by Nina Bruhns
The faint smell of his cologne lingered in his path, triggering a deep yearning, way down inside her. Sometimes when she thought about Jean-Marc, the physical craving was almost unbearable, God help her. She took a deep breath and shuddered it out. She was so messed up.
Lowering her sunglasses, she met Sofie’s large, luminous brown eyes. They were filled with sympathy.
“What did he want?” Ciara asked, blocking out the insane feelings assaulting her insides.
Sofie came over to the table. “To find you.”
Ciara’s pulse sped. “But...how? How did he know?”
Sofie glanced toward her painting, then back. “Fatima’s Hand. He recognized it. From over your bed.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Ciara’s mind scrambled. She’d never thought of that. What other details had she not thought about that could give her away? “You didn’t tell him where I moved, did you?”
“Never,” Sofie assured. “Never, ever.”
“Thank God,” Ciara whispered, relief pouring through her. For as much as she longed to be with Jean-Marc, it would be pure disaster if he found her again. That kind of complication she did not need.
“He seemed nice,” Sofie said. “I liked him.”
“Yes. I liked him, too,” Ciara murmured. Unfortunately.
“Too bad he’s a cop, and not a gangster, eh? Like Etienne.”
She smiled wearily. “Too bad I didn’t meet him before I met Etienne. Our lives might have been very different.”
Sofie’s dark brows tilted. “If you’d met him first, you’d never have bothered with us Orphans.”
“Don’t be silly.” Ciara stood and gave her a heartfelt hug. “I’d be the same person inside. And I’d love you just as much as I do now. How could I not? You’re my family.”
Sofie’s smile glowed. “I love you, too.” She reached up to touch Ciara’s short black wig. “I can’t believe he didn’t recognize you when you came in.”
“I’m not. He didn’t at the Michaud’s either. Nobody sees through my disguises.”
“A lover should.”
“I guess that tells you something, then.”
“You’re wrong. He loves you, Ciara.”
She let out a weary laugh. “Sweetie, we’ve only seen each other three times. He couldn’t possibly love me.”
The young girl shook her head slowly. “Non. You didn’t hear his voice. He loves you. And you love him. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Good Lord. How could a child who’d gone through such hell still have such a ridiculously romantic view of life?
“Honey, there’s nothing to tell. Yes, I’ll admit, I have a wicked terrible crush on the man. But...it’s impossible, and we both know why. End of story.”
Sofie shook her head. “There must be a way.”
“There isn’t.” Ciara gestured to the painting equipment by the far wall. “I’ll help you clean up. It looks gorgeous, by the way. Your best one yet.”
Sofie stood mulishly for a moment, stubborn in her optimism. Then she pushed out a sigh and joined her in picking up the paint and brushes. “Thanks. I’ll paint another over your new bed tomorrow. Perhaps it will bring you a miracle, just like Fatima’s. So you can be with your man.”
She kissed Sofie on the forehead. A miracle. That’s exactly what it would take for that to happen. And if there was one thing Ciara had never believed in, it was miracles. The things she believed in were hard work, determination, and having realistic goals. And right now, her number one goal was to get enough money to pay off Beck so she and her kids could get on with their education, and ultimately their lives. Just a few more years and they’d all be able to support themselves. But until that happened, it was up to her to keep things afloat.
The only miracle Ciara needed right now was another job to pull off.
And soon.
♥♥♥
“I’m returning the Picasso,” Ciara told Sofie as they strolled the half kilometer from the café to the métro. The day was beautiful and they weren’t in any hurry.
Sofie’s eyes widened. “Return it? Are you serious?”
Ciara shrugged. “It’s a fake, not worth a fraction of what we need. If I let the cops have it, that should redirect the investigation back onto the Micheauds and take the heat off me. Long enough to lift something else, anyway.”
“Give it to the cops? Sounds dangerous.”
“I just have to be sure not to leave any traceable—”
Suddenly, an iron grip latched onto her wrist and her arm was yanked practically from its socket. She was dragged off the sidewalk through a broken outer doorway and into a garbage-filled courtyard.
“Putain!” the stocky man attached to the grip spat out. “You think you can protect my whore?”
Beck!
Sofie yelped, looking wild-eyed, welded to the spot as the heavy wooden door swung back at her. “Stay there!” she called. She didn’t want her anywhere near Beck or what was about to happen.
Beck jerked Ciara’s arms painfully, slamming her back against the filthy alley wall. “The little whore missed her deadline. She’s mine now,” he hissed. “To do with as I want. Nothing you can do about it.” He raised his fist.
Ciara forced herself not to react or resist. Men like Beck got off on a woman’s fear and struggles. “We’ll get your money. We just need more time.”
A vicious slap stung her cheek. “How much time? A day? A month? A year?” A backhand to her other cheek whipped her head back against the hard brick.
She cried out in pain. “A week! Give us a week.”
“That will cost you five thousand more,” Beck snarled. His face twisted into an ugly smirk. “Unless...” He grabbed at her breast, ripping the buttons off the pretty silk blouse that she’d spent an hour bartering down at the Puce de Montreuil flea market. “You’d rather take it out in trade...eh, morue? You and the little whore together.” The smell of cheap red wine scorched across her nostrils. His fingers squeezed into her flesh.
Bile filled her throat. She wanted to knee him in the balls so hard he’d stay doubled over for a year. But she resisted the urge. That satisfaction wouldn’t be worth what Beck would do to Sofie in retaliation.
“You’ll get your fucking money,” she gritted out, twisting her body away from his hands. “Now let me go.”
He narrowed his black eyes, breathing heavily into her face. She almost gagged.
“Fifteen thousand. One week, connasse. Or—” he jerked a thumb at Sofie, who cowered at the courtyard entrance, tears streaming down her face “—after I’m done with her she’ll be back in the loving care of her dear old daddy. And you, little bitch—” he jabbed his finger into Ciara’s breast “—you’ll be wishing you were dead.”
The last thing she was aware of was a sudden horrible, blinding pain in her kidney as she stumbled for the outer door. Then everything went black.
Chapter 10
“Ciara? Ciara!”
The frantic sound of Sofie’s weeping finally penetrated the excruciating, twisting void Ciara was being sucked into. She groaned and tried to move, gasping at the sharp pain in her side that resulted.
“Please, Ciara. Wake up!”
“Mademoiselle, are you all right?” A concerned male voice mingled with Sofie’s soft sobs.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. The man bending over her was dressed in civvies, but his haircut and official demeanor immediately identified him as some kind of law enforcement. Great.
“Really, I’m okay,” she said, ignoring her pain and sitting up. She had nearly made it back to the sidewalk before collapsing.
“What happened here?” the cop asked, lifting a cell phone from his jacket pocket.
Quickly, she put her hand on his. “No need to call le flic,” she said, smiling past her stinging cheeks. “It was just a misunderstanding. My fault. Honest.”
The cop scowled down the street in the direction Beck had
disappeared. “Was that guy a police officer?”
Beck had covered his uniform shirt with a light nylon windbreaker, so Ciara feigned surprise, waving off Sofie’s alarmed mewl behind her back. “No, of course not. Just my neighbor.” She did her best to look embarrassed. “I, um... My dog messed on his doorstep. Again. It was the third time, and he stepped in it. I don’t blame him for being angry.”
The cop didn’t look the least bit convinced. “What about her?” he asked, indicating Sofie. A thin trail of blood trickled from her nose.
Ciara sent him a beseeching look. “He was really mad. My friend accidentally got in the way. Please, we’re all right. Honestly.” To illustrate her point, Ciara climbed to her feet, hiding a wince and swallowing a groan. Straightening her skirt, she surreptitiously smoothed a hand over her wig to make sure it was still in place. Sofie took her arm.
He looked dubious, but relented at their united front. “Where do you live? I’ll walk you there.”
“That’s very sweet, but we’re on our way to my friend’s place. It’s some distance.”
“I’ll hail you a taxi then,” he insisted.
“You’re very kind,” she relented, just to be rid of him.
In less than a minute he’d flagged down an empty cab and helped them inside. With a grateful wave at the cop, she gave the driver the Orphans’ address on rue Daguerre and leaned back against the seat with a groan.
Once the car rounded the corner she turned to Sofie. Her heart sank. Along with the bloody nose, the girl’s left eye was swelling black and blue.
“The fucking bastard,” Ciara gritted out.
She’d never been a violent person, but right now she truly wanted to kill Beck. With her bare hands. Right after she’d castrated him with a pair of pliers.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
Sofie nodded, eyes swimming with tears, which she dashed at ineffectually. She wasn’t okay. That was obvious.
Ciara could almost hear the cogs turning, circling some terrible idea in her desperate mind.
“Don’t even think about it, Sofie,” she said, pulling her into a hug, ignoring the rip of pain in her side. “Whatever it is you’re contemplating, don’t. We’ll take care of Beck. I swear to you.”
“I’d rather die than go back to my father,” Sofie whispered. “I couldn’t.”
“That’s not happening. I promise.”
“But Beck—”
“Beck is a horny, greedy animal. He wants you out here on your own, where he can use you and manipulate you with fear. Not hidden away behind your father’s eight foot walls. Trust me, he’s not going to your father.”
Sofie swallowed, more tears cresting. “Oh, Ciara, what are we to do?”
“We’re going home and washing our faces,” she said, somehow mustering up a firm voice from behind the lump lodged in her throat. “And then we’ll figure out who I have to rob to get this scumbag off our backs. Until we can take care of him once and for all.”
♥♥♥
Damn, he needed a drink.
Already. And it was barely lunchtime.
Jean-Marc hadn’t been able to shake the weird feeling he’d had in the pit of his stomach since leaving the café yesterday. The unbidden reminder of Ciara Alexander had not been a welcome addition to his week. He’d dreamt about her last night again. For the hundredth time.
What was it about the fucking woman that had her embedded so firmly under his skin? He’d never reacted this way to a one night—okay three night—stand before. It was making him nuts! Why couldn’t he just forget about her? His male pride had been wounded before—hell, his ex-wife had practically put it through the shredder—and he’d emerged unscathed. Well, relatively unscathed.
He didn’t need this strange obsession. He had enough to worry about.
Another day, and no closer to catching either le Revenant or the Picasso thief. Belfort was getting impatient. So was Jean-Marc. He needed a break.
And then there was that weird incident reported by Gerard, the undercover guy he’d had follow Sofie home yesterday. Gerard said she’d been attacked. By a neighbor of some friend she’d been walking with. Actually, the friend had borne the brunt of it, but both women had been bloodied. Jean-Marc had been furious when Gerard admitted he hadn’t done anything about it.
“They refused to let me call for help,” he’d contended. “Insisted they were fine. Besides, Commissaire, I found out where the girl lives, which is what you wanted, non?”
True. But the incident still bothered him. Men beating up women made him furious. And Sofie had seemed so fragile.
Pierre popped his head into his office. “Delivery for you.”
Jean-Marc shook off his residual distaste, and asked, “What is it?”
“Not a bomb. They checked it.” Pierre grinned and handed him a long cardboard tube.
He glanced over it. No markings or delivery stickers. “Came by messenger?”
Pierre nodded. “No return address, and the kid had no idea where it came from.”
Curious, Jean-Marc used a pen to pop off the plastic end cap.
“What—you think it’s some kind of evidence?” Pierre asked with hiked brows, indicating the precautions Jean-Marc was using not to mar any possible finger prints.
“Never know.” He gingerly slid the contents onto his desk. It was a rolled up piece of cloth. A...canvas?
“Jesus!” Pierre exclaimed as Jean-Marc unrolled it. “It’s the fucking Picasso!”
Shock stuttered through him. It was the Picasso. Along with a note, which said, in all its simplicity, in block letters, “IT’S A FAKE.”
He stared for a long moment before tipping the note to Pierre. A laugh escaped him. Then another. And another. Oh, God, the irony. He tipped his head to the ceiling as laughter rolled out of him. This was just too fucking weird.
Pierre gaped. “Tu est fou?”
Was he crazy? Maybe. Getting there, certainly.
“Alors. Guess we’d better let CD Belfort know the case has taken a bit of a bizarre twist,” he finally managed.
“Ho-kay,” Pierre said carefully. “Meanwhile, what should we do with that?” He jerked his thumb at the Picasso.
“Evidence bag. The insurance company will want a good look.”
“Putain. This leaves our investigation kinda up in the air.”
Jean-Marc hitched out a breath. “No shit. God knows what the boss will want to do.”
“Drop the case, I’d guess. Looks better for the OCBC to stamp the file, ‘Closed. Goods Recovered and Returned.’”
The phone rang and Jean-Marc snatched it up. “Lacroix.”
“This is Terrance over in Forensics. I found something you’ll want to see.”
It took a moment for him to switch gears. Terrance was the chief of the Forensics Lab, and had spent the past week analyzing everything possible about the forged Picasso. Hell. The other forged Picasso.
“You got something on the painting?” he asked Terrance.
“Yep.”
“We’ll be right there.”
His face must have given him away because Pierre looked at him and hopped to his feet. “What?”
“Not sure. Forensics found something.”
“Merci, Dieu.” Pierre lifted the two sealed bags containing the cardboard tube and the painting. “What do we do with those?”
“We’ll log them into evidence on the way,” Jean-Marc said, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “And deal with it later.”
Which they did, then made tracks for the forensics lab. An assistant led them into an ultra-modern glass-enclosed cubicle where Dr. Terrance greeted them and offered them seats. Precisely mounted in a clear frame, the forged Picasso sat in the middle of his desk.
“As you know,” he said matter-of-factly, “we haven’t found anything about the painting that can be used to pinpoint either the specific sources of the materials or the actual artist.”
“So what did you find?” Jean-Marc asked when
the chief hesitated.
“Even though everything indicates it was painted very recently, using brand new materials, I decided to do an x-ray of the canvas. To see if there was a mark indicating a store, or anything else underneath the paint itself.”
Jean-Marc straightened to attention. “And?”
“And I found a ghost.”
He froze at the unexpected word. “A...what?”
“A ghost. That’s what experts call an image painted over by another. Like when an artist reuses an old canvas, or makes a mistake and covers it up.”
His breath whooshed out. “No shit?”
“Look.” Dr. Terrance reached over to a light frame and switched it on. Two x-ray images were mounted there, side by side. The first was the visible part of the painting, reversed in the confusing black and white way of a typical x-ray, showing the design as it appeared on the canvas. The second film showed the same thing, slightly out of focus. But there was a bright blotch on the bottom right corner. The ghost.
Jean-Marc squinted, but couldn’t make out the design. “A mistake, perhaps?” he suggested.
“Perhaps.” Terrance clipped a third x-ray to the light frame. “This is a deeper close up, better focused.”
Jean-Marc’s whole body clenched in shock. There, staring him right in the face, was an all-too-familiar image.
“I don’t believe it,” he muttered, sinking into a chair. “I don’t fucking believe it.”
“You recognize it?” Terrance said, puzzled.
“What?” Pierre asked sharply. “Mec! What is it?”
“It’s a goddamn Hand of Fatima,” Jean-Marc answered through gritted teeth. To think he’d felt sorry for the duplicitous little urchin. “And I know exactly who painted it.”
Chapter 11
“I say we slit his throat.”
Ciara glanced at Hugo, who was pacing once again. The kid was cocked tight as a trigger. Back and forth in front of the window he strode, fists clenched and knuckles white. He looked positively murderous. Ricardo watched nervously from the sofa next to Davie, whose arms were around a downcast Sofie.
They had all gathered at the apartment for dinner the day after the Beck incident to discuss what to do about the escalating situation.