The Paris Caper (23 page)

His opponent bared his
teeth and started for him.

“Hey! What’s going on
here?” came a sharp female cry from the direction of the church. “Stop it right
now, you fools!”

All eyes except
Jean-Marc’s turned to her. His didn’t have to. A flare of anger mixed with
gratification zinged through him. He’d found her. okay, she’d found him. Either
way, when he got out of this she was so busted.

“Let him go,” she said,
quickly broaching the circle of men.

“
C’est un keuf
,”
the gorilla protested. “Got no business here.”

“Yeah, he’s
un keuf
,
but—” to Jean-Marc’s shock, she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss
“—he’s
my keuf
.”

For a second the men
surrounding them were as stunned as he was. He recovered first.

He wrapped his hand
around her hair at the nape of her neck and held her there. He did his best not
to notice the hot surge of desire in his groin.

He was angry. She was
his suspect. This was just business
.

“Appreciate the rescue
effort, doll, but I can take care of myself.”

“I could see that,” she
said with mild sarcasm. “What are you doing here?”

He wound his hand a bit
tighter in her hair. “
Mon ange
, you know how much I hate it when you
disappear on me.” He kept his gaze cool, unforgiving. He wanted her to know she
was in big trouble.

Her chin rose. “I got
homesick.”

“Ciara,” the gorilla
asked incredulously. “Are you really saying this cop belongs to you?” In disbelief,
he looked from Ciara to Jean-Marc and back again.

Jean-Marc wasn’t about to
quibble over semantics. Still holding the stiletto in his right hand, he turned
her in his arms and pulled her back against his chest. “You have a problem with
that?” he growled.

There was complete
silence as the shuffling group of men decided how to react.

“And before you ask,”
Jean-Marc said impassively, “yes, I know who she is and what she does.” He
could play dirty cop as well as the next guy. Maybe the thugs would take him
into their confidence. Let something slip about her.

“Don’t believe him,”
Ciara said with a defiant edge to her voice, turning to face him again and
drawing her tongue across the seam of his lips in a blatantly erotic gesture
that nearly did him in. “He just likes to fuck me.”

“Well,” the gorilla
finally said, somewhat uncertainly. His long knife disappeared from his hand.
“Since Etienne’s woman vouches for you, guess I won’t kill you. Just yet.”

Jean-Marc refrained from
snorting. Instead he looked at her like he owned her, “I’ve had a long trip
chasing you down, woman. Where can I find something to eat?”

Her brow rose
infinitesimally at his imperious tone, but good ol’ Etienne had apparently
trained her well. “Right across the square,” she said, jerking her thumb at a
sleazy hole-in-the-wall bar a few dozen meters down the block. A knot of
customers had gathered in front, drawn out by the prospect of a knife fight in
full daylight.

“Let’s go,” he said. He
beckoned to the group of men who’d just moments earlier had every intention of
killing him. “
Allez
. Let me buy you all a drink. In memory of Etienne.”

♥♥♥

If possible, the inside
of the bar was even seamier than the outside. Dark, with low ceilings stained
black from the smoke of countless Galois, and once-white walls smeared with the
prints of thousands of dock-filthy hands, the room smelled thickly of onions,
potatoes and rue. An ancient American juke box in the corner poured out an
endless stream of Piaf oldies through tinny speakers. Small, round wooden
tables with uncomfortable wooden chairs were crammed into the entire space,
most of them occupied by sweating men and bearing an assortment of chipped
china and plain but surprisingly appetizing food.

Jean-Marc felt right at
home.

Choosing a free table on
the far wall, he emptied the pockets of his jacket, putting everything in his
pants pockets before slinging it over a chair and sitting on top of it. He left
his weapon where it was—didn’t matter, by now everyone in the place would know
he was a cop. He signaled the bartender and ordered a round of Pernod for the
men who’d come in with them.

“To Etienne.
Santé
,”
he said.

They all lifted their
glasses, downed them, and he ordered another round.

Ciara watched him with an
odd expression. “Not nervous being in this kind of place?” she asked.

He tilted his chair
casually onto its back legs and leaned his shoulders against the wall behind
him. “
Non
. Should I be?”

“The only cop in a room
full of gangsters?” She shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile as she moved her
chair close to his. “What the hell, except for the badge—and the suit—you could
be one of them.”

“Hardly surprising,” he
said impassively. “since I
was
one of them for my first eighteen years.”

“Tell me,” she
encouraged, resting her elbow on the table with chin in hand. “What were you
like growing up?”

He took a sip from his
second Pernod and let it roll around in his mouth, as though that could take
the foul taste of memories away. “I was a rough-edged bad-ass, heading for
prison like all my friends in the banlieue where I lived. But I had a gift for
math so a teacher took pity on me. I managed to escape.”

“Lucky you.” She studied
him for a long moment, then picked up her drink and looked away. “But I got
news, baby, you’re still a hard-edged bad-ass.”

He gave a bark of
humorless laughter. “So my boss keeps telling me.”

That earned a smile.
Hers, not his.

“No wonder you like me so
much,” she said.

“I don’t like you,” he
denied. Desperately wishing it were true. Scrabbling to hang onto his anger.

“Right.” She surprised
him by swinging a leg over his knees and straddling his lap, face to face. She
slid her hands over his shoulders and up, pushed her fingers into his hair. She
rubbed her thumbs back and forth along his jaw. “You’re trying so hard not to like
me,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he agreed, the
entire lower half of his body coming to life under the warm weight of hers. “I
am.”

“Is it working?”

He eased out a breath.
And fought not to put his hands on her. She was wearing soft, well-worn jeans
today, and a tight black T-shirt which left little to the imagination. He lost
his battle and stroked his fingers up her thighs. “What do you think?” he
drawled.

Under her T-shirt her
nipples quickened, turning to hard little points that poked out at him. He found
himself licking his lips.

She watched his tongue
disappear, then leaned down and kissed him.

He closed his eyes and
tried to talk himself into resisting. But it was no use, and he knew it. He
opened his mouth and let her plunder it. Softly, sensually, thoroughly.

For a moment the buzz of
conversation around them halted, then it started up again accompanied by
chuckles and off-color comments. But nobody seemed particularly concerned.
Which was good, because he didn’t feel like pulling out his knife again. Or
shooting someone.

What he felt like was
having sex.

Hard, fast, raunchy,
mind-blowing sex.

And she knew it.

Her kiss deepened even
more and her bottom ground erotically into his thick erection. He groaned
softly.

“
Commissaire
Lacroix?” she whispered into his mouth.

“
Oui
,
le
Revenant
?” he whispered back, feeling like he was falling, spinning at the
speed of light down a black, bottomless pit toward... He had no idea.

But wherever it was, when
he landed he wanted her there.

“Are you really hungry?”
she murmured, dragging her tongue across his lips. Pressing herself down onto
his cock so he thought he’d explode.

“Oh, yeah,” he said,
tugging her tight to his body. Giving in to the sensation. “Hungry for you.”

“I know a place,” Ciara
whispered, though she shouldn’t. This was the stupidest, most ill-advised thing
she’d done in a long succession of stupid, ill-advised things.

She didn’t care. The pull
to Jean-Marc was too strong. The attraction too explosive. The need too
intense. She wanted him.

She wanted him.

She wanted him
.

He drew back and searched
her eyes. His own were dark, midnight blue, glittering with desire. Filled with
conflict.

“
C’est fou
,” he
murmured. “
Foutrement fou
.”

Fucking insane. Yeah,
that about covered it.

She put her forehead to
his. “No one will know.”

“I will.”

Her heart squeezed. How
could you not love a man with such honor?

“I could seduce you,” she
ventured softly. “Then it wouldn’t be your fault.” She kissed him again.
Savored the taste of him. The strength. The goodness. She wanted to meld her
body with his, absorb that strength and goodness for her own. So she could be
just as strong and as good as he.

Somber, he asked, “If I
make love to you, will you confess?”

She smiled faintly. “To
what? Being madly and completely in love with you?”

The words just slipped
out. She certainly hadn’t meant to say them aloud. He froze. In horror? She
dropped her gaze, unable to watch his rejection.

He wrapped a large hand
around her jaw and lifted her face back up. In his eyes she saw sympathy and
sorrow where she’d half expected disdain. He looked as though he wanted to say
something, then changed his mind.

Abruptly he rose,
bringing her with him and setting her on her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

She let him guide her
through the mass of beefy bodies in the dim bar, out into the blazing light of
afternoon. Temporarily blinded, she reached for him. His arms went around her.
Suddenly, inexplicably, she realized she was trembling.

He kissed her. But she
could feel the tension in his muscles, in his whole bearing. She wished she
could take back her words.

“You said you know
somewhere to go?” he asked.

Wordlessly, she took his
arm and walked the three blocks to a place she knew would welcome them without
asking any questions. When they got to the old red brick building, she knocked
a one-three-one pattern on the plain and unremarkable front door. It opened a
crack and she heard a feminine gasp, then it was flung wide.

“Ciara!
Chérie
!”
gushed the handsome woman dressed in silk who answered, gathering her into her
arms. “Where have you been all these—” Then she spotted Jean-Marc and her
eyebrows flew up. “
O, lala, p‘tite chatte! Mais, viens! Bienvenue, Commissaire
!
Come in, come in.”

Ciara quelled her sudden
panic and stepped inside to a lush, sweetly fragrant confection of a room
totally unlike the bland outside façade. It overflowed with ivory lace and red
satin, plush furniture and scantily clad women. Jean-Marc held himself ramrod
straight beside her, jaw tight, but didn’t blink once. Apparently nothing she
did shocked him anymore.

When introduced, he
politely greeted Madame Felicité—a distant aunt or cousin of Etienne’s whom
Ciara had been friends with since the old days—and brought out his wallet when
Ciara asked if they could borrow a room for a few hours.

“Pfft!” Felicité said,
waving the money away. “Don’t be silly. You are family. It is my pleasure.” She
eyed Jean-Marc appreciatively. “Or...perhaps yours.
Chérie
, we really
must talk more often. Victoire!” she called to a young girl in a diaphanous
robe. “Show Ciara and
le commissaire
up to the blue room.” She urged
them toward the stairs with a hand on each one’s shoulder and spoke between
their heads. “Take your time, darlings, it is early. We won’t be needing the
room until after supper—hours from now.”

Ciara’s face blazed with
embarrassment but Jean-Marc’s remained impassive. Not a good sign. Whenever his
expression went carefully blank he was usually furious with her.

With every eye in the
place following them up, it felt like it took forever to climb to the top of
the stairs. Etienne had occasionally brought her here, just for fun and
adventure, and the ladies had been all teasing giggles and indulgent laughter
as they cheered them upstairs. But this was different. Now everyone was
wide-eyed and mute with disbelief.

Tell her about it
.
She’d had no idea her old family kept such close tabs on her. News traveled
fast.

Victoire showed them to
the very last room at the end of the hall. Ciara went in and stood uncertainly
as Jean-Marc stepped in, shut the door and locked it with a decisive twist of
his wrist. He leaned his back against the door, tossed his jacket and tie onto
a nearby chair, and gazed at her.

Her knees shook. “You’re
angry with me again.”

“Whatever gave you that
idea?” he said deceptively calmly.

The clenched teeth and
hands? The steam rising from under his collar? The daggers from his eyes?

“Um, lucky guess?”

“A
brothel
? You
really are trying to get me fired, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Jean-Marc. I
never thought she would recognize you.”

His eyes narrowed. “And
the stack of hundred-euro notes on the street in broad daylight yesterday?
Didn’t think anyone would notice that, either? Or sneaking out from under my
surveillance?
Twice
? Never thought my superiors would catch that tiny
detail, eh?”

“Jean-Marc—”

“It won’t matter, you
know,” he cut her off. “If I get thrown off the case, Pierre will just take
over. He knows as much about you as I do.”