The Paris Caper

by Nina Bruhns

  Which would leave Jean-Marc free for other pursuits. Such as the pretty blonde in his arms.

  Donc, he was smart enough to recognize a rationalization when he heard it, but at the moment he didn’t give a shit. They had stopped pretending to dance and were now kissing in earnest in the middle of the crowd like a couple of teenagers.

  “Viens,” he murmured, lifting his mouth from hers when people started to stare. He grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

  Before he even knew where he was going, he trotted down the stairs to the basement level where the restrooms were located, towing her by the wrist. Bypassing the hommes and femmes, he spotted a door marked “no admittance” and jerked it open. A startled waiter glanced up from unpacking a box of wine and started to protest.

  Jean-Marc whipped out his carte de requisition, which identified him as a police officer, and ordered, “Out. Vite.” The waiter scrambled to his feet and scrammed. The door jerked closed.

  The light in the room flickered dimly and the place smelled musty, like old cardboard. But the scent of the woman’s perfume clung to him, and she was all Jean-Marc needed to see.

  He turned to his captive and pushed her up against the door, setting the lock with a swift flick of his thumb. He was so ready for this. He desperately needed to lose his frustrations in the hot passion of a willing woman, to thrust away his anger and annoyance in the blissful forgetfulness of her sweet body. Bon dieu, he needed this. With every fiber of his being he wanted to be inside her.

  “Je veux te baiser,” he growled, and took her mouth in a savage kiss.

  She moaned, undulating her body beneath his as he kissed her over and over, touching her, learning her, urging her on with the blatant language of sex. She reached for his belt buckle.

  “Attends,” he said, grabbing both her wrists. “Wait.”

  He eased out a harsh breath, grappling for control. Of the situation. Of himself. He held her there as she panted, watching her breasts rise and fall beneath her silky dress.

  He wanted to see them. He wanted to taste them.

  He let her go and scraped her dress straps off her slim shoulders, peeling her bodice to her waist. Her bra was black, made of the sheerest lace, and did nothing to hide her breasts. They weren’t large, but full and round, tipped with pretty nipples of rose, peaked and eager for his attention.

  “Mon Dieu,” he murmured. “You are beautiful.”

  He popped the front clasp and they fell into his hands, warm and silky-soft. With a groan of pleasure he bent and took one in his mouth, sucking in the firm nipple. He licked and suckled her, feeling the tension slowly seep from his shoulders and down to fill his heavy groin. Bon Dieu. This time he didn’t stop her when she groped for his belt.

  He almost detonated when she touched him, taking him boldly in her hand.

  “Non,” he gasped, pulling her away. With one hand he raised her wrists above her head, with the other fumbled in his inside pocket for his wallet and the protection he always carried. All the while kissing her, deep and hard.

  He found the packet and placed it on a nearby shelf. Then snagged the hem of her dress and dragged it up, twisting it into a knot at her waist. How he wished he could just rip the whole damned thing off! He wanted her completely bare. He wanted her naked and open, trembling for his touch.

  Suddenly, he noticed she was trembling. He jerked back and met her gaze. “C’est bien?”

  Her long blond hair was artfully mussed, her eyes slumberous and half-lidded; she was a sensuous fallen angel gazing up at him like she would do anything he asked. Anything at all.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she hummed, “wonderful,” and his arousal thickened.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked hoarsely, just to make sure lust wasn’t coloring his perception.

  “No. Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  Filled with an inexplicable sense of power, he ran his free hand lingeringly down the curve of her hip, pausing at the lacy edge of her barely-there black panties. Trailing his fingers over the small triangle of fabric, he watched her eyes darken. They were green, the color of a forest at midnight, and pooled with desire.

  He slipped his hand under her panties. “Spread your legs,” he said, licking at her mouth, his pulse pounding with excitement.

  She obeyed and he slid his fingers into her wet heat, seeking her center. She quivered at his exploration, and gasped as he sent them deep inside then out again. He found her bud and worked it, sliding his thumb back and forth, round and round, until she shook with need.

  “That’s right,” he urged roughly. “Come for me, then I’ll make you come again, à ma queue.”

  She moaned, closed her eyes and shattered.

  He let her wrists go and sheathed himself one-handed as he coaxed every last shiver and whimper from her. When at last her face was a portrait of bliss and her eyes fluttered open, he took hold of her panties and ripped them off.

  She gave a yelp of surprise, her eyes widening as he stuck the ruined panties in his jacket pocket.

  “To remember the occasion,” he murmured with a wink, then grabbed her thighs, lifted her to his waist and plunged into her.

  She cried out, clutching him around the neck, clinging to him as he thrust deeper and deeper. Exquise. She was all he needed and more. So much more. She was perfect, young, hot and tight with inner muscles that gripped him like a vise.

  He gritted his teeth and marshaled his self-control, wanting it to last as long as possible. Again and again and again he drove into her, until he was a living agony of need to release, until she started uttering the sweet noises of a woman close to completion. He held on for three more hard thrusts, then she swallowed a scream, her fingernails digging into his back. With a roar he let himself plummet over the edge. It lasted forever, the almost unbearable pleasure of releasing his seed deep inside her.

  After the final shuddering spasm he felt purged, renewed, exhausted. Happy.

  Hell, he was in love.

  He took her face between his hands and kissed her, both of them shaking and on the verge of collapse. Her legs slid down his hips but she clung to him and managed to stay on her feet.

  “That was absolutely incredible,” he said between sucked-down breaths. “You are—”

  The loud chirp of his cell phone startled him out of his intended litany of compliments.

  “De merde,” he softly swore, and reached into his inside pocket for it. He looked down at his newest lover apologetically. “Sorry. I have to answer. It’s probably headquarters.”

  She nodded. He could tell she was trying to look nonchalant as he disengaged from her and flipped open the phone, but for a brief second she looked distinctly nervous.

  “Commissaire Lacroix,” he answered, and her eyes flared even bigger. He gave her a wry smile and lifted a shoulder as he tried to make out through the static who was on the other end of the line.

  “Jean-Marc, tu es là?”

  “I’m here,” he told his second-in-command, Lieutenant Pierre Rousselot, whose voice was breaking up. “What’s up, mec?”

  “Where the hell are you, buried in some basement somewhere?”

  “Club LeCoeur,” he said a little louder, casting about for a wastebasket. “They must have thick walls.”

  “Club LeCoeur? Then you know about the robbery, oui?”

  He straightened, immediately alert. “What robbery?”

  “Your Ghost. He’s struck again.”

  A sharp spike of angry frustration swamped over Jean-Marc. God damn it. God fucking damn it. It was like the bastard knew exactly when he’d stopped watching.

  He paced away from the woman, who’d begun to rearrange her clothing. “The princess?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

  “Just as you predicted,” Pierre said. “Say, I thought you were doing surveillance on the Dutch mob?”

  “I took a break.”

  There was a meaningful pause on the other end. “Ah, pardon. Well, you’d better finish quick. In three minutes the
place will be crawling with gendarmes, the OCBC, and the Dutch secret service. Apparently the victim has made quite a stink.”

  Jean-Marc swiped a hand over his sweaty forehead. Dieu. He had to get hold of himself. Any second now his boss, CD Belfort, would be calling, demanding to know if he’d caught the thief—even though Belfort and Saville had denied Jean-Marc’s request for an official police team to follow the princess’s every move. They hadn’t believed the chances of le Revenant showing up were high enough to warrant that kind of expense. So Jean-Marc had done it on his own time.

  And now he’d fucked up.

  He glanced at his lover, who was looking around at the boxes on the shelves, pretending not to listen to his conversation. And just like that his anger evaporated.

  Damn. She had been so worth fucking up for.

  “When will you be here?” he asked Pierre.

  “I’m parking now.”

  “Meet you at the entrance in two,” he said, and hung up.

  He turned to the woman and opened his arms. “Come here, mon ange.” His green-eyed angel.

  She hesitated, looking uneasy. “You’re a commissaire?”

  He nodded. “Commissaire de Police Judiciare. CPJ Lacroix. But don’t let that worry you. It has nothing to do with us. Viens ici.”

  She came haltingly, but she came, stepping into his embrace. As he took her in his arms, she let out a nervous giggle. “I can’t believe I let a detective superintendent of the National Police fuck me in a storage closet.”

  He smiled and kissed her. “Next time I’ll do it in a more romantic place, I promise.”

  Her surprised gaze held his for a moment before it slid to the buttons of his shirt. “Do you have to go now?”

  “I’m afraid so. There’s been a robbery. Here, at the club.”

  “Here?”

  “It’s all right. I can vouch for your whereabouts, so you won’t have to hang around for questioning.” He tipped up her chin and gave her another kiss, then softly asked, “Before we go, I want to know your name.”

  Her lips parted for a second before she answered, “Ciara.”

  “I’m Jean-Marc,” he said. He wanted to kiss her again, and keep kissing her all night. But their time had run out. For now. Pulling a business card from his wallet, he wrote on the reverse and handed it to her. “My cell phone number’s on the back. I want you to call me.”

  She stared down at it. “Really?”

  “Tonight. I should be finished here in a couple of hours.”

  Disbelief flitted through her eyes as she looked back up at him. “I, um—”

  “I want to see you again.” He took her face in his hands. “There’s something between us, Ciara, I can feel it. Let’s explore this thing, whatever it is.”

  Her tongue peeked out then disappeared. “I— I’d like that.”

  “Bon. Good.” Relief washed through him. For some reason he’d had the crazy notion she would turn him down.

  He placed her hand on the crook of his arm and led her out of their private sanctuary, up the stairs and back into the chaos of the main club. As Pierre had warned, police were everywhere, taking down names and addresses of the impatient club-goers and wait-staff who had all been herded into a group in one corner to await their turn for questioning. To the side of the hubbub stood the snooty princess and her entourage cursing at the two uniformed cops preventing them from going anywhere until they’d spoken to a detective. Until Saville arrived, that meant Jean-Marc.

  He figured they could wait a bit longer.

  Flashing his carte du requisition at the guards, he guided Ciara to the front entrance, where they met Pierre, who took one long, appraising look at her, and said, “Oo-la-la, mec. Très sympathique.”

  “Shut up, Pierre,” he said good-naturedly. Even le Revenant slipping through his fingers tonight wasn’t going to spoil his mood. No way would Pierre’s infernal, inevitable teasing.

  “CD Belfort is on his way. We better get to work,” his lieutenant said, giving Ciara a shrug. “The boss.”

  “Walk me out?” she asked Jean-Marc with a shy smile.

  “I’ll put her in a taxi and be right back,” he told Pierre, and they walked out into the warm, black Parisian night.

  An explosion of camera flashes went off from the clutch of paparazzi at the entrance, catching them both by surprise.

  “Merde,” he muttered, shielding her eyes with his jacket lapel. “I’d forgotten about those vultures.” Jean-Marc hated reporters. Especially the unscrupulous barrel-scrapers who worked for the sensationalist tabloids.

  A few reporters recognized him and shouted questions. He growled, “No comment,” at them, pushing through the throng to the curb. Wisely, they moved back. An empty cab sat across the street, and Jean-Marc led Ciara over to it.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, giving him a hug. “You better get back.”

  “This guy’s timing really stinks,” he muttered.

  “Who?”

  “The thief, this bastard le Revenant. When I catch him, I swear I’ll make him pay dearly.”

  She seemed to go pale for a moment, but it must have been a quirk of the light because she hugged him again, then dug around in his jacket pocket with an impish smile. She pulled out her torn panties. “I better take these so you don’t get in trouble.”

  “Ah, non.” He snagged them from her and tucked them back into his pocket. “These are mine now. I’m going to put them under my pillow so I can dream of you whenever you’re not sharing my bed.” He bent to take her mouth one last time. “Which I surely hope will not be the case tonight.”

  “You are a very naughty man, Commissaire Lacroix,” she whispered.

  “Count on it,” he assured. “You’ll call me? In a couple of hours?”

  She kissed him back and hummed out a sigh. “Mmmm.”

  “Say it,” he demanded softly. “Swear to me.”

  “I’ll call,” she said. “I promise.” Then she got into the taxi, watching him the whole time it pulled away. Just before she was lost in the flow of traffic, she blew him a kiss. The last thing he saw of her was her smile.

  But it was a smile so bleak it suddenly struck him square in the gut.

  She had lied.

  She had no intention of ever seeing him again.

  Chapter 2

  Ciara felt sick to her stomach as she lost sight of Jean-Marc standing at the curb with his hands in his trouser pockets staring after her. She turned forward and told the taxi driver a corner where he could drop her, close to her apartment on rue du le Chat qui Piche.

  Oh. My. God.

  She’d just had sex with a CPJ, one of the very men who’d publicly sworn to hunt her down, send her to jail, and throw away the key.

  Not that he knew it was her they were after. Thank God, everyone still thought le Revenant was a man. But she knew. As soon as she’d felt those handcuffs at the small of his back she should have taken off like the Roadrunner at the scent of coyote.

  But no. She’d gone ahead and had sex with the man. And what’s more she’d loved every hot steamy second of it. Even worse, she wanted to do it again. So much so, for a second she’d fooled herself into thinking she could actually make that phone call she’d sworn to him to make.

  How had she let this happen?

  She covered her face with her hands. And groaned. They smelled of him; musky, erotic, virile. She yanked them away, crossed her arms and stuck her hands under her armpits. But there was no escaping. His scent clung to her everywhere: her hands, her face, her breasts...between her legs. It was like he’d marked her. His.

  There was also no escaping the hard lumps of the diamond bracelet poking into her arm from the hidden pocket in her dress. They marked her as his, too. His quarry.

  “Jesus, girl, what were you thinking?” she whispered. Hadn’t Etienne’s death taught her anything?

  Why hadn’t she worn a disguise?

  At least she hadn’t told him her last name.

  She’d
have to lie low now. In France, anyway. Her next few jobs she’d do outside the country. Expenses would be a bit higher, but at least she wouldn’t have to worry about running into her new lover, le Commissaire.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and drew her tongue over her parched lips. And tasted him. Deep inside she felt a sharp tug of desire. Her stomach sank even further. If she ever did meet up with him again it would be her downfall for sure. Which would spell ruin not only for her, but to the Orphans as well.

  She couldn’t let that happen. Jail was simply not an option.

  The taxi pulled up at the entrance to the walking street rue de la Huchette. At the heart of the Latin Quarter, the street was filled with restaurants, shops, students and tourists, but she liked living here. It was cheap, and she blended in well. As soon as she got out, she was assaulted by Davie and Ricardo, two of her Orphans. They’d been waiting for her for some time, judging by the worried relief in their faces as they ran up and grabbed her arms.

  “Ciara! Grazie a Dio!” Ricardo said rapidly in Italian, a sure sign he was über-upset. Ricardo was seventeen, tall, lanky and the second runaway she’d adopted. Innately cheerful of disposition, a perpetual smile had graced his face ever since five years ago when she’d spirited him away from a distant relative using him for unpaid labor in his Paris construction firm.

  But Ricardo was frowning now.

  A knot of fear tightened in her already jumpy stomach. “What’s happened?”

  Davie tugged at her arm. “It’s Sofie. You have to come with us.”

  “Sofie?”

  The youngest of the Orphans, and the most fragile both emotionally and physically, Sofie Hassan had run away from home at thirteen, from a horror Ciara couldn’t even contemplate. She had survived working the Pigalle doing whatever she must, until Ciara had found her one day and persuaded her to join them. But her experiences on the streets, and previously with her father, had left her meek and damaged. She was just coming out of it now, two years later.

  “Oh, God, is she hurt?” Ciara asked.

  “Yes!” Ricardo said, at the same time Davie said, “No. Well, not too badly.”