by Nina Bruhns
The French Detective’s Woman
by
Nina Bruhns
Table of Contents
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About the Author
5 More books by Nina Bruhns
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Praise For THE FRENCH DETECTIVE’S WOMAN
"The characters are complex and compelling. I love that the author can write great romance and thread it with suspense and action, too. This is a meaty story and well worth the price!"
"[A] sexy hero, bad-girl heroine and plenty of exciting action."
Overview of THE FRENCH DETECTIVE’S WOMAN
A rogue French commissaire will do anything to catch the beautiful international thief he’s fixated upon. When their dangerous game of cat and mouse grows shockingly intimate, he must make the impossible choice between honor and duty...and the notorious woman he has unwittingly come to love.
What people are saying about THE FRENCH DETECTIVE’S WOMAN
"The romance is hot and the twists and turns of the plot are fun and unexpected. Once you start reading you'll be handcuffed to your kindle until your done reading."
"I've enjoyed many of Nina Bruhns's novels and this was no exception. I loved the international flair -- I've always been a sucker for cops, but one with a french accent, too? Wow!"
The French Detective’s Woman
by
Nina Bruhns
Chapter 1
August
Paris, France
Ciara Alexander felt naked without a disguise.
Sliding into the darkness of the swanky Club LeCoeur, her heart pumped fast to the hard beat of the rock music as she scanned the crowded dance floor. She didn’t know what had possessed her tonight, coming as herself. Recognition would be disastrous.
But for some reason she’d felt reckless all day. Anticipatory. She had an irrepressible feeling something was going to happen tonight. Something big.
Something that would change her life forever.
Little did she realize how right she was. Nor just how disastrous things could really turn out.
But at this moment she felt incredible. Invulnerable.
Not that she was an adrenaline junkie. That time going in the second story window at Baron Palchow’s Strasbourg chalet and running into a German shepherd had nearly given her a heart attack. And the job she’d pulled at Le Mans during the famous race and there been cops everywhere...that one had shaved a few years off her life, too.
No, she didn’t enjoy the feeling of danger roiling in the pit of her stomach, knowing she was about to risk life and limb and years of freedom. Frankly, anyone who did was a fool. However, she had no choice. It was time, and the job had to be done.
Joining the dancers on the floor, Ciara lifted her arms and closed her eyes in pleasure. This she did enjoy.
Moving her feet and her body rhythmically, she felt the driving music clear to her toes. It didn’t bother her that she had no partner. She’d find someone eventually. Or maybe she’d dance solo all night. No matter. She could lose herself in the throng and dance for the sheer love of it.
Aside from which, being on the dance floor would bring her closer to her target—the jet-setting Dutch middle princess, here in Paris on her annual million-euro shopping spree.
That was something else Ciara didn’t get. Shopping. The need to possess all that...stuff. Stuff was transitory, here today, gone tomorrow. You got attached to it, but anyone could come along and take it away from you. Who needed the grief? Besides, stuff was irrelevant if you had a million euros in the bank.
Money. Now there was something a person could rely on. Money kept a person safe.
Someday Ciara would be safe. If she just had patience a little longer.
It was difficult. But what was she supposed to have done when CoCo had approached her shortly after Etienne’s death, far wiser, even then, than her tender eleven years, wanting to escape her seemingly inescapable life of crime? Ciara hadn’t hesitated for a second. Nor had she with the four other street kids she’d taken under her wing during the eight years since. So tonight she must swallow her fear and the niggling guilt, and do what must be done.
Looking around the club she didn’t see the Dutch princess, but she was there somewhere, or would be soon. Davie had said so, and Davie always had the inside scoop. Plus, the evening tabloids had been closely following the young princess’s every move for the last week, and paparazzi were lined up outside the front doors. The princess would be at Club LeCoeur and stay till the wee hours of the morning, no doubt about it.
Patience, Ciara, and all things will come.
The first song blended into the next, and then the next, as she worked her body to the music. She’d been in LeCoeur before, so the trendy black and silver décor, the pink marble bar with gleaming crystal glasses hanging in racks over it and a multitude of bottles lined up behind, the canopy of white fairy lights twinkling above the dance floor, were all familiar in their posh ostentation. It was the perfect gilded cage in which to trap her avaricious young pigeon.
The patrons were as pretentiously showy as the furnishings. With their self-consciously chic and expensive designer clothes, they were not regular Parisians, but the countryless jet set habitués of international society. The masses of jewels heaped around their wrists and necks—diamonds and emeralds and rubies—sparkled and glittered in the darkness of the club like bright stars in a black sky.
Perfect.
A tiny bead of perspiration trickled down Ciara’s neck and as she danced, she reached back to lift her hair off her nape, momentarily glad for her decision not to wear a wig in the warm summer night.
Suddenly she noticed a man watching her, leaning against a pillar at the edge of the dance floor. Tall and dark-haired, he had broad shoulders enhanced by an elegantly tailored jacket—Helmut Lang, if she wasn’t mistaken. His smoldering eyes followed her body’s every move. When their gazes collided, it was all she could do not to stop in her tracks and stare back at him.
She turned away, irritated.
This wasn’t what she was here for. A man like that was a one-way ticket to disaster. Distracting. Hell, downright dangerous. The kind of man who could start a woman to fantasizing...
But fantasies weren’t real. Ciara knew that. Only the job was real.
Two large, strong hands surprised her, brushing over her hips from behind and holding her lightly. “Voulez vous dansez avec moi?” a smoky male voice whispered in her ear.
Making a pretense of moving to the music, he pulled her back against his torso. It was firm, muscular. All male.
“No,” she answered, suddenly tongue-tied, her usually flawless French vanishing into an awkward patois. “I don’t want to dance with you.”
But for some reason her feet refused to move away from him. God, he felt good.
“You are American?” he asked softly, not letting her go.
“Yes,” she answered without thinking.
Instantly, she regretted telling the truth. She didn’t want this man—or anyone—knowing anything about her. The truth could be traced.
Still, her nerve-induced accent had probably made her nationality obvious. A dangerous slip.
“You don’t like dancing with Frenchmen?” he murmured, sliding his impertinent hands up to her waist. His fingers gripped her a shade tighter; he pulled her a shade closer. Her heart pounded a shade harder.
“I like dancing alone,” she said firmly.
She could smell him. Musky. Masculine. She fought not to enjoy it, and the feel of his large hands on her.
He chuckled, the sound rich and savory in her ear. “In Fra
nce we think it’s more fun with two people.”
“In America we like to choose our own partner.”
“So do we,” he said, and lowered his voice. “I choose you.”
Her stomach zinged. Under other circumstances she may have considered taking him up on his not-so-subtle offer. The man was sexy as hell, and it had, after all, been quite a while. But not tonight. Tonight she had no time for hooking up. No time to indulge her fantasies. Or her loneliness.
Intent on sending him on his way, she turned in his arms. And caught her breath.
He wasn’t handsome. Not even close. His face was a conglomeration of sharp angles and harsh features, his dark eyes more penetrating and intense than any she’d ever seen. But something about his look was so compelling a shiver spilled through her entire body.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t cajole. Just reached up and traced a thumb along her jaw. And murmured, “Dance with me.”
She licked her lips. As if that were answer enough he drew her close and put his arms around her, sliding the fingers of one hand into her hair.
Her will to resist slipped completely. He felt too good. Solid and built, and...oh, so male. His voice oozed power and confidence. Not the prissy French of the upper class, but the coarse accent of the Paris banlieux—the rough and tumble melting-pot ‘burbs. A little wild, a little uncivilized. A little like Etienne.
It had been a long, long time since she’d lost Etienne, her first and only love. And ages since she’d given in to any other man. Her lifestyle since his untimely death hadn’t been conducive to anything more than a brief affair, so she’d passed up most opportunities for masculine company. Something so shallow wasn’t worth the hassle, or the memories, or the heartache of wanting more.
But this man... Lord, this man was damn tempting.
“Okay,” she found herself saying, and the corners of his lips curved up. “But just dance.”
He tipped his head in graceful acquiescence.
She wound her arms around his neck and let him guide her out into the middle of the throbbing chaos of the dance floor. She didn’t care that they were the only couple doing it the old fashioned way, cheek to cheek. The music was loud and his body hot and hard; the feel of it moving against her nearly drove everything else from her mind.
Damn. She struggled to remind herself of the reason she was here at the nightclub. She could not lose focus.
Taking a long steadying breath, she glanced around again. Okay, change of plan. If she played her cards right, this could work out even better than being on her own. She could use him as a decoy. Not to mention an alibi... She just had to be careful.
The only question was what she would do with him when she had to make her speedy exit. She knew what she’d like to do. But that might not be possible. And definitely not smart.
All at once she spotted the princess, dancing a few meters away. Wearing a Dries van Noten cocktail dress and Balenciaga heels, she made Ciara in her borrowed black Ungaro look positively boring. Distinctive Cartier diamonds bounced around the woman’s ears, jumped at her throat and jingled around her wrist as she danced. Diamonds worth a fortune.
Just one of those bracelets would pay most people’s bills for a couple of months. Certainly Ciara’s, even with the Orphans.
She felt the heavy kick of nerves she always got just before the lay-down.
Easy does it, she told herself. Best not to rush things. The most important part of any job was setting it up. Moving ever closer. Picking her moment.
So she kept the haughty princess in her line of sight, maneuvering her own dance partner into optimum position. Ready to strike when the time was right.
Except he didn’t want to be led. Naturally. It figured a man like him wouldn’t dance to her tune. Instead he pulled her body closer still, and spun her away.
She should have been annoyed, but it was impossible to concentrate on anything but how amazing it felt to be in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his chest and her knees tangled with his, lacing their thighs together like lovers. Slowly, he stroked up and down her back with his fingers, skimming the bare skin above the low cut of her dress, sending shivers along her spine. His arousal grew thick and hard between them. He did nothing to hide it, but didn’t force attention to it either. So like a Frenchman. Comfortable with his sexuality, but not making a big deal about it. She liked that. Damn, she liked him.
“You smell nice,” he murmured, burying his nose in her hair as the music slowed to a soft, romantic ballad. His warm breath tickled her ear. By now they’d danced about six or seven songs straight through, and he showed no signs of relinquishing his hold on her. Which was fine. She was enjoying him too much to want to let him go just yet. The princess would wait.
“So do you,” she whispered back, and slid her arms under his jacket and around his waist. She hummed out a sigh of pleasure as she brushed her hands over his lean hips and slim waist. Damn, the man’s body was fine.
Suddenly, her fingers hit something hard at the back of his waistband. Square and made of leather, it was threaded onto his belt.
She froze in disbelief.
“My handcuffs,” the man said, pulling back to gaze down at her. His lips curved into an enigmatic smile. “Does that worry you?”
She snapped her gaping mouth shut, her mind in a whirl. “That depends on what you intend to do with them.”
His smile twitched. “I am open to suggestion, but...the official answer is that I’m a cop.”
Her eyes widened. “A— A cop?” Ohgod. The man was a cop. En flic, en poulet. In other words, en désastre—a disaster.
“Is that a problem?”
From the corner of her eye, Ciara saw the princess dance closer. She swallowed down a powerful urge to laugh hysterically. Hell. The only man in living memory she’d been this attracted to, and now— Double hell.
“You planning on arresting me or something?” she asked, only half-joking. Her pulse hammered.
His brow rose. “For dancing? Or...is there something else about you that I am unaware of? Your tourist visa has expired, perhaps?”
This time she did laugh. She couldn’t help it. But at the last minute she tried really hard not to sound desperate. “Student visa. Good indefinitely,” she lied.
“Well, then,” he said, and drew her into his arms again, replacing hers around his neck. “I guess there’s nothing to worry about.”
If only he knew.
Or, maybe he did....
“So,” she asked, hoping he couldn’t feel her heart beating like a jungle drum against his chest, “Are you here at the nightclub for business, or pleasure?”
She felt him smile against her temple. “So far it’s been all pleasure.” And just like that he lifted her chin and kissed her.
She let out a tiny gasp. He took advantage, flicking his tongue over hers. Then he pulled back.
Her mind reeled out of balance as the erotic taste of him washed through her mouth. At the same time the princess danced back into her line of sight, arms draped over the shoulders of her escort. Sparkling diamond bracelets dangled within a hair’s breadth of Ciara’s fingers.
Oh, God, this was it! There would never be a better time. Or a worse one. But she had to do it. Now. And possibly end up in handcuffs... Or wait for another day. And possibly end up in this cop’s bed.
Oh, God.
No choice.
Working by touch and pure instinct, she shifted her fingers a fraction of an inch, singled out the bracelet with the biggest diamonds and deftly unclasped it from the princess’s wrist. It slithered into Ciara’s palm, cold and sharp and glittering like a row of icy snake-eyes.
She closed her hand around it, tilted her head and pressed her mouth to the cop’s...as she deliberately dropped the bracelet into his jacket pocket.
♥♥♥
Commissaire de Police Judiciaire Jean-Marc Lacroix was not expecting the woman in his arms to kiss him back.
But when her lips met and pressed into his,
criminal detective superintendent Lacroix couldn’t resist the temptation to quickly take it to the next level. He grasped her chin and tugged it down, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth, tasting her, plumbing her depths until she moaned long and low, responding with equal fervor. Just how he liked it.
Merde, he shouldn’t be doing this. Mais, bon Dieu, the lady could kiss.
Jean-Marc hadn’t meant to kiss her at all. He had just meant to use her as a way to get onto the dance floor, to be less conspicuous in his surveillance of the flashy Dutch princess and her damned jewelry-dripping entourage.
But he should have known it would come to this. The moment he’d spotted the young woman out there on the floor in that low-backed, clingy little black number, dancing all by herself and enjoying the hell out of it, he’d been a walking hard-on. Now he was a dancing hard-on. And if he had anything to say about it, very soon he’d be a fucking hard-on.
He might be a cop, but off-duty he was only a man—and no better than he had to be. He was here at Club LeCoeur strictly on his own initiative, not on the clock. Working a hunch that the guy rapidly stealing his way up the French National Police’s Office Central de Lutte Contre le Trafic des Biens Culturels—or OCBC’s—most-wanted list might show up for such easy pickings as the high-profile princess. As lucky as he was clever, the slippery jewel thief known as le Revenant—the Ghost—had been on the OCBC’s radar for two years. Now the guy was starting to make media headlines, and they wanted the fils de pute behind bars. The officer in charge of the case, Commissaire Saville, was good, but somewhat unimaginative. As a commissaire, normally Jean-Marc didn’t work investigations himself, he delegated and ran things from behind a desk. But he thought he might score some much-needed brownie points with his and Saville’s boss, Commissaire Divisionnaire Belfort, if he managed to bring down the thief himself. Besides, he missed field work.
Jean-Marc had been to a half-dozen clubs over the past week following the princess and her ostentatious jewels along with the tabloid paparazzi, but le Revenant had yet to put in an appearance. Maybe he wouldn’t turn up tonight, either.