The French Detective's Woman (2 page)

Just one of those bracelets would pay most people’s bills for a couple of months. Certainly Ciara’s, even with the Orphans.

She felt the heavy kick of nerves she always got just before the lay-down.

Easy does it
, she told herself. Best not to rush things. The most important part of any job was setting it up. Moving ever closer. Picking her moment.

So she kept the haughty princess in her line of sight, maneuvering her own dance partner into optimum position. Ready to strike when the time was right.

Except he didn’t want to be led. Naturally. It figured a man like him wouldn’t dance to her tune. Instead he pulled her body closer still, and spun her away.

She should have been annoyed, but it was impossible to concentrate on anything but how amazing it felt to be in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his chest and her knees tangled with his, lacing their thighs together like lovers. Slowly, he stroked up and down her back with his fingers, skimming the bare skin above the low cut of her dress, sending shivers along her spine. His arousal grew thick and hard between them. He did nothing to hide it, but didn’t force attention to it either. So like a Frenchman. Comfortable with his sexuality, but not making a big deal about it. She liked that. Damn, she liked
him
.

“You smell nice,” he murmured, burying his nose in her hair as the music slowed to a soft, romantic ballad. His warm breath tickled her ear. By now they’d danced about six or seven songs straight through, and he showed no signs of relinquishing his hold on her. Which was fine. She was enjoying him too much to want to let him go just yet. The princess would wait.

“So do you,” she whispered back, and slid her arms under his jacket and around his waist. She hummed out a sigh of pleasure as she brushed her hands over his lean hips and slim waist. Damn, the man’s body was fine.

Suddenly, her fingers hit something hard at the back of his waistband. Square and made of leather, it was threaded onto his belt.

She froze in disbelief.

“My handcuffs,” the man said, pulling back to gaze down at her. His lips curved into an enigmatic smile. “Does that worry you?”

She snapped her gaping mouth shut, her mind in a whirl. “That depends on what you intend to do with them.”

His smile twitched. “I am open to suggestion, but...the official answer is that I’m a cop.”

Her eyes widened. “A—
A cop
?”
Ohgod
. The man was a cop.
En flic, en poulet
. In other words,
en désastre
—a disaster.

“Is that a problem?”

From the corner of her eye, Ciara saw the princess dance closer. She swallowed down a powerful urge to laugh hysterically.
Hell
. The only man in living memory she’d been this attracted to, and now—
Double hell
.

“You planning on arresting me or something?” she asked, only half-joking. Her pulse hammered.

His brow rose. “For dancing? Or...is there something else about you that I am unaware of? Your tourist visa has expired, perhaps?”

This time she did laugh. She couldn’t help it. But at the last minute she tried really hard not to sound desperate. “Student visa. Good indefinitely,” she lied.

“Well, then,” he said, and drew her into his arms again, replacing hers around his neck. “I guess there’s nothing to worry about.”

If only he knew.

Or, maybe he
did
....

“So,” she asked, hoping he couldn’t feel her heart beating like a jungle drum against his chest, “Are you here at the nightclub for business, or pleasure?”

She felt him smile against her temple. “So far it’s been all pleasure.” And just like that he lifted her chin and kissed her.

She let out a tiny gasp. He took advantage, flicking his tongue over hers. Then he pulled back.

Her mind reeled out of balance as the erotic taste of him washed through her mouth. At the same time the princess danced back into her line of sight, arms draped over the shoulders of her escort. Sparkling diamond bracelets dangled within a hair’s breadth of Ciara’s fingers.

Oh, God, this was it
! There would never be a better time.
Or a worse one
. But she had to do it. Now.
And possibly end up in handcuffs...
Or wait for another day.
And possibly end up in this cop’s bed.

Oh, God
.

No choice.

Working by touch and pure instinct, she shifted her fingers a fraction of an inch, singled out the bracelet with the biggest diamonds and deftly unclasped it from the princess’s wrist. It slithered into Ciara’s palm, cold and sharp and glittering like a row of icy snake-eyes.

She closed her hand around it, tilted her head and pressed her mouth to the cop’s...as she deliberately dropped the bracelet into his jacket pocket.

♥♥♥

Commissaire de Police
Judiciaire
Jean-Marc Lacroix was not expecting the woman in his arms to kiss him back.

But when her lips met and pressed into his, criminal detective superintendent Lacroix couldn’t resist the temptation to quickly take it to the next level. He grasped her chin and tugged it down, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth, tasting her, plumbing her depths until she moaned long and low, responding with equal fervor. Just how he liked it.

Merde
, he shouldn’t be doing this.
Mais, bon Dieu
, the lady could kiss.

Jean-Marc hadn’t meant to kiss her at all. He had just meant to use her as a way to get onto the dance floor, to be less conspicuous in his surveillance of the flashy Dutch princess and her damned jewelry-dripping entourage.

But he should have known it would come to this. The moment he’d spotted the young woman out there on the floor in that low-backed, clingy little black number, dancing all by herself and enjoying the hell out of it, he’d been a walking hard-on. Now he was a dancing hard-on. And if he had anything to say about it, very soon he’d be a fucking hard-on.

He might be a cop, but off-duty he was only a man—and no better than he had to be. He was here at
Club LeCoeur
strictly on his own initiative, not on the clock. Working a hunch that the guy rapidly stealing his way up the French National Police’s
O
ffice Central de Lutte Contre le Trafic des Biens Culturels
—or
OCBC’s—most-wanted list might show up for such easy pickings as the high-profile princess. As lucky as he was clever, the slippery jewel thief known as
le Revenant
—the Ghost—had been on the OCBC’s radar for two years. Now the guy was starting to make media headlines, and they wanted the
fils de pute
behind bars. The officer in charge of the case,
Commissaire
Saville, was good, but somewhat unimaginative. As a
commissaire
, normally Jean-Marc didn’t work investigations himself, he delegated and ran things from behind a desk. But he thought he might score some much-needed brownie points with his and Saville’s boss,
Commissaire Divisionnaire
Belfort, if he managed to bring down the thief himself. Besides, he missed field work.

Jean-Marc had been to a half-dozen clubs over the past week following the princess and her ostentatious jewels along with the tabloid paparazzi, but
le Revenant
had yet to put in an appearance. Maybe he wouldn’t turn up tonight, either.

Which would leave Jean-Marc free for other pursuits. Such as the pretty blonde in his arms.

Donc
, he was smart enough to recognize a rationalization when he heard it, but at the moment he didn’t give a shit. They had stopped pretending to dance and were now kissing in earnest in the middle of the crowd like a couple of teenagers.

“
Vien
,” he murmured, lifting his mouth from hers when people started to stare. He grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

Before he even knew where he was going, he trotted down the stairs to the basement level where the restrooms were located, towing her by the wrist. Bypassing the
hommes
and
femmes
, he spotted a door marked “no admittance” and jerked it open. A startled waiter glanced up from unpacking a box of wine and started to protest.

Jean-Marc whipped out his
carte du requisition
, which identified him as a police officer, and ordered, “Out.
Vite
.” The waiter scrambled to his feet and scrammed. The door jerked closed.

The light in the room flickered dimly and the place smelled musty, like old cardboard. But the scent of the woman’s perfume clung to him, and she was all Jean-Marc needed to see.

He turned to his captive and pushed her up against the door, setting the lock with a swift flick of his thumb.
He was so ready for this
. He desperately needed to lose his frustrations in the hot passion of a willing woman, to thrust away his anger and annoyance in the blissful forgetfulness of her sweet body.
Dieu
, he needed this. With every fiber of his being he wanted to be inside her.

“
Je veux te baise,
” he growled, and took her mouth in a savage kiss.

She moaned, undulating her body beneath his as he kissed her over and over, touching her, learning her, urging her on with the blatant language of sex. She reached for his belt buckle.

“
Attends
,” he said, grabbing both her wrists. “Wait.”

He eased out a harsh breath, grappling for control. Of the situation. Of himself. He held her there as she panted, watching her breasts rise and fall beneath her silky dress.

He wanted to see them. He wanted to taste them.

He let her go and scraped her dress straps off her slim shoulders, peeling the her bodice to her waist. Her bra was black, made of the sheerest lace, and did nothing to hide her breasts. They weren’t large, but full and round, tipped with pretty nipples of rose, peaked and eager for his attention.

“
Mon Dieu
,” he murmured. “You are beautiful.”

He popped the front clasp and they fell into his hands, warm and silky-soft. With a groan of pleasure he bent and took one in his mouth, sucking in the firm nipple. He licked and suckled her, feeling the tension slowly seep from his shoulders and down to fill his heavy groin.
Le bon Dieu
. This time he didn’t stop her when she groped for his belt.

He almost detonated when she touched him, taking him boldly in her hand.

“
Non
,” he gasped, pulling her away. With one hand he raised her wrists above her head, with the other fumbled in his inside pocket for his wallet and the protection he always carried. All the while kissing her, deep and hard.

He found the packet and placed it on a nearby shelf. Then snagged the hem of her dress and dragged it up, twisting it into a knot at her waist. How he wished he could just rip the whole damned thing off! He wanted her completely bare. He wanted her naked and open, trembling for his touch.

Suddenly, he noticed she
was
trembling. He jerked back and met her gaze. “
C’est bien
?”

Her long blond hair was artfully mussed, her eyes slumberous and half-lidded; she was a sensuous fallen angel gazing up at him like she would do anything he asked. Anything at all.

“Mmm-hmm,” she hummed, “wonderful,” and his arousal thickened.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked hoarsely, just to make sure lust wasn’t coloring his perception.

“No. Don’t stop,” she whispered.

Filled with an inexplicable sense of power, he ran his free hand lingeringly down the curve of her hip, pausing at the lacy edge of her barely-there black panties. Trailing his fingers over the small triangle of fabric, he watched her eyes darken. They were green, the color of a forest at midnight, and pooled with desire.

He slipped his hand under her panties. “Spread your legs,” he said, licking at her mouth, his pulse pounding with excitement.

She obeyed and he slid his fingers into her wet heat, seeking her center. She quivered at his exploration, and gasped as he sent them deep inside then out again. He found her bud and worked it, sliding his thumb back and forth, round and round, until she shook with need.

“That’s right,” he urged roughly. “Come for me, then I’ll make you come again,
à mon queue
.”

She moaned, closed her eyes and shattered.

He let her wrists go and sheathed himself one-handed as he coaxed every last shiver and whimper from her. When at last her face was a portrait of bliss and her eyes fluttered open, he took hold of her panties and ripped them off.

She gave a yelp of surprise, her eyes widening as he stuck the ruined panties in his jacket pocket.

“To remember the occasion,” he murmured with a wink, then grabbed her thighs, lifted her to his waist and plunged into her.

She cried out, clutching him around the neck, clinging to him as he thrust deeper and deeper.
Exquisite
. She was all he needed and more. So much more. She was perfect, young, hot and tight with inner muscles that gripped him like a vise.

He gritted his teeth and marshaled his self-control, wanting it to last as long as possible. Again and again and again he drove into her, until he was a living agony of need to release, until she started uttering the sweet noises of a woman close to completion. He held on for three more hard thrusts, then she swallowed a scream, her fingernails digging into his back. With a roar he let himself plummet over the edge. It lasted forever, the almost unbearable pleasure of releasing his seed deep inside her.

After the final shuddering spasm he felt purged, renewed, exhausted. Happy.

Hell, he was in love.

He took her face between his hands and kissed her, both of them shaking and on the verge of collapse. Her legs slid down his hips but she clung to him and managed to stay on her feet.

“That was absolutely incredible,” he said between sucked-down breaths. “You are—”

The loud chirp of his cell phone startled him out of his intended litany of compliments.