The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  “Trust me, when we get there, it will all make sense.”

  I can see it’s a hill he’s intent on dying on so I sigh and nod.

  My stomach is in knots once again as I go through customs, but it turns out to be just as uneventful as JFK was, perhaps even easier.

  A driver is waiting for us as soon as we exit customs. The ride is mostly in silence, me looking out the window at a city I’ve never been to, despite my fascination with some of its former residents.

  We stop at an apartment building in a charming neighborhood.

  “What is this place?” I ask, looking up at the beautiful architecture I’ve seen in so many photos of this city—this one perhaps a bit more upscale.

  “Let’s go in,” is his only response.

  I look around as he unlocks the door. The relatively quiet treelined street has similar buildings on either side almost as far as the eye can see, all of them pristine, off-white structures with iron Juliet balconies.

  There’s a tiny elevator to take us up to the top floor where André once again has the key to unlock the door. I’m surprised to find the large apartment bare of any furniture. Despite this, it looks vaguely like a lot of very upscale Parisian apartments I’ve seen in films and interior decor magazines. White walls contrasted with dark parquet flooring in a chevron pattern. Large windows looking out at the Paris skyline. The rooms are large, which is to be expected considering what the neighborhood looks like.

  I wander around the many rooms and André lets me roam for a while as he stands in the open foyer watching me.

  “What is this place?” I finally ask, once my awe has subsided a bit.

  “Suis-moi,” he says, nodding to the hallway behind him and turning to walk that way.

  It’s only now that I note how somber he’s been since our fight in the bathroom. No teasing smirks or wittily seductive words. I almost miss the old Andrew.

  Almost.

  There are still a lot of answers to be had.

  He leads me into a room with built-in bookshelves, either a library or office or study of some sort.

  “Okay,” I say slowly, allowing my eyes to wander around. “So…what is this?”

  “This apartment was where Victor, Adeline, and Charles lived before World War II. This room was Victor Ardant’s study.” He walks toward a bare wall. “And this was where Noémie hung.”

  My eyes widen as I stare at the blank space, almost picturing the large painting filling it. I walk over, ignoring how close he is to me as I stare up at the flat, white surface. There isn’t even a tell-tale impression of a hole where a nail or some other hanging device would be.

  I twist my head to face him in confusion. “How do you even know all of this?”

  His expression is as somber as I’ve ever seen it when he answers.

  “I know all this because it was where he tried to kill great-grandmother, right here in this room.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  André

  The confusion on her face is no surprise. Neither is the speechlessness. I’m sure what I’ve just revealed has led to plenty of questions. I decide to start answering them in my own way. Mostly, because what I have to say will only lead to more questions than answers.

  “It wasn’t Noémie, it was Marie.”

  The crease of bewilderment in her brow only deepens. “Marie…Marie,” she says, shaking her head slowly as if to loosen the name from the cracks of her memory. Her eyes suddenly widen. “The woman who…?”

  “Yes, who lived with them.”

  “Who also ratted Noémie to the Nazis?”

  I nod, feeling my jaw tighten.

  “And she’s your great-grandmother,” she says in a way that sounds more like she’s repeating a statement rather than asking for confirmation.

  “She is.”

  She inhales and her gaze narrows on me. “So all of that talk about Noémie was just bullish-“

  “Noémie is also my great-grandmother.”

  “Well, that’s quite the coincidence,” she says with a deadpan face.

  “Non,” I say, shaking my head. “No coincidence.”

  “Really?” she asks with a look of sarcastic surprise on her face. “So out of all the French people in all of France, your parents just happened to not only meet each other, but fall in love?”

  “No,” I say patiently. “It was planned.”

  “The meeting or the love? Considering the son they produced, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was both.”

  That one stings a bit, but for the moment it’s what I deserve.

  “You know what?” she says before I can even begin. “I don’t care. Not any more. I don’t care about Noémie or Marie, or Victor, or…you! None of it explains why you did what you did. Why you took Georgette away from me. Why you betrayed me like that. Why you even dropped into my life in the first place.”

  I stare at her eyes, burning with fury, and breathe out one long slow breath. My hands are tight fists in my pants pockets and I exhale a soft laugh as I walk over to the window next to the one she’s standing by to look out on the street.

  “There is so much to say. I had all of this planned out for a very long time. How I was going to tell you and in what order.” I pause before continuing, still staring at the people walking down below us. My eyes focus on a little girl wearing round glass and a miniature trench coat, arms crossed and a frown on her face, feet planted firmly in place as she stubbornly defies her exasperated mother. I smile since the scene makes me think of Brielle, though I’m not sure if it’s the mother or the daughter.

  “But nothing goes according to plan, does it? I didn’t plan on many things, first and foremost,” I finally turn to face her, “eventually feeling the way I did about you. I should have known from the first photos I saw of you that this job would be different.”

  The righteous anger in her eyes dampens a little, so slight that only someone who was studying her as hard as I am would see it.

  “That night, after I first met Georgette, we were being followed.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Non,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “This part has to be done my way.”

  She’s silent but angry, arms crossed, brow furrowed, frown on her face, just like the little girl outside. But the woman standing before me is wearing a dress that definitely highlights the fact that she’s no little girl. I force my mind back to the seriousness of the moment.

  “It was someone from the Werwolf Order.”

  Her brow furrows even more, this time with suspicion. “How do you know this?”

  “I know because he told me…right before I killed him.”

  She takes a step back, reeling at this news.

  “You…killed a man?” she asks.

  “I had to. I knew it was only a matter of time before they sent another. That’s why I framed you.”

  “What?” she seethes, finally finding her voice. “That’s your excuse? You wanted to save me? Of all the ridiculous, completely unbelievable—”

  “I know these people, Elle.” The name sounds strange and foreign on my lips, mostly because I’ve spent two years with the name Brielle etched into my brain. “I had to reassure them that you either wouldn’t or couldn’t go after the painting…all while keeping you out of harm’s way. Prison was better than death, no?”

  She’s completely unmoved. “I don’t know exactly where your mind is at, but if you’re going to make something up, at least be realistic. Secret Orders, which, to be honest, didn’t even make sense the first time you mentioned them? Assassins? The idea that both Noémie and Marie are your great-grandmothers? You had your chance to explain and you blew it, Andrew…André, whatever your name is.”

  “Why else would I frame you, Brielle?” feeling my anger begin to bob to the surface.

  “Elle,” she snaps.

  “Elle,” I repeat, pausing to collect myself. “Do you really think that lowly of me? Do you think I’d send you to prison over a fucking paintin
g? Despite everything that happened between us?”

  “It was one night, don’t make more of it than it was.”

  “One night was enough for me,” I say, giving her a direct look.

  She swallows, but her eyes are still brewing vats of anger. “For me, eighteen months was enough to overshadow it. All the more so since you made me miss Georgie’s final days.”

  “And how do you think her last days would have been knowing you had been killed, all because of something you were doing only for her?”

  That silences her, eyes filled with guilt and lingering resentment.

  I stare at her, allowing it to sink in.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks quietly. “I spent eighteen months hating you more than anyone else on Earth.”

  “I thought about it a million times, but…I would have rather had you mad at me than constantly looking over your shoulder wondering if someone was trying to kill you. I took care of things on my end; I also took care of things on yours as well. You were always protected.”

  She now has a look of doubtful resentment on her face.

  “So be mad at me, but you will listen,” I continue.

  Her head snaps back in surprise. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  I close the distance between us. “I’m the man still trying to save your life, you stubborn woman.” It comes out harsher than I intend and now her fury is more like a volcano ready to erupt. “If you want to yell and scream and hit me, do it, but—”

  The slap comes before I even register the movement of her arm. The sting of it only causes my own emotions to boil over.

  “Again,” I order.

  Her eyes flicker in surprise and the crease in her brow deepens. But she obeys me.

  The sting of this slap is like a hot poker, stoking the fires of my need. I move in closer until she’s backed into the window, too close for her to slap me with any impact.

  Instead, she uses her claws, digging into the white fabric of my dress shirt. The slight pain is like fuel on a campfire.

  “Don’t,” she warns as I lean in closer. “I told you I’d bite your—”

  “So bite,” I say, pressing my lips into hers.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Elle

  His lips should taste like vinegar, but all I sense is the spicy, bitter, sweet flavor that makes me think of licorice—the kind of candy acceptable to only some palates, the kind for which one develops an acquired taste.

  And I’ve had two years for my palate to mature.

  It tastes too delicious to be good for me, something I shouldn’t want so bad. The gluttony growing inside, begging for more disgusts me. I’ve spent too long hating this man with a passion that was sometimes maddening. And yet…there were nights, long after the lights went out in prison, that I revisited that one night. The one that shouldn’t mean as much as it does.

  Despite the turmoil in my brain, my lips react, giving André all the leeway he needs to rip my resistance away. His mouth works its delicious magic against mine. His firm grip takes hold of the back of my neck, reminding me of that kiss under Noemie’s watchful gaze the moment she was unveiled. His hard body pressed into mine strokes the basest part of me that’s so easily impressed with his gymnastic stupid pet tricks. The hardening dick pressed into my stomach just fuels the more animal part of me that wants desperately to be fucked.

  Two years is a long time.

  I bite the tongue that invades my mouth, hard enough to hurt but not draw blood. André’s growl is like that of a wolf’s, angry and predatory.

  Werwolf Order.

  Despite my claims, and how absurd his confession was, I do believe him. My life has been so turned around since he stepped foot into it, how could I not?

  There will be time for more explanation later.

  “I hate you,” I mutter against his forceful mouth, belying the words as my hips grind against his.

  “So hate me,” he commands.

  The way André responds in the wake of that makes me wonder if he’s gone without sex for the past two years as well. The hand gripping the back of my neck drags down my sides along with the other to grab the skirt of my dress. They bunch it up until I feel his fingertips against my skin, fingernails scratching up my thighs to access my underwear.

  My own hands are just as eager, forcing their way between our sandwiched bodies to undo his fly. My underwear is far enough down my thighs to fall to the floor. I do a quick jig to step out of them as I force his pants and boxer briefs down past his ass.

  I barely have a chance to reminisce at how wonderful his cock is—so much better than those imaginary late night trips down memory lane—before his hands are back underneath my dress, fiercely gripping my ass.

  I use the edge of the floor-length window to help launch myself up into his arms, legs firmly around his waist. I arch my back, gasping at the feel of the glass against my upper back and bare shoulders. André finishes the move by bucking his hips up to penetrate me.

  Laughter bubbles from my lips after literally sighing with relief. It feels so damn good! André fills a void inside me that has been longing for this since I first vowed to get my revenge on him. I hate myself for admitting how much I’ve craved it, not just the physical act, but the man performing it.

  “Brielle,” he groans in my ear.

  “Elle,” I hiss, enjoying the fact that I have a reason to be angry at him all over again.

  “Non,” he growls. “Tu es Brielle.”

  He bucks his hips, just to reinforce the point. The glass behind me shakes, which only adds to the excitement of the moment. My muddled mind, lost in the pleasure running through my body, erodes all ideas of revenge, hate, and anger.

  For the moment, at least.

  “Dis moi tu veux ça,” he growls with an urgent undertone.

  I have no idea what he’s said and I don’t care.

  “Fuck me harder,” I hiss, mostly to get the last word in.

  Nothing is lost in translation on his end. André eagerly accommodates me, forcing my body back into the glass as his massive dick slips in and out, reaching every damn spot that’s been longing for this.

  As the pleasure in me intensifies, the tension in my mind and body releases. It’s like a teapot, the build-up of steam letting loose as the fire underlying it grows hotter.

  “Don’t stop,” I urge, wanting him to go on forever even as I feel my first orgasm climb to its apex.

  “Jamias,” he whispers.

  My head bangs hard against the glass, but the pain is far overshadowed by the intense pleasure that consumes me as I come.

  I feel André’s body go tense beneath me and I sink down as far as possible, wanting to feel every single part of his climax inside of me. When he erupts, I fall back into the glass, arching my back again so that my groin is pressed into his.

  My eyes wander around the room behind him, reminding me where I am. We’re here in Victor’s study, his apartment. Here, where so many people had their lives turned upside down.

  When André finishes, he falls into me and I feel myself instinctively cradling my arms around him. The feel of his chest rising and falling into my breasts is oddly comforting. My mind fights the battle with my emotions, wanting to push him away. For some reason, my arms only grip tighter.

  “I still hate you,” I whisper, knowing it’s only a half-truth at this point.

  “Et je t’aime.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  André

  “What?” she cries out, releasing me from her embrace—which was even better than the sex before it—and pushing me away.

  I think about the seed I just filled her with, completely unprotected this time, and it causes a rush of territorial possessiveness inside of me. I hold on tighter until her struggle becomes insistent and I let her go.

  “You don’t get to say that,” she protests, bending over to pull up the panties she’s just stepped back into.

  I rearrange my own clothes as I cons
ider what I’ve just said.

  Je t’aime. Words that don’t need a translation. It was said in the heat of the moment, but looking at the raw emotion on her face, I feel it swell in me once again. That obsession these past two years, concern for her safety over even my own—which has been dangerously precarious, to say the least—has finally come to its obvious conclusion.

  Which means I have no choice but to tell her the whole truth.

  “It’s not fair, not after what you did, no matter what the reasons. This? What just happened? It was nothing more than a quick release, something to satisfy my basic needs. And don’t lie and say it wasn’t the same for you.”

  “It wasn’t the same for me.”

  She glares at me, wanting me to take back the words—all of them. But now that they’ve been exposed, I can’t. I won’t.

  “I have to tell you the rest.”

  Instead of throwing that back in my face, she seems to melt, falling back into the window that I just fucked her against and looking at me with an exhausted expression on her face. “Why do you do this? Twist things around, shift gears in the hopes that I’ll forget what I was just angry about?”

  “It’s not a trick or ploy. You deserve to know everything, including the parts I don’t want to reveal.”

  She just stares at me, but I can see the flicker of interest in her eyes. “There’s more?” she says in a dry tone.

  I exhale and look around the room. “This room is where Victor Ardant tried to kill Marie, my great-grandmother. It’s also the room where she eventually did kill him.”

  When my gaze comes back to Brielle—I’ll use the name Elle when I’m speaking to protect her, but she’ll always be Brielle in my mind—her rapt attention has superseded any of her emotions.

  “It was the day that he learned she had exposed Noémie to the Nazis as both a Jew and a conspirator against the occupation.” I feel a wry smile come to my face. “Both true as it turns out, but hardly her reasons for doing it. She was in love with Victor.”