French Twist

by Roxanne St Claire

  The phone persisted.

  With a shaking hand she lifted the receiver, half expecting a creepy warning and heavy breathing.

  “Janine?” Szha-neen.

  The sound of his voice nearly undid her, a sob choking her. “Oh, my God, Luc.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My room. Someone’s…been…here.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right there. I’m in the lobby.”

  She dropped the receiver, staring at the scars in the mattress and imagining what kind of weapon could do such destruction. Who would do this? Why?

  Thank God he’d called her.

  I’m in the lobby.

  What the hell was he doing there?

  “Sacré Dieu.”

  Janine jumped at the sound of his voice.

  Luc stood in the doorway, a scowl darkening his expression as he stared at the mess. He closed the space between them in two strides. “Are you all right?”

  She hugged herself and nodded, not trusting her voice. He folded her into his chest and murmured soothingly in French. She gave in to the comfort of his embrace, then looked over his shoulder. “What—what’s on my dress?”

  He followed her gaze, breaking their contact and walking slowly to the closet. “Merde,” he muttered, taking the fabric in his hands. “That fucking bastard.”

  The last curse was decidedly not French. “What is it? Who are you talking about?”

  He yanked the dress off the hanger and rolled it into a ball, tossing it angrily on the floor. “Rien,” he spat.

  “Nothing?” She choked on the lump of fear still blocking her throat. “It doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

  “Someone is trying to scare you, Janine.”

  “With a child’s drawing of…” The realization kicked her in the chest. “A scorpion?”

  “Something like that.” He turned to her. “We’ve got to get you out of here. I’ll contact security and have the room taken care of.”

  “But—but the gala. I have to be there in an hour.”

  “You can change in my room. I have one here for the night.”

  “Wait just a second.” She held up two hands and resisted the urge to stamp her foot in frustration. “What the hell is going on?” Squeezing her eyes shut, she remembered the vases. “And why aren’t the real Plums on display?”

  “No.” He shook his head and looked around the room. “Not now, certainly.”

  “Why? What does this have to do with it? Was somebody here looking for the vases? And what about that scorpion?” She pointed to the dress on the floor. “What does that mean? Wasn’t that guy caught and killed years ago?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Yes. He’s dead. This is…” He closed his eyes and sighed. “This is someone doing a damn poor imitation. Whoever did this is an idiot who knows nothing about…nothing.”

  He enclosed her hands in his large, warm fingers. “You must listen to me, Janine. The president of France will not know the difference. No one will, except you and me. And one or two others in the room, whom you won’t even realize are there.”

  Frustration burned in her. Nothing made sense. Not this invasion of her room, not having fake vases on display for the gala, not his nonexplanations.

  “After tonight,” he said, “I promise that only the real Plums will be on display. And you can move them back into the Hall.”

  She couldn’t fight with this force of a man right now. She just had to get through this night. Taking a step back, her gaze traveled over the magnificent tuxedo he wore.

  “God damn it,” she muttered. “Now what’ll I wear?”

  “Don’t you have another gown?”

  She looked over his shoulder, into the far recess of the closet. The plastic dress bag hung untouched. Somehow, the intruder had missed it. Then she closed her eyes and blew out a breath of pure defeat. “Yeah. I have one.”

  Luc took Janine to his room, avoiding her questions with vague answers, grateful that the impending gala demanded her focus and attention.

  “All right,” she told herself, as she dropped her purse on the bed and carried a small tote bag into the bathroom. “I can do this.”

  “Of course you can,” he agreed, hanging her dress bag over a chair. “It won’t do any good to lose your focus tonight, Janine.” Nor for him. At the first signal, he would have to move instantly.

  Through his peripheral vision, he could see her in the doorway of the bathroom, pulling a brush and hair dryer from a bag. In less than two seconds, he opened the purse she’d left on the bed and removed the room key that he’d seen her drop into a side pocket. Then he turned back into his closet, took a small leather satchel, and hustled to the door.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour, Janine. Is that enough time for you to dress?”

  She stepped out of the bathroom and touched the dress bag, a strange look on her face. “Yes. That’ll be fine.”

  Closing the door firmly behind him, he slipped down the stairwell and back to her room. Using her card key, he let himself in.

  Something was very wrong with this picture. He didn’t put anything past Karim Benazir’s hired hands, but this just didn’t fit the pattern of the last few weeks. Scooping up the black dress from the floor, he stuffed it into the bag. He checked the door that adjoined the next room to make sure it was locked. Then, in the hall, he pulled out a tiny screwdriver and slid it into the lock, scraping the card-reading mechanism. He slipped the Ne Pas Déranger sign on the door and left. No one would—or could—disturb this crime scene now.

  In the parking garage, he hid the satchel in the trunk of his Alpha and flipped open his cell phone. At Tristan’s curt greeting, he cleared his throat and put on the rich New England accent that he saved for the control freak FBI agent, just because it pissed him off to no end. “You need to get some housekeeping done in Janine Coulter’s room at the Trianon.”

  “What happened?”

  “She had guests. You don’t want hotel security on this. Get her another room for tonight. I won’t be able to take care of her.”

  He disconnected without waiting for a response. They never bothered with the slightest formality. It wasn’t an attempt to be covert, and it sure wasn’t because of the years they’d played rugby, swapped homework, and cut school together. They were both just too honest to pretend they felt anything but gut-level loathing for one another, no matter how badly they needed each other.

  He gave Janine enough time to shower and dress and put on whatever makeup a woman that beautiful would think she’d need, then knocked lightly on his hotel room door before he entered.

  She’d been staring out the window but turned at the sound, her pale hair flowing like a drape of satin over her arms. It left her bare shouldered and swathed in white. A goddess, in every sense of the word.

  The white material clung to her, tight enough to hug the womanly swell of her breasts and sheer enough for a man’s imagination to easily visualize what was underneath. It made him ache with instant arousal. He’d better get used to it. With her in that dress, he’d be hard anytime she was around tonight.

  She didn’t waste a moment on pleasantries. “Did you get security in the room? Do they have any idea who was in there? Did they look for fingerprints?”

  “Yes. No. No.”

  “No what? No fingerprints?” Her cornflower blue eyes, lightly dusted with some kind of sparkly shadow, narrowed in demand. “I want to talk to security.”

  He shook his head and took a step toward her. Against the white of her dress, her sun-kissed skin glowed like she’d been polished. “The gala starts in a few minutes. They have had some break-ins in the hotel. Security thinks this is another of those.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from running a finger over her shoulder and touching a lock of hair. A flush deepened her cheeks, but she didn’t sidestep his touch. His gaze dropped to her bodice and traveled down the elegant dress. “Tu parais ravissant.”

  “Thank you.” Her own gaze darted b
riefly over him. “Ditto. In English.”

  He grinned at the reluctant compliment. As she reached for a beaded evening bag on the bed, a dramatic slit in the side of her dress revealed a taut, tanned thigh. He sucked in a heated breath.

  “I can’t find my room key,” she said. “I must have left it when I packed.”

  “You won’t need it.”

  At the tone of his voice, she looked up and their gazes locked. “Excuse me?” Slowly she straightened, the swell of her breasts expanding as she drew an indignant breath. His pulse danced in response. “I certainly will need my own room.”

  His lips curled in a half smile. Oh, it would be fun to tease her. To seduce her. To completely undo her. “I have arranged for your belongings to be moved to another room, and you can pick up a new key later tonight.”

  “Oh. It appears you’ve thought of everything.”

  “Not everything.” He raised an eyebrow toward the slit. “I hadn’t thought of a limousine, and you might have a bit of a challenge getting in my car.”

  She smoothed the fabric over her legs. “I’ll manage. I have a job to do.”

  And so did he. And when it was over, Luc Tremont would disappear.

  What a shame. He’d have enjoyed just one taste of this woman. Just one journey over her silky skin, to inhale her delicate scent and bury himself in her glossy hair and sexy body. To hear her beg for his hands and mouth and body, and call out his name, his real name, in her musical American voice.

  Nick. Nick.

  But that was a sound Nick Jarrett would never hear again.

  Chapter

  Six

  T he echo of six hundred self-important voices, the ring of crystal champagne flutes, and the strains of a small orchestra resonated throughout the magnificent palace. Janine imagined the night when Louis XV donned branches as his masquerade and mingled with his guests, looking for the young Parisian woman rumored to love the woods. She smiled at the image of the king disguised as a tree.

  “What amuses you, Janine?” Luc leaned too close, his husky voice sending delicious vibrations down to her toes.

  She shrugged, her bare shoulder brushing against the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. He was always so near. “History amuses me,” she answered, and looked up at him. How had he managed to notice her expression, when his own gaze never left the crowd? “And of course, I’m pleased at the success of the gala.”

  He spared her a quick, skeptical glance. “It’s far from over.”

  But they had made it through the first hour without incident. Luc looked away, and she followed his stare to a man with dark blond hair and steely gray eyes. He wore a tuxedo, not nearly as well-tailored as Luc’s. His arms were folded across his broad chest, his expression impassive as he stared right back at Luc. Then his attention shifted to her. She shivered under the man’s intense scrutiny, which lacked the warm appraisal of most of Luc’s countrymen.

  “He’s not French,” she muttered softly.

  Luc cleared his throat and smiled. “Not in the least.”

  “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “We’ve met.” He put a possessive hand on her lower back and guided her in the opposite direction. “The reception line for the president is forming. Aren’t you expected to be in it?”

  Damn! She’d lost track of the time. “I’ll find Henri and take my place.” She paused as he fell into step with her. “Don’t tell me you’re in the reception line, too?”

  “I could be. If you need protection.” A slight smile played at the corner of his lips. “Be careful, ma belle.”

  “Of what, monsieur?” She matched his sotto voice.

  He grazed her shoulder with a fingertip. “A beautiful woman must beware of the dragueurs.”

  “Dragueurs?”

  “The relentless Frenchmen who target American women,” he explained. “They are everywhere.”

  “I thought you were watching for thieves.”

  “I am watching everything,” he assured her, so close she could practically taste the subtle spice of his aftershave. She imagined the scrape of his whiskers against her cheek. Her throat. Her breasts. “Especially you.”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you. I don’t need your supervision.”

  On the contrary; she needed to get away from him. She hadn’t come to France to flirt.

  His smile widened to a predatory grin, and she swore he knew what she was thinking. “I’m never far,” he said softly.

  “I’ve noticed.” She turned toward the line and ignored his soft chuckle, her nerves stretched to their limit.

  Why was she so anxious tonight? Was it Luc, making scrambled eggs out of her brain?

  No. She was just unnerved by the significance of the night, the size of the crowd, the pressure to perform. Not to mention the ominous message left in her hotel room by a supposedly dead legend, and the fact that Henri had “accidentally” distributed the old programs that still had Albert’s name on them. She’d approved a new version, but he’d blamed a printing glitch. Forged vases and a palace crawling with the media and the French version of Secret Service didn’t exactly relax her, either.

  Luc was just another distraction. A big, gorgeous, flirtatious, sexy distraction who made her feel like he wanted to rip her dress off and eat her for dinner.

  Squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin, she stopped to say hello to a young woman who worked for the Ministry of Culture, but a dark-skinned man with piercing black eyes forced himself in front of her.

  “Madame Coulter, excusez-moi de vous déranger.” His tone was frosty enough for her to know the polite words surely preceded an intrusive question. A quick glance at the press credentials that hung around his neck confirmed it. Le Figaro was a right-wing newspaper that had been outspoken in its disdain of the choice for curator of the Pompadour exhibit.

  Dealing with the media was part of the job, but she didn’t have to like it. “Une question seulement. En Anglais, s’il vous plait.” He was her height, which allowed her to stare directly into his eyes. He reminded her of one of her more arrogant students, about to dispute a grade.

  Stroking a wispy goatee, he inhaled slowly, either preparing for the language switch or getting ready to pounce. “Could you please tell me why the Plums are not…” As he paused to search for a word, Janine flashed on what he might say. Why the Plums are not real? But that was ridiculous. He couldn’t know that.

  “…on general display for the guests who have paid thousands to see them?” the reporter concluded.

  Janine gave him a tight smile. “They are readily available for viewing in the anteroom.”

  “Was this your idea, madame?” The reporter tightened the space between them. “I saw the original plans of the exhibit prior to your arrival, and the vases were right there.” He pointed to the very spot where Janine had stood and made her plea to Henri just a few days earlier.

  “It’s not unusual to alter the layout of the exhibit to accommodate the traffic flow, Mr.—Mr.—” She glanced at his badge. “Mr. Surjeet. They are far more secure this way.”

  “Is there a specific security concern?” he asked.

  Of course the media would be looking for the news that had nothing to do with art. “Security is always a concern when treasures as priceless as the Pompadour Plums are on display.”

  “Would you be kind enough to take me to the Sèvres vases now, madame? Perhaps highlight some of the details with your noted expertise?” Sarcasm and accusation dripped from the question. But instead of kick-starting a self-defense mechanism, a tingle of apprehension danced through her. God, she was a mess tonight.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m expected in the reception line now.” She started to turn away.

  He put an unwelcome hand on her arm. “Why aren’t the Plums in plain view?”

  “I’ve already answered that.” She dropped her gaze to where his olive brown fingers squeezed her skin. “They are simply being guarded. Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait.”

  She pivoted i
n the opposite direction before he could respond. She could almost swear he’d been testing her about the imposter Plums, but that was utterly impossible.

  Taking her place in the reception line, she greeted the first of several hundred people, shaking the gloved hand of a bank president’s wife and reciting her prepared greeting. “Bon soir, madame. Bienvenue à Pompadour.”

  Two hours later, her cheeks hurting, her feet aching, and her hand feeling like it could drop off her wrist with one more shake, Janine said her simple phrase to the last person in line. She scanned the six hundred guests as they milled about the Hall of Mirrors. Where was Luc?

  Probably in the king’s bedchamber guarding the faux Plums.

  The public address system crackled with the announcement that the president was about to make a brief address. Janine checked her watch and fought a wave of annoyance. What was going on? They were twenty minutes early.

  She began to work through the crowd toward the stage and podium. They had rehearsed this presentation repeatedly that afternoon, and it was timed to the minute. Following the first announcement, she was supposed to take the stage and introduce Claude Marchionette, who would present the president.

  She resisted the urge to elbow people out of her way, her heart sinking when she heard the nasal tones of Henri Duvoisier. What was he doing up there? She stopped and listened.

  Giving her speech, that’s what he was doing! The snake.

  And since the program had Albert’s name listed, no one would question why she wasn’t speaking. Damn him.

  Maneuvering behind a petite woman, she could do nothing except watch the older man read from her very own notes that she’d placed on the podium. It was so outrageous. She’d been sandbagged.

  The image of her slashed mattress and defaced gown burned in her mind like an eerie negative photo. No; perhaps she’d been warned.

  To march up there now and muscle him out of the way would only make her look foolish, although every cell in her body wanted to do so. Anyway, he was already reading the paragraph about international pride. Which meant he’d skipped the section on the Plums. The slimy little weasel.