The Paris Caper (17 page)

“What have you charged
her with?”

“Nothing. She’s not under
arrest.”

“Then why the handcuffs?”

“No cuffs. I simply asked
her to hold her hands behind her back.”

“Why?” she asked,
outraged. He’d tricked her!

“To flush you out,” he
said. His blue eyes were almost black, more intense and penetrating than she’d
ever seen them. The harsh angles of his face held no sympathy whatsoever. Not
even a hint of a smile. “Even if you weren’t watching, I knew you’d hear about
it.”

“And?”

“And come to me.”

Her stomach knotted. “What
do you want with me, Jean-Marc?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice even.
Fighting not to recall the times when the power of his will had made her melt
in his arms, the times his firm, strong touch had opened her body to his every
whim. The times she’d come to him—for him—more than willingly.

His gaze went to her
breasts, almost insolently. “What do you think?”

Her traitorous nipples
tightened, but before she could think to respond, a scowl sketched across his
face. His eyes had dropped below the hem of skirt, to her knees, scraped and
scabbed from her scuffle with Beck. His gaze whipped up to her cheeks. She
swallowed. She’d forgotten all about her bruises.

“What the hell happened
to you?” he asked angrily.

“I, um...I fell.”

His eyes flared in surprise,
as though he’d suddenly remembered something important, then narrowed
dangerously. “I’m growing tired of your lies.”

She straightened. “Then
let’s talk about Sofie.”

His hand curled around
her neck, holding her in place for a closer inspection. “It was you with Sofie
last night, wasn’t it? Who hit you, Ciara?” he asked softly. Too softly. A
shiver traced down her spine.

“I’d rather not discuss
it,” she murmured. “It’s complicated.” She met his simmering gaze. “But it
wasn’t anything...personal.”

“A man hitting you wasn’t
personal?” He let her arm go, and ran his hand clinically over her torso. When
he got to her tender kidney she did her best not to wince, but he was a trained
observer. His jaw clenched.

“Please, Jean-Marc, leave
it alone,” she whispered. “I need to get to Sofie. She has to be scared to
death.”

He traced the very tips
of his fingers over her cheek, barely grazing the skin. The aching gentleness
of his touch contrasted sharply with the stone deadly look on his face. “Why
the fuck don’t you trust me?” he growled, nearly under his breath.

“I do.” Her head wobbled.
“I wish...” She shook it. “I can’t do this now. Please. Take me to Sofie.”

He stared down at her for
a long moment, then dropped his hand and turned to the second police car. “Get
in.”

Self-consciously, she
slid into the front seat as he stalked around to the driver’s side. In the
apartment building, up in the fifth floor window, four anxious faces pressed
together, peering down at her. She gave them a wave she hoped was reassuring.

And prayed she wasn’t
making the biggest mistake of her life. Okay, the second biggest. Right after
sleeping with the man who was taking her to national police headquarters—the
last place on earth she wanted to be.

But she couldn’t abandon
Sofie. Would never abandon her. Not even if it mean sacrificing her own
freedom.

She just prayed it
wouldn’t come to that. She just prayed this was all a misunderstanding.

But most of all, she
prayed for the strength to resist Jean-Marc. Resist his probing questions. Resist
his brooding regard. And especially, resist the promise of his touch.

She had to be firm. Or
face the consequences.

Because those
consequences could easily prove her undoing.

Jean-Marc gripped the
steering wheel hard, turning his knuckles white. That way he couldn’t grab
Ciara and do any of the things that were parading through his mind. Like
strangling her. Or shaking some sense into her. Or ripping her clothes off.

Putain de merde
.

What was happening to
him? To his objectivity? Hell, to his sanity? The line between professional and
personal was blurring dangerously on this case, because of Ciara. He didn’t
like it. Not one bit. Last time that had happened—

Non
. Wasn’t going
there. Thinking about the past would only make him crazy furious. As would
thinking about how she’d gotten those bruises....

He eased his white
knuckles from the steering wheel at a red light.
Business, Jean-Marc
.

“Your friend is in big
trouble. If you know anything, now’s the time to spill. Before it gets official
and I can’t help her.”

“In trouble how?”

He curbed his temper.
Naturally she’d go for the innocent routine. “You know the Picasso that was
stolen a few days ago?”

A hesitation, then, “I
heard about it.”

“The thief left a fake in
its place. Sofie painted it.”

Her head zipped around.
“How do you know that?”

Not a denial, he noted
grimly.
Just as he thought
. “We’ll get into that during the
interrogation. For now, let’s talk about why you moved out of your apartment so
suddenly.”

She blinked at the swift
change of subject, then her gaze swiveled back toward the windshield. “I had to
go. You wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

He snorted. “
Non
?
Gee, I don’t recall that part. What I remember is a whole lot of yes. ‘Yes,
Jean-Marc. Oh, God, yes. More, harder, faster,
yes
.’”

His tight imitation of
her love cries hovered in the air between them. A flush ripped across her
bruised cheek.

His jaw muscle ticked.
Damn, he was being an asshole. Normally that would bother him. But by this
point he figured they were pretty evenly matched.

She eased out a slow
breath. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, and you were being
fair when you left without a word?” He pulled a left-hand turn into the
Palais de Justice
parking area, showing his
carte de
requisition
to the guard.

“I—”

“This doesn’t have to be
complicated, Ciara. I like fucking you and you like being fucked. We can play
it that way if you don’t want to get more involved than that.” Though, God knew
he did. Still. For some frustratingly unfathomable reason.

“Jesus, Jean-Marc.” The
red flag of her blush deepened.

“I can be good to you.
And I can be useful,” he said reasonably as he pulled the car into an empty
spot and set the brake. He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. “For
instance, I can arrest the bastard who hit you.”

“No,” she whispered.

Alors
. But to
which part?

If they hadn’t been
surrounded by a score of police cars, a half dozen cops and two guards
witnesses he would have leaned forward and kissed her. Thoroughly. To prove she
still wanted him. To convince her to surrender again, as she had before.

“Why are you being so
stubborn?” he gritted out.

“Just because I don’t
want to be your whore?”

He jerked back. “I
offered you more. You ran away.”

“Take a hint, Lacroix.”

He set his jaw and let
her go. “
Va te faire foutre
.” He reached for the door handle. Fuck you.

Her hand on his arm
stopped him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Forget it. I’m obviously
barking up the wrong tree.”

After a slight hesitation
she said, “Yes. But not for the reasons you think.”

“And you’re not going to
enlighten me, are you?” he said mockingly. Frustration surged through his
veins.

She shook her head,
having the grace at least to look miserable.

“
Bon
.” He didn’t
need this crap. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want to know. As of now he was
washing his hands of the whole
merdier
. “Let’s go. Sofie’s waiting.”

He led her through
security, and then on to the reception desk where he handed her a pen and made
her fill out a personal info sheet.

“I want
Mademoiselle
.
Alexander’s street address verified before she leaves today,” he told the desk
officer as she started to write. “She’s given me false information before,” he
added when she looked taken aback, and returned a flat what-did-you-expect-?
smile.

He might never darken her
door again, but he wanted her to know he knew exactly where her door was, and
that he could walk through it and fuck her anytime he wished.

Because regardless of her
outraged glare, they both knew she wouldn’t stop him.

Jamming his hands in his
trouser pockets, he kept the cold front going the whole way up to the interview
room, refusing to meet her gaze.

Dieu
. He wasn’t
sure he liked this new side of himself that she was bringing out. This
obsessive, domineering bastard, determined to assert his power over her. He
didn’t approve of hypothalamic macho behavior, especially in himself. But with
Ciara it was purely instinctual. Whenever he was within two meters of the woman
he was reduced to a single-cell testosterone-driven beast.

Whatever. As soon as they
were done with this interview, with any luck, he’d be quit of her forever and
could get back to his uncomplicated paid companions. The sex might not be as
good, but at least they could be relied upon.

He allowed her to sit in
on the interview with Sofie. After Pierre got the tape rolling—all interviews
were recorded—and took care of the preliminaries, Jean-Marc opened the folder
in front of him, extracted a photo of the replacement Picasso and slid it in
front of Sofie.

“Tell me about this.”

“Wh-What about it?”

He folded his hands on
the table and raised his voice—just slightly. He could do bad cop. “I want to
know who you painted it for.”

Her eyes got a little
wild. “I-I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sofie,”
he said harshly. “I’m really sick of being lied to today.”

Her eyes filled with
tears. “Why are you doing this? You were so nice at the café.” Her voice
wavered convincingly.

Silently, he counted to
five. “I
am
being nice. I’m giving you the opportunity to come clean.”
He bent forward, gazing at her earnestly. “I’m not interested in arresting you.
I want the man you painted this for. Help me and you walk out of here, no other
questions asked.”

“But I didn’t—”

Before she could get the
words out, he slammed his palms on the table. She practically jumped out of her
chair. Swiping up a print of the x-ray of the ghost signature from the file, he
slapped it down in front of her. “Talk before I lose my patience!”

Her eyes got wide as
saucers, then she turned desperately to Ciara, who was staring at the image,
mouth open.

“What is this?” Ciara
asked.

“It’s a ghost.”

The blood drained from
her face, leaving it porcelain pale. “A...a what?”

Jean-Marc’s eyes
narrowed. This was not the reaction he’d expected.

“A ghost. Of Sofie’s
signature on the painting.” He explained briefly what that meant. “It was
discovered by our forensics team under the fake Picasso left at the Michaud’s
the night of the robbery. Any comment?”

Ciara glanced up at him
nervously, then back to the x-ray. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” she said after
clearing her throat. “He’s a thief. He must have stolen the picture and painted
over this part himself.”

“You think?” Jean-Marc
said dryly. She was good on her feet, he had to give her that.

“He must have.”

“Are you by any chance
missing a painting?” he asked Sofie.

The girl swallowed and
shook her head, looking more and more desperate to bolt. “
Non
.”

“Tell me, Sofie. How many
artists besides yourself do you know sign their paintings with a Hand of
Fatima?”

He guessed none.

But Ciara cut in before
Sofie could answer. “The Hand of Fatima is a common talisman among Middle
Eastern women. Women who are often bullied and cowed by the men who think they
own them.” She glowered at him for a moment, then continued, “There are
probably dozens of immigrant women in Paris alone who hide their talent by not
signing their work. Or using a symbol such as this instead of her name.”

For a moment he studied
their bruises, weighing the possibilities. “To avoid a beating?”

“What?” Her eyes flared
in surprise. “Yes. Or worse.”

The slow burn that had
simmered in his gut since seeing her battered face flared hot. “Is that what
happened?” he asked.

Ciara blinked. Sofie
looked puzzled.

“No. Because Sofie didn’t
paint this picture,” Ciara repeated. “And you can’t prove she did, or you’d
already have arrested her.” She got to her feet, pulling Sofie up by the elbow.
“We’re done answering your questions,” she said.

With that, she marched
Sofie out of the room.

♥♥♥

Ciara’s high heels
clacked decisively on the linoleum as they retreated to the elevator. With a
sigh, Pierre formally ended the interview and punched off the recorder. “That
went well.”

“The girl’s guilty as
hell,” Jean-Marc said consideringly.

“Yeah, but as the lady
said, proving it might be difficult.”

Jean-Marc grabbed the
phone and called downstairs. “The two women I interviewed are on their way out.
I want them tailed. Both of them.”

“Yes,
Commissaire
.”

“You verified
Mlle
.
Alexander’s address?”

“Yes, sir. I did quick
background checks on them, too. I put the files in your incident room.”

After ejecting the
cassette from the recorder, he and Pierre went directly there. He made himself
pick up Sofie’s file instead of Ciara’s.

It was pretty thin. She’d
been hauled in to a Paris nick once at age thirteen for solicitation, at which
time her parents had been called, but by the time her father and uncle arrived
she’d managed to slip out a side door. The reporting officer had not been
impressed with her father. “A first-generation Algerian with a nasty temper who
wanted his daughter back solely to punish her for disobeying and bringing shame
on his name. The uncle looked like a professional wrestler. She’ll probably
live longer on the streets,” was his conclusion. Which explained why there’d
been no follow-up with Social Services.