The French Detective's Woman

by Nina Bruhns

  Not while they strolled past the incredible cathedral of Notre Dame, then to the Isle St. Louis and back, then further down the river to a small bistro on a dark, cobblestoned side street where they ate a simple meal accompanied by a sizeable carafe of hearty red wine and talked with their fingers laced and their heads bent close till the smiling proprietress finally shooed them out at closing time well past midnight.

  And certainly not as they made sweet, languorous love for hours and hours, until the orange-rose sun peeked over the gray slate tile rooftops and the birds began to sing their morning songs and the church bells chimed five times.

  Not until Jean-Marc reluctantly left her bed to get dressed and go to work did harsh reality once again intrude onto her haze of sated emotional bliss. Along with the guilt.

  When he was gone she buried her face in the tousled sheets where he had lain. She wrapped her hands around the back of her head and fought the tears, breathing in the musky peach blossom scent of his body and his passion.

  She had to leave him. She had no choice. But God, did it hurt.

  Who would ever have thought the very worst consequence of her life of crime would be this?

  Slowly, Ciara rose and dragged herself from the bed. And reluctantly started to pack her things.

  ♥♥♥

  For Jean-Marc, the next day started out good and just got better. Making love to Ciara two nights in a row had him feeling happier and more content than he had in years.

  At 36 Quai des Orfèvres, he and Pierre made excellent progress on the unsolved robbery cases they were going through, piecing together le Revenant’s early history of petty theft.

  It was slow work. It took the whole day to get there, but by the time they’d gone back through ten years worth of files, the matching thefts finally trickled to a stop.

  “I think we’ve finally found when he started,” Pierre said after they’d pored through the files for eleven years back and come up with nothing that fit. “Thank God.”

  Jean-Marc stretched his aching back muscles. A sense of satisfaction settled in his bones. Even if they were hitting dead ends everywhere else, their profile was yielding some great information.

  “Alors. It definitely appears the Ghost started stealing ten years ago,” Jean-Marc agreed. “That probably puts his age at this point between twenty-five and thirty-five. Which fits with his current level of sophistication.”

  He got up and perused the maps on the incident room wall. Yesterday they’d added a second one of Europe, and used a different color push pin to mark the robberies committed during each calendar year.

  An unmistakable pattern had emerged.

  “And we know where he’s from.”

  Pierre tapped the pins for le Revenant’s first year in business, one by one. Every one of them was stuck in the port city of Marseilles. He grinned at Jean-Marc. “I gotta tell you, mon ami, this was one damned fine bit of police work, if I don’t say so myself.”

  Jean-Marc grinned back. “May as well admit it, we’re geniuses.”

  Pierre jerked his chin at the sheaf of notes and graphs by Jean-Marc’s hand. “What else does your brilliant statistical analysis tell us?”

  Jean-Marc’s chair squeaked familiarly as he leaned back in it and contemplated the cracked plaster of the ceiling, ticking off on his fingers. “He moved to Paris nine years ago. He started out snatching purses and lifting wallets on the train and métro. Eight years ago he switched to jewelry, started refining his craft. Then he added silver and a painting or two, and began to escalate. Every year the items he steals get more and more valuable.”

  “And his robberies get progressively more skilled and more daring,” Pierre said. “And yet still elegantly simple. To filch a diamond bracelet right off a heavily guarded princess’s wrist, surrounded by two hundred people and the commissaire who is hunting him...” Pierre’s words trailed off in a shrug and a puff of admiration.

  Jean-Marc didn’t need reminding of the man’s preternatural abilities.

  “There’s something we’re missing,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk blotter. “Something important.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s the question,” Jean-Marc said, and thoughtfully turned his gaze to the wall map. “Let’s talk to the police in Marseille. I have an old friend there I can call. See if they’re able to shed any light. Meanwhile we have to ask ourselves, is he finished now, for this month?”

  “That diamond bracelet was pretty valuable. He’s over his usual take. You really think he’s going to pull off another job right away?”

  “It’s possible. He has been steadily escalating.”

  Pierre hummed in agreement. “Okay. So say he’s not done. Where will he strike next?”

  Jean-Marc turned back to him with a grimace. “That, mon ami, is exactly what we must figure out.”

  ♥♥♥

  Jean-Marc glanced at his watch as he rang the outside bell to Ciara’s flat for a third time. He and Pierre had gotten so wrapped up in their work on predicting le Revenant’s next move that Jean-Marc hadn’t noticed the time flying by. It was late. Well past 9:00 pm.

  He hoped she hadn’t given up on him. He’d wanted to call her earlier, to let her know he was on his way, but she didn’t have a phone. Ridiculous, in this day and age.

  He’d have to have one installed for her. Or better yet, buy her a cell phone. So he could get hold of her whenever he felt the urge. Which, if today was any indication, would be every other minute.

  He’d just pressed the buzzer for the fourth time when a gray-haired old lady with bifocals poked her head out from the locked front entrance to the building.

  “You’re here about the apartment?” she asked.

  “I’m here to see Ciara Alexander. Apartment 6B.”

  The woman opened the door wider and looked him up and down in the dim glow from the ancient courtyard corridor, her gaze snagging on the large bouquet of flowers he held in one hand.

  “She’s gone,” she said with an accusing scowl. “This morning. Who are you?”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “Gone? Ciara? What do you mean gone? Where?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “How the hell should I know? Damn foreigners. Can’t be relied on. I knew I shouldn’t have rented to her. Nothing but tr—”

  “You’re telling me she moved out?” This had to be some kind of mistake. A misunderstanding.

  “Packed her bags and had me call a taxi. Nothing left of her but that damn Arab demon symbol painted on the wall. Knew I should have gotten a bigger security deposit.”

  “Did she leave a forwarding address?” he demanded, his mind finally emerging from paralysis.

  She narrowed her eyes at him calculatingly. “Who’s asking?”

  He whipped out his wallet and held his carte to her face. “Le flic.”

  She backed up, eyes flaring. “Honest! I have no idea where she’s gone—”

  “I want to see the apartment,” he snapped. “She must have left a note.” Something to tell him where she’d gone. She knew he was coming tonight. They’d talked about it.

  They went upstairs and he hurried through both rooms of her closet-sized apartment, searching for a letter or a piece of paper.

  The furniture was all there. The ratty sofa they’d made love on the third time, the wobbly table where they’d shared a thrown-together meal, the dresser where his card had sat along with her hairbrush and a tiny bottle of perfume. The bed where they’d—

  “Get out,” he told the hovering landlady, and slammed the door in her face. He needed to be alone.

  He threw the bouquet of flowers on the bed, staring at it for long minutes, trying to come to terms with what he knew he had to accept, but couldn’t fucking believe.

  She’d lied to him. The entire time he’d been with her. The entire time he’d been between her legs, deep inside her. She’d sworn she wasn’t afraid of him because he was a cop. But he must have been right about her all along. There was no o
ther explanation for her precipitous disappearance.

  What the hell was she involved in?

  He took one last look at the ornate blue design painted over the bed, the only thing left to show she’d ever lived there, turned, and walked out.

  He should have known. Should have followed the visceral instinct that had screamed warnings at him to leave Ciara Alexander the fuck alone.

  Damn Pierre for dragging him over here after he’d made up his mind.

  But damn himself most, for his silly romantic notions. For falling for her.

  Non, he thought, blinded by the bright summer sun as he marched out of the building. He slid his dark shades over his eyes. Forget her. He didn’t need this. Didn’t need her.

  Now he could pour all his energy into the case he’d been handed. Closing it successfully would secure his job. Probably get him the promotion that had eluded him for so long. A raise. Those were the things that mattered.

  Fuck Ciara Alexander and her soft, pliant curves.

  From now on there was only one thing he wanted to concentrate on. And that was catching le Revenant.

  Chapter 6

  Being picked up by the police was definitely not what Ciara had in mind when she’d let the air out of the tire of Davie’s dad’s Jaguar XJ-12 on this lonely stretch of country road seventy miles outside of Paris.

  The week had ticked by slowly. Each morning she’d awoken in tangled sheets caused by nightmares that Jean-Marc had somehow tracked her down and come for her. To throw her in prison. And worse...

  Seeing the distinctive white, red and blue radio car marked with the triangular emblem of the police nationale rolling to a halt behind the Jag reminded her just a little too much of those nightmares. She dabbed moisture from her upper lip and smoothed a hand down her dowdy brown gown.

  It was the weekend of the Michaud’s soiree. The day of her big job.

  Davie had...borrowed...the Jag from his parents’ country estate carriage house. “They’ll never miss it,” he’d assured her. “They’re in Quebec for a few weeks.”

  Davie hadn’t spoken to his parents in years, but he had lunch with his old nanny once a month, so he always knew what was happening with them. And on what days he could liberate the car.

  Typical bad luck that a police patrol was the first thing to drive by after she’d deliberately deflated the Jag’s back tire. She’d counted on someone else stopping on their way to the Michaud estate to help out a stranded fellow guest. And give her a ride to the exclusive end-of-season soiree. Thus solving her tiny problem of not having an invitation.

  If she weren’t about to have a freaking heart attack, she might have laughed at the cosmic irony. But at the moment she needed all her energy to maintain her composure and stay in character.

  Chill, Ciara, they’re not here to arrest you, she told herself. They were just doing what cops did, helping an old lady in distress.

  Tamping down on her speeding pulse, she watched a uniformed officer emerge from the vehicle and approach her. For effect, she fanned her forehead with a bit of lace from her sturdy handbag. Praying her disguise would stand the test.

  Of course it would. Disguises and slipping into different characters were her specialties. Between Davie’s coaching and her own gift for languages, she could become anyone from an East End street urchin to an East European countess. Even looking carefully, no one would ever guess that the aristocratic old lady with a flat tire was really an American who’d just turned thirty-one. The uppity accent would throw off the cops once her robbery was reported, if by some miracle the old lady was remembered.

  Yes, the disguise was perfect. And she could handle these cops, too.

  “Madame, vous avez besoin d'aide?” asked the young, blue-clad officer, with a small bow.

  Smiling at him, she daintily lifted the hem of her matronly gown and resisted the urge to scratch her cheeks. Masquerading as a sixty year-old woman might render her as good as invisible, but the fake wrinkles could be torture in hot weather.

  “Why, thank you officer,” she answered in flawless upper crust French.

  “A flat tire?” he asked, glancing at the Jag.

  “So it seems.” She aimed for an air of pompous entitlement. “If the officer would give me a ride to the Michaud estate, I would greatly appreciate it. It is just up the road.”

  The man looked uncomfortable. “Taking passengers in the patrol car is against regulations, madame. But I would be happy to—”

  “Young man,” she interrupted haughtily, “Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”

  The officer sputtered, but before he could reply, a deep voice came from the passenger side of the cruiser. “We’re going the same place. Give the lady a fucking ride.”

  She froze in her tracks, every one of her nightmares swirling into terrifying reality.

  That voice.

  The officer glanced at her contritely and she drew herself up, mainly to hide her fear and dismay. “W-Well!” she stuttered, seizing onto the man’s obvious belief that it was the crude language that had shocked her to the core.

  “Don’t mind the commissaire,” the officer said. “He’s in a foul mood. Come, madame.” He extended a hand toward the radio car. “We will take you.”

  Yes, but where?

  She forced herself to follow him, sliding into the back seat. Praying Jean-Marc would not turn around.

  She couldn’t see much of him, just his broad shoulders and dark hair as he leafed through a thick file in his lap. He didn’t look up, but in the rear view mirror she saw the reflection of his left eye. Unmistakable porcelain blue. Outlined by the familiar sculpted brow, and a frown of concentration.

  Another shower of nerves skittered down Ciara’s spine. What business did Jean-Marc have at the Michaud soiree?

  As if she didn’t know. He’d predicted she’d strike at Club LeCoeur, hadn’t he? Somehow the man had gotten inside her head, knowing her next move almost before she did.

  Okay. Okay. She was not going to panic.

  She considered her options. She didn’t have to do this laydown. There would be other paintings, other pieces of silver and jewelry. She could go to Spain, or Italy, so she wouldn’t have to worry about Jean-Marc and his uncanny insight.

  Except, Sofie was depending on her. Right now. Beck would not wait much longer for his blackmail money—he’d already threatened Sofie again. Ciara must protect her, and keep Beck placated until they could come up with a fail-safe plan to take care of him for good. No, she could not fail today. She must proceed.

  The sun was just dipping below the horizon, painting a rosy pink glow over the rolling fields of green, heavy with ripening vegetables, neat, endless rows bursting with their fat bounty. Even in the stale confines of the police car, the French countryside smelled verdant and ripe. Expectant. Abundant.

  She loved the country. If she ever got her million, this was where she’d live. Far from the ugly urban chaos where she’d grown up, the decaying towns that stretched on and on, one after the other without respite. Instead, she’d be in the clean, nurturing country, within a stone’s throw of the most beautiful city on earth, Paris.

  In just a few minutes, the fields gave way to stately trees, pristine lawns and the long, majestic entrance drive of the Michaud estate. Bypassing the valet, the officer parked the cruiser behind the manor house, next to a jumble of catering vans.

  Ciara looked around, getting her bearings. Where was Ricardo? Davie had managed to get Ricardo hired on at the last minute as a waiter for the sizeable party. She didn’t like giving the Orphans an active role in a laydown, but if the job was risky they usually insisted on one of them playing backup, to stage a diversion in case things went south. She just hoped Ricardo wouldn’t give either of them away if he saw her being escorted into the house by the police.

  The officer held open the service door and accompanied her through the kitchen into the public rooms, apologizing for not taking her in via the grand front entrance.

&n
bsp; “Nowhere to park,” he explained. “And valet service for a police car...” He made a face. “Not a great idea.”

  “Don’t give it a thought,” she said, grateful the whole invitation issue had been neatly skirted. “It’s rather exciting having a police escort. I shall be the talk of the party.”

  The pitying smile he returned assured her that unless she walked in with Brad Pitt on her arm there was no way in hell she’d be the talk of anything, let alone this gathering of the glitzy and glamorous.

  For a split second old insecurities swamped over her. Her stomach squeezed with nausea before she could remind herself that this was exactly the image she’d striven for with her disguise.

  She dared a peek over her shoulder at Jean-Marc, who was still following them, a few paces behind. When he saw her glance, he gave her an absent nod then continued to scan the other guests.

  She wanted to jump for joy that he didn’t recognize her. Or maybe fall to her knees with relief. Her confidence returned with a surge. She was really going to pull this off. If her own lover couldn’t identify her, nobody could.

  Making her way through the crowded grand salon, she thought to rid herself of her unwanted escorts by slipping through a set of double glass doors outside to the sprawling courtyard. Even in the growing darkness, she could see the gardens were spectacular. Flowers scented the cool evening air and soft music wafted in from somewhere beyond the bordering box hedge.

  Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Behind her an explosion of glass shattered on the paving stones. She spun, clutching at her overstuffed bosom, and it wasn’t all acting. Visions of Jean-Marc drawing his gun, calling “Halt! Thief!” and firing when she tried to escape whirled through her imagination.

  Damn, she had to calm down. She was nervous as a cat.

  In reality, a tray of drinks lay scattered on the ground in a glistening puddle of crystal shards and still bubbling liquid that reflected the brightly colored lanterns overhead. In the middle of it all stood Ricardo and a short man dressed in white, both cursing and gesturing wildly. Ricardo’s eyes shot to her, dismayed. She gave him a smile of reassurance and shook her head slightly.