The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  I smile as I hear the sound of the water begin to spray, then I scramble off the bed to join him.

  We’re already naked, so there’s nothing to take off. I briefly consider throwing a shower cap offered by the hotel over my hair but decide to live dangerously instead. Over the past twenty-four hours, I’ve already loosened up from the staunchly reserved Brielle I usually am. What’s a little water on the hair that’s already a hot mess?

  I actually giggle—giggle!—as I join Andrew in the shower. When he pulls me in and I’m surrounded by those perfectly sculpted fan-gymnast-tastic muscles I feel giddy—giddy!

  The warm water falls on us, sliding from his broad shoulders down to mine, dripping from his soaking hair that now falls into his eyes and into my hair.

  I pull away to look up at him—really digging the way he looks wet—and smile. “So you know all about me, what about you?”

  He grins and reaches out for the shower gel. “What is it you’d like to know Mademoiselle Christopher?”

  “What do you do when you’re not stealing paintings?”

  He squeezes some of the gel and the scent of it mixes with the growing steam, adding an exotic aroma to the sex-tinged atmosphere.

  “Insurance salesman,” he says with a straight face.

  “No,” I retort, trying to read his face to see if it’s true.

  He breaks out into a grin, then laughs. I slap him on the chest.

  “Really,” I insist. “I want to know about you.”

  “You do?” he says, rubbing the gel into my back. The firm, slow circles are enough to ease my mild irritation. “Does…international man of intrigue suit you?”

  “No,” I sass.

  He laughs again then shrugs. “There is no…what you call a day job? This is what I do.”

  “Just…steal things?” I ask, my eyes wide with wonder.

  “It’s a very lucrative endeavor.”

  “So when you do your taxes…?”

  “Freelance cleaner,” he says with a wicked grin. It’s enough to make me laugh. His hands are enough to make me drop the subject.

  I reach around his back to grab hold of the gel. After squeezing some into my hands, I go to work on those muscles I was so entranced by just a few minutes ago. They feel even better than they look. My fingers glide along, up and down, like skates over elongated speed bumps.

  As Andrew’s hands creep lower and lower, I mimic the movements with my own. I pull my head away to match the wicked grin I see blazing down at me as his hands easily slip down between my thighs.

  Mine come around to the space between us to take hold of the cock hardening against my stomach. The way it fills my hand, thick and firm and veiny, forces me to grip tightly just to hold on. My fingertips don’t even meet as I slide up and down. God bless a man who gives me something to work with.

  Then again…

  Lust. One of the seven mortal no-nos. As though that was the worst of our crimes. I think of Yasmine’s words to me that day Andrew got fired: be bad.

  If she only knew.

  We’re two sinners, delving even deeper into the depths damnation with this bit of carnal exploration. The symbolism between what’s in my hand and the snake that started it all, at least in the Bible, is too…silly yet apt to keep me from laughing.

  “Should I be offended?” Andrew asks with one eyebrow cocked.

  “I was just thinking how much like a snake your dick is.”

  “An anaconda I hope.”

  “Too small a comparison,” I say with a grin as I continue to stroke.

  His gaze is intense. “I like you when you’re silly,” he breathes, trying to keep his growing climax in check as I stroke faster. “I like you even better when you’re being fucked crazy.”

  My hands stall.

  His hands get to work. They suddenly grip my ass, holding on tight to fight against the slick lather of the gel. As he lifts me up, I bring my legs around his waist. The ridge of his member is pressed against my throbbing clit and I groan with a mixture of pain and pleasure.

  Andrew punishes me, gliding the slick ridge of his dick up and down the exposed nub, snaking his body side to side like the serpent I just compared him to. No wonder the first humans were warned against the pleasures of the flesh. A girl could go permanently insane feeling so much at once.

  He lifts me higher and I follow his lead. His eyes take hold of mine, the green in them like a hundred tiny emeralds blazing under dazzling lights.

  “Oui?”

  Some things transcend language barriers.

  Yes, I give you permission.

  Yes, I want it as much as you do.

  Yes—and most importantly—I’m on birth control.

  “It’s okay,” I breathe before arching my back to lift my hips.

  We work in sync, my hips lowering and his thrusting up. The first feel of him is like a shock to the system. As prepared as I was, and frankly wetter than this shower, it still feels like a complete intrusion, as though this one part of him is taking over my entire body.

  Take me…

  I don’t know how he manages to keep a firm foothold underneath the spray of water and foamy suds that swirl around the tub toward the drain. Just one of Andrew’s many talents.

  I bite my lip, holding back the glee that seizes me at being so fucking reckless. Letting him kiss me in front of everyone at the event. Running away with him to a hotel just for sex. Conspiring with him to steal the painting. Opening up a part of my life that I haven’t told a soul. And now this, this wet and wild adventure, skin to skin, no obstructions, one misstep away from both of us crashing to the hard surface of the tub.

  The danger is what pushes me past the point.

  “Andrew!” I groan, feeling it come.

  I curl my fingers so that my nails digging into his slippery skin. He pushes me back into the wall, forcing the air out of my lungs as he continues to thrust his hips. My mouth falls open, collecting the rainfall of water that bounces off his head. I spit it out with an exhale.

  I cry out, feeling my claws finally break skin. Something about it is symbolic, but hell if my dizzying recovery can figure it out.

  That thought is erased as I feel him stiffen underneath me—as if the man could be any harder!—before groaning my name into the tile next to my ear.

  We both stay that way, recovering under the shower. By now all the soap is gone along with any hint of that manufactured, exotic aroma. What surrounds us now is raw and natural…primal.

  Andrew’s pulls back with a wicked grin to stare at me in a way that makes me feel deliciously filthy despite the shower we’ve just taken.

  “Tu es très vilaine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Andrew

  “I want you to meet Georgette. Today.”

  We’re getting dressed at a leisurely pace. Brielle is just now shimmying into her gown from last night, which makes the suggestion particularly lurid.

  Tu es très vilaine

  Naughty girl, indeed.

  She wears it well.

  “Already I get to meet the mother. I thought that was a final step in this country,” I tease.

  She smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Technically, she’s your…half…cousin…once removed? Twice removed? I think you need a math degree to figure it out. But at any rate, don’t you want to meet her?”

  “Of course. After all, I am stealing a painting for her.”

  “Don’t tell her about that!” Brielle says, her eyes going wide. “She…has enough on her plate to worry about that.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  She breathes a sigh of relief, which makes me wonder what exactly is on Georgette Howard’s plate.

  “So, we get your purse, walk back to your place to change, then…I suppose take Georgette to lunch?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  I grin at her enthusiasm. Georgette Howard must be some woman to bring about this sort of joy in the woman who’s usually so serious.

 
“Do you mind waiting here outside? I’d rather the security guards not see us walk in together dressed like this.”

  The walk from the hotel hasn’t been too bad since the Financial District on the weekend, even at noon, isn’t too crowded.

  “I’ll just wait here,” I say, which earns me a grateful smile.

  It’ll be bad enough walking in obviously wearing the same clothes from last night. Combining that with a man, still wearing last night’s tuxedo is a recipe for gossip.

  Not having her ID card, she has to press the intercom to be buzzed into the lobby on the weekend. By now, I know the ritual since it’s part of my plan for stealing the painting.

  A tiny prick of guilt hits me at how I planned on using her ID not only to get into the building but into the gallery as well. She was one of the few people with that kind of clearance level who also just happen to be vying for the same painting I was after. Last night’s actions should eliminate any threat to her. At least now I can easily erase any evidence of either Brielle or her ID card from the system.

  I’m working out the logistics in my head when something in my periphery catches my attention. I snap my eyes in that direction, but all I see is a large group of Asian tourists.

  Still…there was something or someone there who didn’t fit.

  I stare hard trying to register what it was the subliminal part of my mind noted. My intuition has rarely failed me, saving me from many a sticky situation in the past. I consider it one of my most valuable assets and right now it’s signaling one thing: danger.

  My mind immediately zeros in on the only thing it could be: the Werwolf Order. I was mostly telling the truth when I explained their interest in the painting to Brielle. The ties to the Nazis are just too much of a liability, no matter how much Bernard Gaultier has cleaned the provenance. At part of me now even wonders if he is tied to the Werwolf Order and simply wants all traces of the painting gone—while still collecting the insurance money.

  It’s also true that once the painting is stolen, disappearing back into the void of the black market underworld, they will move on to other priorities. Notoriety is exactly what they are trying to avoid.

  So, what is it that I just saw?

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” Brielle says, waving an arm around her apartment as I walk in behind her.

  I have already seen it, of course. It’s one of the first places I searched to find out what evidence she had to support her claim to the painting.

  It’s a minimalist but sophisticated look, with just a hint of femininity. Mostly grays and neutral colors, the occasional bits of powder blue mixed in. Considering how much time she spends at Gaultier Financial, I’m not surprised at the lack of sentimental touches. The large case filled with books and the picture by her nightstand are the few things that keep it from looking too sterile. Suffice it to say, it was easy to search.

  “It’s nice,” I say, looking around as if for the first time.

  “I’ll be quick,” she says, escaping to the bedroom. “Georgie isn’t hung up on appearances, so you’ll be fine.”

  Without the bowtie—which is balled up in my pocket—the tuxedo doesn’t look formal enough to raise eyebrows on a casual Saturday.

  Brielle comes back out in a light blue sundress that tones down the formality even more when she’s by my side. She’s brushed her hair up into a twist and reapplied makeup.

  “Ready?” she asks with bright eyes.

  “Of course,” I say. The anticipation of meeting Georgette almost outshines the worry eating at me regarding what I sensed while I was waiting for Brielle to exit the Gaultier Building.

  Almost.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Brielle

  “So, I finally get to meet the infamous gymnast!” Georgette says from one of the armchairs in her living room. After changing, I had called and told her I was bringing Andrew over so we could have a late lunch.

  He shoots Georgette one of his most wicked grins and reaches out to take her hand. “You must be Georgette. Enchante.”

  Smooth.

  “Hmm, any French my mother taught me is a bit rusty these days, but I can read that grin. I also know a come on when I hear it,” she says with a playful smirk.

  Andrew laughs, then deliberately becomes serious, apologetically placing one hand over his heart. “Je suis désolé.”

  “Don’t you dare say sorry,” she replies, slapping her hand his way. She gives him a coy smirk. “I need a little seduction in my life.”

  “Georgie!” I say, coughing out a sharp laugh.

  “And don’t you Georgie me,” she sasses my way, then turns her kittenish smile back to Andrew. “So, where is it we’re going for this date of ours?”

  She shifts in her chair and I’m probably the only one to note the tiny grimace as one pain or another makes her pay for it.

  “We were going to go to this place Andrew suggested, but we’re fine staying here and ordering something in.”

  She gives me a slightly chastising but reassuring smile. “Nonsense, it isn’t every day a woman my age gets taken out on the town by a young, handsome Frenchman.” She bats her eyes at Andrew once again, and I laugh.

  “Okay then, I guess we’re going out.”

  “Yes, we are,” she confirms with a firm nod.

  Andrew orders the Uber and heads down to wait for it while I help Georgette slowly and painfully to the elevator along with her walker.

  “I was wondering who this man was that managed to draw your focus away from that painting,” she says with a teasing smile. “Now that I’ve met him, I can certainly see why.”

  “I haven’t given up on the painting,” I say, rolling my eyes as we finally reach the elevator. “In fact, now that I’ve seen Noémie in person, or at least the painting, I’m even more determined than ever.”

  I nibble on my lower lip as I reach out to push the down button for the elevator. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve lied to Georgie—what child hasn’t lied to their parents?—but there’s no way I’m telling her about Andrew’s offer to steal the painting rather than go my route of trying legal means.

  I can’t tell if it’s to protect her…or Andrew.

  The elevator arrives and I snap out of that line of thought, not particularly enjoying the direction it’s leading my mind down. I find Georgette giving me a knowing smile.

  “What?” I say, feigning surprise.

  She throws her head back and laughs. “He really has done a number on you. You think I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “I don’t,” I say, following her into the car. “And he hasn’t ‘done a number on me,’” I insist, hoping that’s the end of it.

  I should have known better. Georgette has a penchant for insisting on being the final word on the matter, especially when she “knows” she’s right.

  This time, I’m not so sure she isn’t.

  “You only get that look on your face that I just saw when you’ve found a new something—or someone—to obsess over.”

  “Oh, good grief! I’m not obsessed with Andrew, he’s just…” I say, feeling my face get warm.

  “Handsome. Charming. Sexy.”

  “Georgie!” I say with a short laugh.

  She laughs. “Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret.”

  “There’s nothing to keep secret,” I say, at this point just maintaining the facade to keep it playful…or maybe to encourage her to keep convincing me that what I’m just beginning to feel really is something worth becoming obsessed over.

  The elevator doors open and we’re both still laughing. Through the glass doors outside I can see Andrew standing by the idling Uber car. He cocks his head to the side with an amused smirk as he watches us slowly make our way toward him.

  He opens the back door for us, but Georgette immediately goes to work. “Oh, no, no, no. I’ll take the front seat, thank you very much.”

  I roll my eyes but don’t say anything. Andrew catches it a
ll the same. He opens the front passenger side door and folds her walker. After the driver pops the trunk so he can store it there, he slides in next to me.

  “You two make sure you don’t behave yourselves back there.”

  Andrew laughs, and I just hide my smile and shake my head.

  It’s going to be a long drive.

  From the outside, the only indication that Amélie is a place to eat is the quaint, red awning with the name in yellow. Inside, it looks like a proper wine bar with some mid-century retro touches, somehow making it look hip and modern.

  “Oh, my,” Georgette admires, looking around. “This is nice.”

  It’s afternoon, and the place is half-full. As we take a table near the front window, I can hear the staff talking French with one another.

  Georgette takes a seat nearest the window. I slide in next to her and Andrew sits in the seat facing her. I have to admire his confidence in that.

  “Very authentic, I see,” Georgette says, looking around. “Not that I’ve ever been to France.”

  “Is that so?” Andrew says, feigning complete ignorance about her past. As far as she knows, he’s just a man I met at work and decided to take him up on a date. She’s far too inquisitive for me to open the door a notch on how I well I really know Andrew. Georgette would be the type to easily swing it wide open.

  “All the more surprising since my mother grew up in Paris just before the war, World War II. She had to leave and never really like to talk much about her time there. It’s a long and drawn out tale, really. And certainly not the sort of thing I’ll bore you with on a date.”

  “Nonsense, Georgie,” I say, touching her arm.

  “I’m already fascinated,” Andrew says at the same time.

  Georgette looks back and forth between the two of us, already catching on to a bit of conspiracy happening.

  The waiter comes by before she can say anything about it. We ask for a moment to look at the menu. When he comes back, we make our orders: a cheese plate and white wine flight for me, a Parisienne omelette and red wine for Andrew, and a watercress salad and white wine for Georgette.