The French Detective's Woman

by Nina Bruhns

  Before she could think to protest, he’d swept out of the apartment, leaving her alone with Jean-Marc.

  She jumped to her feet, starting for the rapidly closing door. “You should go with him. There’s really nothing else to—”

  Jean-Marc grabbed her arm. “Arrète.”

  She swallowed a gasp. And peered up at him. His eyes blazed with...anger? Could he really be angry about her not calling?

  “Listen,” she said, “about last n—”

  He cut her off with a swift shake of his head. His fingers dug into the flesh of her arm as he tugged her nearer and grasped her other arm, holding her fast in front of him.

  The dark brown leather of his shoulder holster stood out in stark contrast to his crisp white shirt, as did the black stubble on his jaw. His suit trousers, expensive navy blue worsted with subtle pin stripes, covered athletic, muscular thighs. He looked cool and elegant, as he had last night...and incredibly dangerous.

  Her heart skipped a beat, then sped out of control. She tugged uselessly at her arms.

  “You are afraid?” he asked, his voice low and guttural.

  She thought of Sophie, and Etienne, and said, “Yes.” Then she thought of last night, and shook her head. “No.” She gave up trying to hide her confusion. “I don’t know. Should I be?”

  His mouth was cruelly beautiful, sculpted and smooth, a sensual slash of cold disapproval. She remembered it sliding over her body last night, insistent, demanding. She shivered. She wanted it on her again.

  His eyes dipped to her breasts. “Your body is not afraid. I can see your nipples through your top. They’re hard. Like I am.”

  He started to walk her backwards into the bedroom. She tried to resist, really she did. This would be a bigger mistake than last night. One that could not be undone.

  He was dangerous. Wrong for her.

  But she wanted him even more now than she did then.

  He halted in front of her dresser, low with a big, round mirror. From the corner of her eye she could see the bed with the blue Hand of Fatima design Sofie had painted on the wall above it, palm out, like a warning against the folly of what she was about to do with Jean-Marc. Their profiles reflected back in the mirror, him with his merciless grip on her arms, her with a look on her face she’d never seen before—somewhere between terror and breathless anticipation. She attempted to pull away again, but her limbs were strangely powerless.

  “Tell me, Ciara,” he demanded. Pulling her closer still.

  “Tell you what?” she asked, befuddled and distracted by his legs tangling with hers.

  His breath was hot in her ear. “Tell me why you’re afraid of the police. Tell me what you’re doing that’s illegal.”

  Shock welded her to the spot. She stared at him openmouthed.

  No. He couldn’t know.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Why would you say that?”

  He let one arm go and slid a hand over her breast. She sucked in a breath. He squeezed her slightly, his thumb toying with the stiffened tip.

  Giving in to the sensation, she groaned softly.

  “You want me,” he whispered.

  He didn’t ask. Didn’t equivocate. Merely stated the obvious. Keeping his hand on her breast, he turned her toward the dresser and the mirror. Stood with his hard-ridged front pressed into her yielding backside. She started to tremble.

  “When you didn’t call, I thought maybe you’d lost my business card. But you didn’t lose it.”

  Because there it stood, canted up against her hairbrush, right in the middle of the dresser. Impossible to miss. Rife with implication. Damning in its blatancy.

  “There’s no sign of a man anywhere in your apartment, so I’m guessing it’s not a boyfriend. So why? Then I remembered, you are a foreigner, on a student visa, with no visible income.” He leaned down, closer to her ear. “And at the club, when I told you I was a cop, your reaction was...unusual. Suddenly you were frightened of me, and to get involved with me. Why?”

  She licked her lips. “I—”

  “I’m an excellent detective, Ciara. And I’m also damn good at math. Two plus two always adds up to four. Now, tell me what you’re involved in. Drugs? Prostitution? I’ll help you if I can.”

  She closed her eyes against the chaos trying to break through in her mind. Prostitution? Was he kidding?

  No. She’d be all right if she just came up with a plausible reason...

  Think!

  “You’re wrong,” she said past the dryness in her throat. “I’m not afraid. That’s not why I didn’t call you.”

  In the mirror his eyes met hers as she forced them open. His hand moved across her breast, going for the top button of her camisole. He slid it open. “I’m listening.”

  Her pulse zoomed.

  He slid open the second button.

  “It’s not that you’re a cop,” she said in a rush. “It’s that you’re a commissaire.”

  His brow went up and his fingers paused on the third button.

  She quickly went on, “You’re right about me. I’m a foreigner. A student with no money. Look at how I live!” She swept a hand around at her miserably shabby apartment and the threadbare furniture she didn’t own. The lack of adornment, the few items of clothing in the tiny armoire. The pitiful state of her life. “But you...you’re older than I. An important man. We’re from two completely different worlds, Jean-Marc. Why start something when it will never work? I’d never be welcome in your world. You’d be ashamed of me.”

  She tore her gaze away, embarrassed by the truth and vehemence of those last words she’d never meant to utter.

  Her childhood had been an agony of shame—something she had believed she’d put far behind her. Though it drove everything she did, even now, she seldom thought of those unhappy years in the States, before she met Etienne.

  She tried to extract herself from Jean-Marc’s grasp. “Please,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

  “Non. I won’t. It is you who are wrong, so very wrong, about me.” He put his lips to her hair. “Age is of no consequence when you’re past thirty. And I could never be ashamed of you, mon ange.”

  His fingers sought the last buttons on her camisole. He opened them and brushed his hand over her yearning flesh. For a moment war raged within her: desire versus wisdom. She wasn’t wrong. But he seemed so...sincere.

  She knew what she’d have to do if she had sex with him again. Hell, even if she didn’t. The moment she’d seen him standing at her apartment door she’d known what she’d be forced to do.

  So what would it matter if she surrendered now? Gave in to the sheer insanity of this incredible, impossible attraction?

  “We’re not different, Ciara,” he murmured, sliding the camisole off her shoulders completely. Taking her in his arms. Holding her. Wanting her. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  She sighed as he kissed her neck, melting into the pure joy of being with this man who was so wrong for her. Accepting that, despite everything, at this moment he was exactly right for her. For today, anyway. Until he realized what a monumental mistake he’d made....

  “I’m not who you think I am, either, Jean-Marc,” she whispered, letting down her guard completely. “But for now, I’ll try to be just who you want me to be.”

  ♥♥♥

  Jean-Marc gathered Ciara in his arms. He took her mouth with his and plundered, using his lips and tongue, thrusting deep. Tasting bliss.

  He groaned softly. He was sunk, and he knew it. It was as though all the pent-up emotional need he’d suppressed for five years had busted loose at one time. Inconvenient. But probably past due.

  She wrapped her leg around his knee, met his tongue with hers, opening to him completely, yielding her sweet favors to his demands. Her eagerness made him dizzy with desire; he wanted to feel her luscious body under him, to hilt his cock deep inside her.

  Dieu. No wonder he was feeling obsessed about this woman. What was it about her that had him crawling out of his skin
to have her? Was it because he recognized her on some visceral, elemental level as being so much like himself? A fish out of water. Basically, thoroughly, insecure. Striving to be something he was not.

  A fake.

  But the emotions he was feeling right now were not false. And in her naked passion for him at least, he sensed she was being honest.

  He backed her up to the bed and reached for her zipper. In two seconds he’d peeled off her skirt. Two more, and her panties were on the floor.

  She groped for his shirt buttons as he tumbled her down onto the mattress.

  “Non,” he growled, and tore his mouth from hers. He grasped her wrists in one hand, pulling them above her head as he pushed her thighs apart and lowered himself between them. He savored the sight of her nude body below. He’d wanted her like this last night, and now he had her exactly as he’d craved. Naked and panting under him. Open. Willing. Needy. And in his complete power.

  He took her mouth again, hard, and skimmed his hand down her body. Relishing the silken feel of her warm, undulating flesh, the taste of her tongue on his lips, the smell of her desire for him filling his nostrils.

  Si bon. So good. So different from the counterfeit passion he’d grown used to. What had he possibly seen in the cool indifference?

  “Take...your clothes...off,” she moaned between eating kisses.

  “Later.” He liked being fully clothed, his shoulder holster in place, while she was so vulnerable.

  He let her wrists go and slid down so he could feast on her breasts—another fantasy from last night. She cried out as he took one nipple into his mouth and sucked fiercely. Her body bowed in a crescent and her fingers tunneled in his hair.

  “Please, Jean-Marc,” she moaned. “Oh, God.”

  He fought for self-control. He’d never been with a more responsive woman. Every touch, every lick, every nip he gave her made her moan and writhe and plead with him to come inside her. But he had no intention of ending the pleasure so quickly. He wanted to make it last and last. All night.

  He slid even further down her body. Over the dip of her belly to the joining of her legs. And he feasted there. Teasing and inflaming her with his tongue and teeth. As he did, he slipped a finger into her and sought the rough spot that would make her light up like Bastille Day.

  He wanted her out of control. He wanted her helpless and boneless with need. He wanted her begging for his cock. For him.

  She screamed. And came apart, sobbing his name.

  He banked the immense gratification and kept at her, until she came again. Until she lay under him, trembling helplessly with the pleasure he’d given her, moaning in bliss.

  Completely his.

  He lifted off her and she watched with slumberous, half-lidded eyes as he slowly stripped off his gun and his clothes, and sheathed himself. Preening for her. Making her wait. Making her spread her thighs and whisper, “Hurry.”

  She reached for him as he mounted her, wrapping her arms and legs around his body. But he didn’t enter her. Not yet.

  “Who is your man now?” he demanded softly.

  A shiver purled through her and her eyelids drifted closed. “You are, Jean-Marc.”

  “Open your eyes,” he commanded. “And say it again.”

  She did as he bid. “You’re the only man I want, Jean-Marc,” she whispered breathlessly.

  He thrust home in triumph, his male pride swelling along with his member. “You are mine, Ciara. Don’t try to hide from me again.”

  He twined his fingers through her hair and held her still for his kisses. He pulled out and plunged into her again. She gasped. He hilted again.

  “Mine,” he murmured, thrusting over and over, claiming his right to her body, and imprinting his name on her will.

  He didn’t even want to think about why he was acting like this. Didn’t want to think about anything but burying himself as deep as he could inside her. He had her now. And he would keep her. She was his.

  Her body trembled and shuddered under him, filling him with an erotic sense of power. Of possession. She cried his name in climax once again, and he knew that she had surrendered completely.

  With three final, powerful thrusts, he allowed himself to fall into the ecstasy. Sweaty and burning in the flames of their passion, he held her tight and flung himself into the pleasure of orgasm. Roaring his completion like a man possessed.

  Because he was. For as much as he’d claimed and taken her tonight, she had claimed him just as surely.

  And for the first time in many years, belonging to someone else felt like a good thing.

  ♥♥♥

  The next morning in his office, Jean-Marc leaned his elbows on his desk, propped his chin in his hands and hummed in satisfaction.

  Dieu, he felt great.

  Exhausted, wrung out and emptied. But in a good way. A very good way. Thanks to Ciara he was alive again.

  And he was definitely in love.

  He hadn’t left her place until practically dawn this morning, and even then he’d had to tear himself away from her delectable, awesome body. Ah, the things they’d done! Just thinking about them—and her—left him hard as a pistol and counting the seconds until they met again.

  He would take her to his flat tonight. Where they’d have better wine, more horizontal surfaces to explore, and carpeted floors. A bigger bed, too, when they finally made it that far. His cock swelled with alacrity.

  “You look like Hades on the second day of spring.” He opened his eyes to find Pierre grinning at him with amusement.

  “You should see Persephone,” Jean-Marc said with a contented smile.

  “Won over, sated and panting for more, eh?”

  “Did you doubt it? Thanks for leaving the interview. I take it that was planned?”

  Pierre shrugged and gave him a wink. “Peut être.” Perhaps. “So, what’s all this?” he asked, indicating the piles of file boxes stacked around Jean-Marc’s desk.

  “Archives sent them up. With a note for you.” He handed Pierre a white memo slip.

  “You owe me big-time, Rousselot,” Pierre read. “I’m thinking San Tropez. After the files are returned in good order. Hugs, Nicole.” He looked up. “O la la. I’ve hit the jackpot.”

  “It’s a scam,” Jean-Marc assured him. “She just wants her damn files back.”

  Pierre chuckled. “Then she shall have them. And the sooner the better, in my view. Let’s get to it,” he said, and grabbed the top container, which happened to be Saville’s box of files on le Revenant.

  After going over the two dozen or so robberies attributed with fair certainty to the Ghost, they made a list of the things those cases told them about the thief. The list was topped by the time of month the thefts had been committed.

  “I’ll bet he’s paying his mortgage with the proceeds,” Pierre declared when Jean-Marc pointed out that nearly all of the thefts had occurred within the week before the first of the month.

  “Or his rent,” Jean-Marc agreed.

  “Pretty high for the suburbs,” Pierre said, studying the figures. “About right for a fancy place downtown, though.”

  “Or, he’s living modestly but paying all his bills with his robbery proceeds, and just gets it over with all at once, with one heist.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “What would either of those options tell us?”

  “That he’s lazy?”

  Jean-Marc picked up the neat list of columned statistics he’d written, and pondered the bigger picture: motive. “Or that he’s not doing it for the thrill. If he’s waiting until the last minute, I’d say stealing is not a lifestyle for him, but a necessity. And not one he particularly enjoys.”

  Pierre nodded. “I see what you mean. Thieving obviously doesn’t scare him, but it doesn’t turn him on, either, or he’d be doing it a lot more.”

  “And yet, he’s very good at it. So why doesn’t he go for bigger things? Knock over a store, rather than take one bracelet or necklace at a time? Pay the bills for a
whole year in one fell swoop?”

  “Because he’s smart,” Pierre said, with a shade of respect. “Staying small-time kept him low-profile and low-priority with the police for a long time.”

  “Exactly,” Jean-Marc said, tapping his pencil on the list. “Very smart.” He got the distinct feeling they’d all been underestimating this guy. “Which makes me wonder...”

  “What’s that?”

  “If he’s been working in other countries besides France. Maybe he only steals during the last week of the month here because he’s working the other weeks in Germany, or Belgium, or Spain.”

  Pierre’s eyes widened. “Mon dieu.” He sat up straight. “You mean like that serial killer who was murdering women for years all along the E50. Different months for different countries.”

  “Well, not quite that grim, but yes, like that.” Jean-Marc lifted his phone. “Think I’ll put in a few calls and check it out.”

  By ten o’clock he’d gotten promises from his contacts in the Dutch, Spanish, German, Belgian and Swiss authorities to look into things and call him back.

  By lunchtime Jean-Marc had made his next major discovery.

  “It’s not just jewelry. He’s stealing other things, too.”

  Pierre looked up from his fourth box of files and frowned. “How do you figure?”

  “There aren’t many, but—” Jean-Marc held up several pages of notes he’d made on unsolved cases from the past two years “—these robberies fit his pattern to a T.”

  “And they’re not jewelry?”

  Jean-Marc shook his head. “Paintings and silver. Plus...” He pointed to their master list of le Revenant’s known robberies. “The other thefts took place in months when his jewelry takes were lower than normal.”

  Pierre leaned back in his chair and whistled. “Paintings and silver. A lot harder to conceal than jewelry. Sounds like Plan B.”

  “He’s stuck to small pieces, and he cut the paintings out of the frames. Even so, they’re harder to get away with and probably tougher to fence than jewelry. So yeah. Plan B. Find anything like that in your stack?”

  Pierre frowned. “I’ll have to go back and check my notes.”

  “Here. Let me.” Jean-Marc shuffled through the hand-written pages, skimming over the sea of dates and figures. “Look. Here’s one more that fits. Another piece of silver.”