Silently, the cop tucked the flashlight in his belt and placed both hands on the door, his fingers curling into the car. Would he yank it open and demand they both get out?
But he only leaned into the vehicle and pinned Janine with a look of pure disdain. “Allez.” He touched the stiff brim of his navy cap, and stepped back.
Luc glanced at her, a victorious light in his eyes, then put the car in gear. He gave a goofy little wave to the policeman, who remained rooted to the spot. In her side mirror, she could see the two men watching them drive away.
Janine finally hugged her knees as they pulled back onto the boulevard.
Luc reached into the backseat. “Very impressive performance,” he said, handing his jacket to her.
With a tight smile she slid her arms into the sleeves, backward for maximum coverage. “Maybe next time we could just be reading a map instead.”
He gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Really.” Was he referring to his response? “You definitely distracted him, though.”
He had been aroused. The thought sent a blast of heat through her body. “We could have accomplished the same goal by just making out or something.”
A smile tipped the corners of his lips. “That was something.”
The heat flared again, but she willed it away. The Volvo was too small, too intimate for this conversation. “Where did you learn to speak English like that?”
“The cinema,” he answered quickly.
As he leaned forward to adjust his clothing, she stole a sideways glance to see his muscles strain the tailored fabric of his shirt. She couldn’t look away. But as they drove under the soft yellow light of a streetlamp, her gaze froze on something black and menacing sticking out from the back of his waistband. A sudden light-headedness threatened as she realized what it was. “You’re armed?”
“I’m a security specialist. I am licensed to carry a weapon.”
Lives are at risk. That’s what he’d said the day they met in the Hall of Mirrors. Your life, Szha-neen.
She dropped her head back against the seat and let out a long, exhausted breath. What a night. “I still can’t believe the Plums are gone.”
“Neither can I.”
She remembered the red slash on her dress and the warning she’d received from the head of Versailles Security. “Who is this Scorpion, anyway?”
He accelerated through an empty intersection. “He’s dead.”
“For a dead guy, he’s been pretty busy lately.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” he said softly.
A distinct sense of unease trickled down her spine. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”
“Not this,” he exclaimed, his hand gesture indicating the two of them. “This was not part of the plan.”
“But there was a plan,” she said slowly. “You expected the forgeries to be stolen, didn’t you?”
He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and kept his attention on the road. “We strongly suspected it might happen.”
“We? Who’s we?”
A car approached from behind, the headlights spotlighting the hard set of his jaw. After a moment, it zipped by. “ ‘We’ is Versailles Security,” he answered.
“Somehow I can’t see you taking orders from Helmet Head De Vries.” She shoved her arms deeper into the sleeves of his jacket.
He smiled. “I work for several people.”
“Ooo-kay.” She let out a dry laugh at his evasion techniques. “Why don’t you tell me who they are?”
He reached over and almost touched her exposed thigh, but she crossed her legs, shifting out of his reach. “Too much knowledge can be dangerous.”
“Look, I know you want me to trust you and shut up, and you probably wish I’d disappear while I’m at it. But none of that’s going to happen, Luc.” She leaned over the console to make her point. “I have a few questions. Just humor me and answer them.”
He shot her a warning look. “It was your idea to accompany me, Janine.”
“Yes, it was,” she agreed. “But I hadn’t planned on stealing a car, getting naked, evading the authorities, or dropping my head in the lap of a man who’s, at the very least, armed and dangerous.”
“Just armed.” This time his hand made contact with her thigh and squeezed gently. “And the car’s not stolen. It’s borrowed.”
He lifted his hand, and she crossed the arms of her jacket and stared out the windshield. Nothing looked even vaguely familiar. “Where did you say we’re going?”
“I didn’t. Burgundy.”
She’d taken enough trips through central France to know this was not the most direct route. After a few minutes, the headlights briefly illuminated a rustic stone marker. Dijon, 314 kilometers. Evidently he knew another way.
“Are the vases in Burgundy?”
“The computer that’s tracking them is.”
“Haven’t you heard of a handheld? A PDA? A laptop? It’s the new millennium.”
Luc shook his head. “Too easily traced.”
By whom? She decided not to ask and studied the dark countryside instead. “It’s nearly two hundred miles to Dijon,” she finally said. “We can’t drive two hundred miles in a borrowed car.”
“Sens is less than a hundred kilometers from here,” he told her. “We’ll stop there.”
“Stop for the night?”
“No. To borrow another car.”
She closed her eyes. “What if we’re pulled over again?”
Reaching over, he lifted a strand of her hair, letting it flutter onto her shoulder. “Then you know exactly what to do, honey.”
He nailed the accent perfectly.
Chapter
Nine
A n hour later they passed an ancient abbey, its pale limestone walls rising like a timeless sentry above the valley of the Yonne River. Luc knew the landmark well. Bérnard Soisson’s château was still a few hours away.
He glanced at his passenger, who hadn’t opened her eyes since they’d stopped to refuel in Nemours. Her breathing was far from regular so she wasn’t asleep, but the silence gave him a chance to strategize. Which was a challenge, since his mind and body kept betraying him. He kept drifting back to the sensation of her silky hair brushing his crotch, the feel of her breath through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Bon Dieu, how would that feel for real? Once again, arousal clutched him, precisely where her head had been. He exhaled and willed the hardness to subside, but his body wouldn’t obey. Desire, hot and intense, shot through him, and he bit back a curse. He had no room for error.
Janine shifted, tensing the muscles of her long, bare legs, wrapped gracefully around each other.
He’d already made an error—she was in the car with him headed to Burgundy.
A car slowed behind him, then passed. He’d seen the same model Peugeot outside of Versailles, but with a different registration number. He had to be vigilant. He had to get control of his mind and his plan. She could help him, it was true. If she didn’t distract him to death, first.
The next move was simple: get the car he’d arranged for Bérnard to leave in Sens. He considered calling Bérnard to tell him to expect additional tracking data on another set of vases, but it wasn’t worth the risk of having the call traced to his friend’s winery. Tristan had no idea the vintner was receiving data.
Not that it was Tristan’s style to storm the place and pressure an old man he didn’t know, but once the FBI agents realized they didn’t have access to the same data—courtesy of Luc’s handiwork—they might be mad enough to try and hunt Luc down. Since they couldn’t hunt the vases for five days.
Luc ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. He’d explain it all to Bérnard when they arrived; Bernard would love the intrigue. He enjoyed living vicariously through Luc, and he’d never passed judgment. He just accepted the past as past.
As they rounded a wide bend in Route Nationale Six, he glimpsed the lights of Sens. Time for new transpo
rtation. He didn’t think he’d been followed, but he couldn’t be too thorough.
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Janine?” Her eyelids immediately flew open. “You need to get dressed.”
He leaned over her bare legs to retrieve her dress, the scent of her skin teasing him as he lifted the filmy material from under the seat. He dropped it on her lap. “We are going to change vehicles now.”
She looked at the dress and then at him. “How are we going to do that?”
“Quickly and quietly.” He lifted a piece of the fabric. “Put it on. I won’t look.”
“Too late,” she said. “You already looked.”
He laughed softly. “I think we’ve established that I’m human.” And he’d never forget the picture she made, thrusting her breasts toward the policeman’s light. It was brave and smart and sexy as hell.
She maneuvered her feet into the dress and shimmied it up her legs, then plucked at the torn silk. “Well, if this isn’t poetic justice, I don’t know what is.”
“Poetic justice?”
“It was cursed, what can I say? The wedding was cursed from the beginning.”
His brows lifted in surprise. “That was your wedding gown?”
“Not anymore.” She slipped on her shoes. “I would have just shredded it eventually; this saves me the trouble of deciding between a straight edge razor and a butcher knife.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you serious?”
“Just human,” she responded with a quick smile.
Ahead of him he spotted the Pont d’Arche, a tiny stone bridge near a steep river embankment. From his peripheral vision, he saw Janine slide out of the jacket.
She zipped the dress and adjusted it over her chest. His gaze dropped over the ragged gown. It was torn and discolored and, God, was that blood on the side? It didn’t diminish his memory of how she’d looked when he’d first seen her in it a few hours ago. That, along with her Playboy pose for the cop, would be stored for frequent future reference.
He smiled at her. “You would have been a stunning bride in that dress.” In any dress.
Her gaze turned warm for a second, then she flipped her hand in a dismissive wave. “It’s history.” She folded his jacket in half and wrapped her arms around it. “Now what, Bond? Got a helicopter waiting for us?”
“Not exactly. But you should get out and go stand by the side of the bridge.”
She climbed out and walked in front of the car as he shifted into neutral. The headlights shone straight through the white silk, illuminating the feminine curves underneath. A gust of wind lifted her long blond hair as she strode, giving the vision a dramatic, ethereal quality.
With a flick of the headlights, Luc darkened his private stage. Opening his door, he put one foot on the ground and gave a hard push before he jumped out. The Volvo splashed as it hit the black water, and he heard Janine gasp in surprise.
“Remind me not to let you borrow my car,” she said dryly.
He laughed. “All part of the plan, believe me.” He took the jacket from her and spread it over her shoulders.
She settled into it. “How far?”
“Not very. A short walk to the cathedral. Have you been to Sens?”
“No.” She quickened her step. “Let’s sightsee another time, though. I want to get to the Plums.”
“Patience, Janine.” He paused and listened to the Yonne rush beneath them. The redolent smell of earth and young grapes permeated the dry night air. Burgundy was the one part of France that felt remotely like home. Not that it was anything like the Boston asphalt jungle he’d grown up in, but the wine country was in his blood. Half of his blood, anyway. He put his arm on her back and kept walking toward the graceful trees that had bordered the city’s main boulevard for a thousand years. There, he guided her away from the circles of light cast by the gas lamps.
“Are we looking for a particular car, or do you just intend to grab anything that isn’t locked?” she asked, as he slowed his step.
“I’m looking for a specific vehicle.” But he didn’t see it. He searched the dozen or so parked cars in the block that he and Bérnard had agreed upon. There was no black Renault sedan. He walked briskly along the sidewalk and furtively glanced in each. There was no car with a blue umbrella propped on the passenger seat.
“Which one?” she asked with an edge of impatience.
“I’m not sure.” Could Bérnard have substituted another car?
“You’re going to steal a car, aren’t you?”
“No.” He kept walking toward the next block. Where was it?
She tapped on the hood of an older model Citroën and put a hand on her hip. “This one’s nice. Clean.” Cupping her fingers on the glass, she squinted through the window. “Unlocked, too.”
“Come on,” he said, pulling at her arm. They couldn’t wander the streets of Sens at two in the morning peering in parked cars without someone noticing and calling the gendarme.
But the next two blocks yielded nothing. He swore under his breath. This wasn’t like Bérnard. His only real friend in France, one of the few people in the world who knew the true identity of Luc Tremont, would never forget their plan. Bérnard knew exactly what was at stake. He’d die before he’d let Luc down.
An icy stab sliced his gut. Without another word, he turned and strode back to the rusting Citroën Janine had first seen.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “This is the one.”
Her jaw dropped as Luc opened the driver’s door.
“Get in,” he ordered, as he crouched onto the floor and maneuvered his head under the dashboard. He found the ignition wires and touched them together.
Janine opened the passenger door and stuck her head in. “You can’t just take this car.”
The engine sputtered for a few moments, then growled. “Evidently I can.”
He brushed the specks of dirt from his hands, then took the driver’s seat. “Sometimes the end justifies the means.”
She stood frozen for a second, then folded into the seat with admirable dignity for a woman wearing a tattered wedding gown speckled with blood and pomegranate juice.
“I can honestly say I’ve never stolen a car before.” She turned to him, her eyes bright. “Obviously, you have.”
“Obviously.”
“This is bullshit,” Paul Dunne muttered in disgust, as he fiddled with the sea of meaningless symbols on his computer screen. “I had this working yesterday. We read the data perfectly from the exhibit site.”
Tristan watched over his shoulder. Paul could play with the code until his fingers fell off, but Tristan knew he wouldn’t get what he wanted. Not for, oh, five days. Yeah, this little snafu had Luc’s fingerprints all over it.
Did he really think Tristan wouldn’t keep his end of the bargain?
Probably not. They’d never really trust each other. Not again.
“Keep trying,” he said, as his pager hummed. Why wouldn’t Luc believe him when he said he’d hold off? Why did he have to manipulate everything?
But that was Luc. No, that was Nick. A manipulator.
Tristan Stewart lived by a simple rule. Actually, he lived by a lot of them. But one of his favorites was: You can’t trust a thief.
And where Luc was concerned, he’d broken that axiom right in half.
The pager persisted, and he peered at the number. Oh, great. Rich Ainsbury, the deputy legat who ran the FBI field office in Paris. At two in the morning. It wasn’t enough that he’d stalled his own team and the DST; now he’d have to give some bogus explanation to the French liaison.
He punched in Ainsbury’s direct line, still cursing Luc. Five freakin’ days.
“Any progress, Tris?” Ainsbury asked when he picked up.
“We’re attempting analysis of the tracking data now.”
Paul looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. Tristan shot him a dirty look and turned away.
“How are things going with the DST?” Tristan asked. A stron
g offense rarely loses. It wasn’t an obvious preempt; the Direction de la Surveillannce du Territoire had jurisdiction over the relationship with the FBI, and he knew that was Ainsbury’s primary concern.
“That’s not why I called,” Ainsbury said. “Something just came in that was flagged urgent and confidential for you.”
“Yeah?” He glanced at Paul, who sat at the computer with his arms crossed, fuming at a blank screen. “What is it?”
“Apparently you are supposed to receive immediate notification of a change of residence or status for a French citizen by the name of Bérnard Soisson?”
Tristan’s gut constricted. “Yes, I am.” Why would the name Bérnard Soisson come up now? That sole connection to his old life was an unconventional allowance the FBI had made for Nick Jarrett—Bérnard was the one person who was approved to know Luc’s real identity. Soisson appeared to be just a sixty-five-year-old wine-maker, living with his wife in the hills of central France, and Tristan knew he’d had a childhood friendship—more than friendship, in fact—with Gabrielle Jarrett. “What’s going on with him?”
Ainsbury cleared his throat. “He’s dead.”
The first drop of adrenaline trickled through Tristan’s veins. “What happened?”
“His body was pulled out of the Armançon River a few hours ago.”
“Any evidence of foul play?” He knew what was coming.
“Only if you think a hole in his head from a forty-five is foul.”
“Could it have been suicide?”
“Possibly. We’re not sure yet.”
Tristan ignored the familiar burn in his belly. “Any suspects?”
“His wife is missing. When the gendarmerie arrived to notify the next of kin, one of the winery employees told them that the wife, Lisette, had driven off the previous day and hadn’t returned. No one’s heard from her.”
“Get me a location,” he said. “I’m going there.”
“Now?” Incredulity raised Ainsbury’s usually quiet voice. “I’m sorry if this is a personal friend or something, Tris, but we gotta stay on the Benazir case. You can’t—”
French Twist Page 9