French Twist

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Why don’t I what?”

  “Change it.” Her eyes narrowed to ice blue slits. “If there’s one thing I learned recently, it’s to take charge of your own destiny. That’s why I went after Albert’s assignment. That’s why I left that chapel with you after the theft.”

  How could he tell her that his destiny wasn’t in his hands? It was a price he had to pay for his past. He couldn’t. No, he shouldn’t.

  He gently rubbed the luminous skin of her cheekbone with his thumb. “Listen. I’m going to tell you something. I want you to promise me you won’t ask any questions, because I can’t—I won’t answer them.”

  She frowned, but nodded. “Okay.”

  “When this is over, I’m not just going to disappear.” He spoke slowly, quietly, forcing himself to say the words. “I’m going to become a different person.”

  She pulled back to stare at him. “What?”

  He put one finger on her lips. “Shhh. No questions. After that, you won’t ever know who I am or have anything to do with me again. It can never be any other way.”

  Her eyes darkened with confusion and disbelief, and her grip on his arms tightened. Why did he think she could comprehend this? It was unthinkable to a normal person.

  She searched his face, and his heart thumped while he waited for the inevitable question. Who are you?

  Please don’t make me lie to you, Janine.

  After a moment, she laid her hands on his bare chest and gave him a shaky smile. “Wow. I had no idea people like you really existed outside of spy novels.”

  Oh, no. His gut twisted in shame. Of course that’s what she’d think—that he was some kind of crime-fighting chameleon, a hero for the good cause. Her champion.

  “It’s not exactly like that,” he said weakly.

  She slid her hands up his chest and around his neck, pulling him toward her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  She didn’t even know his secret. And she wouldn’t offer her sweet mouth to him if she did. Not if she knew her “champion” was once one of the most notorious thieves that ever lived.

  Unable to resist, he kissed her back, sinking into her mouth as though they’d never parted.

  He couldn’t change his past, but at least she would never know the truth. She could go the rest of her days imagining she’d made love to a hero—and he could go the rest of his remembering how good that felt.

  Paul Dunne didn’t ask too many questions. That’s why he and Tristan had been partners for three years, tracking art criminals all over the world and building quite a reputation within the FBI. Even when Tristan yanked Paul from the computer for an unexplained flight to Dijon, the low-key agent was smart enough to let Tristan reveal their mission in his own good time.

  “The Pompadour Plums have been stolen,” Tristan announced, as he navigated the rental car onto an exit for the Côte d’Or.

  Paul’s attention never wavered from the scenery out his window. “Uh, I know that, Tris.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “The real Plums. The ones Luc Tremont hid before the setup.”

  Paul shifted in his seat. He wasn’t given to huge displays of anything. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  “So you think they’re out here somewhere in the middle of wine country?”

  Tristan glanced at him. “I don’t know. I have a helluva problem, though. There’s a dead guy out here who knows Luc. He died the same way as the UCLA art professor who was supposed to be the curator for the exhibit. The one Janine Coulter replaced.”

  The only person who could rival Tristan at brain-teasers was Paul Dunne. So he laid out all the pieces as he could, holding back only one: Luc’s true identity.

  Maybe no one needed to know that to solve this mystery. Maybe.

  They discussed it until they arrived at the little winery, about an hour later. As they pulled up to the farmhouse, a woman he remembered seeing yesterday, a younger version of the same hearty country stock as the owner, stood at the driver’s door of an old station wagon. Since she’d been cleaning the kitchen, he’d assumed she was the housekeeper.

  She stood at her open car door and stared at them.

  Tristan climbed out and approached her, unsurprised by her distrustful glare. “Bonjour, madame. I am looking for Madame Soisson.”

  “Moi aussi, monsieur.”

  She was, too? “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

  She gave that Gallic shrug that loosely translated into “if I feel like it.” Well, she’d better feel like it, because he couldn’t interrogate anyone in French.

  “When did you last see her?”

  She glanced at the car where Paul wisely remained in the passenger seat. If they needed information from her, they’d get more without ganging up on her.

  “I have been here since daybreak, monsieur, and have not seen her all day.”

  Tristan frowned. “Is that unusual?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing is usual these days.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? “I need to take a look around inside, ma’am.” He wasn’t leaving this place until something lined up in his Rubik’s cube of a case.

  She scowled at him. “When Madame Soisson returns.”

  If Madame Soisson returns. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “I’m with the FBI, ma’am, and we need to get inside as part of the investigation of Monsieur Soisson’s death.”

  Her gaze dropped to the badge, and then she looked at Paul again. Wordlessly, she turned toward the front door, and Tristan gave the nod to Paul. We’re in.

  In the front foyer, she turned on a light. “Voilà, messieurs. I will wait for you in the kitchen.”

  They looked around, and Tristan cocked his head toward the study.

  “See what you can dig up on that computer, Paul,” Tris suggested. “Do a search for the name Albert Farrow or Janine Coulter. I’ll look through the house.”

  Tristan followed the woman to the kitchen, not at all sure what he was looking for. The spacious room was spotless, with no smells of cooking or food. Above the drain board hung an antique brass key. “What’s that for?” he asked.

  Her gaze followed his. “The wine cellar.”

  “Where is it?”

  She pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. “Across the courtyard. Behind the shrubs.”

  She wasn’t being totally uncooperative, and Tristan thanked her with a smile that wasn’t returned. “I’m going upstairs,” he announced, knowing she wouldn’t follow.

  He found the master bedroom, the bed evidently untouched. Of course, the housekeeper had been here all day, so that made sense. Down the hall, another bedroom. He glanced in—also untouched. But as he turned to continue his search, something caught his eye.

  A trash can in the corner, overflowing with plastic and paper.

  That was odd. Wouldn’t an efficient housekeeper empty the trash in a guest room? He walked over and started pulling out the bags.

  Boutique du Chambertin. Rue de la Liberté. Dijon, France.

  Some dress store in Dijon, was all he got out of that. He dug through the bag and found a receipt. Someone had purchased about a dozen items and paid cash. Yesterday.

  He struggled to translate the words. Dress. Suit. Chapeau. Wasn’t that a hat?

  Another bag from a pharmacie was crunched inside of it. He pulled out a receipt. Teinte du cheveau.

  Hair color?

  Adrenaline started its familiar journey into his gut. He pulled a few pieces of tissue paper from the trash can, then his hand grazed something soft and gauzy. A ball of white fabric was rolled up on the bottom.

  He lifted the material with two fingers and held it out. It was torn and stained in spots, but he immediately recognized the strapless gown.

  He could still see the good-looking blonde floating around Versailles in it.

  “You are not going to believe what I found.”

  Tristan turned to the door at Paul’s un
characteristic note of disbelief, amazed how eerily it echoed his own thoughts.

  Paul stormed into the room, waving a piece of paper. “The whole goddamn GPS tracking system is on that computer, and I found the Plums. Not just the ones Benazir stole—the real ones. I found a second track.”

  Tristan lifted the dress higher. “And I found the thief.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-one

  L uc was gone.

  With a tiny gasp, Janine sat up, blinking in the near darkness of the hotel bedroom. The dull ache she’d felt when they’d talked on the balcony sharpened to a point that stabbed at her heart.

  Then she heard the shower and fell back on the pillow. Thank God. He hadn’t vanished into the night. Of course not—they didn’t have the Plums yet.

  The nightstand clock read eight-thirty. In an hour or so, they’d leave for the casino. Her heart kicked at the thought. They’d steal the Plums. They’d escape with her treasures. And Luc…would be gone.

  Where would he go?

  Another country in Europe? A different part of France? The United States?

  She laid her hand on the empty pillow next to hers and blew out a long, slow breath.

  So many questions. But he’d made it clear when they’d come into the bedroom that she shouldn’t ask, because he wouldn’t answer. So she’d simply curled into his arms until she stopped thinking about anything but the sheer bliss of being held by him.

  The bathroom door opened, and he walked in, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair wet, his chest still glistening from the shower. More bliss.

  “Hi.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled. “You crashed.”

  He sounded like Dave Cooper. She couldn’t keep track anymore, so she just closed her eyes. “Mmm hmm.”

  “Listen to me, Rapunzel.” He leaned closer, the clean, soapy smell permeating her nose as a droplet of water fell on her cheek. She moaned inwardly, reminded of making love to him, of his sweat and fury. “I have an idea.”

  Her stomach dipped at the possibilities. “Yeah?”

  “Didn’t you say you have a gown?”

  She nodded, hope and anticipation evaporating with the question.

  “Maybe we could cut the dress and not your hair.”

  She laughed softly. “Don’t tell me. You sew, too.”

  “As a matter of fact…” He opened his other hand, revealing a spool of thread and a needle. “I found this and the thought occurred to me. We really only have to hide your hair. We could make a matching scarf or turban.”

  She smiled and reached out to him, touching his cheek. “Let me take a shower and then I’ll try on the gown.”

  He nodded, a sexy, reluctant look in his eyes that just about melted her.

  After she’d showered and dried her hair, Janine slipped on a pair of panties and took the gown from the armoire where she’d hung it. Luc waited for her in the living room. It was almost like a real date, and her whole body tingled with the same kind of expectancy. Only this wasn’t a date. And they weren’t a young couple in love.

  They were a couple of strangers headed out to break, enter, and run.

  The dress was a deep shade of blue, the very color of the lake that afternoon. Satin whispered over her skin as she stepped into it and fastened the halter around her neck. When she turned to the mirror, she couldn’t help but smile. It was divine. A little roomy on her hips and an inch or two shy in length, but the bodice and waist were perfect.

  The neckline plunged so deeply, it revealed her whole cleavage and the undercurve of her breasts. Hundreds of shimmering beads winked with every movement. At the waist, the material gathered into a distinctive rhinestone buckle. Below that, the skirt flared out in a fan of pleats that fell almost to the ground and back to a short train.

  A train. Yes, they could cut that if she were willing to ruin this masterpiece and make a scarf.

  Oh, well. This was about rescuing the Plums, not making the best-dressed list.

  Leaning over the counter, she used the makeup she’d found that morning to darken her lashes and add some color to her pale skin. She ran a brush through her hair, reluctantly admitting relief that she didn’t have to part with it. Scooping up the scissors and sewing kit Luc had left, she went to see what Bob Mackie could do with the dress.

  He sat facing the sliding glass doors, staring straight ahead. The lights were dim, but she could make out his handsome features, his square jaw and that heartbreaking, clean-shaven face. He wore tuxedo pants and a white shirt, the tie still open around his neck. Every feminine cell in her body did a somersault. Would they ever make love again?

  The thought made her ache, intensifying the tenderness he’d left between her legs. She wanted him again. And again. Once was not going to be enough with Luc Tremont—or whoever the hell he was. She cleared her throat. “Hey.”

  He turned and did a double take. She resisted a smug smile and glided toward him, letting the amazing fabric float with each step.

  “Oh, my God.” He sounded shocked.

  She paused to read his expression. This was no gaze of admiration. “Luc? What’s the matter?”

  The color drained from his face as he stared at the dress, the bodice, the clip. “Where—where did you get that?”

  She frowned at him. “The dress?” She shrugged. “I told you. Lisette gave it to me.”

  Slowly, he shook his head and took a step closer. She could see the utter disbelief and confusion on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded again.

  The pain in his eyes nearly ripped her heart out. “Lisette?”

  “She said she’d never wear it.” Why was he acting so weird? “She said she wanted you to see it. ‘For a special evening with Luc.’ ”

  He burned her with a look of sheer incredulity.

  “Luc? What’s wrong?” she demanded.

  “That dress…”—his voice was a harsh rasp of a whisper—“belonged to my mother.”

  Luc couldn’t stop himself. He reached out and touched the strap of the gown, his fingers floating over the sparkling fabric, down to the rhinestone G—for Gabrielle. The beads felt exactly like he’d always imagined when he looked at the picture his mother kept hidden under the paper lining of her bureau drawer.

  “She didn’t know I’d found it.”

  “Found what?” Janine asked. “The dress?”

  He cleared his head with a shake and looked at her. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “No. The picture. Of my mother in this dress. With Bérnard. She kept it hidden, but I found it when I was young and…”

  How could he explain it to her? How could he tell her that the look of happiness on his mother’s face was something he’d rarely seen? That the picture of a young, carefree, innocent French girl was somehow special to him? That he treasured the photo of his mother taken before John Jarrett had scarred her with lies and deception?

  Janine still looked at him like he’d gone crazy. “Why wouldn’t Lisette tell me this belonged to your mother?”

  “She gave you this dress for a reason, Janine.” Logic fought to the top and buried the emotional eruption. “It was her way of telling me…something.” Of telling him she knew exactly who he was. Why?

  He took her hand and pulled her toward the sofa. “What did she say to you? Please try and remember exactly what she said when she gave this dress to you.”

  She frowned and bit her lip. “Nothing specific—”

  “Think,” he insisted. “It’s very important.”

  “She said she wouldn’t wear this dress.” She smoothed the flouncy skirt and thought for a moment. “I remember that she didn’t say ‘again’ because that’s what I thought she meant.”

  “What else?” he demanded.

  “She said she wanted you to see me in it. That I needed something to wear in the casino.”

  His gut tightened. He’d never told Lisette their destination. Of course, she’d seen the map with Lac Léman, but they never discussed
the casinos of Evian. “Anything else?”

  Her eyes widened, and she pointed her index finger at him. “Yes. She kept saying she was sorry. Je regret. She said it several times.”

  She was sorry.

  Maybe it wasn’t mourning and shock that made her so distant. Not that she’d ever been overfriendly to him, but she had been particularly cold the past two days. And for a while before that.

  Was that because she had discovered his identity? Bérnard had kept files of information on Benazir; the man’s network of crimes had been an obsession with Bérnard. Luc had told him once that Benazir had threatened Gabrielle, and that was all the old man had to know.

  Was it possible that an old rivalry with his mother still brewed in Listette? Bérnard had done a ridiculously bad job of hiding his feelings for his childhood love when he was alone with Luc. No doubt his wife sensed that longing as well as anyone.

  And if Lisette had discovered his real identity and turned it over to Benazir…then that was precisely how Luc’s cover had been blown, and why Benazir used art crimes committed by an imposter Scorpion to lure Luc to him.

  Had Bérnard learned of his wife’s betrayal, and been killed before he could warn Luc?

  Suddenly, an unholy dread rolled through him. Had Lisette fabricated the noise in the house to get him out of the cellar and leave Janine there? If Lisette was the missing link between Bérnard and Karim Benazir, was any of the information she’d given him accurate?

  And did Benazir know exactly who he was, where he was…and who he was with? “We’re not going into that safe depository tonight, Janine.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a trap.”

  She put her hand over the rhinestone clasp and sucked in a breath. “Are you serious? How do you know?”

  He was gripped by the temptation to tell her the truth. Wouldn’t it be better if she knew? Wouldn’t she disappear as fast as possible and get out of harm’s way…and his?

  “It’s a trap,” he repeated, his gaze falling over the familiar lines of the dress again. “Trust me.”

  Without responding, she stood, lifting the skirt with two fingers. “I want to change,” she said simply.