The French Detective's Woman (30 page)

“Why wouldn’t I? You can steal as easily there as here.”

Genuine irritation spiked through her. “You really must not think very highly of me, Jean-Marc.”

“On the contrary. I think very highly of your skills. Perhaps not of your intelligence at the moment...”

“On second thought, I’ll take a taxi,” she said stiffly, reaching for the door.”

He grabbed the handle and slammed it shut. It was becoming a ritual with them.

“Forget it. I’m going with you.”

“To Marseille?” she asked, feigning incredulity, then huffed at his steely nod. “Fine. Whatever.”

She ignored him for the entire drive to the airport. It stung her to the quick that he would so easily believe she’d reverted to her old life the day after she got out of prison. That she had learned absolutely nothing. From prison. From him...

She reminded herself that she’d given him every reason to think that.
Wanted
him to think that. But unreasonably, illogically, it still hurt. She was not the same woman as when she’d met him. Couldn’t he see it? Feel it?

“So. How much does he want this time?” he asked, breaking the prickly silence as he pulled into a parking spot at the airport reserved for police.

“How much does who want?”

“Beck. For his blackmail.”

She picked up her case, fighting butterflies in her stomach. “What makes you think—”

“Cut the crap, Ciara. You’ve got no other motive to steal now. And don’t even try to tell me you like it. How much?”

As harshly as the words were spoken, they were like a sweet salve. Maybe there was a hope he’d understand...

But no way could she could tell him. Not yet. Not until the job was done and she’d sent Beck away forever with twelve million reasons never to return.

“Nothing, Jean-Marc,” she said. “There’s no blackmail. I’m not going to steal anything. It’s a family reunion. And by the way, you’re not invited.”

♥♥♥

When the plane arrived in Marseille, Ciara was collected by one of Madame Felicité’s girls driving a chartreuse Smart Car the size of a sardine can on wheels. Jean-Marc had apparently called ahead for a local cop friend to chauffer him around, because they spotted the white police car behind them almost immediately.

“I wonder what excuse
le commissaire
will give for spending the entire day at a brothel?” the girl said with a giggle.

Ciara gave her a wry smile. “If he doesn’t like it, tell him to go back to Paris. I’ll be on the flight tonight, as promised.”

It turned out to be ridiculously easy to lure him upstairs, into the same room they’d shared so many months before. She simply went up, sat on the bed and waited for him. He appeared a few minutes later and stood in the doorway looking grim.

“Come in,” she said.

“My rate’s going to be considerably higher than fifty euro this time,” he said.

“Ah. Too rich for me, then,” she said, leaning back against the silk and lace pillows. Morbid curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, “How much more?”

He wandered into the room, casually examining the contents. The rich fabrics, a bouquet of wildflowers on the dresser, framed erotic prints on the wall. “More than you’re willing to pay.” He cocked an elbow on the mantel and crossed his ankles in a negligent pose. “You must give up your life of crime, forever.”

She smiled. If only he knew...

“What if I
am
willing,” she ventured, “and I do that, give it all up? Would you actually believe me? Could you ever truly trust me, Jean-Marc, without following me around all day, every day, to be sure?”

The muscle in his cheek twitched. He remained silent.

She sighed, and rose from the bed, more depressed and hurt than ever. “I didn’t think so.” She turned from him, but in the door she glanced sadly over her shoulder. “Well, make yourself at home,
cher
. I have a reunion to go to.”

With that, she walked out, closed the door and with a decisive
snick
turned the key, locking him in.

She let out a sigh. He’d be mad, but he’d get over it.

No doubt just as easily as he’d gotten over her.

Pasting a smile to her face, she pulled the key from the lock and placed it in the hand of the waiting girl.

A shame she couldn’t do the same thing with her heart.

♥♥♥

“Ciara?”

Jean-Marc frowned when he heard the door lock behind her.
What the hell?

“Ciara! Let me out of here this instant.”

“I am sorry,
monsieur le commissaire
,” came the reply—
not
Ciara’s-- “I cannot do that just yet.”

He strode to the door and rattled it. Hard. “Do you have any idea what the punishment is for kidnapping a police officer?” he growled, the situation finally penetrating his thick head. How stupid could he be?

There was an exchange of hushed voices. Then, “Do not be silly,
commissaire
, you are free to leave any time you wish. Unfortunately, we seem to have misplaced the key. Just relax
un petit moment
, while I find the extra one.”

Monumentally
stupid, apparently. When he got his hands on Ciara...

He rammed his fists into his pockets and had a sudden, erotic vision of what he’d done to Ciara last time they’d been in this room and she’d angered him. Her bare bottom, the sharp slap of his hand on her flesh... The blinding pleasure that had followed.

He swallowed heavily. The woman had deliberately deceived him and trapped him, and all he could think of was seizing his pound of her delectable flesh any way—and every way—he could. He was beyond salvage.

“If that door is not open in fifteen minutes,” he called through gritted teeth, “I
will
break it down.”

♥♥♥

It took half an hour. But by that time Jean-Marc knew Ciara was long gone, so it really didn’t matter. He also knew that not a single soul in Marseille would ever tell him where she’d gone or what she was doing. This was her turf. Her family knew they were lovers, but they also knew he’d put her in jail.

Frustrated as hell, he phoned his friend Cheveau to come pick him back up and return him to the airport. Despite his friend’s amused smirk, he just rolled his eyes and didn’t bother explaining.

When he got back to
36 Quai des Orfèvres
, CD Belfort immediately summoned him to his office.

“What the fuck are you up to, Lacroix?” he demanded. He slammed a copy of an evening tabloid onto his desk and whipped it open.

A photo of Jean-Marc sitting in his Saab graced the center of the page. Ciara was leaning into the driver’s side window. Kissing him.

Jean-Marc swore under his breath.
De Merde
. He’d never even seen the damn paparazzi that morning.

“If I’m not mistaken, that’s Ciara Alexander you are kissing. The woman convicted as
Le Revenant
.”

“Yes, sir. That is, no, sir. She was kissing me. A bribe, to leave her alone. I’m doing surveillance on her,” he explained before he dug a hole so deep he’d never get out.

Belfort’s eyes narrowed. “Why? She just got out of jail a few weeks ago!”

“Yes,” he said. “And she’s already back to her old tricks.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s planning a robbery. A big one.”

“And you know this how?”

He hesitated. “A hunch.”

He winced as Belfort pounded his fist on his desk. “
Putain
, Lacroix! I am not spending valuable OCBC funds financing a wild goose chase! What evidence do you have of this robbery?”

Jean-Marc straightened his spine. “Nothing concrete yet. But she’s been acting—”

“Acting?
Acting
?” Belfort exploded. “I heard rumors during the trial, Lacroix,” he ground out. “Rumors I refused to believe because, given your history, I knew for a fact you would never again allow yourself to become personally involved with a suspect!” He slapped at the newspaper so it flew off the desk. “This photo calls me a fool. Tell me the truth, Lacroix! Are you involved with this woman?”

Myriad emotions flooded through Jean-Marc as he struggled to come up with an honest answer. “No,” he finally said. “I’m not.”

Belfort’s jaw clenched, and he regarded Jean-Marc with a long glower before saying, “I will do you a favor and
not
start an internal investigation into why
le Revenant
was only charged with one theft instead of dozens, or why she only served eighteen months instead of eighteen years, or into what, exactly, your relationship with her was and is. The important point remains, the OCBC caught and convicted
le Revenant
under your watch.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he added grudgingly.

“Stay
away
from her, Lacroix. I mean it.”

He jerked to attention. “But, boss—”

“You have plenty of other investigations to work on.
Le Revenant
is a closed case, and I want it to remain that way. Do I make myself clear,
Commissaire
?”

“I’m telling you, boss, she’s planning—”

“
No more surveillance
!” Belfort roared. “Get over your obsession with this woman, Lacroix. That’s an order!”

Jean-Marc clamped his mouth shut, turned and stormed out.

If only he could, he thought dourly.

If only he could
.

Chapter 25

Jean-Marc had never disobeyed a direct order from a commanding officer. Before now.

It felt strangely liberating. In a Kafkaesque sort of way.

But he just couldn’t stay away from Ciara.

Pierre shook his head sadly when he showed up at
36 Quai des Orfèvres
each morning for the next two weeks looking more and more frustrated and drawn from putting in a full day’s work, then sleeping in his car as he kept watch over her—if you could call reclining the seat amid the litter of file folders and take-out cartons and staring up through the sun roof all night, wired from too many espressos, sleep. The times he couldn’t be there himself, he hired two buddies with different shifts than his to watch for him. He paid them well to keep their mouths shut.

“You don’t need to be doing surveillance on her. It’s killing you,” Pierre said from the visitor’s chair in his office. “Let me get the information from CoCo. All those dinners are finally paying off. She’s starting to trust me.”

Jean-Marc ground his palms into his gritty eyes. “Great.” That made him feel so much better. Especially since he was fairly certain he knew what they were doing
after
dinner. Pierre had gotten painfully chipper in the mornings.

“Last night she let something slip.”

“Besides her panties, you mean?”

Pierre vaulted to his feet. “Hey!”

Jean-Marc held up his hands, surprised at the vehemence of his partner’s reaction. “Sorry,
mec
.”
Merde
. He’d fallen for the girl. This was getting way more complicated than either of them had anticipated.

Pierre straightened his jacket and sat back down. “I don’t feel good about deceiving CoCo,” he said grumpily.

“Oh. Like I do?” Jean-Marc sighed. “It’s for her own good,
mon ami
. You don’t want her involved in anything illegal. Have you tried having her speak to Sofie and Ciara about pressing charges against Beck instead of paying his blackmail?”

His mouth thinned. “Subject’s off-limits. She won’t talk about it.”

Big surprise there. “Keep trying. So, what did she spill?”

“She told me she couldn’t meet Friday night because they were all going out of town.”

Jean-Marc perked up. “Where?”

“She wouldn’t say. But she seemed a bit miffed, so I asked why, and she made a face, and said because some of them had to take the train like peasants while others got to drive there in a ritzy Jaguar. Then she realized she’d said too much, and clammed up.”

Jean-Marc steepled his fingers and sat back in his office chair which,
d’habitude
, squeaked in protest. “Hmm. Did she say what they were all doing?”

Pierre shook his head. “Something about a reunion.”

Jean-Marc’s chair almost toppled backwards. “A reunion? A
family
reunion?”

Pierre glanced up, lifting a shoulder. “I suppose, though I didn’t think they were all related. Why?”

Slowly, a grin spread across Jean-Marc’s face. He tipped his head back and laughed. “Pierre,
mec
, you are a fucking genius.”

♥♥♥

Thursday night Jean-Marc let one of his off-duty buddies watch the Orphans’ apartment. The next day would be a long one, and he needed sleep. In a real bed, for a change.

Unfortunately, he was too wound up to get more than fits and starts, and when he did actually fall asleep he was besieged by dreams. Of Ciara,
naturellement
. Hot, erotic, naked dreams, which always ended up with him behind bars, and her walking away scot-free laughing at him.

It did not make for a good mood when he awoke at dawn on Friday morning and relieved his buddy.

Driving straight to rue Daguerre, Jean-Marc’s nerves hummed with adrenaline. He felt cramped in the Saab, itching to spring into action. But two hours of pacing and swearing later he was rewarded when Ciara, Sofie, Ricardo, CoCo and Hugo all clattered out through the front entry door. He gritted his teeth when they cheerfully waved to him and started walking toward the
métro
. Davie was nowhere to be seen. Jean-Marc figured he’d be along later. So he followed the others. On rue Froidevaux, the quartet split up. Sofie and Hugo went right tward their usual
métro
stop, Denfort-Rochereau, the others turned left to Gaîté.

Jean-Marc gave a humorless chuckle. Nice try, kids. Both lines me up at Montparnasse.

He stuck with Ciara, even when CoCo and Ricardo branched off a block later. He figured they’d head for the
métro
, and Ciara for the car.

He kept a tight leash on her, curious to find out where she would pick up the Jag. After the Micheaud robbery, he’d tried every which way to track down the mysterious old lady with the flat tire, but—not surprisingly—had found neither her nor her Jaguar. Now, of course, he knew she was Ciara. But the Jag was not hers. It would give him a certain amount of gratification to get closure on that bit of frustration, even if it was too late. You never knew. Maybe the little shit who did own it had a stack of parking tickets he could put a warrant out on.