The French Detective's Woman (16 page)

Gritting her teeth against the pain that still twanged in her side from Beck’s beating, she hoisted herself up through the trap door in the closet ceiling and into the attic.

Despair flooded through her. She’d
known
something like this would happen. As soon as she’d seen Jean-Marc in the café talking to Sofie she’d had a terrible premonition, that somehow he’d figure it all out. That Sofie was the artist who had painted the fake Ciara planted at the Michaud’s. That Sofie could tell him where she was hiding.

Fuck.

Silently, she slid the square wooden trapdoor back into place behind her. The attic was steaming hot, bisected with shafts of sunlight poking through the roof vents and the dirty round dormer portholes. Dust motes danced around her as she teetered quickly along the thick wooden beams which traversed the length of the entire attic that served all four contiguous apartment buildings on the block. Stopping at one of the back dormers overlooking the inner courtyard, she unlatched the window, whisked off her pumps, and gingerly climbed through it, clinging to the sill as her bare feet gained purchase on a narrow decorative ledge. Hunching down, she grabbed the ledge and lowered herself to an iron balcony attached to the story below.

Her imagination filled with awful pictures of what was happening back in the apartment as she made her escape. Was she being a coward? Should she have stayed and faced the music instead of bailing and leaving the Orphans at the mercy of...

Don’t be ridiculous
, she told herself. Jean-Marc may be her own personal nemesis, but he wouldn’t mess with her kids. Not without any kind of evidence against them.

Would he?

You could tell a lot about a man by the way he made love. Jean-Marc had been domineering, sometimes even rough. But he’d always made sure she got hers first. And she knew his reputation on the street, from Valois and others who’d dealt with him.
Commissaire
Lacroix was tough but fair, had been the verdict all the way around.

On the other hand... She recalled the case Valois had told her about. The one where the thief had disappeared, leaving Lacroix holding the bag. It had nearly ruined his career. Jean-Marc had himself admitted that it
had
ended his marriage.
Le
Commissaire
hadn’t been the same since, it was said.

Lacroix was definitely tough. But was he still fair?

Maybe. But maybe not. Especially when it concerned a thief who betrayed him personally.... If Jean-Marc ever learned who she really was, she had a sinking feeling the word mercy would not be in his vocabulary.

Which was why she’d better get the hell out of here. The Orphans could take care of each other. They had a plan to follow. But she was in no state to be looking into Jean-Marc’s eyes, answering lies to his questions.

Tossing her shoes, she swung from balcony to balcony, making her way to the other end of the block. There she found the fire escape ladder, grasped it, and climbed down the rest of the five stories to the postage stamp inner courtyard below. She hurried through the covered entrance passageway and cracked open the outer door to the sidewalk.

Catching her breath, she peered through it and down the street. Half a block away, two
Police Nationale
radio cars were still parked at angles to the entrance of the Orphans’ apartment building, yellow lights flashing.

Was that really necessary? And what was taking them so long, anyway? Surely, they weren’t searching the apartment, or—

Suddenly, the building’s wooden entry door banged open and a uniformed officer held it open for Jean-Marc’s partner, Pierre, who strode through, followed by—

Sofie!

No
!

Sofie had her hands behind her back and Jean-Marc walked close behind her, his fingers gripping her shoulder, guiding her toward one of the cars.

“What are you doing?” Ciara cried without thinking, launching herself out of her hiding place at a run. “You can’t arrest her! Let her go!”

The officer spun and took up a defensive stance. “
Arrètez
!” he shouted, putting his hand on the butt of his gun.

Pierre glanced at her but kept walking around the car. Jean-Marc ignored her completely, opening the rear door for Sofie and handing her into the back. But he must have said something to the officer, because he also relaxed and went to the car.

“Hey!” Ciara’s feet ate up the pavement despite the burgeoning pain in her side and the heels she’d slipped back on. “Why are you arresting her? She’s done nothing!”

Jean-Marc continued to disregard her until he slammed the car door closed, locking Sofie inside. Ciara appealed to Pierre, who had leaned against the car roof on folded arms. His shoulders and brows lifted. The uniformed officer got into the driver’s seat at Jean-Marc’s signal.

“I demand—!” she began, but the words choked off when Jean-Marc finally turned to her.

His eyes were flinty.
Merciless
.

“You are in no position to demand anything,
Madamoiselle
Alexander,” he said coolly, then jerked his chin at Pierre, who nodded and got into the car, too. The engine came to life and the tires squealed as it took off down the street.

Instinctively, she took a step to go after it, but was yanked to a stop by Jean-Marc’s steely grip. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Where are they taking her?” she demanded, attempting to shake her arm free.

“
36 Quai des Orfèvres
. Would you like to come along?” His tone was not amiable. It was more of a dare. His grip was relentless.

Jesus. Straight into the lion’s den.

“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.

Chapter 12

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.

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 du 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
foutrement
. “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
Mlle
. 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.