The Paris Caper

by Nina Bruhns

  Jean-Marc tilted his head, unoffended by the insult. He’d been called far worse by respectable people. “Just out for a morning stroll.”

  “It’s afternoon. So fuck off.”

  He made a show of checking his watch. Just after twelve. “So it is. No wonder I’m hungry. Know any good places to eat around here?”

  A long, lethal knife appeared in the gorilla’s hand. “You can eat this, poulet.”

  He hiked a brow. “You do realize I have a gun,” he said conversationally.

  The gorilla grinned. “So do I.”

  Jean-Marc also allowed a slow grin to spread across his face. “Well, then. In that case...” In a twinkling his stiletto was balanced in his hand, at the ready. “Looks like we’re even.”

  A murmur went through the five or six other men who surrounded him. At the gorilla’s signal, they moved backwards in a circle to give them room to maneuver. Jean-Marc slid off his suit jacket and tossed it over a nearby bench. “Touch the jacket and I will shoot you,” he said to no one in particular.

  The gorilla’s first lunge came quickly. This was going to be easier than he thought. The guy was strong as an ox, but his technique sucked. Jean-Marc stepped aside, feigning surprise. The other man whirled and lunged again. Jean-Marc spun away, pretending to be worried. Like candy from a baby. The gorilla gave a sneering laugh and closed in on him. Jean-Marc’s blade sang through stiff cotton fabric and slashed soft flesh. The other man’s arm spurted blood. His face registered shock. Outraged, he roared and came at Jean-Marc, who easily avoided his thrust. The ring of muttering men tightened around them. They didn’t sound happy. This could get interesting. Jean-Marc turned and held his ground. Knees bent, knife ready.

  His opponent bared his teeth and started for him.

  “Hey! What’s going on here?” came a sharp female cry from the direction of the church. “Stop it right now, you fools!”

  All eyes except Jean-Marc’s turned to her. His didn’t have to. A flare of anger mixed with gratification zinged through him. He’d found her. okay, she’d found him. Either way, when he got out of this she was so busted.

  “Let him go,” she said, quickly broaching the circle of men.

  “C’est un keuf,” the gorilla protested. “Got no business here.”

  “Yeah, he’s un keuf, but—” to Jean-Marc’s shock, she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss “—he’s my keuf.”

  For a second the men surrounding them were as stunned as he was. He recovered first.

  He wrapped his hand around her hair at the nape of her neck and held her there. He did his best not to notice the hot surge of desire in his groin.

  He was angry. She was his suspect. This was just business.

  “Appreciate the rescue effort, doll, but I can take care of myself.”

  “I could see that,” she said with mild sarcasm. “What are you doing here?”

  He wound his hand a bit tighter in her hair. “Mon ange, you know how much I hate it when you disappear on me.” He kept his gaze cool, unforgiving. He wanted her to know she was in big trouble.

  Her chin rose. “I got homesick.”

  “Ciara,” the gorilla asked incredulously. “Are you really saying this cop belongs to you?” In disbelief, he looked from Ciara to Jean-Marc and back again.

  Jean-Marc wasn’t about to quibble over semantics. Still holding the stiletto in his right hand, he turned her in his arms and pulled her back against his chest. “You have a problem with that?” he growled.

  There was complete silence as the shuffling group of men decided how to react.

  “And before you ask,” Jean-Marc said impassively, “yes, I know who she is and what she does.” He could play dirty cop as well as the next guy. Maybe the thugs would take him into their confidence. Let something slip about her.

  “Don’t believe him,” Ciara said with a defiant edge to her voice, turning to face him again and drawing her tongue across the seam of his lips in a blatantly erotic gesture that nearly did him in. “He just likes to fuck me.”

  “Well,” the gorilla finally said, somewhat uncertainly. His long knife disappeared from his hand. “Since Etienne’s woman vouches for you, guess I won’t kill you. Just yet.”

  Jean-Marc refrained from snorting. Instead he looked at her like he owned her, “I’ve had a long trip chasing you down, woman. Where can I find something to eat?”

  Her brow rose infinitesimally at his imperious tone, but good ol’ Etienne had apparently trained her well. “Right across the square,” she said, jerking her thumb at a sleazy hole-in-the-wall bar a few dozen meters down the block. A knot of customers had gathered in front, drawn out by the prospect of a knife fight in full daylight.

  “Let’s go,” he said. He beckoned to the group of men who’d just moments earlier had every intention of killing him. “Allez. Let me buy you all a drink. In memory of Etienne.”

  ♥♥♥

  If possible, the inside of the bar was even seamier than the outside. Dark, with low ceilings stained black from the smoke of countless Galois, and once-white walls smeared with the prints of thousands of dock-filthy hands, the room smelled thickly of onions, potatoes and rue. An ancient American juke box in the corner poured out an endless stream of Piaf oldies through tinny speakers. Small, round wooden tables with uncomfortable wooden chairs were crammed into the entire space, most of them occupied by sweating men and bearing an assortment of chipped china and plain but surprisingly appetizing food.

  Jean-Marc felt right at home.

  Choosing a free table on the far wall, he emptied the pockets of his jacket, putting everything in his pants pockets before slinging it over a chair and sitting on top of it. He left his weapon where it was—didn’t matter, by now everyone in the place would know he was a cop. He signaled the bartender and ordered a round of Pernod for the men who’d come in with them.

  “To Etienne. Santé,” he said.

  They all lifted their glasses, downed them, and he ordered another round.

  Ciara watched him with an odd expression. “Not nervous being in this kind of place?” she asked.

  He tilted his chair casually onto its back legs and leaned his shoulders against the wall behind him. “Non. Should I be?”

  “The only cop in a room full of gangsters?” She shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile as she moved her chair close to his. “What the hell, except for the badge—and the suit—you could be one of them.”

  “Hardly surprising,” he said impassively. “since I was one of them for my first eighteen years.”

  “Tell me,” she encouraged, resting her elbow on the table with chin in hand. “What were you like growing up?”

  He took a sip from his second Pernod and let it roll around in his mouth, as though that could take the foul taste of memories away. “I was a rough-edged bad-ass, heading for prison like all my friends in the banlieue where I lived. But I had a gift for math so a teacher took pity on me. I managed to escape.”

  “Lucky you.” She studied him for a long moment, then picked up her drink and looked away. “But I got news, baby, you’re still a hard-edged bad-ass.”

  He gave a bark of humorless laughter. “So my boss keeps telling me.”

  That earned a smile. Hers, not his.

  “No wonder you like me so much,” she said.

  “I don’t like you,” he denied. Desperately wishing it were true. Scrabbling to hang onto his anger.

  “Right.” She surprised him by swinging a leg over his knees and straddling his lap, face to face. She slid her hands over his shoulders and up, pushed her fingers into his hair. She rubbed her thumbs back and forth along his jaw. “You’re trying so hard not to like me,” she murmured.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, the entire lower half of his body coming to life under the warm weight of hers. “I am.”

  “Is it working?”

  He eased out a breath. And fought not to put his hands on her. She was wearing soft, well-worn jeans today, and a tight black T-
shirt which left little to the imagination. He lost his battle and stroked his fingers up her thighs. “What do you think?” he drawled.

  Under her T-shirt her nipples quickened, turning to hard little points that poked out at him. He found himself licking his lips.

  She watched his tongue disappear, then leaned down and kissed him.

  He closed his eyes and tried to talk himself into resisting. But it was no use, and he knew it. He opened his mouth and let her plunder it. Softly, sensually, thoroughly.

  For a moment the buzz of conversation around them halted, then it started up again accompanied by chuckles and off-color comments. But nobody seemed particularly concerned. Which was good, because he didn’t feel like pulling out his knife again. Or shooting someone.

  What he felt like was having sex.

  Hard, fast, raunchy, mind-blowing sex.

  And she knew it.

  Her kiss deepened even more and her bottom ground erotically into his thick erection. He groaned softly.

  “Commissaire Lacroix?” she whispered into his mouth.

  “Oui, le Revenant?” he whispered back, feeling like he was falling, spinning at the speed of light down a black, bottomless pit toward... He had no idea.

  But wherever it was, when he landed he wanted her there.

  “Are you really hungry?” she murmured, dragging her tongue across his lips. Pressing herself down onto his cock so he thought he’d explode.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, tugging her tight to his body. Giving in to the sensation. “Hungry for you.”

  Chapter 17

  “I know a place,” Ciara whispered, though she shouldn’t. This was the stupidest, most ill-advised thing she’d done in a long succession of stupid, ill-advised things.

  She didn’t care. The pull to Jean-Marc was too strong. The attraction too explosive. The need too intense. She wanted him.

  She wanted him.

  She wanted him.

  He drew back and searched her eyes. His own were dark, midnight blue, glittering with desire. Filled with conflict.

  “C’est fou,” he murmured. “Foutrement fou.”

  Fucking insane. Yeah, that about covered it.

  She put her forehead to his. “No one will know.”

  “I will.”

  Her heart squeezed. How could you not love a man with such honor?

  “I could seduce you,” she ventured softly. “Then it wouldn’t be your fault.” She kissed him again. Savored the taste of him. The strength. The goodness. She wanted to meld her body with his, absorb that strength and goodness for her own. So she could be just as strong and as good as he.

  Somber, he asked, “If I make love to you, will you confess?”

  She smiled faintly. “To what? Being madly and completely in love with you?”

  The words just slipped out. She certainly hadn’t meant to say them aloud. He froze. In horror? She dropped her gaze, unable to watch his rejection.

  He wrapped a large hand around her jaw and lifted her face back up. In his eyes she saw sympathy and sorrow where she’d half expected disdain. He looked as though he wanted to say something, then changed his mind.

  Abruptly he rose, bringing her with him and setting her on her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She let him guide her through the mass of beefy bodies in the dim bar, out into the blazing light of afternoon. Temporarily blinded, she reached for him. His arms went around her. Suddenly, inexplicably, she realized she was trembling.

  He kissed her. But she could feel the tension in his muscles, in his whole bearing. She wished she could take back her words.

  “You said you know somewhere to go?” he asked.

  Wordlessly, she took his arm and walked the three blocks to a place she knew would welcome them without asking any questions. When they got to the old red brick building, she knocked a one-three-one pattern on the plain and unremarkable front door. It opened a crack and she heard a feminine gasp, then it was flung wide.

  “Ciara! Chérie!” gushed the handsome woman dressed in silk who answered, gathering her into her arms. “Where have you been all these—” Then she spotted Jean-Marc and her eyebrows flew up. “O, lala, p‘tite chatte! Mais, viens! Bienvenue, Commissaire! Come in, come in.”

  Ciara quelled her sudden panic and stepped inside to a lush, sweetly fragrant confection of a room totally unlike the bland outside façade. It overflowed with ivory lace and red satin, plush furniture and scantily clad women. Jean-Marc held himself ramrod straight beside her, jaw tight, but didn’t blink once. Apparently nothing she did shocked him anymore.

  When introduced, he politely greeted Madame Felicité—a distant aunt or cousin of Etienne’s whom Ciara had been friends with since the old days—and brought out his wallet when Ciara asked if they could borrow a room for a few hours.

  “Pfft!” Felicité said, waving the money away. “Don’t be silly. You are family. It is my pleasure.” She eyed Jean-Marc appreciatively. “Or...perhaps yours. Chérie, we really must talk more often. Victoire!” she called to a young girl in a diaphanous robe. “Show Ciara and le commissaire up to the blue room.” She urged them toward the stairs with a hand on each one’s shoulder and spoke between their heads. “Take your time, darlings, it is early. We won’t be needing the room until after supper—hours from now.”

  Ciara’s face blazed with embarrassment but Jean-Marc’s remained impassive. Not a good sign. Whenever his expression went carefully blank he was usually furious with her.

  With every eye in the place following them up, it felt like it took forever to climb to the top of the stairs. Etienne had occasionally brought her here, just for fun and adventure, and the ladies had been all teasing giggles and indulgent laughter as they cheered them upstairs. But this was different. Now everyone was wide-eyed and mute with disbelief.

  Tell her about it. She’d had no idea her old family kept such close tabs on her. News traveled fast.

  Victoire showed them to the very last room at the end of the hall. Ciara went in and stood uncertainly as Jean-Marc stepped in, shut the door and locked it with a decisive twist of his wrist. He leaned his back against the door, tossed his jacket and tie onto a nearby chair, and gazed at her.

  Her knees shook. “You’re angry with me again.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” he said deceptively calmly.

  The clenched teeth and hands? The steam rising from under his collar? The daggers from his eyes?

  “Um, lucky guess?”

  “A brothel? You really are trying to get me fired, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, Jean-Marc. I never thought she would recognize you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And the stack of hundred-euro notes on the street in broad daylight yesterday? Didn’t think anyone would notice that, either? Or sneaking out from under my surveillance? Twice? Never thought my superiors would catch that tiny detail, eh?”

  “Jean-Marc—”

  “It won’t matter, you know,” he cut her off. “If I get thrown off the case, Pierre will just take over. He knows as much about you as I do.”

  “That’s not—”

  “And as for what you said in the bar, you can’t possibly think—”

  “I meant that,” she interrupted stubbornly, fending off a wellspring of hurt that he’d think she could lie about her feelings for him. “Though under the circumstances, I probably shouldn’t have said it,” she admitted. “I...I’m sorry.”

  The slashing angles of his face grew severe and his half-lidded eyes burned darkly from beneath a scowl. Lace-patterned shadows danced on the wall behind him as he regarded her.

  “Fine. You meant it,” he said. “Prove it.”

  A tingle of apprehension wrapped her in goosebumps. “Wh-what?”

  “Prove you love me. Take off your clothes,” he ordered roughly. “Now.”

  ♥♥♥

  Ciara’s cheeks heated as a surge of sexual desire slammed through her body at his growled command. She swallowed heavily, unsure
of what to do. What to make of the sudden change in him.

  Or was it a change?

  “Not what you had in mind?” he asked, tilting his head arrogantly.

  She took a deep breath. She wouldn’t lie. Not about this. “Yes. It is.”

  “I’ll give you what you want, Ciara. But we’re doing it my way.”

  She finally understood. Jean-Marc was a man who needed to be in control of his world. With her, he wasn’t. He had to reestablish his dominance. If nothing else, at least in bed.

  She could live with that.

  “All right,” she whispered.

  “Go on, then.”

  Haltingly, she toed off her sandals, then unsnapped her jeans and unzipped them. She hazarded a glance at him. Not moving from his spot propping up the door, he was watching her with a hard expression. She almost faltered completely, except he jerked his chin impatiently at the jeans. She quickly shimmied out of them.

  Dropping the blue denim to the floor, she reached for the hem of her black T-shirt.

  “Panties first,” he ordered.

  She hesitated, because for some reason that felt far more vulnerable—her T-shirt reached only to her navel. But his expression was growing even more impatient, so she hurriedly slid off her panties.

  “Now your bra.”

  She bit her lip. And reached for the hem of her T-shirt.

  “Non!” he barked. “Just the bra. Leave the shirt on.”

  For a second she was confused. “But—”

  “Do it.”

  She found and fumbled with the hook of her bra. It took her a moment to slip the straps off from under the sleeves, but somehow she managed it, even with her hands shaking badly.

  How well did she know him? Had she pushed him over the edge by bringing him to a place like this? How could she be so sure he wouldn’t hurt her? Her thoughts strayed briefly to Beck, and she closed her eyes.

  “Look at me!” he snapped. “Don’t ever stop looking at me. I want you to know who you’re with.”

  “I know who I’m with, Jean-Marc. I told you that I—”

  “Arrête!” He held up a palm. “Do not say you love me, mon ange. I know you mean to betray me, so I don’t want to hear it.”