“Perhaps Lisette will sell it.”
“That seems a shame, after it’s been in his family for two hundred years.” She brushed some dirt from the stone step where she sat, and looked around. “This is just the type of place the couple from New York bought, the couple who discovered the Plums. They were hidden in a cellar, much like this one.”
“That’s probably who will buy this. Rich Americans looking to own a piece of history.” He seized the change of subject. “So, how did you first hear about the discovery of the Plums?”
She twirled a strand of hair, and a shadow of a smile crossed her face. “I was leaving Royce Hall after class.” The smile bloomed into a full grin. “And Albert came running across the quad, a sight in bright green pants with frogs on them. The frogs were a tribute to France, not a mere fashion faux pas.”
“Naturellement.”
“Anyway, he came barreling across the grass, waving his arms at me. ‘They found them, they found Pompadour’s vases!’ You’d have thought it was the Holy Grail, he was so happy.”
“Why did they mean so much to him?”
She narrowed her eyes as she considered the question. “From an art history standpoint, they’re truly significant in the time line of how porcelain was made. A time line that’s now completely changed, due to his fervent beliefs.”
All this passion wasn’t about a time line. “But it’s more than that.”
Her eyes sparkled in the flickering light. “Yes, it is. They prove that Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson was no mere bourgeoisie mistress. She was a profoundly influential patroness of the arts. She changed the course of art history, not just the timing. And she’s never been given her rightful due. Not by political or art historians.”
She started to say something else, then stopped.
“What is it?”
“No,” she shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Come on, Dr. Coulter,” he coaxed. “I’m enjoying the lecture.”
“Once I get started, I can blow through a fifty-minute class without a breath.” Her smile tumbled his heart.
“We’ve got plenty of time.” He pulled out a chair and flipped it around, leaning forward on the seat back. “What is it about those Plums?”
“It’s not the Plums. It’s what they say about Pompadour.” She plucked at a thread on the blanket, then looked up at him. “I really admire her. Not the fact that she ditched her husband to sleep with the king. But she was just a lower-middle-class girl with big dreams. And when she realized them, she did amazing things with the power she attained. Few mistresses did anything beyond invent a new sleeve style.
“But Pompadour,” she continued, waggling a playful finger at him. “That woman single-handedly propelled literature and painting and theater to the next level. It would have been easy for her to just parlay her gifts—her charm, her influence, her royal lover—into an easy life, one that was all about her clothes and her beauty. That alone would have been a huge step in the world for her. But she was smart.” Janine’s face lit with something that looked like pride. “Her brains were her secret weapon.”
Just like you. He leaned the seat back closer toward her and listened.
“She spent her days grooming Boucher and inspiring Voltaire and discovering obscure porcelain artists. She encouraged them all to push the envelope.” A natural flush deepened the color of her cheeks. “She used her tremendous influence to bring talented writers and artists to the world’s attention, geniuses who otherwise would have languished in the side streets of Paris.”
“And you relate to her.”
Janine laughed self-consciously. “I don’t know about that. I respect her, I—I,” she paused and thought about it for a minute. “Well, yeah. I guess I do. Believe me, Porterville, California, is about as bourgeoisie as you can get. I wasn’t raised in a trailer, but I had plenty of friends who were. So I can relate to someone who looked around and said, ‘I can do better. What skills do I have?’ Yes.” She nodded, almost defiantly. “I do relate to her.”
“I understand that.” He certainly had his own “bourgeois” childhood, growing up in a run-down brownstone in Southie. Sleeping on a pull-out sofa, so his mother and Claire could have the bedroom. Wanting out. Blaming his father for their poverty. He’d thought the same thing: I can do better. What skills do I have?
Janine had looks and brains. Nick Jarrett had dexterity and nerve.
He scooped up the knapsack from the ground and rolled it into a ball. “You should get some sleep.” He placed the makeshift pillow on the stair closest to her head.
Later, when it was definite that they only had a reading on the forgeries, he would tell her that she was heading back to Versailles, and that he’d be continuing the journey without her.
“I can’t sleep,” she said, laying her head on the knapsack. “I’m too keyed up—ouch!” She jerked her head up and grabbed some hair snagged on a Velcro catch.
“Here.” He grasped the ensnared lock in one hand. “I can fix it.” He eased a long strand through the fibers of Velcro. “Better?”
She rubbed her head where it had pulled. “Thanks.” She opened the side pocket of the knapsack and stuck her hand in. “Do you think there’s an elastic band or a string in here?”
“Turn around.” He put a hand on her shoulders, and she gave him a questioning look. “Detournez.” He circled his finger in the direction he wanted her to go. “I’ll show you a trick.”
She obeyed, but kept a wary gaze on him over her shoulder. “What kind of trick?”
He placed his fingertips at her temples and gently swiveled her head forward. “Trust me.”
He reached under her hair and lifted it with two hands. God, it was gorgeous. Absolutely straight and thick enough to get lost in, and falling nearly to her waist. He had to fight to keep from tangling his fingers in it and burying his face in the silkiness of it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice as tight as the grip he had on her hair.
“This is called a French braid. Are you familiar with it?”
“You know how to French braid?”
He leaned dangerously close to her ear. “Mais oui, ma belle.” She shuddered, and he chuckled softly. “My mother had to leave early every morning, so I did my sister’s hair before school.”
He divided it into sections, combing through the length with his fingers to remove any knots. He almost groaned with the pleasure of it. “You have wonderful hair.” Long hair and long legs—his two weaknesses in a woman. “Hold still.” He wrapped the hair around two fingers and started to twine. “It’s like riding a bike, I guess. I haven’t forgotten in the thirty years since I braided Claire’s hair into submission.”
His fingers froze. Why did he say her name? What the hell was wrong with him? He scooped a lock and folded it over the rest, then mirrored the action on the other side.
“How much younger than you is Claire? Where does she live?”
“Four years.” Truth telling was over. “Paris.”
Wheatlike shades of blond were soon intertwined into one flowing rope down her back. He lifted the last section and secured it by tucking the hair back into itself at the nape of her neck. “Voilà.”
She reached back and touched it with her hand, then turned to him with an unsure smile. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”
He grazed her throat with one finger. “Yes, I am.”
Her mouth was inches from his. It would have been so easy to steal another kiss; all he needed was the tiniest sign from her. But she turned her attention pointedly to the knapsack, punching it into shape before she laid her head on it. He returned to the chair.
The cellar was suddenly very still and quiet. After a minute she lifted her head. “You’re not going to drink all that twenty-thousand-dollar wine, are you?”
He laughed quietly. “We can have it later. And there’s plenty more.”
She laid her head back down, her eyes wide open. “Where will you be?”
He t
apped the back of the chair. “Right here.” A good, safe distance from her.
“Don’t turn that flashlight off, okay?”
“I’ll light the lamp with the oil Lisette brought. We should save the flashlight.” He positioned himself so that he could see her and the door at the top of the stairs. “Are you afraid of the dark, Janine?”
“I didn’t think so, but it’s kind of spooky in here.” She adjusted the blanket around her. “What are you going to do?”
Watch you sleep. “I thought I’d figure out a way to get your Plums back.”
“Great.” She gave him a lazy smile as she put her head down. “You do that.”
Janine’s eyes burned from exhaustion as she closed her lids, but she ignored the sting. Her head still tingled from his fingertips. Having her hair braided by a man was the most intimate gesture she could imagine…except for the wine tasting that preceded it.
What kind of man picked locks and worked for the FBI and put tracking gizmos in porcelain and braided hair? What kind of man duped the local police, stole a car, then managed to be tender with a grieving old woman? What kind of man ran like a bandit from the scene of a crime, made her strip naked in the car, and then exchanged wine through the most soulful kiss she’d ever felt?
The kind that sent flashes of pure desire through her body and made her crave more…wine.
Stifling a sigh, Janine nestled into her homemade bed. How long would they be here? There were nine hundred and ninety-nine more bottles to spin. But she had no business thinking thoughts like that. She had a mission now, and it wasn’t French kissing in a wine cellar.
She tried to imagine the joy of finding the Plums and restoring them to the exhibit. Visualization had always worked for her. When she wanted something very, very badly, she just imagined how it would feel, what it would smell and taste and sound like.
It would feel divine. It would smell like spice and aftershave, taste like mouth-warmed wine and sound…French.
“Ohhh.” The groan escaped before she could stop it.
Luc laughed. “Dormez, Janine.”
Yes. It would sound exactly like that.
Chapter
Fourteen
J anine.”
Szha-neen. The fog of sleep cleared at the feel of a man’s hand on her cheek. “What?” She jerked up, the knapsack tumbling down a step. “What is it?”
“Lisette is here.” Luc reached to help her to her feet. “We need your help.”
“Oh, okay.” How long had she been asleep?
The little Frenchwoman peered up from the table, holding a tumbler half full of wine so dark it looked black. She didn’t offer the slightest acknowledgment, let alone a friendly hello.
“Bonjour.” Janine gave Lisette the brightest smile she could muster, considering she’d been sleeping on stone and dirt for a while.
“Bon soir.” No return smile.
Good evening? How long had she been asleep? She looked at Luc. His beard was darker, his eyes weary. “What time is it?”
“Almost four o’clock in the afternoon,” he said.
She’d slept nearly five hours, the dreamless sleep of the dead.
Straightening her tired back, she walked to the table and sat across from Lisette. Luc crouched between them, his hands on a few scattered papers.
The flashlight stood at the center of the table, casting a ghostly white circle of light on the ceiling and creating odd, long shapes around the room. Luc reached over and put a hand on Lisette’s arm, and she responded by taking a deep drink from the tumbler.
“I’ve found the vases,” he said to Janine, an odd glimmer in his eyes. “The forgeries and the real vases. They’re together.”
She blinked and put her hand on her chest. “How can that be? The same person took them?”
He lifted his brows as though to say, “Who knows?” “At least the same person has them. And we now have a location.” He tapped a single sheet of white paper, showing a computerized map and a series of numbers along the bottom. “Here.”
She glanced at it, then back at him. “Where?”
He held up a hand to quiet her. “We don’t need to burden Lisette with the details. She’s going to help us prepare to get them, so give Lisette your sizes—everything. Top, bottom, shoes, everything.”
She raised an eyebrow and glanced at Lisette. “She’s going clothes shopping?”
“Lisette will go to Dijon and buy you the proper attire for where we’re going.”
“Can’t we just go get the vases and leave?” She didn’t need the right clothes to find the Plums, for God sake.
“We can’t stand out. Do you know the French equivalent of your sizes?”
“I—no.” She stood and lifted Lisette’s flannel shirt enough to show her hips. “Your pants are just a size or so too big, so whatever you are.” She held up one finger, then put it down. “Minus one.”
Lisette wrote something down on the paper in front of her and asked, “La chassures?”
Janine tried to wiggle her toes, but they were jammed into the ugly black flats. “These are at least a size too small.”
“Anything else?” Luc prompted.
“And—and…” Oh, Lord. She touched her chest self-consciously. “Underwear and…a brassiere.”
She felt Luc’s gaze drop to her chest, but she kept her attention on the other woman. “Thirty-four C,” she said, in answer to Lisette’s questioning look.
Lisette shook her head. Evidently that didn’t compute to a size she recognized. Janine sighed and looked at Luc. “Help me out here.”
“Au-dessus de la moyenne,” he said, with a sly wink to Janine. Above average. She made a point of watching Lisette write.
Lisette stood suddenly, took the tumbler of wine, and knocked it back in one gulp. Not exactly testing for balance and flavor. Luc reached into his pocket and pulled out a billfold. Without looking or counting, he handed a thick stack of Euros to Lisette.
“Alors,” she said, stuffing the money into a pocket of the baggy dress she wore. She picked up a jacket that hung on the back of the chair. “Au revoir.”
With one glance at Janine, she went up the stairs. When she opened the door, late-afternoon light peeked through the shrubbery that hid the opening.
“Lisette,” Luc called.
She turned slowly. “Oui?”
“Merci beaucoup.”
She nodded and left.
“She’s certainly a woman of few words,” Janine said, when the door closed on the inviting twilight.
“I told you, she’s in mourning,” he said. “Shock and mourning. And she’s doing us a huge favor.”
Of course he’d defend his friend’s wife. It wasn’t worth telling him the old lady gave her the willies. She rubbed her back where it had pressed into the steps. “I couldn’t possibly feel dirtier.”
“We can go back into the house now. You can clean up and have something to eat while Lisette is gone. We’ll leave around midnight, so we can arrive when the resort is the most deserted.”
“The resort? Where are we going?”
“Lac Léman.” The French side of Lake Geneva. “A spa called the Royal Parc in Evian-les-Bains.” He frowned at a paper on the table, turning it to face him. “Somewhere in the far western corner of the sixth floor. A lakeside penthouse, no doubt.” He looked back at her. “You’ve never been there, have you?” He sounded concerned that she would say yes.
She shook her head and studied the incomprehensible computer readout in front of him. The only thing that looked vaguely familiar was the map with the half-moon shape of Lake Geneva. “Are you absolutely sure the Plums are there?”
“Oh, yes.” He tapped the page with his finger, then looked at her with a strange expression. “My enemy is very, very smart and dangerous.”
A drop of anxiety trickled down her sore spine. “He’s my enemy, too. I’m convinced this has to do with Albert’s death.”
He regarded her for a moment. “We’re not entirely
sure of that.”
But she was. And nothing would stop her from going all the way with this.
Suddenly switching to his American accent as he draped his arm around her shoulder, Luc said, “Ready for our honeymoon, honey?”
Her heart flipped. “Is that our cover story, Bond?”
He smiled. “I’m afraid it will have to be. But you have a very memorable appearance, so for us to blend in, you’ll have to look different.” His fingers drifted to the nape of her neck, warming the skin and raising the fine hairs under his hand. “You might have to do something with your hair.”
“From Bond to Sassoon. What do you have in mind? A quick cut and color?”
“If Lisette cannot find a wig, yes.” He gave the braid a gentle tug. “Could you live with that?”
It sounded like it would hurt him more than it would hurt her. “Of course. It’s just hair; it grows back.”
His fingers burrowed further into her hair. “Perhaps we can think of a way to save it.”
“Yeah, well.” She dipped her head and slipped out of his grasp. “I want to save the Plums, not my hair.”
Lisette’s hands shook as she climbed into the truck. As she struggled to put the key into the ignition, the passenger door popped open.
Stifling a gasp, she stared at the man whose beady eyes and oily complexion she’d come to hate. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I thought you were gone.”
The Indian curled his lip at her and slid into the passenger seat next to her, a silver blade flashing in his hand with the same menacing glimmer she saw in his black eyes. “Where are they?”
She couldn’t breathe. Would he go to the basement and kill them both?
“In the wine cellar,” she whispered, tilting her head toward the side of the house. “Over there.”
“Get him out,” he ordered. “And keep her down there.”
“What?” She put a hand to her chest. The girl would die here? In her own home? In Bérnard’s cellar?
He lifted the knife toward her throat. “Get him in the house and keep him there.”
So these were the instructions she had to follow. “For how long?”
French Twist Page 13
