by Michele Hauf
Like finding a new place to live. The little apartment she owned in Paris's 8th arrondissement served as a safe house. It would provide cover until Dmitri, her go-to man, could relocate her.
“Is everything okay?” Jean-Hugues asked as he cuddled Chloe against his neck. He bent his head to allow the cat to nuzzle against his five-o’clock shadow. “You are not in trouble, Josephine?”
Her name always sounded whispery and sexy when he said it. Of course she’d let him flirt with her. She’d considered kissing him once—a deep and lingering taste from a wise and seasoned male—but had never gone beyond the thankful kiss to his forehead or cheek.
“No, not in trouble. Never.”
She’d not told him why a young, single woman had suddenly moved out to the country to do nothing more than read and bike, and spend her evenings cooking meals straight from the garden alongside a sexy old Frenchman. He’d always accepted that she had some secrets, as did everyone.
“I’m going to pedal into town and catch a cab to Paris. I'll be back in a few days to pick up Chloe. Okay?”
“Of course, mon petite chat is always welcome. We will have chicken and eggs for breakfast, oui, Chloe?”
Josephine stroked the cat’s head, then she leaned in to kiss Jean-Hugues’s cheek. “Merci. I will not be long.”
* * * *
Two days later, Josephine took a cab back to Jean-Hugues’s place. She’d set up in the Paris safe house and had contacted Dmitri. It would take a week to relocate her to Berlin. She didn’t look forward to that—she didn’t speak German and the city was dismal—but it wasn't permanent. A quick layover that would provide much-needed misdirection. All that mattered was getting out of France and going under.
Again.
How Lincoln had managed to keep tabs on her was incredible. She’d been careful. Since moving to France with her mother when she was eight, she’d never been issued a driver’s license or ID card. No internet presence, not even a credit card. The only phones she used were pre-paid burners. Of course, she should have expected Lincoln would not let her leave so easily. He’d been infatuated with her. So quickly. It had freaked the hell out of her. She’d refused his marriage proposal after dating only four weeks.
She wasn’t the marrying type. Domesticity gave her the hives. Sharing her life with a man sounded so evasive. Since giving up thievery, she liked to keep her head down and her ass out of trouble. And Lincoln wanting her to step back onto the scene now was not keeping her head down.
She directed the cabbie to turn off the headlights so they didn’t shine through her neighbor’s bedroom window, then told him she'd be right out. She headed up the walkway, then stopped.
The front door was open. Instinctively, Josephine’s hand went to the gun she’d tucked in the back of her leather pants. While she didn’t like guns, sometimes they were necessary. She pulled out the small pistol she favored and held it pointed down near her thigh. She stepped over the cracked stone threshold.
“Jean-Hugues?”
A groan sounded from the living room. She hurried in to find the old man sitting on the wood floor before the smoldering fireplace. Blood dribbled from his forehead and had stained his upper lip. He smiled up at her, but then winced.
“Jean-Hugues, what happened? When did this happen?” It must have been Lincoln. Had to be. Had she passed him on the road coming here?
“They were here not too long ago. I am so sorry, Josephine. They took Chloe.”
Heart dropping, she bent before Jean-Hugues and touched his forehead. He’d been punched, and probably cut with a ring. Not a deep cut, but it must hurt terribly.
“A man with dark hair asked for you. I told him I didn’t know where you were. He had two thugs with him. Why did they take the cat?” he asked, spreading his hands. “I don’t understand.”
It was a means to force her to do the job. Lincoln was a ruthless bastard. Hurting an old man to get to her was beyond cruel.
“I’m sorry, Jean-Hugues. Let me get that first-aid kit out of your bathroom and we’ll take care of you.”
“No, I am fine. Just a cut and maybe a few bruised ribs.”
“They beat you?” She stood and pressed the gun grip against her temple. “That bastard.”
“Why do you have a gun, Josephine? Who were those men?”
Josephine clenched her jaw. “My past.”
Chapter 2
Two days later…
The glamorous black tie ball charged five thousand dollars for entry and benefited the International Mission For More. Feeding hungry children was always a good cause, yet Xavier Lambert wondered what more meant. More money? Shouldn't charity eventually be able to achieve its goals? He’d made a point to give away seventy-five percent of his income throughout his career. Yet, did it ever really help?
If only the Elite Crimes Unit he had been forced to join could know how many charitable dollars had been removed from the system upon his removal from the system.
Didn’t matter. He was doing well, and had become as close to a functioning normal person as the parameters of the ECU would allow. Or so, that is what his handlers had tried to drill into him over his past year of service. It would take a while to teach an old dog new tricks.
This new trick called “life now, like it or not” had made Xavier roll over, yet he would never beg. After a year incarcerated in an eastern Belgium prison, he appreciated the modicum of freedom he now had, granted by a digital chip embedded near the base of his skull that allowed the Unit to track him at will.
As Xavier strolled the marble-floored ballroom beneath a constellation of massive crystal chandeliers, he sipped sweet champagne and scanned every face in the room for about three seconds. That was enough time to fix them into his brain: male or female, rich or pretending, a player or a gentleman, a gold-digger or a trophy for one’s arm.
He had identified the Countess de Maleaux earlier. She was wearing the diamond-strand necklace weighing a hundred and eighty carats. He intended to walk out the door in about twenty minutes with that prize tucked in his pocket.
Chanel No. 5 breezed by him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. The fragrance was common in the echelon of society he frequented. What startled him now was the scent of a natural oil like clove or lavender. Simple adornments were gauche amidst the champagne-and-caviar crowd.
Unfortunate. There were occasions where he preferred simple.
Xavier placed the empty tulip goblet on a passing waiter’s silver tray and made his way along the edge of the black-and-white harlequin dance floor. Most of the waltzing couples were older; the women’s faces hiked up with surgery and the men’s hearts thundering from the Viagra they’d swallowed upon arrival.
He smirked at the thought. To live to be seen and admired seemed a sorry existence. He had always strived to walk the shadows, to never be seen or noticed. Growing up in a wealthy family, such social fanfare had once been integral to his existence. And yet the hundreds of carats of sparkling diamonds and colored stuff milling about the room beckoned all to observe, to admire. To invoke jealousy.
Perhaps even to lure one to take.
Because, in truth, those chunks of compressed carbon could serve a much better purpose fenced and sold for charity than resting in the wrinkled cleavage of Madame Chanel No. 5.
“How’s the room look?”
Xavier tilted his head at the voice in his ear. He hadn’t heard from Kierce since he’d entered the mansion and had almost forgotten his presence. Almost. The man was at headquarters, sitting before a computer system so complicated it boggled Xavier’s mind. Yet Kierce Quinn could map out the floor plan of the building, access ventilation shafts and alarm codes, unlock windows, and even determine a person’s temperature if Xavier touched someone with the tip of his forefinger, on which he wore a thermodynamic biometric slip.
But put the guy in a social situation—with real people instead of an online forum—and watch him quiver.
“Th
e usual idle rich,” Xavier answered quietly. He turned around to give the impression he was looking over the curved blue glass bar. He was careful never to allow others to suspect he was talking to himself. “I’m moving in soon.”
“After you snatch the prize, take pictures with the cufflink camera,” Kierce said. “It’ll take me a few minutes to run an analysis, and I don’t want to wait for your return to know what we’re dealing with.”
“I understand. No problem. Just the girdles?”
“Yes, the rims of the diamonds, if possible. Then I can verify authenticity. Depending on the setting, you may or may not have access. If not, do the best you can.”
“They are in a prong setting.” Xavier had noted the setting when he’d walked past the countess. “Girdles exposed, or at least a good portion.”
“Excellent. I’m working on the access code for the garage. I’ve determined that’s your best exit option. Should have it in five.”
“Then we’re on. Give me radio silence, will you?”
“They don’t call it radio silence, old man. It’s ‘ten-four.’.”
Kierce wasn’t even twenty. And Xavier was not an old man. But there were days he felt it around the boy genius. He kept up on all the technology regarding safes, locks, and alarm systems. But it all moved so quickly. Had it been a good thing he’d been nabbed two years ago and taken off the streets?
He tried to convince himself of it, but always failed. Someone had narced on him and ended an illustrious fourteen-year thievery career. Revenge had never been his style, but should he learn who'd given him up? He’d consider changing that style.
One bodyguard shadowed the countess. Not a big man, but Xavier was sure that beneath his cheap suit, there were muscles trained to incapacitate with a few discreet, yet devastating, moves. The thug scanned the surroundings, and when the countess would speak to someone new, he’d home in his gaze on the conversation. If she lingered in the discussion for more than a few minutes, the bodyguard began his periphery scan over again.
So Xavier would have to chat more than a minute or two. Perhaps even entice her to give him a few private moments.
Moving across the dance floor, he deftly navigated the distance between him and the countess, whom he pinned at age sixty-two. Kierce had provided cursory research on her when he’d arrived at the party: married at seventeen; the count had died when she was fifty. She’d taken a new lover every year following until a devastating operation had left her scarred in a very personal location (botched plastic surgery was the speculation). She attended any and all events, Xavier guessed, because she was lonely. She had no children and favored private jets.
Her spangled blue gown dazzled as she delivered an air kiss to a woman in a green silk sheath and bid her thanks for something Xavier had missed. He stepped forward, bowing slightly, and took her hand before she could assess him. He kissed her warm skin, the sagging flesh spotted from sun exposure.
“Enchanté,” he offered. “Countess, you dazzled me from across the room.” He swept a hand to distract her attention across the busy ballroom and noticed the bodyguard’s gaze also followed. Nice. “Might I beg the pleasure of your company for this waltz?”
The orchestra had launched into a Chopin waltz.
“Mon cheri, you flatter me, but I was thinking to find the little girl’s room.”
But his few minutes had not yet passed. “I understand.” Xavier leaned in and touched the dangling chandelier earring, making sure to brush her skin ever so lightly. “Cartier?” he asked.
“Why, yes.” She touched her neck where his finger had glided and he noticed the blush rise at her breasts. “How did you know?”
“I’m a jeweler,” he lied. It was one of many roles he assumed on command. “Worked at Cartier a while back. Lovely place. The sapphires call attention to your eyes, but are certainly lacking in comparison.”
Her body heat rose as his wrist brushed her shoulder. Kierce would get that reading as well. She was focused on him—his face, his voice, the compliments she surely received often and required like oxygen.
“I do love this composition. And the waltz is my favorite,” she said.
“Then shall we?” He bowed again, grandly, charmingly. And when he looked up, the countess sighed and took both his hands.
“Just once around,” she said as he guided her into a light and free stroll around the dance floor. “Oh, you are very light on your feet, Monsieur…?”
Ignoring her hint for his name, Xavier whisked her around, hugging the inner edge where dancers brushed shoulders and the swish of satins and silks harmonized with the orchestra.
A black moiré ribbon served as backing for the diamond strand, a throwback to eighteenth-century styling. Xavier considered it a bit of good fortune. No clasp to deal with, if he were lucky.
The duchess was also light on her feet, and they'd made it halfway around the dance floor when Xavier made to sweep back a loose strand of hair over her ear. It was a simple flick of his fingers to untie the ribbon necklace. As he did he leaned in to whisper in French, “I am bedazzled by you.”
“Tell me your name, and I’ll follow you home,” she cooed.
“Uh, uh.” He waggled a finger, while noting over her shoulder that the bodyguard had assumed a laser focus on him. “My wife would not appreciate the extra place setting.”
The countess pouted. Xavier danced her back to her bodyguard. He waited with arms akimbo, as if to ready for a gunfight.
“A revoir, ma jolie.” Xavier lifted the countess's hand and kissed it. “Merci, pour la danse.”
The bodyguard stepped in. The brute's dull gray eyes narrowed. “So sorry,” Xavier said to him. “I understand.” He backed away, and turned to stride off, enfolding himself into the crowd.
Out of the ballroom, Xavier walked purposefully to the cloak room, which he had scoped out upon arrival. A long fluorescent light illuminated a row of purses—some worth as much as an economy car—top hats, and even canes. The pimply attendant talked to someone on his cell phone, likely a girlfriend for the purring tone he assumed. His back was to Xavier; the guy had not been instructed in effective security procedures.
Xavier pulled out the necklace, turned his back to the attendant some thirty feet away, and then used the camera Kierce had designed to look like a silver cuff link. Fitting the round aperture completely over the crown of the diamond, the ring-shaped lens was able to completely photograph the girdle. How such a thing worked, Xavier had no clue, but he liked it. Handy.
“Report,” Kierce said in his ear.
“Have the prize. Snapping shots. Escape cleared?”
“Tell me when you need it four seconds in advance. I’ll have the doors open.”
“Ten-four.”
Xavier snapped six diamonds before someone cleared their throat behind him and asked if he could help.
“Non, merci. Just needed a moment,” Xavier said, adjusting his tie.
With a nod, he quickly walked out. Stupid excuse. But if he left quickly enough, the attendant would forget about it and get back to his girlfriend.
He strolled toward the ballroom. The outer hallway, which bordered the massive room, was segregated by marble columns spaced ten feet apart. It was lit only by LEDs around the bases of the columns, providing a quiet and dark aisle for escape from the bustle of the rich and famous, or even a illicit fondling session. Xavier scanned the crowd for the countess's blue spangled couture, but didn’t spot her. She must have found the bathroom—
—the kiss came out of nowhere.
A woman’s mouth landed on his with a firm and intentional connection. Xavier ran his hands up her back instinctively, feeling the curve of her waist under sleek silk fabric. She felt right. Comfortable. But he hadn’t seen her face and had no clue who she was, so he gently pushed her away.
Even in the shadows, her aquamarine eyes flashed at him amidst lush black lashes. Dark hair was piled high on her head like Audrey H
epburn. No jewels about her neck or at her ears. Her bare red lips curved into a smirk.
“Aw, you don’t remember me, Xavier?” she asked.
She nudged his nose with hers and glided a hand down the front of his suit. Again the kiss connected with his mouth and this time he let it happen. Because it was a crazy, weird thing.
She tasted like champagne and caviar. Her body fit against his as if they’d done this a thousand times before. And her heat had already given him an erection. He wished she’d slide closer, rub her hip against him to increase the intensity of his hard-on, but he wasn’t about to break the kiss to give orders. Instead, he pulled her in tighter, silently indicating that he wanted this dive into the unknown.
She took the command, sliding a bent leg along his thigh and hugging her mons against his erection. Mm…. how he loved a beautiful, intricate woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
And yet. Had she….? She had called him “Xavier.” So few knew him by name. And those who did? He knew in return.
Out in the ballroom, a woman shrieked. The attendees rushed to her, the commotion drowning the orchestra's rendition of the French national anthem.
When the women pulled away, she blinked at Xavier and purred. “I could never forget your kisses,” she said. “I lose myself in them.”
She stroked his cheek, and he noted tattoos of tiny…cats on her inner wrist. He would have remembered such tattoos had he met her before. He never would have forgotten such gorgeous gemstone eyes.
“I…uh….” If he confessed he didn’t know her, he might lose the chance for another kiss.
Then again, what the hell was he doing? He didn’t need this distraction. He was on a job. And the alarm had just sounded.
Damn it. She’d actually pulled him out of focus. That had been some kiss. But he had to get out of here. Whatever ruckus was exploding on the dance floor only grew louder.
“Sorry,” he said curtly, and tugged at his tie. “I don’t know you.”
“What? How dare you!”