The Paris Caper

by Nina Bruhns

  “God, don’t even think about it, Hugo,” Ciara said, striving for a level-headedness she didn’t actually feel. “We need to find a way to make Beck spend the rest of his life in jail. Not you. He’s not worth throwing away your future.”

  Not now that her beautiful, volatile boy finally had one. His job at the garage didn’t pay much, but it was legit. And a start. More than he’d had four years ago when, at CoCo’s pleading, Ciara had practically dragged him off the docks of Marseilles. Cocky as hell and good-looking as sin, he’d been well on his way to a life of violence and addiction. It had taken some fast talking by both of them—and the graphic reminder of Etienne’s death—to convince him, but they’d finally managed to make him see the light. But there were still times he reverted to his old ways of dealing with trouble.

  “Then what do you suggest?” he asked, his young eyes blazing with fury. “I’m supposed to just let him beat you? What kind of a man would I be? And Sofie, what of her, if he takes it in his mind to—” His words cut off with a slash of his hand. “Sale enculé,” he ground out. “Etienne would have—”

  “And that’s why Etienne is dead!” she snapped, lurching to her feet, feeling like a broken record. The boy’s hero worship of his late older cousin was a constant battle between them. Etienne had been cocky and good-looking, too. A man’s man who loved hard and lived harder. In the end his over-confidence had cost him his life, taken down by a cop’s bullet—from the gun of a man he’d been sure was his friend.

  CoCo rose from the arm of the easy chair where Ciara had been perched, went over and put her hands on Hugo’s shoulders. “She is right, mon cher. We’re smarter than he is. Let’s use our heads.” She pushed a fallen lock off his temple. “We all loved Etienne, but he wasn’t much of a role model, eh? What will happen to us, to Sofie, if you are put in jail for murder?”

  Ciara watched the siblings with a hitch in her heart. How she admired CoCo’s ability to tame her tempestuous brother, to set aside her bitchy firecracker façade and unabashedly show him the love and tenderness he so badly craved. The love and tenderness they all craved, because those things had been so completely lacking in their lives. CoCo and Hugo were lucky to have each other.

  She had used exactly the right words with her brother. No one could miss the gentleness with which he always treated shy Sofie, nor the way he looked at her when he thought no one was watching. Even if he’d made no outward claims on her affections, there was no doubt Hugo considered himself Sofie’s protector.

  Ciara tamped down her anxiety, and sat down again.

  She had loved Etienne with the fierceness—and utter blindness—of an abandoned, forgotten seventeen-year-old girl for the man who had rescued her and showered her with love. She had married him without hesitation and followed him across the sea, taken up his life of crime without looking back. After all, what had she to lose? She’d shared her body and her dreams, and he’d shared his skills at pick-pocketing and second-story work. A match made in heaven, she’d thought.

  His strength had turned her on. His intensity had excited her. His recklessness she’d mistaken for joie de vivre , his brutality had been well-hidden and never directed against her. She’d conveniently denied its existence. Until the violence of his life had caught up with him and her eyes were forced open.

  Etienne had taught her a difficult lesson. One she was working hard not to forget.

  “Valois is helping to find a job that will pay enough to keep Beck away for now,” she said, pushing aside the chaotic memories. “Meanwhile, we need ideas. How can we catch Beck in his own trap? Without implicating or endangering any of us?”

  Suddenly, there was a loud knock. Ciara glanced at the mantle clock as everyone else turned to the door. Seven-ten p.m..

  “Anyone expecting company?” she asked, already knowing the answer by the uneasy looks on everyone’s faces. Her pulse leapt.

  “Beck?” Ricardo whispered, cautiously rising.

  The fist banged again. “Police Nationale!”

  She gasped. Jean-Marc’s voice!

  “Merde.” Davie leaped up from the couch. “What do we do?”

  What the hell was Jean-Marc doing here? She met Sofie’s panicked eyes and silently questioned her. The girl shook her head, a little desperately, as the pounding continued. No, she hadn’t given him the address.

  Now everyone was on their feet. Jean-Marc yelled out again, angrily, like he would bash the door in if someone didn’t come soon.

  “Answer it,” Ciara told CoCo in a low murmur. “They’ve got nothing on us.” She turned to Sofie. “Whatever he says, deny any involvement. If he gets specific, you were here, with all the others as witnesses. Right?” She glanced around the circle of worried faces and they all nodded in solidarity. “Hugo, keep your hands in your pockets, no matter what,” she ordered as she started for the back bedroom. “I’ll go out through the attic as we planned.”

  They’d practiced this a dozen times over the past years, but she’d prayed they’d never have to use their emergency plan. So much for prayers and fantasies.

  Swiftly, she ran down the hall and into the bedroom, reaching the closet as she heard CoCo open the front door. Her heart quailed at the sound of Jean-Marc’s harsh demand to speak with Sofie.

  God damn it. Why hadn’t she delivered the Picasso to him a day earlier? The investigation into its theft surely would have been halted by now.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain that still twanged in her side from Beck’s beating, she hoisted herself up through the trap door in the closet ceiling and into the attic.

  Despair flooded through her. She’d known something like this would happen. As soon as she’d seen Jean-Marc in the café talking to Sofie she’d had a terrible premonition, that somehow he’d figure it all out. That Sofie was the artist who had painted the fake Ciara planted at the Michaud’s. That Sofie could tell him where she was hiding.

  Fuck.

  Silently, she slid the square wooden trapdoor back into place behind her. The attic was steaming hot, bisected with shafts of sunlight poking through the roof vents and the dirty round dormer portholes. Dust motes danced around her as she teetered quickly along the thick wooden beams which traversed the length of the entire attic that served all four contiguous apartment buildings on the block. Stopping at one of the back dormers overlooking the inner courtyard, she unlatched the window, whisked off her pumps, and gingerly climbed through it, clinging to the sill as her bare feet gained purchase on a narrow decorative ledge. Hunching down, she grabbed the ledge and lowered herself to an iron balcony attached to the story below.

  Her imagination filled with awful pictures of what was happening back in the apartment as she made her escape. Was she being a coward? Should she have stayed and faced the music instead of bailing and leaving the Orphans at the mercy of...

  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. Jean-Marc may be her own personal nemesis, but he wouldn’t mess with her kids. Not without any kind of evidence against them.

  Would he?

  You could tell a lot about a man by the way he made love. Jean-Marc had been domineering, sometimes even rough. But he’d always made sure she got hers first. And she knew his reputation on the street, from Valois and others who’d dealt with him. Commissaire Lacroix was tough but fair, had been the verdict all the way around.

  On the other hand... She recalled the case Valois had told her about. The one where the thief had disappeared, leaving Lacroix holding the bag. It had nearly ruined his career. Jean-Marc had himself admitted that it had ended his marriage. Le Commissaire hadn’t been the same since, it was said.

  Lacroix was definitely tough. But was he still fair?

  Maybe. But maybe not. Especially when it concerned a thief who betrayed him personally.... If Jean-Marc ever learned who she really was, she had a sinking feeling the word mercy would not be in his vocabulary.

  Which was why she’d better get the hell out of here. The Orphans could take care of each other. The
y had a plan to follow. But she was in no state to be looking into Jean-Marc’s eyes, answering lies to his questions.

  Tossing her shoes, she swung from balcony to balcony, making her way to the other end of the block. There she found the fire escape ladder, grasped it, and climbed down the rest of the five stories to the postage stamp inner courtyard below. She hurried through the covered entrance passageway and cracked open the outer door to the sidewalk.

  Catching her breath, she peered through it and down the street. Half a block away, two Police Nationale radio cars were still parked at angles to the entrance of the Orphans’ apartment building, yellow lights flashing.

  Was that really necessary? And what was taking them so long, anyway? Surely, they weren’t searching the apartment, or—

  Suddenly, the building’s wooden entry door banged open and a uniformed officer held it open for Jean-Marc’s partner, Pierre, who strode through, followed by—

  Sofie!

  No!

  Sofie had her hands behind her back and Jean-Marc walked close behind her, his fingers gripping her shoulder, guiding her toward one of the cars.

  “What are you doing?” Ciara cried without thinking, launching herself out of her hiding place at a run. “You can’t arrest her! Let her go!”

  The officer spun and took up a defensive stance. “Arrêtez!” he shouted, putting his hand on the butt of his gun.

  Pierre glanced at her but kept walking around the car. Jean-Marc ignored her completely, opening the rear door for Sofie and handing her into the back. But he must have said something to the officer, because he also relaxed and went to the car.

  “Hey!” Ciara’s feet ate up the pavement despite the burgeoning pain in her side and the heels she’d slipped back on. “Why are you arresting her? She’s done nothing!”

  Jean-Marc continued to disregard her until he slammed the car door closed, locking Sofie inside. Ciara appealed to Pierre, who had leaned against the car roof on folded arms. His shoulders and brows lifted. The uniformed officer got into the driver’s seat at Jean-Marc’s signal.

  “I demand—!” she began, but the words choked off when Jean-Marc finally turned to her.

  His eyes were flinty. Merciless.

  “You are in no position to demand anything, Madamoiselle Alexander,” he said coolly, then jerked his chin at Pierre, who nodded and got into the car, too. The engine came to life and the tires squealed as it took off down the street.

  Instinctively, she took a step to go after it, but was yanked to a stop by Jean-Marc’s steely grip. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Where are they taking her?” she demanded, attempting to shake her arm free.

  “36 Quai des Orfèvres. Would you like to come along?” His tone was not amiable. It was more of a dare. His grip was relentless.

  Jesus. Straight into the lion’s den.

  “What have you charged her with?”

  “Nothing. She’s not under arrest.”

  “Then why the handcuffs?”

  “No cuffs. I simply asked her to hold her hands behind her back.”

  “Why?” she asked, outraged. He’d tricked her!

  “To flush you out,” he said. His blue eyes were almost black, more intense and penetrating than she’d ever seen them. The harsh angles of his face held no sympathy whatsoever. Not even a hint of a smile. “Even if you weren’t watching, I knew you’d hear about it.”

  “And?”

  “And come to me.”

  Her stomach knotted. “What do you want with me, Jean-Marc?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice even. Fighting not to recall the times when the power of his will had made her melt in his arms, the times his firm, strong touch had opened her body to his every whim. The times she’d come to him—for him—more than willingly.

  His gaze went to her breasts, almost insolently. “What do you think?”

  Her traitorous nipples tightened, but before she could think to respond, a scowl sketched across his face. His eyes had dropped below the hem of skirt, to her knees, scraped and scabbed from her scuffle with Beck. His gaze whipped up to her cheeks. She swallowed. She’d forgotten all about her bruises.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he asked angrily.

  “I, um...I fell.”

  His eyes flared in surprise, as though he’d suddenly remembered something important, then narrowed dangerously. “I’m growing tired of your lies.”

  She straightened. “Then let’s talk about Sofie.”

  His hand curled around her neck, holding her in place for a closer inspection. “It was you with Sofie last night, wasn’t it? Who hit you, Ciara?” he asked softly. Too softly. A shiver traced down her spine.

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” she murmured. “It’s complicated.” She met his simmering gaze. “But it wasn’t anything...personal.”

  “A man hitting you wasn’t personal?” He let her arm go, and ran his hand clinically over her torso. When he got to her tender kidney she did her best not to wince, but he was a trained observer. His jaw clenched.

  “Please, Jean-Marc, leave it alone,” she whispered. “I need to get to Sofie. She has to be scared to death.”

  He traced the very tips of his fingers over her cheek, barely grazing the skin. The aching gentleness of his touch contrasted sharply with the stone deadly look on his face. “Why the fuck don’t you trust me?” he growled, nearly under his breath.

  “I do.” Her head wobbled. “I wish...” She shook it. “I can’t do this now. Please. Take me to Sofie.”

  He stared down at her for a long moment, then dropped his hand and turned to the second police car. “Get in.”

  Self-consciously, she slid into the front seat as he stalked around to the driver’s side. In the apartment building, up in the fifth floor window, four anxious faces pressed together, peering down at her. She gave them a wave she hoped was reassuring.

  And prayed she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. Okay, the second biggest. Right after sleeping with the man who was taking her to national police headquarters—the last place on earth she wanted to be.

  But she couldn’t abandon Sofie. Would never abandon her. Not even if it mean sacrificing her own freedom.

  She just prayed it wouldn’t come to that. She just prayed this was all a misunderstanding.

  But most of all, she prayed for the strength to resist Jean-Marc. Resist his probing questions. Resist his brooding regard. And especially, resist the promise of his touch.

  She had to be firm. Or face the consequences.

  Because those consequences could easily prove her undoing.

  Chapter 12

  Jean-Marc gripped the steering wheel hard, turning his knuckles white. That way he couldn’t grab Ciara and do any of the things that were parading through his mind. Like strangling her. Or shaking some sense into her. Or ripping her clothes off.

  Putain de merde.

  What was happening to him? To his objectivity? Hell, to his sanity? The line between professional and personal was blurring dangerously on this case, because of Ciara. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Last time that had happened—

  Non. Wasn’t going there. Thinking about the past would only make him crazy furious. As would thinking about how she’d gotten those bruises....

  He eased his white knuckles from the steering wheel at a red light. Business, Jean-Marc.

  “Your friend is in big trouble. If you know anything, now’s the time to spill. Before it gets official and I can’t help her.”

  “In trouble how?”

  He curbed his temper. Naturally she’d go for the innocent routine. “You know the Picasso that was stolen a few days ago?”

  A hesitation, then, “I heard about it.”

  “The thief left a fake in its place. Sofie painted it.”

  Her head zipped around. “How do you know that?”

  Not a denial, he noted grimly. Just as he thought. “We’ll get into that during the interrogation. For now, let’s ta
lk about why you moved out of your apartment so suddenly.”

  She blinked at the swift change of subject, then her gaze swiveled back toward the windshield. “I had to go. You wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  He snorted. “Non? Gee, I don’t recall that part. What I remember is a whole lot of yes. ‘Yes, Jean-Marc. Oh, God, yes. More, harder, faster, yes.’”

  His tight imitation of her love cries hovered in the air between them. A flush ripped across her bruised cheek.

  His jaw muscle ticked. Damn, he was being an asshole. Normally that would bother him. But by this point he figured they were pretty evenly matched.

  She eased out a slow breath. “That’s not fair.”

  “Oh, and you were being fair when you left without a word?” He pulled a left-hand turn into the Palais de Justice parking area, showing his carte de requisition to the guard.

  “I—”

  “This doesn’t have to be complicated, Ciara. I like fucking you and you like being fucked. We can play it that way if you don’t want to get more involved than that.” Though, God knew he did. Still. For some frustratingly unfathomable reason.

  “Jesus, Jean-Marc.” The red flag of her blush deepened.

  “I can be good to you. And I can be useful,” he said reasonably as he pulled the car into an empty spot and set the brake. He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. “For instance, I can arrest the bastard who hit you.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  Alors. But to which part?

  If they hadn’t been surrounded by a score of police cars, a half dozen cops and two guards witnesses he would have leaned forward and kissed her. Thoroughly. To prove she still wanted him. To convince her to surrender again, as she had before.

  “Why are you being so stubborn?” he gritted out.

  “Just because I don’t want to be your whore?”

  He jerked back. “I offered you more. You ran away.”

  “Take a hint, Lacroix.”

  He set his jaw and let her go. “Va te faire foutre.” He reached for the door handle. Fuck you.

  Her hand on his arm stopped him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”