The French Detective's Woman (19 page)

A nice set of emeralds in modern settings, a gorgeous fire opal ring and, thankfully, the diamonds. She scooped the lot into her handbag, then put the case back into the drawer. With luck the woman wouldn’t notice anything was missing until the next day. Or the day after.

Steeling her pulsing nerves, she slipped out the room and strode from the hotel at a businesslike clip. Hailing a taxi, she checked her watch. If she hurried, she’d be home well before
Valois Vieilli
closed for the day.

After which she’d have to face the wrath of a frustrated
Commissaire
Lacroix. She couldn’t help a grim smile. He didn’t know her very well if he’d thought following her would intimidate her, or deter her from what she had to do.

Next time it may prove a bit more difficult to elude him. But she still had a few tricks up her sleeve. Meanwhile, he’d likely be waiting for her when she got home, prepared to give her the third degree.

Whatever. He could ask all the questions he wanted, and search her from head to toe. But he wouldn’t find anything.

When the train pulled back into the Gare du Nord in Paris, she carefully threw her ripped up train tickets into a trash basket several tracks down from where she’d arrived, and her thrift store gloves in another. Then she found a phone and called Valois.

“The shop is being watched,” he warned before she could say anything but hello.

Damn. “Can you meet me?”

“The usual place?”

“How soon can you get away?”

“Right now.”

She let out a sigh of relief, and silently blessed Valois’s father and the war for providing him with the secret tunnel along with a hidden grated entrance several blocks away. He rarely used it, but it did occasionally come in handy.

She had a feeling it would be coming in handy more and more as Jean-Marc increased the pressure.

She really had to get out of this business.

For the millionth time she went over in her mind how much longer she’d have to maintain her illegal activities. Hugo was already working and contributing to the household. Next would be Ricardo, who’d be graduating from cooking school this fall, and CoCo, who was finishing up her nursing assistant courses in the spring. Between the three of them, at that point they would be able to take care of all the Orphans’ expenses, except for Sofie and Davie’s tuition. Which would be a tremendous burden lifted from Ciara’s shoulders.

If only they could somehow make Beck go away, she might actually have a shot at a normal life soon.

After returning her ID, wig and tools to the locker, she found a restroom, peeled out of the beautiful lilac Chanel suit and shoes, and put her own outfit back on. Using a tissue, she wiped the slick gold bag of fingerprints, then folded the suit into it. She washed her hands at the sink, then walked back to the station. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for.

A young woman about her own size wearing a threadbare dress sat on a wooden bench next to a battered suitcase. A small child played with a rag doll at her feet. Ciara went over and held out the gold bag to her.

“Please,” she said. “I’d like you to have this.”

The woman looked up uncomprehendingly. “
Pardon
?”

She answer, but smiled brilliantly, patted the child on the head and walked away, heading for the
métro
. Once there, she found a seat, gave herself and her handbag a thorough check, just to make sure no evidence remained of her day’s work—other than the jewels nestling at the bottom of the purse.

Valois was waiting for her on their usual bench by the Pompidou Center. He rose as she approached, and greeted her with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. She slipped the jewels into his jacket pocket.

“If we make this quick,” he said with a grin, “the idiot watching the shop will never know I’m gone.”

 “Sounds good,” she said, returning his smile. “Well, I guess we’ll have to be careful contacting each other from now on. For some reason,
Commissaire
Lacroix has gotten it into his head that I am
le Revenant
.”

Valois’s eyes registered shock. “He accused you? To your face?”

She nodded, and he gave a low curse. A flock of pigeons at their feet took wing, flying in a circle before swooping down on the other side of the square.

“You should probably deposit my whole cut into the Swiss account this time,” she said. “I don’t want to be caught with a lot of cash.”

“
D’accord
. I’ll leave a message at Café Constantinople for you when it’s done.”

She sat down on the bench. “Beck is getting nasty about his money, Valois. Have you come up with anything yet?”

“I think so. How do you feel about Italy?”

“Good food and disorganized cops,” she said wryly. “Works for me. Tell me about it.”

He sat next to her and talked in a low voice as she closed her eyes and tipped her face into the fading sunlight. It was still warm, a perfect late summer day in Paris. The job sounded good. A small but outstanding collection of silver items, collected for a nouveau riche novelist by her greedy, but discerning, interior designer.

Valois handed Ciara a slip of paper with an address written on it. “I’ve arranged for shipment to Paris by a colleague in Milan.”

“Excellent.” That would make the train ride home much less stressful. She took a moment to memorize the address, then tore up the paper and tossed it into the silver metal basket next to the bench.

She rose. “Thanks, Valois. You’re the best.”

He shook his head. “You be very careful,
ma petite
.
Commissaire
Lacroix could be a big problem.”

He had no idea
.

She said more firmly than she felt, “Don’t worry. I can handle Lacroix.”

She just wished she truly believed that. But the truth was, she was starting to feel the walls close in on her. Jean-Marc was smart. He was persistent. And he had a bug up his butt about her. Not a good combination.

She couldn’t go to jail. If she did, what would happen to the Orphans? Somehow she had to think of a way to knock Jean-Marc off his game. Mislead him. Or distract him.

Maybe she should reconsider enlisting his help in dealing with Beck. If Beck went away, maybe, just maybe, she could quit while she was still ahead, and officially retire
le Revenant
.

Life wouldn’t be easy if she stopped stealing. Nor would she be able to finish her own education. She could forget about her dream of being a translator. Unskilled with no degree, she’d have to take what she could get. But at least she wouldn’t be in jail.

And since when had life ever been easy?

Suddenly, she wondered how she’d ever gotten sucked into this loser lifestyle... Why had she never questioned it before? While Etienne was alive, it had all seemed natural and inevitable—after all his whole family was involved in criminal activity. But after he was gone, why had she taken the easy way out instead of doing what she knew in her heart to be the right thing? Sure, her motives were pure—keeping the Orphans on the straight and narrow. Without stealing, there would have been no way to help them as she had. But was that really an excuse?

She walked home deep in thought. And came to a decision.

At their inevitable confrontation tonight, she’d bring it up with Jean-Marc. See what he had to say. Ask if he could help her deal with Beck. Help her find a better solution.

It was with a much lighter step that she skipped up the steps from the
métro
and walked the few blocks to her apartment.

He would help her. She knew he would.

As she approached her building, she spotted a police car parked at the curb; a lone figure sat behind the wheel. Her heart leapt. She ran the last few steps and thrust her head down to the open window.

“Jean-Marc! I’m so glad you’re here. I need to—” He turned toward her and her words choked off with a gasp.

The man was not Jean-Marc.

Chapter 15

“There’s a call for you,
Commissaire
.” The bored voice of the dispatcher crackled across the police radio in Jean-Marc’s Saab. “A woman. She sounds a bit hysterical if you ask me.”

Irritated, Jean-Marc stretched his back, wincing at the sharp bite of muscles popping. Hell. Whatever this was, he did not want to deal with it right now. It had been a long, frustrating day and it didn’t appear to be ending anytime soon. “Isn’t there anyone else who can take it?” he asked. “What about Pierre?”

“She asked for you by name, sir.”

He sighed in resignation. “Fine. Patch it through.”

“Jean-Marc? Are you there?”

He ground his jaw at the sound of Ciara’s voice. But his initial anger was stalled by the fact that something was obviously wrong. She
did
sound hysterical.

“Are you all right?” he demanded. And immediately regretted it. Her welfare was of no concern to him. Especially after what she’d put him through today.

“You’ve got to get over here! Please, Jean-Marc, right now!”

And yet, he couldn’t help himself. “Where are you? What’s going on, Ciara?”

“He’s after me. I’m afraid—” There was a loud pounding in the background, and a man yelling. “I’m hiding in my landlady’s apartment. He’s trying to break down the door!”

Jean-Marc was already turning the Saab in the direction of her apartment. Not exactly the way he’d envisioned picking up her trail again after she’d ditched him that morning. “Is it the guy who beat you up?”

“Yes,” she said. “Hurry!” Then the line went dead.

Putain
. He grabbed a portable cherry and reached up through the window, smacking it onto his car roof at the same time he hit the siren. With the crazy Paris rush hour traffic it would take forever to get to her place. He hailed the dispatcher again and yelled at her to divert any nearby police units to rue Germain Pilan. Hopefully someone would get there in time to catch the bastard before he did any harm.

Fifteen harrowing, stress-filled minutes later Jean-Marc roared up to her building. Three police cars were already pulled up front, yellow and blue lights flashing off the smooth sand-colored stone. He sprinted out, seeking Ciara’s blond hair among the knot of policemen. He finally spotted her standing to one side, ramrod straight, lips pressed together and arms tightly banded across her midriff.

“Let me through,” he commanded, pushing his way past the curious neighbors and passersby. He flashed his carte at the officers. “Did you get him?” he asked without taking his sights off Ciara.

At his voice, her head jerked around. Relief flew across her face for a brief second, then her eyes filled with uncertainty. She didn’t move.

“No one to get,” one of the cops replied in answer to his question. “Whoever it was, he was gone before the first car arrived. The old lady—” he pointed at the plump landlady with salt and pepper hair who was talking a mile a minute, gesturing animatedly to another officer “—she doesn’t know who it was. The young one—” he pointed to Ciara “—isn’t talking. Says she’ll only speak to you.”

For a moment Jean-Marc let the war rage freely within him. He wanted to shake her and shout at her at the top of his lungs, he wanted to slap her in handcuffs and throw her in jail for a hundred years. He wanted to murder the man who was doing this to her.

He wanted to take her home and fuck her.

He never wanted to see her again.

“All right,” he said to the first cop. “You guys write it up and do your thing.” He bobbed his head at Ciara— “I’ll take her statement and—”

“But she’s
our
witness,” a third officer, a swarthy, plug-shaped man, protested.

“She’s not much of a witness if she’s not talking,” Jean-Marc shot back, not in the mood for interdepartmental bickering. “I’ll forward her statement to you.” He handed the first cop a business card and took one of his. “Get in the car,” he ordered Ciara.

She obeyed without saying a word, keeping her eyes to the sidewalk. The swarthy officer made a move to follow, then halted with fists clenched when the other man put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

Jean-Marc pulled the Saab out with a squeal of tires and blasted his siren to stop traffic so he could get away from there.

She winced, but still didn’t say anything. Not until a good five minutes later when they were stuck in the choke of rush hour traffic on boulevard de Clichy and he did nothing to extract them from it. He had no idea where to take her, so he was just driving, letting the flow of traffic carry them along as he tried to compose himself and quell the voices in his head.

“You’re angry with me,” she murmured.

He glared at her but didn’t reply. Angry didn’t come close.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” she murmured.

He bit his tongue. How many years would he get for strangling her? Hell, a judge would probably go easy on him. Catching
le Revenant
had to count for something. Did the courts do dead or alive any more?

“Thank you for coming for me,” she murmured.

Coming for her...

Fuck
.

He knew
that
wasn’t remotely what she meant, but already he could feel his traitorous cock lengthen and harden. His capricious member could care less that she was a notorious felon wanted by every law enforcement agency in France. It still wanted to ram itself into her wet heat and take its pleasure between her silken thighs. Come for her. Fuck.

He swallowed, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

“Thank God the other cops got there quickly,” she said. “I don’t know what he might have done—”

Jean-Marc made a concerted effort to focus. “I want his name,” he interrupted. His voice came out as a harsh, low growl.

She blanched. He watched her pretty lips part a fraction, then close again.

The same lips he’d laved with his. Lips that had kissed him back with such ardor. Lips that had glided slowly up his cock and taken him between them, and—

“Beck,” she said reluctantly. “Louis Beck.”