by Nina Bruhns
His lieutenant gave him an incredulous look. “How the hell did you see that so fast? My head is spinning with all these facts and figures.”
“It’s a gift,” Jean-Marc said with a grin. “I was a national math scholar in school. Statistics were always my favorite.”
Pierre rolled his eyes. “Merde. It’s unnatural.” He gave him an appraising glance. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
Jean-Marc laughed. “Don’t worry. I only gamble when I want revenge on someone. Well, actually, no one invites me to poker night any more. Sore losers.”
“Don’t bloody blame them,” Pierre muttered.
By late afternoon, Jean-Marc had already gotten a positive response from the ever-efficient Germans, including an email with all the pertinent data on five matching robberies over the past three years in that country. So before quitting time he appropriated one of the incident rooms, then he and Pierre tacked up a large map of Europe and also one of Paris on the wall. Using stick pins, they marked all the places where le Revenant had struck: red for jewelry, silver for silver items, and blue for the three paintings that fit the profile.
They stood back and looked it over for a moment. Suddenly they exchanged broad smiles.
“The train,” they said in unison. “He’s been taking the train.”
Chapter 5
“Are you all right?” Sofie asked for the fifth time since they’d sat down at an outside table at Café Constantinople, which was across the street from Valois Vieilli.
Ciara mustered a smile. She wasn’t. It had been six hours since Jean-Marc had left her bed, and she was worried as hell. Emotionally, she felt like she’d been through a blender. But Sofie didn’t need to hear about her problems. She had plenty of her own.
“I’m fine,” she said. “How’s your face today?”
“Better,” the girl said softly, touching a finger to the largest bruise on her cheek. Despite the thick layer of disguising make-up, it still showed livid purple in a circling ring of blue and yellow. “I’ve been taking aspirin and it hardly hurts at all anymore.” She picked up her pen and went back to doodling on a napkin.
Ciara watched the gentle brown eyes of the girl she had grown to love as a little sister and knew she was lying, too. Ciara wanted to kill Beck for what he’d done to her. Renewed anger welled up within her, and she embraced it. She’d brought Sofie along on her excursion to Valois’s shop specifically to remind herself of the consequences of associating with cops.
A reminder she desperately needed after last night.
She heard the faint tinkle of a bell and glanced across the street. Valois had returned from his errand and was unlocking the shop’s front door. She’d give him a few minutes before walking over for their meeting.
“You’re glowing today,” Sofie said, yanking her out of her thoughts.
“What?”
“Glowing. And yet, you look so incredibly sad. Why?”
Ciara lifted her cup and took a sip of the sweet Turkish coffee that was the specialty of the café. “I can’t imagine,” she evaded.
“It’s a man, isn’t it?” Sofie pressed. “That detective you said you met the other night,” she concluded with a nod, shocking Ciara. “You’ve seen him again.”
“Maybe,” she said, schooling her expression. The girl was too perceptive by half. Or maybe the incredible night she’d spent making love with that detective showed on her face as plainly as Sofie’s bruises. “But it won’t happen again,” she said. It couldn’t. No matter how much it hurt to think about never seeing him again. “I’ll have to move now. So he can’t find me.”
Which is why it was a mystery that she’d hit upon every excuse in the book not to look for a new apartment this morning....
“I see,” Sofie said solemnly, putting a flourish to her doodle, which had transformed into her signature Hand of Fatima. Sofie signed all her paintings with the distinctive symbol instead of her name. “Better to be safe, I suppose.”
“You’ll have to paint me another Hand of Fatima, over my new bed,” Ciara said with a sigh. “For protection.” Not that the old one had protected her from the wicked charms of Commissaire Jean-Marc Lacroix last night. She’d been helpless as a babe against him and his masculine charms.
Sofie smiled shyly, pleased. “I’d love to.”
“Paint me one, too,” said the owner of the café, who was just walking by after waiting on another table. He picked up the napkin and admired the drawing. “A big one. Right there,” he said, waving it at a blank end wall inside the café. “I’ll pay you, of course.”
Sofie’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“The khamsa is a Turkish symbol. This is a Turkish café. What could be more appropriate?”
Sofie looked to her for guidance, and Ciara could see how excited she was. Being paid for her paintings was Sofie’s dream. Ciara leaned over and kissed her forehead, relieved at the change of topic. “You go for it, sweetie. I’ll just step over and speak with Valois while you discuss your fee. See that you don’t cheat her,” she told the owner with a friendly warning smile.
Valois was expecting her. Hopefully he had good news.
As soon as she entered the shop, he ushered her into the back room. “It’s a go,” he said. “I have a buyer for the Michaud Picasso.”
Lightheadedness swirled through Ciara and she dropped into a seat-sprung eighteenth century lounge that served as both file cabinet and guest chair. “Yeah?” she said, unsure whether she should be ecstatic or petrified. One point three million euros.
“Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?” he asked, seeming to sense her waver.
“Absolutely. I’m ready.” Ready to get out of the thieving business. Ready to start a new life. The way it should have been from the beginning. And this laydown would do it.
“Have you seen this?” he asked, and tossed her a copy of today’s paper. “Page three.”
She quickly opened it, and started in surprise. There was a picture of Jean-Marc. And a short article stating that this morning the DCPJ had announced he’d been put in charge of le Revenant case, replacing Commissaire Saville.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
“This is not good news, ma petite. Saville is an average detective at best. Unimaginative. Lacroix is not. You must take extra precautions at the Michaud’s to see nothing is left behind for him to find. Not so much as a stray hair.”
“Fuck,” she repeated. Because that pretty much summed up her whole situation. “On est foutu.” She was so fucked.
♥♥♥
That evening, Jean-Marc came to Ciara’s flat earlier than she anticipated. It was late afternoon and she’d packed a few things in her oversized purse and was escaping down the stairs heading for the Orphans’ when he caught her. Literally. He grabbed her around the waist and swung her up into his arms, taking her mouth and cutting off her protest.
“Mmm,” he hummed when he finally lifted his lips. “Miss me?”
Her insides were a roiling mass of contradicting emotions. Elation to see him again, to feel his embrace. Desperation and anxiety because she hadn’t meant to see him again. Didn’t want to see him again. Shouldn’t. Couldn’t. For her own good.
But one look at his face and she knew there was no getting away from Commissaire Lacroix. Not tonight, anyway. So, she answered, “I missed you like crazy,” because it was the God’s honest truth. “I thought about you all day.” Then she kissed him back.
Her bag dropped from her fingers and he broke the kiss, glancing down at it. “Going somewhere?”
“Um, just meeting the...some friends. For dinner.”
“Forget them. You’re having dinner with me,” he said, but he grabbed the bag and started herding her back up the stairs.
“Wha—”
“After.”
A coil of desire wound through her body at the single roughly spoken word. His dark eyes glittered with implication.
“Oh,” she whispered, already lost to the
erotic allure of him. Of his hard body and velvet technique.
What would one more night hurt?
She unlocked her door and they tumbled through it; he kicked it closed and her bag hit the bare wood floor with a dull thud.
“The chair,” he said, shoving her around behind it. “Grab the back.”
Before she knew what was happening, she was bent over the back of the easy chair with her skirt bunched up around her waist. He ripped her panties down and spread her feet wide apart with his.
And then he was inside her, deep and hard.
“God, you feel good,” he groaned. His fingers sought her sex and strummed over her, making her gasp in pleasure. He pressed harder, and circled.
She came. Suddenly, and unexpectedly. She cried out, convulsing with the impact, her climax nearly buckling her knees.
He grunted low and withdrew, then scythed into her again, gripping her hips to keep her from falling. Over and over he plunged, so deep, so good, wringing wave after wave of agonizing sensation from her body until she could only cling to the chair and pray she wouldn’t pass out from the sheer pleasure. Then he stiffened, and shouted out his own release.
When it was over, he lay bent over her back, panting with his exertion. She could feel his penis throb within her, still semi-hard. His depleted balls tickled her thighs as they quickened and refilled, readying themselves for another bout.
“You’re...amazing,” she whispered between gulps of breath, in awe of his easy mastery over her, over her body. She’d never met a man like him, who could make her come like that, and so quickly. Never wanted any other man so exquisitely that she was willing to give up everything to have him. Even with Etienne, it had never been like this.
Intellectually, she knew her turbulent feelings and chaotic longing for Jean-Marc had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with biology. But at the moment her heart couldn’t tell the difference.
And really, where was the line? She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and never let him go. To spend the rest of her life kissing and making love to him. If that wasn’t at least the beginnings of real love, what was?
He nuzzled her ear and withdrew, giving her butt a swat as he headed for the bathroom. “Vien, chérie, put on some lipstick. We’re going out.”
She straightened and managed to get her knees to work. The skirt of her flirty summer dress fell into place and she brushed the wrinkles out of the front. What on earth should she do about this untenable situation? Sex was one thing, but love...love was entirely different. She couldn’t fall in love—not with Jean-Marc. Even if he did make her feel warm and wanted, and so good it scared her.
“Leave them off,” he called as she was about to pick up her panties. “I want you bare under that dress.”
“Why?” she said, suddenly irritated with herself for being so damn easy. “So you can push me into an alley and have me whenever you feel the urge?”
He appeared in the bathroom door wearing a wolfish grin. “Maybe. Would you like that?”
She shook a finger at him. But didn’t answer. Because the awful truth was, she would like it. Which made her even more irritated. “Where are we going?” she asked instead.
“Nowhere in particular,” he said cheerfully as he adjusted his trousers. “Just for a walk.”
He beckoned to her, but she held back, struggling to get control over her wayward emotions.
“Vien, mon ange,” he murmured seductively. Luring her to him with a silken promise in his eyes. Impossible to resist.
She gave up the struggle, going into his arms, melting into another long kiss.
“Keep doing this and we’ll never get out of here,” she sighed.
“The thought has its attractions.” He pulled back with a wink. “But I’m afraid you may grow tired of my carnal demands. I want to show you there’s more to me than a hungry cock.”
She tipped her head. “Ah, a hungry stomach, too? So like a Frenchman.”
He feigned offense, covering his heart with a hand. “A true Frenchman hungers for romance, mon amour. To get to know his lover.” His lip quirked. “But—” he gave an expansive shrug “—if that involves a good meal, so much the better.”
She laughed and gave him a kiss, glowing inside because he’d called her his love. She was even more attracted to this playful side of him. “I’d better make myself beautiful, then. If I’m to compete with the entrecote.”
“Entrecote? Ah, non,” he said. “No competition there.”
She shot him an over-the-shoulder warning glance, and he broke into a grin. “Perhaps we should stay in, after all.”
“Forget it, Lacroix,” she said, taking a seat in front of the vanity mirror to freshen her makeup. Sealing her fate. “I’d like to see just how romantic a true Frenchman can be.”
♥♥♥
As it turned out, unfortunately, very romantic.
Of course, it would be impossible for a twilight stroll along the River Seine on a warm summer’s night not to be romantic. Paris, City of Light, was the most romantic place on earth.
And Jean-Marc was the most romantic of men, Ciara decided sometime later as they walked over the Petit Pont among the throng of lighthearted tourists jostling their way toward Notre Dame. He bought a sprig of purple stephanotis from a roving flower vendor, and tucked it behind her ear so the sweet scent floated about their heads.
He bent to steal a kiss and she sighed against his lips, loving the taste of him. Loving the way he smiled at her as he took her hand in his. Wishing...wishing he were any man on earth but the man he was.
She withdrew her hand and banded her arms over her abdomen, turning to gaze out over the Seine, at a glass tourist boat glittering in the sunlight as it glided along the peaceful water under the bridge.
Damn.
“Why are you avoiding me again, Ciara?” he asked, glancing over her defensive body position.
God, how she hated lying. How she hated deceiving him. How she hated that it was impossible for them to be together.
She needed distance. Somehow, she had to push him away.
She took a steadying breath, and asked, “Are you married?”
The air between them shifted. Bristled.
“Is that what you think?” he demanded quietly. Not a peaceful quietly—a dangerous quietly.
“Yesterday you asked me if I was a drug dealer or prostitute. Is that what you think?”
His mouth thinned. “That was different.”
“Was it?” Suddenly, she wondered... “A man like you—respectable, handsome, sexy. Romantic...” She turned to him. “It doesn’t make sense for you not to be married.”
He regarded her. The muscle at the back of his cheek ticked. “I was married,” he said. “But not any more. We’ve been divorced for four years.”
“Not separated?”
“Divorced,” he repeated. “Why are you asking? Now, after it’s too late?”
A warning buzz skittered up her spine. “What do you mean, too late?”
He grasped her upper arms, pulled her to his chest and put his mouth close to her ear. “I’ve fucked you, Ciara, more than once,” he said in a low growl. “You gave yourself to me willingly, and I intend to keep you.”
Her pulse kicked up. Everything in her wanted to surrender to the raw power contained in his murmured declaration, in the strength of his fingers on her flesh. To lie back night after dark night and let him take his fill of her, for as long as he wished.
But the very thought of it scared her to death.
“Why are you so determined?” she asked, baffled that he would want her this fiercely. “We hardly know each other.”
He raised his hand to cup her cheek, looking both frustrated and menacing all at the same time. “I wish to God I knew.”
“You have to know I want you, too. Jean-Marc. But—”
He showed her his palm. “Don’t try to feed me that lame bullshit about us being too different, or you being too young for me.
I don’t give a damn about all that.”
She swallowed at his expression. Hot. Possessive.
“What happened to your wife?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re testing my patience, woman.”
“And you’re pushing me too hard.”
The frustration took over his eyes completely. He paced away and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I went through a rough patch about five years ago. There was this case—” He blew out a breath. “It went bad and I took a nosedive for a while. Got a little obsessed. Stopped trusting people.”
She tipped her head. “Including your wife?”
“Including everybody. My ex-wife took the opportunity to move on. She has since remarried.”
Was this the case Valois had told her about? That had nearly ended his career? Ciara wanted to ask more, but he obviously didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be. I’m fine. About that,” he added pointedly.
She sighed, her insides filled with conflicting feelings that pulled her in opposite directions. “I still—”
“Écoute,” he interrupted. “Let us call a truce for tonight. We’re here together in this beautiful place. Let’s enjoy it. And later...” He smiled and gathered her in his arms. “Later, we can enjoy each other,” he murmured, tipping up her chin for a kiss.
What was it about good sex that could turn a woman into a brainless, witless lump of clay, ready to be molded into anything a man wanted?
She opened to him and he took. Standing there in the fading golden light of the warm Paris evening, with the ripe green smell of the river and flowers, and the sweet spice of the cafes and food vendors surrounding them, the laughter of children in the air, and the cooing and rustling of pigeons underfoot. It was all too perfect to spoil.
Tomorrow she would do what she must. But tonight...tonight she would forget about all the reasons she shouldn’t, and simply enjoy him.
She wouldn’t feel guilty.
