The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  She swallowed hard but nodded.

  “Thank you, Agnès. What you are doing takes courage. I will never forget. One day, long after this mess is over, you’ll tell your grandchildren tales about what you are doing, the day you saved a life.”

  She flashed a fleeting smile, tapping into the bravery he knew was inside of her.

  “One final thing,” he said, digging into his pocket to retrieve a box. “Inside lies a ring that was meant for her mother. Now, it belongs to Elise. You should have enough with the money and valuables from my safe to do everything you have to, but if you have to sell it…” he stared down at it with sorrow, “then do so. Anything to stay alive and safe.”

  Her eyes were wide again as he pressed the box holding the valuable ring into her hand. It was a five-carat emerald, a color to match Noémie’s eyes. She had worn it for the painting as a promise—a promise to say yes once this war was over. She refused to keep it until then.

  Now that promise was gone.

  “Good luck to you both.”

  Chapter One

  Brielle is dead.

  “Long live Elle,” I whisper to myself.

  I stare down at the new passport in my hands, running my thumb over the face that stares back at me. She’s different, this Elle. The hair is shorter, now a tiny afro. The face is thinner and the eyes more…focused. There are remnants of the Brielle she once was, but for the most part, I’m a changed woman—and it shows.

  Eighteen months in prison will do that to you.

  I close the passport and stuff it back into my purse along with the rest of my new life.

  I looked it up while I was serving my sentence, and it turns out that I could have gotten a legal passport as Brielle Christopher.

  But what fun would that be? Besides, no need to announce myself, the real me, ahead of time.

  I suppose there’s something to be said for spending time in prison. You certainly make the right kind of connections for a life of crime. Or at least what I hope will only be a few months of crime.

  I can worry about what comes next when I get back.

  I sip the Chenin blanc in the airport bar, hoping it will help settle my nerves. Going through security with a fake passport was the first crime I’ve ever actually committed, at least the first that was likely to land me in prison.

  The irony of it isn’t lost on me.

  If not for the crime I was framed for, I wouldn’t be here: an ex-convict catching an Air France flight to Paris on a fake passport, only to quite possibly commit a few more crimes once I’m there.

  I pick at the bruschetta that I should have known my stomach would be too tied up in knots to ingest. My eyes focus on the glasses lined up behind the bar as I think.

  I spent my time in prison plotting this revenge. The past six months of research and prep have finalized it. Getting to Paris is just the first step. I have two targets, and both are about to get what’s coming to them.

  For some reason, that thought puts me at ease. It’s been festering for the past two years and now it’s finally coming to a head. I smile around the rim of my glass and my eyes fall to the menu beside me.

  “Excuse me,” I say, getting the attention of the man behind the bar. “Can I get an order of the chocolate layer cake?”

  He simply nods and escapes somewhere to the back. I sip more wine and think about ordering coffee to go with it, then decide against it. I should sleep on the plane. I’ll need my energy and wits about me when I get to Paris.

  “I see you still have a sweet tooth.”

  The wine stalls on the way to my throat, my body unable to function enough to even swallow at the sound of that voice. I manage to force it through. Then, I bring the glass down, hard enough to elicit a clank so loud the eyes of the people nearest me cast a worried look my way.

  I ignore them.

  My entire focus—my entire universe has shifted, every atom now gravitating toward the man I turn to face.

  Andrew Mercier.

  I’ve heard that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Two sides of the same coin. The hate I’ve felt for this man for the past two years would leave the other side of that coin scribbled in arrow-pierced hearts and sappy love poems.

  It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s found me. I know better than anyone that he’s an expert at keeping tabs on me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had spies inside prison watching my every move.

  “You have every reason to hate me,” he says, staring at me with those mesmerizing eyes that used to hold mine happily, blissfully hostage.

  Right now, I just want to scratch them out.

  I should say something—anything. Every vicious thought, vile indignity, violent desire I’ve harbored toward him fills my head but won’t reach my tongue. That’s when I realize the saying is true. The man who once occupied my mind to the point I thought I could possibly fall in love with him, now occupies it in precisely the same way. It’s simply flipped to a different side of the coin.

  I’ll never be indifferent toward Andrew. I hate myself for that. I hate him even more.

  “I’ve come to tell you everything, the whole truth. When I’m done, perhaps you’ll understand why I did what I did. Despite what you might think, it was all for you Brielle, even the worst of it.”

  I want to laugh, but even that eludes me. The idea that there’s any excuse on Earth to explain away what he’s done is absurd.

  His jaw tightens but those eyes remain firmly connected with mine as he begins. “I suppose I should start by telling you who I really am.”

  Chapter Two

  Brielle

  Two Years Earlier

  4:30 a.m.

  My eyes miraculously snap open five minutes before my alarm goes off. Like clockwork.

  Just because I’m a morning person, doesn’t mean I relish waking up at the ass crack of dawn. Technically, the sun won’t rise for almost another two hours, so it would really be more like the upper back of dawn.

  I stare at the ceiling long enough to convince myself that resting my eyes will only make things worse when my alarm eventually jolts me out of sleep. I sigh and twist to turn on the bedside lamp.

  My gaze rests briefly on the photograph sitting next to it. That’s all the motivation I need to throw off the covers.

  “For you,” I say to it with a tired smile, before swinging out of bed.

  The first thing I do is grab my phone and check my work email. Gaultier—Mr. Gaultier to his face, never Bernard, even in my own head—is a notorious night owl. Any and all late-night emails should be addressed and handled before he arrives at work by 9:00 a.m.

  The usual print outs of information he needs handy.

  One document review.

  One request for “all, and I do mean ALL” financial reports for three companies from 1990-present on his desk by the time he arrives.

  Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck!

  So it’s going to be one of those days then. Sometimes there’s nothing too onerous and I can take my time getting in. Today is not that day.

  I sigh, take five seconds to close my eyes and breathe, then open them again.

  This will all be worth it, Brielle.

  I take one more look at the picture in the frame to release that last bit of irritation.

  Hello, Monday.

  It’s 5:30 a.m. by the time I’m one block around the corner from the building where Gaultier Financial is headquartered—or at least the American branch. I switch out my flats for the tan Jimmy Choo pumps to match my tan Hugo Boss business suit. One day, I was caught in the lobby wearing my walking shoes and didn’t hear the end of it from Gaultier.

  Monsieur Gaultier is a stickler for appearances.

  The Gaultier Building is a newly developed piece of glass and metal whose primary claim to fame is that it’s three stories higher than the building a few blocks away going by the moniker, Trump Building. Both the New York Post and Daily News had their usual tongue-in-cheek fun with puns over that one. Kno
wing the size of Gaultier’s ego, I’m sure that was the point.

  The clacking of my heels is the only sound echoing in the large lobby this early. I buy coffee for the graveyard shift guards about to get off, mostly out of sympathy. After catching one of them accidentally sleeping on the job, he sheepishly informed me that the coffee in their break room tasted like “the sludge from the oil pan of a fifty-year-old car.”

  “So Friday’s the big day, huh?” James, the talkative one says as I walk over to their desk and hand him a coffee. George, the silent one simply nods as he takes his.

  “That it is,” I say, smiling at James.

  We both look over toward the corner, around which lies the small gallery that usually houses month-long exhibits of up and coming New York artists. For the past week it’s been closed off, visually sealed behind locked doors, a dramatic curtain and, just to stress the point that something far more news-worthy is coming, velvet rope.

  Beyond what the naked eye can see, there are several other security features. I know, because I worked quite closely with the people handling the anti-theft logistics.

  “I heard there’s gonna be champagne and everything,” he remarks, bringing my attention back to him.

  “Well, it is an important piece.”

  “Who’s this painter again? Never heard of him before.”

  “Jean-Pierre Chabat.”

  “Oh yeah, French or somethin’. Figures,” he says with patriotic distaste.

  “French Algerian Jew, actually.”

  Based on his expression, he’s far too baffled by that particular fusion of flavors to express how much more unpalatable it is.

  “The painting is one of the few remaining of his since World War II. Most were destroyed by the Nazis,” I continue.

  “That so?” he says, his interest piqued once again. “You know, my grandfather was at Normandy. You ever see that Tom Hanks film, Saving Private Ryan? That was him right there on that beach back then. Blows your mind what those bastards did. Figures they’d hate art too.”

  “Degenerate art, according to them,” I say. Really, I should get started on the pile of work on my plate, but I suppose after a night of solitude James deserves a little chitchat to end his shift. Heaven knows the guy next to him probably didn’t contribute much. Besides, it’s a topic that fascinates me.

  “I seen a picture of the painting. Nothin’ degenerate about that woman.” The grin on his face indicates he’d be more than happy to expound on the statement. It quickly disappears, as though he’s suddenly well aware of not only what gender I am but which floor I’m headed to. No sense in #metoo-ing his way out of a job.

  “Well, I should get going,” I say, leaving that one alone.

  “You gonna be at the opening then?”

  “With any luck,” I reply, heading toward the last set of turnstiles.

  Once inside the elevator, I think about the painting that’s going to be unveiled here Friday. Usually, something of this caliber would be saved for one of New York’s well-known museums, but Gaultier is…Gaultier. He’s one peacock that won’t stand for others stealing a feather from his plumage. Heaven forbid the Met or Guggenheim get any attention that should be shined his way.

  Still, I suppose this works best for my interest, so I can’t complain.

  I stifle a yawn as I take the long way to get to my desk to hit up the break room so I can grab the first of many coffees of the day. Up here in the dizzying heights of the seventy-second floor, there is no automotive flavor to our extremely select, morning pick-me-up. With my first dose of caffeine in hand—black, three sugars—I hurry to my desk. Priority number one will be those damn financial reports. Going back to the 1990s—before the idea of “digital preservation” really took off—is always tricky, and thus, tedious.

  My mind is so focused on which financial database to check first that I don’t notice that my chair is out of place. I occupy one of four desks outside of Mr. Gaultier’s office, one for each of his personal assistants. They are situated two on either side of the large, open area, facing each other.

  Mine is located on the right, furthest away from his office. And I always push my chair in under my desk when the workday is over. Now, it’s been rolled to the side.

  Has someone been rifling through my desk?

  I’m not too worried since I’m not stupid enough to keep anything of personal value there, even locked in one of the drawers. That doesn’t mean it isn’t unsettling, especially this week of all weeks.

  As I walk toward my work area, I debate announcing myself, then think better of it. Best to nab the culprit while he or she is in the act.

  Once I round my desk all I see are a pair of black pants and shoes, the kind industrial workers wear when they have to look semi-professional. The rest of him—and at least one visible part of him very prominently indicates a man, and what a man at that!—is hidden beneath the opening under my desk.

  I stare down waiting for him to figure out that he isn’t alone. After a good twenty seconds or so I realize he’s either too preoccupied in what he’s fiddling with…or checking out my legs.

  “Can I help you?” I say, dropping my purse on the desk above him.

  The fact that his body doesn’t so much as flinch tells me he was fully aware of my presence and decided to stay put, which can only mean one thing. I rest my coffee down and subtly step away, removing my legs from his line of sight.

  He has the gall to heave a disappointed sigh before he slides out, shooting a grin up toward me. I’m momentarily struck by how good looking he is. There’s a certain boyish charm, enhanced by that teasing mouth and a slight dimple in his chin. The strong jaw that supports both is a bit more grown. The body that I have a full view of now is…all man.

  A man who I suddenly remember is meddling with my workspace.

  “May I kindly ask, what the hell you’re doing underneath my desk?”

  Chapter Three

  Andrew

  The first glimpse of those legs was a spectacular introduction to the entire woman. Brielle’s irritation does nothing to dispel my attraction to her. If anything, it makes her even sexier. The way those eyes narrow into slants, nostrils flared, full lips pursed.

  “I believe I asked you a question,” she insists, placing her hands on her hips.

  “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. I was checking underneath the hood, as you Americans say,” I reply, knocking on the underside of the desk. “We are updating the tech and I have been deputized to check and make sure everyone’s computers are up to date.”

  A convincing enough lie. I’m sure my “boss” Tony will back me up.

  “And who is ‘we’? Because I’m almost certain I’ve never seen you before.”

  “That’s because I’m new. IT department.”

  I use the edge of her desk to perform a pull-up that leads right into leaping to my feet.

  Brielle’s eyes blink in surprise at that, her face softening in appreciation at my little acrobatic feat. I cross my arms, which causes them to flex. My ego does a little victory lap as her eyelashes respond accordingly, fluttering with admiration.

  Then, they stop as her eyes get back on track and narrow with suspicion once again.

  “You work in IT?” She scans me up and down, lingering a bit on the muscled forearms exposed by my rolled-up sleeves, then settling on my face with a skeptical frown. “As what?”

  I shrug. “I believe the term here is gofer. Very low-level. ”

  “Really,” she says, not at all convinced. “And you just happened to be under my desk before six in the morning?”

  “I’m an early riser. The higher ups wanted this done before most people start their work day. But I see one early bird is eager for the worm,” I say with a grin.

  She glares with contempt, apparently not appreciating the suggestion. I want to laugh, but I know better. The envelope can only be pushed so far.

  “Well, I trust everything is in order?” she says with a tight smile.


  I give her a direct look, taking in the face from the photo that I’ve spent far too much time gazing at. It has nothing on the live version. “Absolument.”

  She swallows hard but recovers quickly. “Well, if you don’t mind, I have to work?”

  “Fortunately, yours was the last desk, so I’m off. À bientôt, Brielle.”

  “How do you know my name?” she asks in surprise.

  So she catches on quickly.

  My eyes snap to her desk and land on her phone, which has “Christopher, Brielle” glowing from the digital display. I point to it.

  Her eyes follow and she relaxes a bit, before bringing them back to look at me. “I see… Well, then, um—?”

  “Andrew Mercier. Enchanté,” I finish with a wicked grin.

  She swallows even harder this time, managing just a nod before she continues. “Well, then I suppose we should both get back to work.”

  “Oui. À bientôt,” I say again before turning to leave. Not ‘goodbye’ but ‘see you later,’ though I doubt she understands enough French to know the difference.

  In the elevator back to the floor where the IT department is, I pull out my phone and open an app. There are multiple levels of encryption, all of which I go through to look at the series of pictures and information about the woman that I’ve gradually become obsessed with over the past several months.

  Brielle Christopher.

  I scroll through the photos of her during her daily routines: walking to work, exiting her weekend spin class, indulging in a chocolate croissant, visiting a particular apartment in Brooklyn.

  The camera has captured every stunning feature. Her skin is smooth, brown perfection, like some dark metal, copper or bronze, that’s been flawlessly refined. The hair is a short, straight bob ending just below her oval face, which definitely works for her. The drastic part deep on the right side, forcing most of it over to the left gives her a femme fatale look.