The French Detective's Woman

by Nina Bruhns

  Davie.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  On his way to the airport Jean-Marc called Pierre back.

  “Get over to the office right away. Find out who Davie’s known associates are. And family. The others, too, just in case. See if any of them own a Jaguar.”

  There was a pause, then Pierre swore softly. “Sure, boss. I’ll search all the little blighters’ backgrounds and let you know if anything pops.”

  By the time Jean-Marc’s flight was taxiing in at Marseille, Pierre had called back. Davie’s father turned out to be a certain Compte de Figeac, who owned no less than two different models of Jaguar. Jean-Marc jotted down the particulars and plate numbers. Then he called Cheveau in Marseille.

  “I just landed at the airport. How about picking me up?”

  “Oh, la la, mec,” Cheveau said with a hearty chuckle. “Another brothel visit so soon?”

  Jean-Marc bit his tongue and took the good-natured ribbing, then explained what he needed.

  “No problem. I’ll put out a description of the two Jags and have anyone who spots either of them radio in their position.”

  “Thanks, mon ami. Now, any chance I can borrow one of your radio cars for the day?”

  ♥♥♥

  When the express train pulled into Marseille, Jean-Marc was there. But the Orphans weren’t.

  “I cannot believe this,” Jean-Marc growled after searching the train from one end to the other. He then questioned the conductor and porters. Four people matching the Orphans’ descriptions had gotten off at Aix-en-Provence, one stop before Marseille.

  He slammed his eyes shut and took a long, deep breath.

  He would not explode.

  He would go about this calmly and rationally, as befitted a commissaire of the DCPJ conducting a routine investigation.

  He would not think about throttling Ciara.

  He would not think about shaking her until her teeth rattled.

  He would definitely not think about spanking her until she begged for mercy.

  He dug his fingernails into his itchy palms and let his breath out slowly.

  There. Better.

  Which was good. Because he needed every ounce of patience he could get for the next eight long, frustrating hours, while he and the every law enforcement officer within a hundred square miles searched for any trace of the Jag.

  When word finally came, it was from the Aix-en-Provence train station. At 11:13 pm, le Compte de Figeac’s Jaguar was spotted in the parking lot.

  And the slow overnight train to Paris had just pulled out of the station.

  ♥♥♥

  “Stop that train!” Jean-Marc barked at the officer who had called it in.

  “I’m afraid it’s too late, sir. It’s well past the yard limits. Can’t be stopped until the next station, unless there’s a side-track somewhere along the line where it can be detoured.”

  “Find one,” he ordered. “I’m on my way. I want to be on that train. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  It took him twenty minutes at breakneck speeds with lights flashing and sirens screaming to reach the train, which had been diverted to an old, abandoned depot to await his arrival. He jumped up into the caboose and shook hands with the two onboard rail security agents who were there to meet him. This was not one of the ultra-modern bullet trains, but an old-fashioned slow-moving local.

  “What’s going on?” they asked with obvious concern after they’d exchanged credentials.

  “I’m chasing a thief,” he explained, knowing he had to tread carefully. His boss had out-and-out forbidden him from pursuing Ciara, and he had no real evidence that she had even committed a crime. Other than his roiling gut.

  “A thief? Not a terrorist?” The two agents looked relieved.

  “A woman. Not dangerous. And I’m not even certain she’s on the train,” he hedged. “But she probably has stolen valuables with her if she is. I’d like permission to search for her, and if I find her to search any compartment where she’s been.”

  The two agents glanced at each other and shrugged. “Sure, why not. Will you need our help?”

  He shook his head. “Non, merci. But I’ll need a porter’s key.”

  Further relieved that a key was all that would be required of them, the agents quickly produced one of the long, silver hex tools that opened all doors and sleeping bunks on the train. “Good luck,” they said as they handed it over.

  But Jean-Marc was pretty sure his luck had deserted him nearly two years earlier, on the day he’d met Ciara Alexander.

  He didn’t find her on the train. Nor did he find the Orphans.

  He’d stalked slowly forward through all twenty-three cars, and now he turned around and searched them all again, twice as carefully. He checked every bathroom, every luggage rack, every connecting area between cars, the dining car and every damn sleeping compartment in the wagons-lit—much to the resentment of several sleeping passengers—and studied the face of every female in every seat.

  No Ciara.

  He thought of her disguise at the Michaud’s, as an old lady, and despaired. Short of yanking on every head of gray hair, there was no way to tell if she was lurking somewhere under a wig and a pound of theatrical make-up. And if she could do an old lady, why not a man? She could be disguised as a fat guy with a bad rug.

  Merde.

  He needed a drink.

  Since he was already at the rear of the train, he made his way to the bar behind the closed restaurant car and ordered a bourbon. A double.

  And brooded about how she had outsmarted him. Again. It was really starting to irritate him.

  This had never happened before. He’d always been completely in control of his investigations. Always smart enough to track the bad guy one way or another, and bring him down. Every time save one—when he’d been personally betrayed.

  And now.

  Ciara was messing with his head. Making him crazy. She was as unpredictable as he was. She played dirty, like he did. Always found a way to outwit her opponent, as he always had. Until now.

  But he would catch her. If he had to sell his soul to the devil, he would. And he was going to make her pay dearly.

  He slammed back his double and raised his hand to the barman to order another. His fingers grazed the arm of a woman walking by.

  “Ah, pardon,” he mumbled.

  “Pas rien,” she politely returned in a silky, smoky voice. She had the pampered, smooth accents of a woman who’d been to a Swiss finishing school, and shared her bed with barons and princes.

  Mildly intrigued, Jean-Marc spun his stool and watched her walk past. Model tall and thin, she had henna-red hair cut in a sleek style straight out of the pages of some fancy fashion magazine. She wore a dove gray couture suit—a short jacket and shorter skirt—with black silk stockings and breathtakingly high heels. Red high heels.

  Every eye at the all-male occupied bar followed her sultry stroll between empty restaurant tables toward the exit. When she reached the middle of the deserted dining area she paused, and took a last, lingering glance over her shoulder.

  Right at Jean-Marc.

  Unexpected arousal bolted through his body. The woman was unbelievably sexy, and for a second—okay, two or three seconds—he actually thought about accepting her fairly blatant offer. He was definitely in the mood for some hot, mind-numbing sex. A quick, anonymous fuck with a princess appealed to his bad-ass street side. Two years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. What the hell was wrong with him now? Not that he really had to ask... Despite the acute differences, she only reminded him of Ciara.

  He sighed with regret as she continued to walk away, her long, long legs and shapely hips swaying like a samba.

  Non, he couldn’t. Not in this foul mood. Even an anonymous princess deserved to be fucked for herself, not because she reminded him of someone else. Hell, the woman even walked like Ciara....

  Suddenly, he frowned. And launched to his feet.

  His heartbeat
stopped dead, then went into hyperdrive.

  Non. Impossible.

  Could she...?

  With a virulent oath, he tossed a ten on the bar and went after her.

  He tore through the first car, scanning the heads of the passengers for the woman. She wasn’t there. He ran through the second car, and the next, and the one after that. Finally he saw her, just a glimpse, disappearing through the connecting door to the car just ahead.

  A large lady suddenly stood up in the center aisle and blocked his path as he rushed to catch up. Impatiently, he squeezed past her. The next car was a wagon-lit, consisting of a claustrophobic passageway in aging wood veneer and several closed doors to sleeping compartments. She was already at the other end. Just before vanishing around the corner, she glanced over her shoulder again. Their eyes met.

  He started to run.

  When he got to the next car, also a wagon-lit, she was gone.

  He stood for a moment to regroup, breathing hard and leaning back against the cool glass and metal of the outer connecting door. She was here. He could feel her presence, like...a ghost, haunting him. Calling to him.

  The sideways motion of the train rocked him side to side, side to side, his knees bending in rhythm to the kachunk-kachunk-kachunk of steel wheels passing over rail joints. The shadow of a scent, exotic and alluring, unfamiliar, teased his nostrils.

  Was his own mind playing tricks on him? Did he want it to be her so badly he was letting his imagination run rampant? Or was the woman really Ciara, cleverly disguised...

  He drilled a hand through his hair and studied the four closed, presumably locked, doors to the individual sleeping compartments.

  Which one?

  A subtle movement drew his attention to the floor below the doors. There was only one compartment with a tiny strip of light showing beneath. Suddenly, it went out.

  His instincts centered. His blood surged.

  Without giving himself a chance to think, he stalked forward and rapped. “Police. Mademoiselle, ouvrez la porte!”

  A moment later the door opened, and she stood there in the darkened compartment. Still dressed in her cloud gray skirt and jacket, she looked impossibly sensual with her flame-colored hair and scarlet lipstick. Her large eyes were heavily made-up, rimmed by black kohl in the Arab way, with long thick lashes framing startlingly turquoise eyes. Turquoise, not green.

  He faltered. Suddenly uncertain.

  “Oui?” she whispered in that sweet, breathy princess accent.

  He gathered himself and showed her his carte. “Commissaire Lacroix of the DCPJ. I would like to search your compartment, if I may, mademoiselle?”

  She held his gaze for an instant, then bowed her head in graceful acquiescence. “If you wish,” she said, voice still hushed. She stepped aside to let him in.

  His body brushed against hers as he stepped past. He smelled a hint of her intoxicating perfume. Goose bumps cascaded over his skin.

  The compartment was from another era. Narrow, with plush seats and wood appointments. A tiny bathroom with a folding door was squeezed into one corner. A pull-down bunk was folded up and locked above the bench seat, which could also be turned and made into a bed. All excellent hiding places for something small, like stolen jewels.

  “Luggage?” he asked brusquely. She indicated a silver bag on the red velveteen seat. “Is that it?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I travel light.”

  He emptied the bag. It contained a bottle of fifteen-year-old cognac and a sheer black teddie. He fingered the silky barely-there fabric and sent her a look.

  She raised a shoulder and her scarlet lips curved.

  His heart pounded. His cock grew stiff. His rational mind tried to decipher clues. Was she Ciara? Or was she a stranger?

  Returning the things to the bag, he set it aside and ran his hands over the rest of the seat and between the cushion and the back.

  “Shall I turn on the overhead light?” she asked.

  “Don’t bother.” The moon shining through the compartment window was plenty for his purposes.

  He wasn’t going to find anything. He already knew that. But it annoyed the hell out of him. Out of sheer stubbornness, he brought out the porter’s key and unlocked the sleeping bunk, pulling it open. He ran his hands over the cold, crisp sheets under the pillow, and between the mattress and back wall. Nothing, of course.

  Jetting out a breath, he straightened and turned to her.

  The breath fastened in his lungs.

  She had closed the door. And unbuttoned her jacket.

  Slowly, she pulled it open. She wasn’t wearing anything under it. Anything at all.

  Her bare breasts glowed creamy white in the dim moonlight; lush, round, just big enough to overflow his cupped hands, tipped with rose-dusky nipples.

  Ciara’s breasts.

  Raw desire detonated through his veins, fed by his anger at her, amplified tenfold by the erotic game she was playing.

  “As long as you’re searching...monsieur le commissaire,” she said, low and sultry, “you should search everywhere, don’t you think?” The jacket slipped off one pale shoulder.

  He...he was almost certain...

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “What would you like it to be?” she whispered.

  In an instant he closed the distance between them. With an unsteady hand, he reached up and touched her breast. She mewled softly and her nipple spiraled to a tight bud.

  He touched the other, watching her extraordinary turquoise eyes darken. And noticed she was wearing contact lenses.

  The tension of uncertainty unfurled into the tautness of desire. He took her breasts fully in his hands, a little roughly, and listened with gratification to her moan of pleasure. Yes, his own lover’s moan. Unmistakable in its timbre of hushed need.

  He bent and took her nipple in his mouth. Her nipple, pert and responsive. Her taste, the flavor of midnight spiced with the musk of her desire for him. He sucked hard, bringing her to her toes and her hands to reach for him blindly.

  He grabbed her wrists and stopped her, peeled the jacket down her arms and flung it aside. He pinned her wordlessly against the door, breathing hard, his chest squashing her breasts, sensing the want build in her body.

  His was already beyond reason.

  She reached up to kiss him. He turned his face from her.

  “Non,” he said harshly. “I’m going to fuck you. Not kiss you.”

  Her breath sucked in. He went for her skirt zipper and pulled it down. Then he yanked her skirt over her hips.

  She wore nothing under that, either. She stood there trembling in a pool of shimmering moonlight, naked but for her black, thigh-high stockings and high heels, waiting for him to take her.

  He put his face close to hers, close enough to smell her nervousness, close enough to feel her warm, staccato breaths on his throat. He took hold of her shoulders. Then slowly, deliberately, drew his hands down her quaking body, feeling the velvet heat of her skin, the wild beat of the pulse at her throat, the erotic weight of her full breasts. His fingers traced the arousingly elegant curve of her waist and hips, tested the tempting wetness between her thighs. Slipped between swollen lips and plumbed the depths of her woman’s center.

  She whimpered softly, and tried to move.

  “Non,” he said, and splayed his hand again on her shoulder, holding her in place. He shoved one knee between her legs and spread them wide. And kept touching her.

  She moaned, grasping at his arms for purchase, her breaths now coming in gasps. He didn’t stop until she came apart. She shuddered and cried out, threw her arms around him and held on as he relentlessly wrung every last quiver of pleasure from her body.

  Then, when she was boneless and helpless, he took the handcuffs from the case at the back of his waistband and clipped one end to her wrist.

  She looked at it in shock. “Wh-what’s this?”

  “What does it look like?” he said calmly. “Now, get on the bunk.”


  She swallowed. “Commissaire?” she said in a shaky whisper.

  “Do it!” he ordered.

  She hesitantly obeyed. Her red high heels fell to the floor as she climbed up onto the narrow bunk. Ignoring her reluctance, he snapped the free end of her handcuff to the metal bar holding the bunk to the outer wall.

  “There,” he said with velvet resolve. “You won’t be going anywhere tonight.”

  She tugged at her firmly shackled wrist, then glanced up at him, her expression a telling mix of fearful apprehension and aroused expectation. “What happens now?”

  He slipped off his suit coat and unbuckled his shoulder holster. “Now, princess, you do exactly as I say.”

  Chapter 26

  Ciara hadn’t counted on Jean-Marc being so angry.

  She should have known.

  She should have cared. But the truth was, his anger and her longing for him were like flame to oxygen. Both fueled their passion so a single look, a mere brush of fingers, ignited the conflagration.

  Their bodies were the battlefield, and the bliss.

  She surrendered to him, as she always did, in the kinetoscopic light of passing scenery, in their silvery moonlit compartment of forbidden pleasure.

  She gave. He took. He gave. She took.

  And in the rough slide of his skin, the firm touch of his hand, the slick insistence of his tongue, she found her place in the world.

  With him.

  At Lyon he rose and pulled the window shade down tight, plunging their secret hideaway into complete darkness.

  They barely spoke, save his husky murmured commands and her breathless moans of encouragement. With her wrist shackled she felt bound, frustrated when she reached for him and her movement abruptly halted. She wanted to hold him.

  “Turn me loose,” she complained.

  “Non,” he said, and shackled her other wrist to the first.

  He ravished her. Slowly and methodically taking his pleasure in her helpless, hopelessly thrilled flesh.

  Hours later, when he had finished with her, he removed one handcuff and clipped it to his own, binding them, captor and captive, together. Then he stretched his tall, powerful frame over her sated and trembling body. And fell asleep.