerly. “Okay. Good. Over there. Three kilometers to the gauche—left? Oui. Merci. Really, thank you.”
French Twist Page 8
