The Paris Caper (11 page)

Jean-Marc’s chair
squeaked familiarly as he leaned back in it and contemplated the cracked
plaster of the ceiling, ticking off on his fingers. “He moved to Paris nine
years ago. He started out snatching purses and lifting wallets on the train and
métro
. Eight years ago he switched to jewelry, started refining his
craft. Then he added silver and a painting or two, and began to escalate. Every
year the items he steals get more and more valuable.”

“And his robberies get
progressively more skilled and more daring,” Pierre said. “And yet still
elegantly simple. To filch a diamond bracelet right off a heavily guarded
princess’s wrist, surrounded by two hundred people and the
commissaire
who is hunting him...” Pierre’s words trailed off in a shrug and a puff of
admiration.

Jean-Marc didn’t need
reminding of the man’s preternatural abilities.

“There’s something we’re
missing,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk blotter. “Something
important.”

“Like what?”

“That’s the question,”
Jean-Marc said, and thoughtfully turned his gaze to the wall map. “Let’s talk
to the police in Marseille. I have an old friend there I can call. See if
they’re able to shed any light. Meanwhile we have to ask ourselves, is he
finished now, for this month?”

“That diamond bracelet
was pretty valuable. He’s over his usual take. You really think he’s going to
pull off another job right away?”

“It’s possible. He has
been steadily escalating.”

Pierre hummed in
agreement. “Okay. So say he’s not done. Where will he strike next?”

Jean-Marc turned back to
him with a grimace. “That,
mon vieux
, is exactly what we must figure
out.”

♥♥♥

Jean-Marc glanced at his
watch as he rang the outside bell to Ciara’s flat for a third time. He and
Pierre had gotten so wrapped up in their work on predicting
le Revenant
’s
next move that Jean-Marc hadn’t noticed the time flying by. It was late. Well
past 9:00 pm.

He hoped she hadn’t given
up on him. He’d wanted to call her earlier, to let her know he was on his way,
but she didn’t have a phone. Ridiculous, in this day and age.

He’d have to have one
installed for her. Or better yet, buy her a cell phone. So he could get hold of
her whenever he felt the urge. Which, if today was any indication, would be
every other minute.

He’d just pressed the
buzzer for the fourth time when a gray-haired old lady with bifocals poked her
head out from the locked front entrance to the building.

“You’re here about the
apartment?” she asked.

“I’m here to see Ciara
Alexander. Apartment 6B.”

The woman opened the door
wider and looked him up and down in the dim glow from the ancient courtyard
corridor, her gaze snagging on the large bouquet of flowers he held in one
hand.

“She’s gone,” she said
with an accusing scowl. “This morning. Who are you?”

He stared at her in
disbelief. “Gone?
Ciara
? What do you mean gone? Where?”

She lifted a shoulder.
“How the hell should I know? Damn foreigners. Can’t be relied on. I knew I
shouldn’t have rented to her. Nothing but tr—”

“You’re telling me she
moved
out
?” This had to be some kind of mistake. A misunderstanding.

“Packed her bags and had
me call a taxi. Nothing left of her but that damn Arab demon symbol painted on
the wall. Knew I should have gotten a bigger security deposit.”

“Did she leave a
forwarding address?” he demanded, his mind finally emerging from paralysis.

She narrowed her eyes at
him calculatingly. “Who’s asking?”

He whipped out his wallet
and held his
carte
to her face. “
Le flic
.”

She backed up, eyes
flaring. “Honest! I have no idea where she’s gone—”

“I want to see the
apartment,” he snapped. “She must have left a note.” Something to tell him
where she’d gone. She knew he was coming tonight. They’d talked about it.

They went upstairs and he
hurried through both rooms of her closet-sized apartment, searching for a
letter or a piece of paper.

The furniture was all
there. The ratty sofa they’d made love on the third time, the wobbly table
where they’d shared a thrown-together meal, the dresser where his card had sat
along with her hairbrush and a tiny bottle of perfume. The bed where they’d—

“Get out,” he told the
hovering landlady, and slammed the door in her face. He needed to be alone.

He threw the bouquet of
flowers on the bed, staring at it for long minutes, trying to come to terms
with what he knew he had to accept, but couldn’t fucking believe.

She’d lied to him. The
entire time he’d been with her. The entire time he’d been between her legs,
deep inside her. She’d sworn she wasn’t afraid of him because he was a cop. But
he must have been right about her all along. There was no other explanation for
her precipitous disappearance.

What the
hell
was
she involved in?

He took one last look at
the ornate blue design painted over the bed, the only thing left to show she’d
ever lived there, turned, and walked out.

He should have known.
Should have followed the visceral instinct that had screamed warnings at him to
leave Ciara Alexander the fuck alone.

Damn
Pierre for
dragging him over here after he’d made up his mind.

But damn himself most,
for his silly romantic notions. For falling for her.

Non
, he thought,
blinded by the bright summer sun as he marched out of the building. He slid his
dark shades over his eyes.
Forget her
. He didn’t need this. Didn’t need
her.

Now he could pour all his
energy into the case he’d been handed. Closing it successfully would secure his
job. Probably get him the promotion that had eluded him for so long. A raise.
Those were the things that mattered.

Fuck Ciara Alexander and
her soft, pliant curves.

From now on there was
only one thing he wanted to concentrate on. And that was catching
le
Revenant
.

Being picked up by the
police was definitely not what Ciara had in mind when she’d let the air out of
the tire of Davie’s dad’s Jaguar XJ-12 on this lonely stretch of country road
seventy miles outside of Paris.

The week had ticked by
slowly. Each morning she’d awoken in tangled sheets caused by nightmares that
Jean-Marc had somehow tracked her down and come for her. To throw her in
prison. And worse...

Seeing the distinctive
white, red and blue radio car marked with the triangular emblem of the
police
nationale
rolling to a halt behind the Jag reminded her just a little too
much of those nightmares. She dabbed moisture from her upper lip and smoothed a
hand down her dowdy brown gown.

It was the weekend of the
Michaud’s soiree. The day of her big job.

Davie
had...borrowed...the Jag from his parents’ country estate carriage house.
“They’ll never miss it,” he’d assured her. “They’re in Quebec for a few weeks.”

Davie hadn’t spoken to
his parents in years, but he had lunch with his old nanny once a month, so he
always knew what was happening with them. And on what days he could liberate
the car.

Typical bad luck that a
police patrol was the first thing to drive by after she’d deliberately deflated
the Jag’s back tire. She’d counted on someone else stopping on their way to the
Michaud estate to help out a stranded fellow guest. And give her a ride to the
exclusive end-of-season soiree. Thus solving her tiny problem of not having an
invitation.

If she weren’t about to
have a freaking heart attack, she might have laughed at the cosmic irony. But
at the moment she needed all her energy to maintain her composure and stay in
character.

Chill, Ciara, they’re
not here to arrest you
, she told herself. They were just doing what cops
did, helping an old lady in distress.

Tamping down on her
speeding pulse, she watched a uniformed officer emerge from the vehicle and
approach her. For effect, she fanned her forehead with a bit of lace from her
sturdy handbag. Praying her disguise would stand the test.

Of course it would.
Disguises and slipping into different characters were her specialties. Between
Davie’s coaching and her own gift for languages, she could become anyone from
an East End street urchin to an East European countess. Even looking carefully,
no one would ever guess that the aristocratic old lady with a flat tire was
really an American who’d just turned thirty-one. The uppity accent would throw
off the cops once her robbery was reported, if by some miracle the old lady was
remembered.

Yes, the disguise was
perfect. And she could handle these cops, too.

“
Madame, vous avez
besoin d'aide
?” asked the young, blue-clad officer, with a small bow.

Smiling at him, she
daintily lifted the hem of her matronly gown and resisted the urge to scratch
her cheeks. Masquerading as a sixty year-old woman might render her as good as
invisible, but the fake wrinkles could be torture in hot weather.

“Why, thank you officer,”
she answered in flawless upper crust French.

“A flat tire?” he asked,
glancing at the Jag.

“So it seems.” She aimed
for an air of pompous entitlement. “If the officer would give me a ride to the
Michaud estate, I would greatly appreciate it. It is just up the road.”

The man looked
uncomfortable. “Taking passengers in the patrol car is against regulations,
madame
.
But I would be happy to—”

“Young man,” she interrupted
haughtily, “Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”

The officer sputtered,
but before he could reply, a deep voice came from the passenger side of the
cruiser. “We’re going the same place. Give the lady a fucking ride.”

She froze in her tracks,
every one of her nightmares swirling into terrifying reality.

That voice
.

The officer glanced at
her contritely and she drew herself up, mainly to hide her fear and dismay.
“W-Well!” she stuttered, seizing onto the man’s obvious belief that it was the
crude language that had shocked her to the core.

“Don’t mind the
commissaire
,”
the officer said. “He’s in a foul mood. Come,
madame
.” He extended a
hand toward the radio car. “We will take you.”

Yes, but where?

She forced herself to
follow him, sliding into the back seat. Praying Jean-Marc would not turn
around.

She couldn’t see much of
him, just his broad shoulders and dark hair as he leafed through a thick file
in his lap. He didn’t look up, but in the rear view mirror she saw the
reflection of his left eye. Unmistakable porcelain blue. Outlined by the
familiar sculpted brow, and a frown of concentration.

Another shower of nerves
skittered down Ciara’s spine. What business did Jean-Marc have at the Michaud
soiree?

As if she didn’t know.
He’d predicted she’d strike at Club
LeCoeur
, hadn’t he? Somehow the man
had gotten inside her head, knowing her next move almost before she did.

Okay. Okay. She was
not
going to panic.

She considered her
options. She didn’t have to do this laydown. There would be other paintings,
other pieces of silver and jewelry. She could go to Spain, or Italy, so she
wouldn’t have to worry about Jean-Marc and his uncanny insight.

Except, Sofie was
depending on her. Right now. Beck would not wait much longer for his blackmail
money—he’d already threatened Sofie again. Ciara must protect her, and keep
Beck placated until they could come up with a fail-safe plan to take care of
him for good. No, she could not fail today. She must proceed.

The sun was just dipping
below the horizon, painting a rosy pink glow over the rolling fields of green,
heavy with ripening vegetables, neat, endless rows bursting with their fat
bounty. Even in the stale confines of the police car, the French countryside
smelled verdant and ripe. Expectant. Abundant.

She loved the country. If
she ever got her million, this was where she’d live. Far from the ugly urban
chaos where she’d grown up, the decaying towns that stretched on and on, one
after the other without respite. Instead, she’d be in the clean, nurturing
country, within a stone’s throw of the most beautiful city on earth, Paris.

In just a few minutes,
the fields gave way to stately trees, pristine lawns and the long, majestic
entrance drive of the Michaud estate. Bypassing the valet, the officer parked
the cruiser behind the manor house, next to a jumble of catering vans.

Ciara looked around,
getting her bearings. Where was Ricardo? Davie had managed to get Ricardo hired
on at the last minute as a waiter for the sizeable party. She didn’t like
giving the Orphans an active role in a laydown, but if the job was risky they
usually insisted on one of them playing backup, to stage a diversion in case
things went south. She just hoped Ricardo wouldn’t give either of them away if
he saw her being escorted into the house by the police.

The officer held open the
service door and accompanied her through the kitchen into the public rooms,
apologizing for not taking her in via the grand front entrance.

“Nowhere to park,” he
explained. “And valet service for a police car...” He made a face. “Not a great
idea.”

“Don’t give it a
thought,” she said, grateful the whole invitation issue had been neatly
skirted. “It’s rather exciting having a police escort. I shall be the talk of
the party.”

The pitying smile he
returned assured her that unless she walked in with Brad Pitt on her arm there
was no way in hell she’d be the talk of anything, let alone this gathering of
the glitzy and glamorous.