The French Detective's Woman

by Nina Bruhns

  She snorted derisively. “Eighteen months is a long time for a woman, too, cher.”

  She realized her mistake immediately. She slammed her eyes shut. The ensuing silence was thick enough to slice.

  “Well,” he finally said with classic Gallic insouciance, “I could help you out with that now, if you like.”

  “They gave me fifty euro to get started. I could pay you,” she threw back.

  He chuckled, unoffended. “Fifty? I usually charge more, but I guess I could give you a break, considering your dire need.”

  “You’re a riot, Lacroix,” she ground out.

  He rolled onto his side and regarded her. He was fully, flagrantly aroused. His brow rose. “Well?”

  At some point her belt had come loose and her robe gaped apart. She didn’t bother to pull it closed. She had the sinking feeling she’d already lost this battle. Had lost it the moment she’d seen him outside the prison, lounging there against his Saab like some modern-day French James Dean.

  Jesus, how had this happened again?

  He reached over and tugged her belt all the way off. Her robe fell open and his gaze caressed her body, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She felt ravished by it, by him, and he hadn’t even touched her.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  “What do you want me to do, Ciara?” he asked, his voice rough as sandpaper, husky as a lion’s purr.

  She gave up. Gave in.

  What the hell. She’d been eighteen months without a man. And Jean-Marc was the only man she wanted to be with. Would probably ever want to be with.

  “Let me touch you,” she murmured, reaching for him. “Let me touch you and smell you and taste you. Let me kiss you all over, and make love to you. Then let me do it all again.”

  Chapter 22

  Jean-Marc met her halfway but Ciara pushed him back onto the floor. “I’m paying,” she said. “I get to do what I like to you.”

  A corner of his lip curved up. “Hmm. Sounds a bit backwards. Shouldn’t I be pleasuring you?”

  “Oh, you will be,” she assured him, climbing onto his big, muscular body.

  She grasped his broad shoulders and stretched her body out on top of him. Putting her nose to the crease of his neck, she breathed deeply of his dusky, male scent, enjoying the rough scratch of his chest hair on her breasts. She wanted to rub herself all over him until the smell of him surrounded her like a blanket. She wanted to lick his body until she drown in the rich, erotic taste of him. She wanted to touch and meld with his flesh until she didn’t know where he stopped and she began. She wanted to kiss him until she forgot the pain and loneliness of the past year-and-a-half, and once again believed in him.

  He reached for her and she caught his wrists. “No.” She tucked them above his head. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

  A shadow of uncertainty flitted through his eyes. But he obeyed. “There are condoms in my pocket,” he murmured.

  “You won’t need them.”

  His pupils flared, so she leaned down close to his ear, and whispered, “I’m not going to let you come.”

  And she didn’t. Not for an hour or more, until after he’d made her climax at least three or four times. Not until she’d tortured him with her lips and her tongue and the hot passage between her thighs, keeping him on the edge, pleasuring herself by pleasuring him to the brink of explosion, only to stop and start all over again. He groaned. He pleaded. He begged.

  She felt immensely satisfied.

  And he roared like a beast when she finally allowed him completion.

  “Mon Dieu,” he swore when he could speak again. “Bon Dieu de merde. I think you’ve killed me.”

  She rolled onto her back next to him and smiled at the ceiling. She was floating on a sea of delighted gratification. The torture had done the trick. Revenge was sweet; prison had receded to an indistinct blur. She was back to loving him.

  She didn’t dare think about tomorrow. Tomorrow was too complicated. But in prison she’d learned to live each day on its own, one day at a time.

  Tonight she loved him. And that was enough.

  But the next morning...

  The next morning, everything changed.

  Ciara and Jean-Marc slept in, happily exhausted from their long night of making love. She awoke in his arms, content, optimistic, and dimly aware of a faraway chirping sound. His cell phone.

  “Damn Pierre,” he muttered. “I told him I wouldn’t be in today.”

  “Probably should get it,” she said with a yawn and a stretch. “Must be important or he wouldn’t call.”

  Jean-Marc grunted, sighed, and slid out from under the massive goose down quilt. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  Thirty seconds later he walked back into the room, cell phone to his ear and a worried look on his face. “Ricardo, slow down. I don’t underst— Speak French, Ricardo! For chrissake—”

  Ciara was already on her feet. She grabbed the phone from him. “Ricardo, it’s me. What’s happened?”

  “Sofie!” came the boy’s almost hysterical reply. “Dios mio, Ciara. Sofie’s been—It was Beck. He raped her.”

  ♥♥♥

  “Hell of a homecoming,” Davie murmured, and kissed Ciara on the cheeks. “Sorry, darling. We had a big party all planned...”

  Ciara gave him a squeeze. “Yes. Jean-Marc told me.”

  Ciara, Davie, Ricardo and CoCo were sitting in the waiting room of the Hôpital la Rochefoucault while a forensic nurse did a rape kit on Sofie. Jean-Marc had stormed off earlier to question Beck. Hugo was doing his usual pacing back and forth, looking like he would murder the first thing that moved. Thank God Jean-Marc had read him the riot act before leaving, telling him to stay put on pain of death. And Hugo had actually heeded the order, to Ciara’s everlasting wonder.

  For herself, she was so angry she prayed she didn’t see Beck anytime soon or she’d do Hugo’s murder for him. “How did this happen?” she asked them, despising what Sofie must be going through.

  CoCo shook her head. “She went out for a few last-minute things for the party. We could hear her singing all the way down the stairs. We were all so happy you were coming home today...” She glanced up, and Ciara could see the mild question in her eyes.

  “Jean-Marc arranged for me to be released yesterday. To avoid the media,” she explained, feeling incredibly guilty. “If only I’d gone straight to rue Daguerre.”

  “How could you know? There was nothing you could have done, anyway.” CoCo gave her a crooked smile. “So you spent the night with the man who put you in jail?”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Ciara muttered. Damn.

  Davie choked. “That is so wrong.”

  Hugo halted and glowered at Davie. “The commissaire is a good man, and you two know it very well,” he snapped, then resumed his pacing. “Ciara could do a lot worse.”

  Ciara’s jaw dropped in astonishment at his supportive outburst. Davie and CoCo looked suddenly uncomfortable. A red flag went up at the speed of light.

  “All right,” she demanded, “what are you not telling me?”

  Everyone studied their hands.

  “Come on you guys. No secrets. I mean it.“

  “Lacroix paid the rent while you were gone,” Hugo said almost belligerently, raking the others with a glare.

  Momentarily stunned, she regarded at them one by one.

  “And our tuition,” Ricardo said when she got to him.

  “Jean-Marc?” She could scarcely believe it. “Commissaire Lacroix was social services’ mysterious benefactor?” Except...it made perfect sense. He’d promised, hadn’t he? Why should it surprise her that the most honorable man she knew would take his promise seriously? She should have guessed immediately.

  “He also kept Beck away,” CoCo said, then glanced toward the room where Sofie was being examined. “At least until now.”

  Which explained why he’d been on such a tear when he’d taken off after Beck. Ciara wasn’t sure
what she should think of it all. But she didn’t get the chance to decide. The forensic nurse emerged from the exam room and gathered them all together.

  “The good news is that Sofie is doing just fine. No lasting physical trauma. Psychologically?” She frowned. “Only time will tell. The bad news is that the man left no evidence behind to nail him with.”

  “Nothing?” Ciara asked, dismayed.

  “I’m afraid not. No fluids, no fibers, no hairs. Nothing at all.”

  Ciara’s heart sank. “So it’s her word against his. There’s no way to convict the bastard.”

  “Not unless he confesses. Physically, he was too careful. I’m so sorry.”

  Everyone’s mood was subdued as they collected Sofie and took a taxi home. The colorful decorations festooning the Orphans’ apartment seemed grotesquely out of place.

  As CoCo and Davie ripped them down, Ciara gave Sofie a long hug.

  “I’m sorry I’ve spoiled your homecoming,” Sofie whispered with a hiccough in her voice. “I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’ll go to bed now.”

  Feeling helpless, they all watched her go into her room and softly close the door. Ciara wanted to scream and throw things and rage against the injustice.

  “We need to get him,” Hugo said savagely. “We need to make him pay.”

  Ciara agreed. So did the others.

  A knock sounded at the door. “That’ll be Jean-Marc,” Ciara guessed, and went over to answer it.

  But it wasn’t Jean-Marc. It was two police officers. And one of them was Beck.

  “Good evening,” the first officer said politely. “The hospital informed us someone at this address reported a rape. We’ll need to get the victim’s statement.”

  Beck stood behind the first officer, wearing a bland expression, as though his presence here weren’t the most perverse insult Ciara could possibly imagine.

  She forced herself not to leap on his filthy carcass and tear his eyes out. That wouldn’t help Sofie. Instead she ground out, “No, I’m afraid it was all a misunderstanding. My friend doesn’t wish to press charges. Sorry to have wasted your time.” She was proud of herself. Her voice barely shook at all.

  Beck’s mouth twitched into a smile as the other officer tried to change her mind. “Please reconsider. If she doesn’t report this man, he’ll only do it again,” he argued sensibly. He seemed sincere enough. Obviously he didn’t have a clue.

  “It’s true,” Beck said with smarmy false civility. “Next time it could even be you...”

  Ciara gripped the door jamb so hard her fingernails dug gouges into the wood. “Let him try, the coward!” she spat out, and felt Davie’s restraining arm come around her shoulder. “See what happens to him if he does!”

  “Taking the law into your own hands is no solution,” the first officer said with a frown. “The best thing your friend can do is help put this animal behind bars.”

  “Thank you, officer. We’ll think about it.”

  He nodded and, disappointed, went to leave. Beck waited until after he’d started back down the stairs, then turned to Ciara.

  “Hope you liked my welcome home present, bitch,” he hissed under his breath. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this day.”

  “Get out of my sight, Beck, before I really do kill you,” she warned. Davie grabbed her arm before she could take a swing at him.

  “You don’t want to do that,” the bastard returned with a menacing chuckle. “In fact, the only thing you’ll want to do is exactly as I say.”

  “You’re completely delusional if you think—”

  “Or things could go badly for your lover-boy.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I just had you locked up for eighteen months without anyone being the wiser. What do you think I could do to your precious commissaire’s career? Think he’d have a good time in prison? With all those felons he’s put in there for company? Good looking guy, your Lacroix...”

  She went for Beck’s throat. But got all tangled up in Davie and CoCo. Behind her she heard Hugo curse at Ricardo and furniture go flying.

  “I want more money,” Beck growled. “Or you can kiss his pretty ass goodbye. Another ten thousand by the end of the month. And get him off my back. If he comes around me one more time, he’ll be wearing stripes.” Beck leaned in, baring his teeth. “And dare breathe a word—to anyone—and he’ll be a dead man.” With that, the little shit slithered away and down the stairs.

  “Goddamn it, Beck! You won’t get away with this!” she screamed after him.

  His parting laughter echoed up the stairwell, followed by the front entry door slamming.

  It sounded eerily like prison bars clanging shut.

  “God damn you,” she screamed as Davie and CoCo forcibly hauled her inside. “God fucking damn you!”

  Hugo finally managed to wrestle free of Ricardo and came lunging toward the door. “Let me at him!”

  “No!” Davie said, barring his way. “No. Sofie’s hurt and we just got Ciara back. We’re not losing you, too. Either of you.”

  “But you heard him! He raped Sofie, and threatened to do it to Ciara! Are we just going to stand here and take it?”

  They all looked to her for direction. But her mind refused to function. She was still back at the part about Jean-Marc being a dead man. She put a shaking hand to her mouth.

  Beck meant what he’d said. She had no doubt about it.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, seeing every one of her hopes and dreams evaporate before her eyes.

  All that time in prison for nothing! A clean slate? Ha. Just another impossible fantasy, as always. Beck would never let her stop stealing. Never.

  “Oh, God. Jean-Marc...” she whispered in despair. “What in God’s name am I going to do?”

  ♥♥♥

  An hour later, Jean-Marc climbed the stairs to the Orphans’ apartment in a foul mood.

  After dropping off Ciara at the hospital, he’d chased down Louis Beck at his préfecture and questioned him about his whereabouts earlier that morning. It was perfectly obvious to Jean-Marc that Beck knew exactly what his questions were in reference to, even though Jean-Marc was very careful not to make any direct accusations. To make any charges stick, he needed proof. Beck blithely told Jean-Marc that he’d been at the station all morning doing paperwork, and any one of his colleagues would back him up. Unfortunately, they did. Every one Jean-Marc could find.

  He came away with worse than nothing. Sofie’s rapist had a solid alibi and there was nothing he would ever be able to do to crack it.

  Today he was ashamed to be a cop, and didn’t know how he’d face Ciara.

  The apartment door opened, and there she stood. Looking shell-shocked and...he could swear, nervous.

  His bad mood and the terrible situation couldn’t quite overpower his somber pleasure at seeing her. “Mon ange,” he murmured, and pulled her into his embrace, even more furious with Beck for spoiling their reunion in this awful way, on top of his horrific cruelty. He kissed her hair. “I’m sorry. Beck wouldn’t admit anything, and somehow he’s gotten his whole squad to say he was at the police station all morning. There was nothing I could do.”

  “It’s not your fault, Jean-Marc.” She stepped back and held him at arm’s length. “I’m sure you did your best.” She looked down at the floor and fell silent.

  He glanced around the room. CoCo, Davie and Ricardo were also looking anywhere but at him. Even Hugo, who had become his staunchest supporter in the bunch, was gazing determinedly out the window. Suddenly, Jean-Marc became uneasy.

  “What’s going on?” he asked sharply.

  “Nothing,” Ciara said, giving him an unconvincingly weak smile.

  “Then give me a kiss.” The Orphans wouldn’t be shocked. It was pretty clear they knew where Ciara had spent last night.

  The blood drained from her face. “Jean-Marc, um...”

  “Something wrong?” he asked mildly, but his pulse had al
ready started to pound. Something was definitely wrong. He gripped her arms to keep her from slipping away from him.

  “Of course not,” she said. And kissed him. A pathetic attempt. Short, dry and self-conscious.

  “Alors,” he said, temper rising. So that’s how it was to be. He turned to leave before hurt could trump his anger.

  “Jean-Marc,” she said, grabbing his hand. She dropped it again. Then turned and swiped up her purse. “Let’s go somewhere and have a drink. We need to talk.”

  That clinched it. In the movies, whenever a woman said “we need to talk,” the man was about to eat shit.

  Confusion swirled through his chest. What had happened to the affectionate, adoring lover who had shared his bed last night? He didn’t understand. True, they hadn’t spoken of the future, but...he’d taken it for granted they had one.

  They’d only reached the third floor landing on their way down the stairs, but Jean-Marc couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled her to a stop.

  “Non,” he said. “I don’t want a fucking drink. We can do this right here and now.” He set his mouth in a thin line and regarded her. “What the hell is going on, Ciara?”

  “Here?” She glanced around at the apartment doors in consternation. “But people can—”

  “Now, Ciara.” He wasn’t waiting another goddamn minute to hear the bad news. “You dumping me, baby? Is that it?”

  “Jean-Marc, this isn’t the place—”

  “I knew it! Why?” he demanded. “Last night—”

  “Last night was amazing,” she interrupted, keeping her voice low. “Utterly amazing,” she said, finally meeting his gaze— “I...I wish...” —but it slid away again. “God, Jean-Marc, this is happening too fast!” Her hands went up to hold her temples. “We are happening too fast. And now this thing with Sofie.” Ciara’s green eyes appealed to him. Lied to him. “She needs me, Jean-Marc. Beck isn’t going to leave her alone, and I don’t want you involved.”

  “Why not? I can—”