The Paris Caper (37 page)

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.

“
Viens
,” 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.

“Jean-Marc...” she
whispered, almost desperately.

“Ciara, listen to me very
carefully. My men are watching us even now. The casino is surrounded by a
hundred local police officers. Should anything at all be stolen here, the thief
will not get past the door.”

“Well---” Her voice
cracked. She cleared it and tried again. “Then I’m very glad I’m not planning
to steal anything.”

The smile he gave her was
enigmatic. “
Bon
. In that case I shall relax and play some cards. Stay
close,
mon ange
. My men have orders to detain you should you attempt to
sneak away from me.”

She squeezed her eyes
shut so he wouldn’t see her mounting anxiety, and pressed her body seductively
against his side as he took a seat. “How close would you like me to stay,
commissaire
?”

Without looking up, he
pulled a large bundle of hundred euro notes from his inside jacket pocket and
placed it on the table. He put an arm around her hips and his hot breath
tickled her breasts. “Right where you are,” he murmured.

So she stayed there,
distracting herself by playing the role of clinging mistress. Savoring, while
she could, the feel of her body rubbing intimately against his, the smell of
his cologne, the illusion that she was his.

She wanted to kiss him.
Wanted to take his chin in her hand and pull his mouth to hers in a long,
drugging kiss. Wanted to leave the table and drag him upstairs right now.

But she couldn’t, so she
ignored the noise and the card play and thoughts of the future, and contented
herself with simply touching him.

Behind his back, every so
often she spotted CoCo and Pierre blending in with the growing crowd. And
suddenly, there were Davie and Sofie.

Jean-Marc’s watch stared
back at Ciara from his wrist.
Eleven forty-six.

All at once he gave a
luxuriant stretch. “Think I’ll take a break,” he said, making a signal to the
dealer. “Cover me,
s’il vous plait
.”

“No!” she said, instantly
panicking. Not now!

He turned to her, brows
raised in question. “
Non
?”

“You can’t quit now,” she
blurted, hurriedly scanning the table for a plausible reason. If he left the
game now, oh God, things would get complicated. “You—” To her shock, she saw a
dozen or more large stacks of chips in front of him. “You’re on a roll!” she
stammered.

Around them, murmurs of
agreement came from the rows of onlookers that had gathered to watch him play.
Everyone loved seeing a player beat the pants off the bank.

Rolling his shoulders, he
cocked his head at her. “I didn’t think you were paying attention. To the
game.”

She felt her face heat.
“You know I’m easily bored,” she said with coquettish lightness.

He chuckled. “Most women
would enjoy watching her lover win a small fortune for her.”

She started—
for her?
—then covered smoothly. “Darling, it’s only
you
I want. Not a fortune,
small or otherwise.” She finally gave in to her longing, took his face in her
hands and kissed him.

She sighed with a
heartfelt mix of pleasure and pain. This could be the last time...

“A noble sentiment,” he
murmured when, too soon, the kiss ended. An unreadable curve bowed his lips.
“Shall we put it to the test?”

Puzzled, she answered,
“I’m not sure what you mean.”

He waved a hand over his
stacks of winnings. “How much do you think I have here?”

“No idea,” she said
truthfully. She’d memorized the colors of the standard chip denominations, but
his were too many and too varied to begin to count. There were several piles of
yellow—each a thousand euro—which alone must have been worth more money than
she’d ever see again—after tonight.

“Dealer?” he asked.

The man gave a Gallic
shrug, in-between dealing around him. “Four, five-hundred thousand, perhaps.”

Her jaw dropped.
Half
a million
... “Good lord,” she breathed.

“Take it,” Jean-Marc
said. “I’ll give it all to you, every
centime
.” He paused for the
exclamations from the onlookers to die down. “On one condition.”

She went absolutely
still. Inside she quailed at the icy chill in his blue eyes.

Suddenly she wanted to
kill him. Why couldn’t he have made this offer, along with whatever impossible
condition he had in mind, a dozen years ago? When the money would have made a
difference, and the condition be a possibility? Now it was too late.

Eleven fifty-four.

Far too late.

“What condition is that?”
she asked, her pique cooling to sad resignation.

“You must leave with
Pierre. Right now. This very minute. Go straight to Paris, stopping for
nothing.”

She stared at him.
Somehow sensing the real blow was yet to come. “And you?”

His eyes met hers, black
and remorseless. “You’ll never see me again.”

The crowd gasped
theatrically. Hollywood stars and moguls of the silver screen, confronted by
genuine drama.

Ciara straightened. And
lifted her chin.

She didn’t know what hurt
more, the thought of never seeing Jean-Marc again, or the knowledge that he
must think so little of her.

 “An interesting offer,”
she said. “But why not make it even more interesting? Double or nothing.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Bet it all,” she said,
gesturing back at the game, struggling not to let the deluge of emotions show.
“Everything on one hand. If you win, I get both you
and
the money. If
you lose, I leave, never to darken your door again.”

His eyes flared in shock.
“You’d risk that?”

“No risk,” she said,
throat aching. “Right now I have neither you nor money. What do I have to
lose?”

He didn’t answer.

They both knew he had the
power to throw this hand by choice. Winning was less certain, but his record so
far was testament enough to his skill at swaying the odds in his favor.

Which would he choose?

Eleven-fifty-seven.

“
D’accord
,” he
said, face impassive, and turned back to the table. He nodded to the dealer.
“All of it. Double or nothing.”

The crowd cheered madly.
The casino manager and pit boss, as well as two security guards descended to
stand behind the dealer. The manager looked grim.

Ciara could barely focus
as the cards were dealt, let alone have a prayer of counting up
Jean-Marc’s—even if he showed them to her. Which he didn’t.

The onlookers groaned as
the dealer turned up his cards. A four and a three. What did that mean? She
squeezed her eyes shut. Hell. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to the rules?

When it was his turn,
Jean-Marc gave the signal to pass. Stone-faced, he watched the rest of the
players complete the round, ending with the dealer, who turned up a five. The
crowd groaned louder.

She tried to add up four
plus three plus five, but her mind froze. Twelve? Thirteen?

Did it matter?

The dealer reached for
his next card. Everyone held their breath. He turned an eight. A chorus of
ambiguous exclamations came from the throng.

Ciara resorted to her
fingers. Did that make over twenty-one? She couldn’t think.

One by one, the other
players showed their hands, winners happily, losers tossing them down in
disgust.

All attention turned to
Jean-Marc.

She couldn’t bear it.
“Please, for the love of God, turn them over,” she pleaded.

The crowd hushed.

Eleven-fifty-nine.

He lifted his cards and
started turning.

Abruptly, an earsplitting
whistle shattered the silence. A claxon sounded, and a shout was heard. “The
Egg! The Fabergé Egg! It’s gone!”

Another yell came
immediately after. “The Monet! It’s also been stolen!”

Jean-Marc’s hand froze in
mid-air. His head whipped around and his eyes lasered in on hers. “
Non
,”
he growled. “I don’t believe it.”

“Jean-Marc, I—” Her chest
constricted with pain. She wanted stop the flow of time. So she could explain.

Then all hell broke
loose. From nowhere, dozens of uniformed men appeared, converging on the nearby
display area. The crowd roiled, straining at once to see Jean-Marc’s cards as
well as whatever was going on.

And still Jean-Marc’s
eyes drilled into hers, throwing sparks of fury. She shook her head.