The French Detective's Woman (35 page)

A photo of a painting. Of flowers. Water lilies, painted by Monet.

Which looked so much like Sofie’s mural in the Orphans’ bathroom, he almost choked. Her inspiration was unmistakable.

Above the photo the headline read, “Rare Monet on display at
Casino Palais d’Or
.”

“
Merde
,” he whispered.

Once might be a coincidence.

Twice was a pattern. And evidence that his worst fears had been correct.

Ciara was planning something. Big.

Bigger than Jean-Marc would ever have imagined.

♥♥♥

Jean-Marc felt almost oppressively calm.

He’d expected to be furious. To erupt in a black rage, wanting to beat someone bloody, to storm his way to Ciara, sirens blaring, and demand an explanation.

But when the grim reality finally hit him, he desired none of those things. What he really wanted was to curl up in a tight ball and weep. For her. For him. For what might have been.

He turned to Pierre. “Are you seeing CoCo tonight?”

His partner hesitated, eyes darting briefly to the supplement. “I’m not sure.”

“When you do,” Jean-Marc said, “do not tell her what we’ve found out. Not even a hint. Just make your weekend plans as though you have no idea about any of this.”

“Okaaay. But—”

“
Not a word
,” Jean-Marc growled, then spun toward the elevator. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Right now I have something to do.”

With that, he went swiftly down and found the Saab. Tires squealing, he flew out of the parking lot and turned the car toward the rue Daguerre.

Halfway there, he changed his mind. Pulling over, he stared straight ahead, frowning as a new thought occurred to him.

Try as he might, it was not a thought he could ignore.

All right. Change of direction.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the driveway of a squat, oil-soaked garage squashed between two old tenements in a part of town whose better days were probably several centuries ago. The garage, however, hummed with activity. Jean-Marc steered his car straight into an open bay, got out and strolled forward to lean casually against the Saab’s front fender.

A man in greasy blue coveralls came forward, a nervous smile on his face. “Hey, Jean-Marc. What’s up?”

“Hello, Hugo,” he said quietly. “I think it’s about time we had a little chat. Don’t you?”

Chapter 28

Ten pm Friday. It was time.

Ciara made a last-minute adjustment to her henna-red pageboy wig as Davie pulled the Jaguar up under the porte cochere of the
Casino Palais d’Or
.

“Stop fiddling,” he admonished her, tipping his chauffer’s cap to the valet who was checking in cars. “You look terrific.”

“Sorry. I’m a little nervous,” she confessed.

He grinned into the rearview mirror. “You? Nervous? The infamous
le Revenant
?”

“Oh, shut up.” She grinned back, despite the adrenaline pounding through her veins like a herd of elephants on speed.

“You can do this, Ciara,” he said, his tone gentling. “
We
can do this.”

“I know,” she said as he stopped the car in front of the impressive main entrance. “But there are so many things that could go wrong.”

“None of which will happen,” he assured her.

She hoped to hell he was right.

With a final adjustment to the plunging neckline of her backless Dior gown, she emerged from the Jag and swept toward the monumental entrance, smiling brilliantly for the gaggle of paparazzi who crowded in, furiously snapping photos of all new arrivals. The
Palais d’Or
was one of the hottest casinos in a city overflowing with celebrities. And she was a
princesse
.

As Jean-Marc had called tonight’s disguise.

Had he known the princess he made love to on the train was really her?

A poignant stab of longing lanced through her, but she pushed it away. She couldn’t afford to think about Jean-Marc now. There would be plenty of time for that later. A whole lifetime.

Even in a room full of movie stars, heads turned to watch her regal, leisurely progress through the casino. She knew she looked good. She’d taken great care to look fabulously glamorous, matching hair and makeup to the magnificent sapphire blue floor-length Dior gown Valois had bought her for the occasion. She wore only one piece of jewelry, a narrow antique choker of emerald-cut diamonds, borrowed from his shop. He had insisted on both, saying she must look her best to impress Villalobo tonight at the exchange at midnight.

Her thumping pulse slowed, now that the lay-down had finally begun. Threading her way through the elegant tables and beautiful people, she stopped here and there to watch the action—and to get a feel for the room tonight. Eventually she spotted Hugo, looking youthfully attractive in his rented tux and poshed up hair, standing casually next to a roulette table with a low betting limit. He was her lookout tonight, and would always be near, even if unseen.

Steeling her nerves, she sat down in an open seat at the roulette table.

Davie and Ricardo had taught her the basics of the game, but she still felt like a fraud buying her chips from the croupier like she had a clue what she was doing. In her purse she carried a thousand euros—ashtray change to most of these people, but all the money she and the Orphans could scrape together. She had to make it last all night.

She lost on the first spin of the wheel. And the second. And the third. After fifteen minutes she’d only won once.

This was going well, she thought dryly, tempted to change the position of her next chip though Davie had specifically told her to pick one bet and stay with it. Even with the lowest ante possible, at this rate she’d be broke in less than an hour.

“Try betting the orphans,” a gravelly male voice murmured from behind. “You might have better luck.”

Her stomach zinged and her throat tightened.
Jean-Marc
.

His tuxedo-clad arm snaked around her, a stack of euro notes in his hand. He placed them on the table in front of her. “Black on full orphans
pour la princesse
,” he told the croupier. “
Pour moi
, the same on orphans split,
s’il vous plais
.”

She dimly recalled Davie telling her about a complicated bet called an orphan, but as of thirty seconds ago her mind had gone totally blank.

He was here
!

Jean-Marc had found her.

The croupier finished taking bets and spun the wheel before Ciara collected her wits enough to figure out Jean-Marc had just placed an eight hundred euro bet for each of them.

“
Dix-sept noir
,” the croupier called when the ball dropped into its final slot. “Seventeen black.”

“We win,
princesse
,” Jean-Marc murmured in her ear.

The croupier efficiently raked the table and distributed the winnings. She almost fell over when she saw the color of chips he set in front of her. It was well over three thousand euros worth!
Four thousand dollars
.

She marshaled her worldly sang froid and inclined her head, turning slightly, “
Merci, monsieur le commissaire
. You are too generous.”

“My pleasure.” Still behind her, he stepped closer. The luxurious fabric of his tuxedo whispered against her bare back, radiating heat from his body. “Will you join me at the blackjack table,
Princesse
?”

Needing distance badly, she rose from her seat. By the time she’d gathered her purse and tipped the croupier, Jean-Marc had cashed them out. He pressed a stack of chips into her palm as they melted through the throng of people around the table.

“I couldn’t possibly accept these,” she said, trying to give them back. “It was your money and your bet that won.”

“I got my stakes back and more. Keep it. Let’s play blackjack.”

She exhaled, recognizing his mulish expression, despite the urbane smile. “All right. But you play. I’ll watch.”

“You play. I’ll kibitz.”

They’d come to a halt between tables in a large, open area which contained several guarded displays, including the Monet and Faberge Egg. Her nerves shimmered.
Had he guessed? Was he angry
? It was always so difficult to tell...until it was too late.

Struggling to resist the urge to check the displays, she turned to face Jean-Marc. He looked more handsome than she’d ever seen him. The cut of his stark black tuxedo was straight from this year’s runways, classic in a rebellious sort of way—like its wearer—nicely emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. His strong, clean-shaven jaw appeared more angled, his cheeks leaner than usual, his expression more confident...and utterly relentless.

He didn’t touch her, just gazed down at her with those all-knowing blue eyes. She got it. He had no intention of letting her leave his side for the rest of the night.

A shiver of anxiety—and something else—tingled down her spine. Would she be able to slip away from him when the time came?

Did she care?

She had the most foolish urge to throw her arms around him and tell him everything. Lose herself in the safe, secure strength of his embrace and his protection. Beg him to understand.

But she couldn’t do that.

“
Vien
,” he said, indicating the blackjack tables at the far side of the room. “Shall we?”

His fingers touched lightly at the small of her back as he guided her to the table he’d chosen, and bade her take a seat. Suddenly she didn’t know what made her more nervous—the diamond exchange later tonight, or playing a game with Jean-Marc that she had no idea how to play.

Two games, if you counted blackjack....

As the dealer shuffled, Jean-Marc stood behind her and quietly went over the rules. Seemed simple enough. “If you should take another card, I’ll squeeze,” he murmured softly as he slid his hands onto her bare shoulders. “To hold, I’ll caress.”

She shivered again as his hands glided down her arms, raising goose bumps.

“Cold?” he asked, his voice low in her ear.

“No. Cut it out.”

He chuckled deep in his throat. “Not a chance,
princesse
.”

“I won’t be able to concentrate. You’ll make me lose.”

“You’ll manage.”

For a brief second she wondered if he was really here for the reason she’d hopefully led him to believe—to stop her from stealing the Monet and Faberge Egg. She and the Orphans had planted the clues. He was a great detective. He must have figured it out.

But his behavior seemed...incongruous.

Then it struck her. He hadn’t used her name, only called her princess. Did he even know it was her under this disguise? The thought was so disconcerting she almost missed his signal for the first hand.

That, and his fingers gliding erotically down her bare back. Damn Valois for buying her a gown that had so little...gown...to it.

To her amazement, she won. And the next hand as well. And most of the hands for the next half hour. Which was even more of a miracle considering Jean-Marc kept up his steady torment of her body with his touch.

When she doubled her money, the crowd around her clapped politely at her excitement.

“You are my good luck charm,
commissaire
,” she told him, glowing with pleasure.

He smiled and lifted the glass of champagne he was sipping on in a salute. “I live to serve,
princesse
.”

Her smile faltered as she suddenly spotted CoCo standing in the throng, Pierre at her side. CoCo winked, and crooked her arm through Pierre’s.

Damn. How could she have forgotten
? While playing cards, she hadn’t thought once about why she was really there. Jean-Marc had distracted her that thoroughly.

Appalled at her own lack of focus, Ciara slowly let out the breath that had backed up in her lungs. CoCo’s appearance was a stark reminder she needed to concentrate better on the job at hand. She stole a glance at a neighboring man’s watch.

Eleven-thirteen pm
. Forty-seven minutes to go.

Villalobo had scheduled their meeting for midnight, in a private game room one floor up. CoCo’s diversion with Pierre would come just before that, and Sofie and Davie would spring into action. In the ensuing chaos, Jean-Marc would leap up to direct the dozens of police officers he surely had waiting in the wings. He’d be taken by surprise when it wasn’t her who struck, and with luck, would be confused enough to give her time to slip away for ten or fifteen minutes, meeting Valois for the exchange with Villalobo. The whole thing shouldn’t take longer than that.

Ciara accepted a glass of champagne from a roving waiter and stood, clicking it against Jean-Marc’s. “You take over, darling,” she said with a smile. “I’m afraid my nerves are frayed from winning so much money.”

He regarded her appraisingly. “Only if you promise to stay and be
my
good luck charm.” His eyes told her she didn’t have a choice.

Not that she wanted one. She had forty-five minutes and it was her turn to torment him. She could do arm candy.

“Or...” he added at a low murmur, “am I going to have to bring out the handcuffs?”

Her brow rose coyly. “I assume you recall what happened last time you tried that?”

“Vividly,” he said, his voice deepening.

She blushed. “What exactly are you planning,
monsieur le commissaire
?”

“What I’m planning,” he murmured, “is to win a lot of money, then either arrest you or take you upstairs to my suite for a repeat performance.”

Her lips parted in wary surprise. She hadn’t expected him to be so forthright. She feigned shock. “Arrest me?”

“Only if you’re very naughty.” He put his fingers to her collar bone and drew them lightly up her throat. The gesture was half caress, half threat. “And we both know what happens to girls who are very naughty.”

She swallowed heavily. Her mind flooded with images of her and Jean-Marc on the bed in the brothel.
Just before he’d arrested her.