The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  “Because that’s what mothers do. And as your de facto mother I’m telling you, you need to get laid.”

  “What?” I exclaim with a laugh, bringing my head back up and taking another bite of cookie.

  “Am I wrong?” she asks with raised eyebrows. “So who’s this soon-to-be lover of yours?”

  I rest my elbow on the arm of the chair and look off to the side, nibbling on the remainder of my cookie. I can’t stop my mouth from curling up around it with a guilty smile.

  “I know that smile, as rare as it is,” she says with a laugh.

  I pop the last bit into my mouth and finish chewing as I turn my head back to her with a mock scowl. It evolves into a smirk as I swallow. “Okay, yes, he’s cute. No, I can’t date him. He works at Gaultier.”

  “And?”

  “And, the last thing I need is any obstacles, especially now. They don’t specifically have a rule against fraternization, but they don’t condone it either.”

  “But you want to.”

  I stare at her for a moment before breaking down with a laugh. “Fine, yes, I want to. Happy? He’s attractive and sexy in a James Bond sort of way. He’s French as it turns out, which is an interesting touch.”

  “Really?” she replies, eyebrows raised.

  “Mmm-hmm. It’s kinda hot.”

  “Well, I won’t argue with that,” she says with pursed lips and batting eyes. Her French heritage, especially the history of it, has always fascinated me.

  I laugh again before continuing. “And get this, he’s a gymnast, which at first I thought was a little,” I twist my hand back and forth, “but you should have seen what he did today.”

  I look off to the side with wonder, remembering how his muscles strained against his shirt and pants as he lifted himself up from the floor by sheer force.

  In retrospect, it was so…cocky…and obvious…like some high school jock, flexing for a cheerleader. Even when he was standing there with his arms crossed, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was showing off.

  “Absolument.”

  I feel the heat rise in me again, remembering how those eyes of his stared down at me. Brown with tiny flecks of green that I only noticed when he came in so close…

  “Just imagine the masterpiece I could create if I had you to myself all night.”

  “That hot, hmm?” Georgette says, reading my mind.

  I bring my attention back to her, blinking in surprise.

  She’s all but laughing at me, which is irritating, mostly because she can so easily read it all over me.

  “It’s not happening,” I say firmly. “Especially this week. Friday is the big day.”

  Georgette sighs and settles back into her chair. “I should have never told you all those stories about her escape from France. I think I may have influenced you too much.”

  “Are you kidding? It was so inspiring.”

  “Yes, but…” she squints one eye at me and sighs. “Brielle, you’ve always been so serious, such an intense child. Yes, I understand some of the reasons why, and perhaps it was a good thing growing up. It gave you focus, helped you get into Columbia, despite your circumstances. But you’re twenty-seven. Now is the time when you should relax a bit, have some fun while you’re still young. Laugh, smile more—if you only knew what a beauty you are when you do.

  “Life is meant to be enjoyed, filled with as much pleasure as you can cram into it. I’m living proof that it comes at you quickly. You haven’t even begun to sow some of those wild oats I know you have. Brielle, you’re dizzyingly intelligent, drop-dead gorgeous, kind, and considerate. Any man would be lucky to have you.”

  “Which I can work on when this is done.”

  “You mean when you end up in jail?” she retorts, her lips tightening with disapproval.

  “I won’t end up in jail, Georgie. It’s not as though I’m stealing the painting. I’m just…investigating it. It’s rightfully yours, after all. Now that it’s being publicized, they’ll have no choice but to honor your right to it. Especially since we have proof.”

  She sighs. “Perhaps the painting is best left where it’s at. Art should be made available for the public to see, not holed away in some tiny apartment or private vault.”

  “How can you say that?” I ask in surprise. “After all they went through to escape, only to have the same people they were escaping from steal it? At the very least, Gaultier owes you money. Once I prove that it’s yours, he’ll have no choice but to cave.”

  “Brielle,” she says softly. “This painting is my inheritance. I want you to stop this. It won’t end well, no matter what you think. At the very least, I’d hate to see you disappointed. If anything, the stories about her should have warned you. Sometimes evil wins.”

  “The Nazis did lose the war,” I point out.

  “Yes, but at what cost?” she replies, giving me a humorless smile. “Please don’t become part of that tragic history for my sake. If Gaultier is as awful as you seem to portray him, I can only imagine what he’ll do to cover his tracks.”

  “I have to do this,” I say quietly, reaching out for another cookie. “The number of times you and Frank rescued me, when my mother…” I can’t even finish that sentence.

  That bitter pill still leaves a trail of acid in my throat that even the taste of sugar can’t soothe. Sheila Christopher—a woman who will never be called “mom” or “mommy” or any other variation thereof—never wanted a child. I was born to maintain her hold on a man she wanted to keep, only for her to learn the hard way that a baby isn’t the way to do it. Instead, she turned her self-pity inward toward the bottle and her anger outward toward the living remnant of her “biggest mistake.”

  Child support payments from the sperm donor (yet another one who doesn’t deserve any other title) were what kept us in that half-way decent apartment. I never even met the man and, though it was hard at first, I no longer have any desire to at this point. Fortunately, she was never too far gone to forget what a blessing rent control is and dutifully paid the rent on time each month.

  “What we did for you, we would have done for any child,” Georgette says with conviction. “It’s what any adult with a shred of decency would have done. It’s not something that requires compensation or payback or a favor owed.”

  Frank and Georgette lived across the hall from us, a nice older couple I’d often see puttering around in one of the garden plots behind the apartment building, laughing and showing far too many public displays of affection. After one particularly loud and brutal night, Georgie was the one to come banging on the door, announcing that enough was enough, taking me back to her place. From that point on, she made sure their door was always open.

  “Any time, day or night, you just knock on our door if you need to get away, Brielle.”

  I begged them not to call the police or child protective services. I had already experienced the horrors of being taken away and placed into a group home, a strange and awful place with kids that bullied me for getting lost in the world of books. At least with my mother, it was just one person picking on me, and half the time, if I kept my head down, it was nothing worse than bitter grumblings.

  Eventually, Frank and Georgette made the situation permanent, officially moving me into their apartment. They didn’t want to risk going through the system since both of them were already in their fifties by then. My mother not only allowed it, if only to avoid another call to child protective services or the police but welcomed being rid of me for good.

  They are the reason I have some iota of understanding of what the word love is. They are the reason I came out of childhood mostly unscathed. They are the reason I had enough normalcy and enrichment in my life to make it to Columbia University.

  And now Georgette—Frank died three years ago of a heart attack—is the reason I’m going after this painting.

  Georgette stares at me with a keen eye. “There’s nothing I can say that’s going to dissuade you is there?”

  I shake my head
. “No, there isn’t.”

  Chapter Seven

  Andrew

  Ninety-nine, one hundred.

  I rise out of the last push-up by bringing my legs forward into a crouch and jumping up on the balls of my feet. I’ve been doing an intense workout routine and the sweat is finally starting to bead.

  Sexual frustration is a hell of a stimulant.

  I keep my body in peak condition. Despite living in the information age, physicality is surprisingly still a job requirement more often than not. Contorting yourself into impossible spaces. Silently sneaking into rooms. Sometimes simply a matter of being faster than the guy who’s after you. It also plays a role in being attractive enough to seduce the right person while you rob them blind.

  Case in point: Brielle Christopher.

  Being that close to her tonight only reminded me how problematic this job is. She’s supposed to be a target, nothing more.

  Having sex with her is certainly not off the table. Heaven knows I’ve used it to my advantage on more than one occasion in my career. I find out what makes a target itch, then I scratch it to get what I need.

  The job certainly has its perks.

  Sex with someone I have even the slightest feelings for is far more intense—for both parties involved. My mind gets lost in it and everything else but the person I’m with becomes irrelevant. Fortunately, it rarely happens.

  I already know that with Brielle it wouldn’t just be sex. There’s something underneath that hardened facade—the one that keeps her from smiling too often—that I want to get at. I have no idea why she has such a wall built up around her, but I want to smash it away, brick by brick.

  There were a few tiny cracks tonight.

  Happy painting, Andrew.

  My mouth curves into a grin and I shake my head in admiration. Beautiful, intelligent, and witty.

  I wonder what my “employer” would have to say about this genuine attraction. A wry smirk comes to my face at the thought. They would not be amused.

  For a number of reasons.

  Before heading to the bathroom to take a shower, I walk over to my desk in the tiny loft I’ve rented for this job. Brielle’s ID sits next to the laptop and various other devices, ready to be cloned.

  I stare down at her picture on the card. Like most strictly practical headshots, it does a disservice to how she looks in real life. It’s easy enough for me to transpose the authentic version over this plastic one: soft, oval face; the lower lip slightly fuller than her upper lip, round nose with slightly flared nostrils, and those cat eyes gazing right back at me.

  I know Brielle is as attracted to me, at least sexually, as I am to her. I felt it practically oozing from her as I swiped her ID card.

  “I don’t play where I work…”

  A tempting thought, especially now that I no longer need the “job” I have at Gaultier Financial. It may make stealing the painting more difficult, but Brielle is even more of a prize worth going after—even if it means getting fired.

  This morning I wasn’t under her desk to check her computer. I was far more interested in the contents of said desk. I should have known better than to believe she’d be stupid enough to keep what I need from her at work—right under Bernard Gaultier’s nose. Then again, from what little I know of the man, he’d be arrogant, or just plain stupid enough to never suspect her of anything.

  “So where are you hiding it this proof of ownership, Brielle?” I say to myself.

  The next day, I step off the elevator on the seventy-second floor. It’s midday, so I no longer have the option of simply walking to Brielle’s workspace unobserved.

  Instead, I plant a charming grin on my face as I approach the receptionist for the floor.

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” I say, starting off with French which is always a winner on this side of the Atlantic. The young woman dimples accordingly, eyes raking briefly down the length of me that’s visible above her desk.

  “Can I help you?” Eyelids batting.

  “Oui, I’m looking for a Brielle Christopher. Can you direct me to her office?”

  “Brielle?” she giggles, “She doesn’t have an office, not really. Her desk is in front of Mr. Gautier’s office. Just go straight then turn right. His office will be in the corner. You’ll find her at one of the desks in front.”

  “Merci beaucoup,” I say, adding a subtle wink to punctuate the thanks.

  I wander in the direction she gave me, heading to the large, open space in the corner of the floor where four desks sit like guards standing at attention. Each of the women seated at their desks is studiously involved in whatever work they’re doing.

  With the exception of Brielle, who it just so happens isn’t at her desk.

  The attractive woman at the desk opposite hers is the first to notice me. The look is politely professional, but there’s definitely a helping of brazenly sexual telepathy.

  “Well hello, you,” she says with half a smirk and a British accent. “Come to brighten our day?”

  “I’m looking for Brielle Christopher,” I say with the same charming smile I flashed at the receptionist.

  “Brielle is getting coffee,” the blonde in one of the desks nearest Gaultier’s office, chimes in as she drinks me up like a tall glass of water. Again with the batting eyes. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No.”

  She looks a tiny bit put off, straightening in her chair with mild indignation. The fourth woman, probably twice her age, simply frowns at me, apparently not as enthused by the intrusion.

  “Speak of the devil and she doth appear,” the first woman I talked to says, looking past me with a wicked grin.

  I turn to find Brielle staring wide-eyed with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Ah, there you are. I come bearing gifts,” I say, pulling her ID card out of my pocket.

  “Oh my God!” she gasps, quickly setting her coffee down before turning to rescue the card from my hand. “I’ve been looking for this thing all morning. Where did you find it?”

  “You know if you lose your ID card, you’re supposed to report it immediately and obtain a new one with Human Resources, Brielle.” I don’t need to turn around to figure out that one came from the scowler at the desk next to Brielle’s.

  “I know but—”

  “What is going on out here? Was there a party I wasn’t invited to? This is an office environment Brielle, not a beauty salon. I expect quiet unless it’s business related, and even then in professional tone.”

  That voice does get me to turn around.

  Bernard Gaultier.

  The pictures I’ve seen of him do him too much justice. In real life, he’s a little doughier, a little more balding, and a little more petulant. The icy gaze is the same though.

  “I was just returning something to Miss Christopher,” I explain, making sure to stress the formal address.

  “And this necessitated five minutes of chatter?”

  “Not at all,” I say graciously. “I just don’t believe in being rude.”

  He narrows his gaze, just barely reading the insult there.

  I decide to help him along.

  “Pardon me,” I say in French, bowing slightly, just enough to have a mocking bite to it. “I will leave you to your kingdom, your majesty.”

  Now, there’s a hard edge to his eyes, like icicles with razor sharp points.

  “I’m not a king, but I am the president, CEO, and more importantly, your boss,” he replies in perfect French, his tone matching his gaze as he notes the Gaultier Financial ID hanging from my waistband. “As such, I expect the same amount of respect as a king.”

  “Ah,” I say, feigning surprise at his fluency. I’ve done my research on Bernard as well. Then, any hint of humor in my expression disappears. I make sure my gaze is perfectly level, meeting his with a hard look as I reply. “You might want to reconsider that idea. The last king from my country didn’t fare so well. I’m sure you’re familiar with the history. That is w
hat happens when kings don’t treat their subjects with proper respect.”

  I hear a soft gasp next to me from the woman who sits across from Brielle. So she understood everything I said then. That’s certain to add a bit more color to the bruise Bernard’s ego just received.

  “Again, my apologies,” I say, now in English, plastering a smile on my face. “I will leave you to your silence.”

  I turn and go before he can comment further.

  I give the perfectly stunned Brielle a wink and a grin as I pass by. Her only response is to blink in surprise, which is to be expected—even someone who doesn’t know French can translate Bernard’s reaction. It’s not every day that someone so spectacularly crashes and burns during their first week on the job.

  A part of me almost relishes the shit that’s about to rain down on me.

  It’ll be worth it.

  Chapter Eight

  Brielle

  I stand there like an idiot in the wake of that—that whatever it was. Gaultier stares me down, making me feel like David against Goliath, but without the slingshot to defend myself. The only thing in my hand is my, until now, lost ID card.

  “In my office now,” he says, transferring that hardened glacial gaze that was just on Andrew to me.

  When he turns around, I quickly glance at Yasmine, who still seems in awe. I’ll have to ask her later on what they were saying—if I still have a job, that is.

  Becca is sucking in her lips to keep from smiling, but her eyes gleam from being witness to such excitement, especially with me at the center of it. I don’t even bother looking in Sonia’s direction, but hell if I don’t feel the judgment waft toward me like the wind over a manure farm.

  “Close the door,” Gaultier says in a terse tone as he rounds his desk.

  I close the door and face him. I know better than to sit down, at least until asked, so I stand there debating whether or not I should immediately go on the defensive or wait until I’m addressed.