The Paris Caper

by Nina Bruhns

  He wheeled back. “Do not pull that crap on me, Ciara. This situation is bad enough without pretending we’re any kind of friends.”

  She gave up and closed her eyes, leaning her head back on the uneven stuffing of the easy chair. “No. And I guess lovers doesn’t count.”

  She could hear his breaths, shallow and harsh, and felt the air crackle with tension around them. He was still standing close, practically touching her knees. The musky, acrid smell of him, of his anger, nearly choked her with the need to reach out to him.

  But it was over between them. Now that he knew.

  Wasn’t it?

  She opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her, his expression savage. Desire, potent and irrational, raced through her.

  “Are you insane?” he spat, eyes flaring. “You think I’m going to fuck you again? When I know who you are, what you are?”

  “Do you?” she softly challenged. “Know who I am?”

  Did anyone? Anyone on earth?

  Bald disbelief washed through his expression. He spun and paced away, then turned back to her. The skin of his throat was mottled red beneath the black stubble. “I do. You’re a thief! And that’s all that matters.”

  But...he was getting hard.

  The fine wool fabric of his suit trousers stretched and distorted over his lengthening arousal. She felt herself grow damp between her legs.

  Okay, yeah. She was insane.

  “Is it?” she managed. “All that matters?” She stood, and mutely dared him to come closer. Taunting his outrage.

  Playing with fire.

  “You don’t care—” his wrath was woven tight with incredulity “—that I’d throw you in jail in a hot minute?”

  “I wouldn’t respect you if you didn’t do your job,” she said.

  And suddenly she realized it was true. She would hate him if he turned out to be another Beck, corrupt and immoral. Better to land in prison than fall for scum.

  God, was she falling for him? She attempted a smile. Failed.

  His mouth opened, then snapped shut. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

  Frankly, neither did she.

  He shook a finger at her. “You,” he said, stalking past her, “can forget it.” With that, he swept out the door, slamming it behind him.

  She stood perfectly still for a long time, half expecting him to come crashing back in, grab her, fling her to the floor and...

  Wishful thinking, obviously. Or mental illness.

  Well, at least now she didn’t have to come up with any more lame excuses. She wouldn’t have to avoid him. Because next time she saw him he’d probably be putting her in handcuffs.

  And unfortunately, it wouldn’t be for a night of kinky sex.

  ♥♥♥

  As it happened, the next time Ciara saw Jean-Marc was the very next morning. She was astonished to find him propping up the building across the street, watching her door. And although his handcuffs were displayed prominently in their case on the front of his belt, he didn’t make a move for them when he spotted her coming out.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, marching across the narrow street to confront him.

  “Waiting for you.” His sharp-angled face was neutral, his fury from last night gone. Or at least carefully hidden away.

  “Why?”

  He unpropped himself. “I’m tailing you.”

  “Tailing me.” She regarded him with a spike of annoyance.

  “Everywhere you go, I go.” He smiled. The serpent was back. “I happen to know your last job didn’t come off quite as expected. And it’s still your time of month.”

  “Excuse me?”

  His teeth gleamed in the morning sun. “To steal something. Rent due? Bills piling up? Eh?”

  His smug, arrogant attitude made her want to kick him. Good thing she wasn’t a violent person. She thought about Beck’s threats and clenched her still-tender jaw. He was a cop, she reminded herself. He wouldn’t care about that.

  “Va te faire foutre,” she suggested tartly, raising his eyebrow.

  She turned on a toe and stalked off toward boulevard de Clichy, the main tourist area in this arrondissement. She had things to do, but not with Jean-Marc’s shadow glued to her ass.

  Half an hour later, she emerged from the maze of souvenir shops, triple-X theaters and sex boutiques minus one arrogant tail. Take that, she thought, sliding on the hat and pair of sunglasses that she always kept in her oversized handbag. She trotted down the steps of the entrance to the métro. Luckily she’d put on heavy make-up that morning to disguise her bruised face. Nothing made a woman more noticeable to others than potential abuse.

  Making a quick decision, she got off at the la Chapelle stop and walked through the tunnel to Gare du Nord. Around the corner there was a no-questions-asked business that did mail-forwarding and rented out lockers. There she kept with an envelope of fake IDs, a wig, extra tools and a small amount of money, again for emergencies. After extracting a driver’s license with a different name, the tools and a hundred euro in cash, she used her Swiss account’s debit card to buy a ticket for the Thalys train going north to Brussels.

  As annoying as he was, Jean-Marc had hit the nail on the head. Rent and tuition were due in a few days, taking up nearly all of the money the princess’s bracelet had brought in. Hugo’s new job barely paid for food, let alone make a dent in Beck’s blackmail. Neither Valois nor Davie had come up with anything more profitable yet. Fencing few good pieces of jewelry would hopefully stave off Beck for now. She needed a fast lay-down—outside of Jean-Marc’s jurisdiction.

  A favorite with daytrippers from Belgium and Germany, the high-speed Thalys train to Brussels was usually liberally sprinkled with ladies toting newly-acquired Hermès luggage stuffed with expensive designer fashions—jewelry included. Not that train work wasn’t tricky. Most people kept their real valuables in the overhead compartment by their seat, only leaving their larger, unwieldy suitcases in the communal rack by the door. So striking on the train itself was unproductive. Instead, she’d pick out a couple of promising targets and hang around the taxi stand to overhear where they were staying in Brussels, then hit one of the hotel rooms later in the afternoon or evening while the lady went out for a meal or more shopping.

  Unless you had an inside accomplice, hotel jobs were only slightly easier than the train. Which was why she almost always avoided them. Hotels had plain clothes security and cameras; maids and maintenance people were everywhere. It was a real measure of her desperation that she was taking the risk now. But she had no choice.

  Settling into her plush seat with a good view of the communal luggage rack, Ciara surreptitiously studied the single women who stowed cases there as they came onboard, looking for a likely candidate who matched her own size. The pretty boho skirt and blouse she’d put on this morning were cute, but she’d stand out like a sore thumb in the rarified atmosphere of the upscale Brussels hotel her potential mark would no doubt be staying in.

  There. A slim blonde wearing this season’s Donna Karan. Nothing too flashy, but definitely classy. Ciara watched with satisfaction as the blonde stowed her Louis Vuitton rolling bag and sashayed down the aisle to the far end of the car where she had a club seat facing the opposite direction. Perfect.

  After waiting until the blonde had settled in, Ciara nonchalantly went and pulled the suitcase off the rack, and slipped into the tiny restroom across from it. Moments later she came out wearing the wig she’d grabbed from her locker, along with a soft lilac silk suit from Chanel and matching kitten heels that were only a tad loose. From her fingers dangled a gold handled Ponte Vecchio shopping bag which contained her own clothes and purse. Sliding the Louis Vuitton back into the luggage rack, she casually made her way through the connecting door into the next car. Easing a breath from her backed-up lungs, she took her time strolling through the other first class cars, scoping out the ladies most likely to have jewelry worth stealing.

  She wasn’t disappointed. By the t
ime the train pulled into Bruxelles Midi station, she’d picked out four older, obviously wealthy candidates.

  One was met on the platform by a husband and whisked off. One hurried toward another track and got on a connecting train. But the other two went straight to the taxi stand. One of them gave the driver the name of a grand, aristocratic old hotel—which still used real keys instead of cards with magnetic strips.

  Ciara’s choice was made.

  Chapter 14

  After following the woman’s taxi to the hotel, Ciara perused the brochure rack until she’d registered, then preceded her into the elevator and got out on the same floor. Exchanging a friendly nod, she noted the woman’s room number, then as soon as the door was closed went back to the elevator and returned to the lobby, carefully checking the locations of the security cameras as she went.

  In the lobby she cast about for a lounge bar with a good view of things, where she could sit and read the novel she’d picked up on the train and wait for the woman to come down.

  She’d just finished a quick lunch when her mark rushed into the lobby and straight into the arms of a grey-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman. The woman had changed into a gorgeous Roberto Cavalli day dress, which probably meant a leisurely luncheon for the couple, and enough time for Ciara to safely complete her task.

  She had one more cup of coffee just in case the woman had forgotten something, then strode purposefully back to the elevator and went straight up to the room, keeping her head down and face averted from the security cameras. She pulled on her gloves. The lock wasn’t an easy type to pick, but Valois had taught her well. After several pulse-pounding moments she heard the distinctive snick of the cylinders yielding. She slid into the room and closed the door behind her, heart thundering with nerves and adrenaline.

  Turning on the light, she went for the suitcases. Nothing but clothes. Lots of them. Expensive. She quickly checked the dresser drawers. Bingo. Bottom drawer. A small jewelry case was tucked in back. She grabbed it; emptied it onto the bed. And let out a low whistle.

  Jackpot. The real thing. Emeralds and opals. Antique mine-cut rubies. Several high quality pieces of amber in thick gold settings. A magnificent pair of diamond earrings with matching pendant.

  She lifted the pendant. It was a huge pear-shaped diamond, as were the earrings, in a surprisingly plain setting. Newish.

  Ciara tamped down a prickle of guilt. Normally, she carefully researched her jobs in advance so she only took recently acquired pieces. People tended to make a lot bigger fuss over missing heirlooms than impulse baubles. She could be fairly certain this woman was insured to the hilt, but...some of her pieces were obviously old. No doubt treasured possessions.

  After a minute of inner struggle—conscience against necessity—she sorted the jewelry into two piles. Old and new, according to style. Dumping the pile of old pieces back into the case, she snapped it shut and surveyed what was left.

  A nice set of emeralds in modern settings, a gorgeous fire opal ring and, thankfully, the diamonds. She scooped the lot into her handbag, then put the case back into the drawer. With luck the woman wouldn’t notice anything was missing until the next day. Or the day after.

  Steeling her pulsing nerves, she slipped out the room and strode from the hotel at a businesslike clip. Hailing a taxi, she checked her watch. If she hurried, she’d be home well before Valois Vieilli closed for the day.

  After which she’d have to face the wrath of a frustrated Commissaire Lacroix. She couldn’t help a grim smile. He didn’t know her very well if he’d thought following her would intimidate her, or deter her from what she had to do.

  Next time it may prove a bit more difficult to elude him. But she still had a few tricks up her sleeve. Meanwhile, he’d likely be waiting for her when she got home, prepared to give her the third degree.

  Whatever. He could ask all the questions he wanted, and search her from head to toe. But he wouldn’t find anything.

  When the train pulled back into the Gare du Nord in Paris, she carefully threw her ripped up train tickets into a trash basket several tracks down from where she’d arrived, and her thrift store gloves in another. Then she found a phone and called Valois.

  “The shop is being watched,” he warned before she could say anything but hello.

  Damn. “Can you meet me?”

  “The usual place?”

  “How soon can you get away?”

  “Right now.”

  She let out a sigh of relief, and silently blessed Valois’s father and the war for providing him with the secret tunnel along with a hidden grated entrance several blocks away. He rarely used it, but it did occasionally come in handy.

  She had a feeling it would be coming in handy more and more as Jean-Marc increased the pressure.

  She really had to get out of this business.

  For the millionth time she went over in her mind how much longer she’d have to maintain her illegal activities. Hugo was already working and contributing to the household. Next would be Ricardo, who’d be graduating from cooking school this fall, and CoCo, who was finishing up her nursing assistant courses in the spring. Between the three of them, at that point they would be able to take care of all the Orphans’ expenses, except for Sofie and Davie’s tuition. Which would be a tremendous burden lifted from Ciara’s shoulders.

  If only they could somehow make Beck go away, she might actually have a shot at a normal life soon.

  After returning her ID, wig and tools to the locker, she found a restroom, peeled out of the beautiful lilac Chanel suit and shoes, and put her own outfit back on. Using a tissue, she wiped the slick gold bag of fingerprints, then folded the suit into it. She washed her hands at the sink, then walked back to the station. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for.

  A young woman about her own size wearing a threadbare dress sat on a wooden bench next to a battered suitcase. A small child played with a rag doll at her feet. Ciara went over and held out the gold bag to her.

  “Please,” she said. “I’d like you to have this.”

  The woman looked up uncomprehendingly. “Pardon?”

  She answer, but smiled brilliantly, patted the child on the head and walked away, heading for the métro. Once there, she found a seat, gave herself and her handbag a thorough check, just to make sure no evidence remained of her day’s work—other than the jewels nestling at the bottom of the purse.

  Valois was waiting for her on their usual bench by the Pompidou Center. He rose as she approached, and greeted her with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. She slipped the jewels into his jacket pocket.

  “If we make this quick,” he said with a grin, “the idiot watching the shop will never know I’m gone.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, returning his smile. “Well, I guess we’ll have to be careful contacting each other from now on. For some reason, Commissaire Lacroix has gotten it into his head that I am le Revenant.”

  Valois’s eyes registered shock. “He accused you? To your face?”

  She nodded, and he gave a low curse. A flock of pigeons at their feet took wing, flying in a circle before swooping down on the other side of the square.

  “You should probably deposit my whole cut into the Swiss account this time,” she said. “I don’t want to be caught with a lot of cash.”

  “D’accord. I’ll leave a message at Café Constantinople for you when it’s done.”

  She sat down on the bench. “Beck is getting nasty about his money, Valois. Have you come up with anything yet?”

  “I think so. How do you feel about Italy?”

  “Good food and disorganized cops,” she said wryly. “Works for me. Tell me about it.”

  He sat next to her and talked in a low voice as she closed her eyes and tipped her face into the fading sunlight. It was still warm, a perfect late summer day in Paris. The job sounded good. A small but outstanding collection of silver items, collected for a nouveau riche novelist by her greedy, but discerning, interior
designer.

  Valois handed Ciara a slip of paper with an address written on it. “I’ve arranged for shipment to Paris by a colleague in Milan.”

  “Excellent.” That would make the train ride home much less stressful. She took a moment to memorize the address, then tore up the paper and tossed it into the silver metal basket next to the bench.

  She rose. “Thanks, Valois. You’re the best.”

  He shook his head. “You be very careful, ma petite. Commissaire Lacroix could be a big problem.”

  He had no idea.

  She said more firmly than she felt, “Don’t worry. I can handle Lacroix.”

  She just wished she truly believed that. But the truth was, she was starting to feel the walls close in on her. Jean-Marc was smart. He was persistent. And he had a bug up his butt about her. Not a good combination.

  She couldn’t go to jail. If she did, what would happen to the Orphans? Somehow she had to think of a way to knock Jean-Marc off his game. Mislead him. Or distract him.

  Maybe she should reconsider enlisting his help in dealing with Beck. If Beck went away, maybe, just maybe, she could quit while she was still ahead, and officially retire le Revenant.

  Life wouldn’t be easy if she stopped stealing. Nor would she be able to finish her own education. She could forget about her dream of being a translator. Unskilled with no degree, she’d have to take what she could get. But at least she wouldn’t be in jail.

  And since when had life ever been easy?

  Suddenly, she wondered how she’d ever gotten sucked into this loser lifestyle... Why had she never questioned it before? While Etienne was alive, it had all seemed natural and inevitable—after all his whole family was involved in criminal activity. But after he was gone, why had she taken the easy way out instead of doing what she knew in her heart to be the right thing? Sure, her motives were pure—keeping the Orphans on the straight and narrow. Without stealing, there would have been no way to help them as she had. But was that really an excuse?