French Twist

by Roxanne St Claire

  “And I’m your brand-new husband, David.”

  “Dave?” She choked the name and then tipped the bill of her cap enough for him to see her droll look. “You gotta do better than Dave, Luc.”

  “Don’t call me Luc.” He said it more sharply than he intended, but a slip like that could be deadly. “It’s David, and it matches a credit card in my wallet.” At her curious look, he added, “Plus, we want everything ordinary. Nothing conspicuous, nothing that gets noticed.”

  Her expression grew serious. “Got it. Where are we from?”

  “Chi-cah-go.” He flattened and drawled the middle syllable just to prove he knew how city natives pronounced the name.

  “From one lake to another. That’s easy enough to remember.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  She tapped him playfully on the arm. “Which means either we both have great, like-thinking minds or your idea is drop-dead clichéd.”

  “Humor me. I prefer great, like-thinking minds.”

  “Great it is, then, Dave. And what do the Coopers do when they aren’t jaunting around Europe spending granddaddy’s trust?”

  “I’m a doctor. You’re a lawyer.”

  “There’s an interesting partnership,” she mused. “You screw up, I defend.”

  He laughed, enjoying the volley with her. “I don’t think we’ll be striking up long conversations with other travelers, but just in case someone asks.”

  He glanced at her and caught her tucking a stray hair into the cap. “I can finally put my acting classes to good use,” she said.

  Eyes back on the road, he read the mile marker and did a quick calculation. “Very soon, too.”

  “I’ve heard of the Royal Parc Evian,” she said. “It was a summer palace for Edward VII, as I recall. World-famous Gustave Jaulmes frescoes everywhere. Have you been here before?”

  “I took a vacation here about ten years ago.” And I relieved an elderly Japanese couple of a hundred-thousand-dollar necklace. The old cocktail of guilt and regret splashed through him.

  He was a thief.

  A thief who considered seducing this beautiful woman: this upstanding, ambitious, dynamic professor who wanted nothing more from life than to find her stolen treasures, run her successful art exhibit, and sit on her curved stairs with someone honest and faithful.

  And yet, seduction was damn near all he’d been thinking about for most of the last three hours.

  “So how does this all unfold?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts. “What’s going to happen?”

  “I have to see our suite and compare it to where I believe the Plums are. I’ll contact Lisette one more time for a final read.”

  “Are you going to steal them?”

  He spared her a quick glance and a wry smile. “In a perfect world, yes.”

  “And in the real one?”

  “We have to be flexible. Just wait and see what happens.”

  “Got it.”

  “Don’t offer any information to any hotel employees,” he warned, as they made their way up the winding drive illuminated by pink and white spotlights. Across the rolling lawns, he saw the peak of the main building bathed in the same spotlights, showcased like a rare jewel on a bed of velvet. “Don’t chat with friendly desk clerks or talkative bellmen.”

  “Friendly desk clerks? In France?” She sniffed. “And no bellman’s going to give you the time of day when he sees that decrepit luggage.”

  He winked at her. “I’m counting on it.”

  As he slowed the car in front of the entrance, a half dozen valets approached them but didn’t open the car door.

  “Now don’t forget.” He unfastened his seatbelt and she did the same. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

  Before she could answer, he reached for her and slid her across the front seat, into his side. He heard her quick, surprised breath.

  With one hand, he cupped her cheek, then nudged the bill of her cap higher with his forehead. “So act like you like me.”

  “I do like you,” she whispered back.

  “I like you, too.” He brought his mouth down on hers and captured it before she could react. He took his time, a lazy, relaxing kiss, exploring her tongue and lips with his until he elicited a soft sigh from her throat.

  Oh yeah. He definitely liked her.

  He nibbled his way to her ear, clasped her earlobe between his teeth, and gave it a tiny suck. “Just don’t call me Luc.”

  “We found this in the trunk of Luc Tremont’s Alpha.” Paul Dunne dropped a satchel on Tristan’s temporary desk at the Police Nationale office in Versailles. “Open it.”

  Tristan gave his partner a weary look as he unzipped the bag. “C’mon, man. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning. Hold the drama and tell me what it is.”

  “Just look.”

  A ball of black fabric lay inside. He pulled it out. The flimsy little gown meant nothing to him. “So he had a girl’s clothes in his car. Why should this surprise me?”

  “Look closely.”

  Tristan let the gown fall open, his hands holding the shoulders. Across the front was a red blotch. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “I completely forgot about that call.”

  “What call?” Paul dropped into the metal chair across from Tristan.

  Tristan stuffed the gown back in the satchel. “Luc called the night of the gala and told me that someone had broken into Janine Coulter’s room at the Trianon. He thought we should check it out and keep security out of it.” Now he knew why.

  “Let’s go.” Paul stood and grabbed the satchel.

  Tristan frowned and gave a negative shake of his head. He wanted to talk to the American woman alone. “Keep working on that tracking program, Paul. You might still be able to hack into it. I’ll go check out the hotel.”

  “Sure. I thought I had it last night, but hit another roadblock. What did Luc say happened in her room?”

  “He didn’t. Just that we should check out Janine Coulter’s room before anyone from housekeeping or security got to it. He wanted me to get her another one, which I did, but I never followed up.”

  Paul rubbed a hand over his thinning hair. “Well, shit, Tris. We’ve been slightly busy since Saturday night.”

  He didn’t bother to agree. He hated excuses, and Paul knew it. “I bet it’s all cleaned up by now.”

  “I don’t get it, though,” Paul said, staring into the satchel again. “Why the hell would Benazir have his people mess up her room and leave the Scorpion’s mark? They had bigger shit to pull off that night. And she’s not connected to any of this.”

  Disconnects are sometimes the best connections.

  Tristan came around his desk and grabbed his jacket hanging on the back of the door. “I’ll tell you this, man, she sure wasn’t winning any popularity contests at that gala.” He silently cursed himself again for forgetting about Luc’s call. “Has anyone seen that woman since Saturday night? Weren’t you over at the palace yesterday afternoon? Wasn’t she there to inspect the damage?”

  “She was definitely not there.” Paul followed him out the door. “It’s not like you wouldn’t notice her.”

  Tristan snorted. “Luc sure did.” And he’d even tried to use Luc’s obvious attraction to the woman to slow him down after the theft. But it hadn’t helped. Luc had managed to get to the Volvo they’d left for him, and no one had seen any trace of it since that night. Knowing Luc, he didn’t go all the way to his destination in it.

  Whatever the hell that destination was, since no one had been able to make the goddamn GPS program work yet.

  “I’ll be at the Trianon,” he told Paul.

  “Sure,” Paul said. “I’ll be in hacker hell.”

  Tristan walked to the hotel, playing with the puzzle pieces all the way. What relation did Janine Coulter have to the Scorpion?

  A Ne Pas Déranger sign hung on the door of the room number Luc had given him. Could someone else have checked in? Tristan knocked, but there was no answer. He looke
d up and down the hall, seeing the edge of a housekeeping cart lodged in a room a few doors away.

  He found the maid and stumbled through a half-French, half-English story about a lost key and managed to elicit a master from her. When she returned to cleaning, he stuck it in the lock. Nothing happened.

  The lock had been stripped. Damn Luc.

  At the front desk, he waited for an English-speaking manager, tapping the black-and-white marble floor impatiently. At least a dozen familiar faces from the gala waited to check out.

  He had to pull out a badge to get help, but when he did, he hit another dead end. Janine Coulter had never picked up the key to her new room and had not checked out of the other one yet.

  Tristan flipped the puzzle pieces around in his brain as he got back in the elevator. He hated when they didn’t fit.

  The maid was still on the floor but, fortunately, in the room next to Janine’s. He stepped in and gave her his pathetic stupid American grin as soon as he saw the adjoining door.

  “The key didn’t work,” he said, pointing to the alternate entrance. “Could you help?”

  She hustled over, stuck the master key in, and turned away without listening to his “Merci.”

  Tristan slipped into the room and froze.

  Security or housekeeping had definitely not been in this room. And neither had Janine Coulter, unless she slept on a slashed mattress.

  So where the hell was she?

  Luc entered their suite soundlessly. When Janine wasn’t immediately in sight in either the living or dining areas or on the balcony, his chest tightened a little. He’d left her with explicit instructions: don’t let anyone into the expansive penthouse, and don’t leave under any circumstances.

  For the past two hours, he’d examined escape routes and studied the layout of the casino vis-à-vis the matching penthouse suite at the other end of the main building.

  He had programmed the tracking system to let the FBI get a reading on the forged Plums by Thursday morning, so he had three days to lay out and execute the plan. He had to get the real Plums safely out of the room, trap Benazir, and have him ready to hand over the moment Tristan arrived.

  Luc now opened the door that led to the two bedrooms. In the smaller, less formal room, the twin beds remained untouched. The canvas bag that he’d brought from Burgundy sat on the floor. Guess he got the little room.

  He paused at the other door and listened for the sound of a shower, any sound of life.

  “Janine?” No answer. He tapped the door harder, easing it open. “Janine?”

  Her suitcase lay open on the giant canopied king-size bed. Of course she’d like this room with fresco-covered walls.

  The door to the dressing area and bath was closed. He approached it and called her name again. He’d told her he’d be gone a long time, so he expected her to shower and rest. A glimmer of apprehension sparked in him. He didn’t want to walk in on her in the bathroom, but why didn’t she answer?

  “Janine?” An image of her lying on the floor, hurt, bloody, dead, flashed in his mind. What if Benazir had been watching? What if he had a plant in the lobby and broke into the room when Luc left?

  He turned the door handle and opened it a crack. “Janine, are you in here?” He stuck his head in, politely closing his eyes, but when there was no answer, he looked. A marble tub, empty. A glass shower, empty. On a vanity chair were the pants and top she’d been wearing, panties and a bra draped over them.

  He entered and heard a faint, steady hiss.

  Luc walked past the shower and around a corner. There, he saw a milky white glass door, the hiss more distinct.

  A steam room.

  He stared into the thin clouds behind the glass. Condensation frosted the glass, but a rivulet of water streamed down and cleared a path to see inside.

  And what a sight it was.

  His jaw went slack, and every drop of blood rushed directly to one place in response to the erotic image before him.

  She lay on her back, reclining on a long marble ledge. Completely, utterly, indescribably naked.

  Eyes closed, one long, tanned leg bent, the other hanging gracefully off the edge, toes pointed to the ground. She had propped one arm under her head; the other fell across her stomach.

  His mouth went dry as he stared.

  Her whole body was slick with moisture. Her breasts, round and taut and smooth and most definitely above average, rose with each even breath she took. His gaze traveled the path his mouth wanted to take, from the smooth pink nipples, down the longs lines of her waist, over the contours of her hipbones and into the golden valley exposed by the angle of her leg.

  His fingertips touched the hot, wet glass of the steam room door, itching to take. To steal. To have that.

  Nick Jarrett used to take whatever he wanted in life. He used to help himself to the beautiful things in this world, including willing women who aroused him to rock hard desire.

  But Luc Tremont would not. He took one step backward just as she stretched both arms over her head, then paused as she lazily ran her palms over her sides and up her stomach.

  He couldn’t move. She arched her back as her fingertips lingered on the sides of her breasts, gently pushing them together, grazing her nipples until they darkened and budded. She’d be furious that he’d been feasting his eyes on every inch of her, acting the voyeur while she imagined herself alone.

  Her hips rocked slowly.

  Oh. Maybe she didn’t imagine herself alone.

  His cock, already hard enough to cause serious pain, slammed against his pants. She closed her eyes and darted her tongue over her lips. Her right hand traveled lazily down her stomach.

  He stopped breathing.

  She bent her other leg up onto the ledge and rocked her hips in one sweet, slow motion. She turned her face away, denying him the chance to see how beautiful pleasure made her.

  His hands were still on the door. All he had to do was give it a gentle push and he’d be in there, lost in clouds of hot steam. With her already visualizing what he could do to her.

  Because he had no doubt whose hands were touching her. No doubt whose mouth she tasted. They’d been inhaling high-octane sexual attraction for the last twenty-four hours. Longer.

  Her bottom rose with the first deliberate stroke. Through the mist, he could see her stomach tighten with a quick, shallow breath. He closed his eyes, practically dizzy from need. All he had to do was take what he wanted. Give what she wanted.

  I do like you. He could still hear her whispered confession.

  All he had to do was—

  He turned and left the room.

  Cursing as he entered the other bedroom, he quietly shut the door and locked it. He squeezed his eyes closed, but he still saw her.

  Wet and naked and wanting him.

  But he couldn’t seduce a woman as one man, then disappear in a week and become another. Even if he took what they both wanted at that moment, if she ever found out, she’d hate him for what he’d been.

  No, he couldn’t have her. But that image would burn in his brain forever. He could imagine her slick skin under his hands, her warm breath in his mouth. He could hear her say his name.

  Nick.

  He dropped his head against the door and let out a long, low moan. He could fight it and try to force it out of his head but nothing could erase that vision, that incredibly beautiful picture of Janine in the steam.

  He closed his eyes and surrendered to it.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  P laytime is over.” Janine stared at her reflection. “It’s time to do whatever has to be done to find my Plums and get them back to Versailles.”

  She held her hair up to her chin, then dropped it down to her shoulders. Maybe somewhere in between.

  She had opened the box of hair dye and read the French instructions, but it would be easier if she cut it first. Her Ritz Spa of a bathroom had a closet full of beauty toys, from a makeup kit to a curling iron, but only a pair of t
iny cuticle clippers. They would never work.

  Had Luc returned with a more functional pair of scissors?

  She’d lost track of time in the steam room and shower. She glanced in the mirror again. She’d lost track of her senses, too.

  Grabbing a fluffy white bathrobe, she went out to face her demons. Well, just one demon. With an accent.

  “Luc,” she called, as she stepped into the tiny hallway between the two bedrooms. “Are you here?”

  “Right here.” From directly behind her, he opened the other door with a whoosh.

  “Oh.” She jumped and spun around. In bare feet, she was exactly eye-level with the dark hairs that escaped the open collar of his shirt.

  She stepped back and managed a smile. “I didn’t hear you come back.”

  “You were…in the bath.” His gaze dropped over her robe, lingering on the V neck. “Relaxed now?”

  “Totally.” Anything but. The vestibule where they stood suddenly had no air, no space.

  She walked into the main salon and slid open the balcony doors. Stepping out, she gulped in the crisp mountain air, lifted her face to the spring sun, and took in the vista.

  One hundred and eighty degrees of Mother Nature’s most exquisite artwork, accented by a thousand years of European architecture. She gazed out over the expanse of navy blue water, surrounded by white-tipped mountain peaks and sprawling villages of Swiss timber houses.

  “God, this is just amazing,” she murmured to herself.

  “I was thinking the same thing.” He stood right behind her, as warm at her back as the sun on her face.

  She glanced over her shoulder and caught his expression. The one that looked like he had a secret. A little playful, a little intense, a lot sexy.

  Holy hell. “Did you get scissors?”

  He lifted the hair from her shoulder and smoothed it on her back. “I forgot.”

  He was teasing her, trying to make her comfortable, make her laugh in the face of danger. He had no idea how vulnerable she was, no idea that he was pressing every feminine button she had.

  Or did he?

  She turned, brushing against him as she returned to the sitting area that faced the lake. She perched on the edge of a pale green chair.