The French Detective's Woman (25 page)

Alarm blazed through Jean-Marc, raising the hairs on the nape of his neck. “What in hell are you talking about?”

“
Le Revenant, mon ami
. I’m on the way to arrest her right now.”

♥♥♥

“Jean-Marc? Are you still there?”

“Wait.”

Jean-Marc vaulted from his seat at the bar and stalked to the rear of the car where he whipped open the door and stepped into the observation deck at the end of the train. Two young, starry-eyed lovers stood in each other’s arms, watching the scenery whiz by.

“Move it,” Jean-Marc ordered brusquely, opening his jacket to reveal his weapon and flashing his DCPJ
carte
. When he was alone, he hissed into the phone, “Pierre, there’s something I need to explain.”

“Later,
mon ami
. Right now you need to meet me at the
Gare du Lyon
. Make it fast. The train from Marseille arrives in ten minutes. She’s on it.”

“I know, damn it. I’m with her. But—”

“Fucking perfect. Don’t let her out of your sight. We—”

“Pierre! Would you stop for a minute and—”

“We’re home free,
mec
. She was down there pulling another job. And this time she’s got the goods on her.”

Stunned, Jean-Marc reeled back against the hard wall of the train car. “
What
?”

“A ruby necklace and matching earrings. Worth a mint. Stolen late last night from a yacht moored off one of those trendy new restaurants on the bay.”

“It couldn’t have been her.”

Pierre paused. “How do you know? Were you with her last night?”

His mouth thinned. “No.”

“Did you at least have eyes on her?”

“No.”

“Well, then. My information says she was in Marseille and she pulled this job. And my information is reliable.”

Jean-Marc slammed his eyes shut and fought the roiling knot that twisted in his stomach as he listened to his partner systematically crush each and every one of the hopes and dreams he’d so recently entertained about the extraordinarily talented Ciara Alexander.

She hadn’t lied to him. Not exactly. But God help him, he’d never asked.

Putain de merde
!

All the time they’d been making love...had she been laughing at him the whole time? Knowing she had a fortune of jewels sitting right in her purse, practically within plain sight of the detective superintendent in charge of bringing her to justice? Did it turn her on knowing she had duped him so thoroughly? Did she have a hard time keeping a straight face as he’d begged her to move in with him and have his baby?

Putain de
fucking
merde
.

Did he fucking
never
learn?

Obviously, this was why she’d kept saying no to his pursuit. She had no intention of stopping her illegal activities. She would never reform. She was just using him. As she had from the very first night at the club.

“All right,” Jean-Marc bit out. “What’s the plan?”

♥♥♥

Ciara woke with a start. She looked around swiftly, disoriented from her bad dream. She’d dreamt Beck had locked her in a tiny, filthy cell then beaten Sofie in front of her, laughing as they both screamed for him to stop.

Ciara took a deep breath. She was safe. On a train. With Jean-Marc. She glanced around again. Where was he? Her purse was sitting on his seat next to her and she grabbed it, jumping to her feet. It looked like they were coming into
Gare du Lyon
. She remembered he’d gone to the club car for a— There! She spotted him leaning against the wall by connecting door to the next car, watching her.

She smiled and waved, and started toward him. But he didn’t smile back. She faltered at his dark expression. Something was wrong.

The loudspeaker announced that the train was approaching the Paris station and suddenly everyone got up from their seats, blocking her path to him.

Heart pounding, she fought her way through the crowd, tripping over luggage to get to him.
Something was wrong
. She had reach him! She wanted to be safe in his arms again. Needed that terrible look on his face to go away. Dregs of the awful dream swirled through her mind as the crowd jostled her, but Jean-Marc’s pitiless expression was the worst of all. Terror crawled through her veins.

Something was terribly wrong.

“Jean-Marc!” she called.

She saw him hesitate for a split second, then he raised his outstretched hand to her.

“
Oui
,” he said. “Come to me, Ciara.”

 The train slowed, metal wheels screeching like giant fingernails on the steel rails of the track. She covered her ears, her pulse screaming just as loudly. Every instinct shrieked at her to run.
Run from him. Run from whatever was about to happen. Save yourself and run like hell.

“Come to me, Ciara,” he repeated, eyes cold as ice, his hand still outstretched, steady as a hangman’s.

Tears stung, blurred her vision.

She was betrayed.

Oh, God, Jean-Marc had taken her love and betrayed her.

When she reached him at last, she looked up into those impenetrable eyes. And knew the bitter truth.

The train jolted to a stop. The door flung open. But she would not run. She would not give him the satisfaction.

She took his hand.

The sound of heavy boots clattered up the steps. Shouts. Whistles. And the familiar timbre of his partner,
Lieutenant
Rousselot’s voice saying, “Ciara Alexander, I have a warrant to search your purse. Please surrender it at once.”

She didn’t protest when he ripped it from her shoulder, jammed his big hands inside and groped around. Wasn’t even surprised when one hand instantly reappeared holding something shiny and gold, sparkling in blood red.

She searched Jean-Marc’s impassive face with tears trickling down her own. And found nothing but contempt staring back at her. He let go of her hand.

She ripped her gaze from his, swiped the moisture from her cheeks and faced
Lieutenant
Rousselot with head held high. She didn’t even blink when he said the words she knew were coming.

“Ciara Alexander, you are under arrest.”

Chapter 19

There wasn’t a trial.

Ciara didn’t have the heart to fight the charges. Of which, ironically enough, she was innocent. She’d had nothing to do with stealing those rubies. And Jean-Marc, the fucking bastard, must have known it all along.

The pain of that nearly brought her to her knees.

At first she’d thought it was Jean-Marc who’d actually planted the stolen necklace and earrings in her purse. But when
Lieutenant
Rousselot let it slip at the preliminary hearing that their informant had been a Paris beat cop, she’d had the belated realization that it must have been Beck. Beck or one of his minions must have gotten onto the train at the last stop before Paris, put the jewels in her purse as she slept, then called the DCPJ on her. She had to give the little shit credit—she had truly underestimated his cleverness.

On the other hand, she had given Jean-Marc far too much credit. Her heart had blinded her to his true colors. Jean-Marc had believed the lying Beck without reservation. He hadn’t confronted her, hadn’t asked to hear her side. Not once during the interrogations had he even spoken to her. It had all been
Lieutenant
Rousselot.

That spoke volumes about how much her lover really cared about her.

He didn’t. It had all been lies.

Ciara thought she didn’t have any more tears left. She’d cried a river that first night in jail when Jean-Marc didn’t come to see her. In the morning, when she realized he wasn’t
ever
going to come, she dried her eyes, straightened her spine, and determined to put the manipulating bastard out of her mind forever.

She didn’t cry at the pitying looks during questioning when she claimed Beck had framed her; she didn’t cry when the Orphans came to see her and Sofie broke down and Ricardo and Davie said they had to tackle Hugo to keep him from bursting into
36 Quai des Orfèvres
and slashing Jean-Marc to ribbons; she didn’t cry when her lawyer threatened to quit if she didn’t use her personal relationship with Jean-Marc to force all charges against her to be dismissed even though the prosecutor wasn’t charging her with anything but the rubies for lack of concrete evidence on her other thefts.

She didn’t cry when the judge sentenced her to eighteen months in prison.

Only once did she give in to her feelings and cry. It was three-and-a-half weeks after her arrest, in the lonely confines of her cement cell. On the day she got her period.

Chapter 20

Eighteen months was a hell of a lot of days—five-hundred-forty-seven-and-a-half to be exact—to hold onto your anger.

Jean-Marc did his best. He managed to make it through Ciara’s arrest and interrogation.

Just.

He’d naturally expected her to cry rape, or at least drag out all the sordid details of their spectacularly ill-advised affair for all of France to snicker over. He was holding his breath waiting for her to announce that
Commissaire
Lacroix was the father of her unborn child.

He’d been so disillusioned by her deception in Marseille, he’d barely been able to look at her during Pierre’s interrogations. Convinced of his impending professional disgrace and dismissal at any moment, Jean-Marc didn’t even bother to formally resign from the case. Instead he handed it all over to Pierre and waited stoically for the boom to fall.

But as days went by, and then weeks, and it still didn’t happen, Jean-Marc grew more and more uneasy. And finally on a crisp autumn day in early October, looking like a beautiful fallen angel, Ciara stood wordlessly in the courtroom at the
Palais de Justice
on the Isle d’Cité and listened to her sentence, and was quietly led off to prison.

And that was the precise moment when Jean-Marc was struck by a creeping, horrible certainty.

He’d been completely wrong about Ciara Alexander.

Chapter 21

Eighteen months later

11:59 am, February 14

Outside la maison d'arrêt des femmes, Paris, France

Jean-Marc lounged against his Saab, arms crossed over his stomach, eyes closed and face tipped up to catch the stingy warmth the winter sun. He’d been standing like this for close to twenty minutes when a soft beep sounded from the fancy wristwatch he’d given himself this past Christmas.

Finally.

He opened his eyes, unpropped his butt from the front fender and turned to face the prison’s entrance. Five seconds later, the front gate swung wide and a woman walked through it carrying an oversized purse.

Ciara.

A jumble of conflicting emotions wrestled in the pit of his stomach as he watched her stride purposefully out to the sidewalk and glance around. She was wearing the same jeans and T-shirt she’d worn when they arrested her. A stab of guilt hit him square in the gut, followed swiftly by a punch of arousal a bit lower.
Dieu
, she looked good.

She spotted him.

Halting abruptly, she threw him a glaring scowl, then just as abruptly resumed striding down the street.

He pushed out a sigh, walked over and stepped in front of her, ready to do battle.

“Ciara—”

“Get out of my way, Lacroix.”

“We need to talk.”

“What part of leave me alone don’t you get?” She attempted to move by him, but he wasn’t about to let her escape.

“We need to talk,” he repeated. He had things to say. Answers to get.

“I wouldn’t talk to you in prison,” she said tartly. “What makes you think I’ll talk to you now?” She tried to shove past him more forcefully.

After his unsettling revelation at her sentencing, he’d gone to the prison to see her. To find out the truth. And ask about the baby. But she wouldn’t see him. Twice a month like clockwork he’d gone to see her, for eighteen months. Each time she’d refused his visit.

He didn’t really blame her. But enough was enough.

“Because you don’t have a choice,” he ground out, and grasped her arms.

Her brows shot up. “Police harassment? Not really your style, Lacroix. Or...maybe this is stalking?”

He clamped his jaw. “Neither. This is a man picking up his lover who just got released from prison.”

Her jaw dropped. “His
lover
? Are you kidding me?
You
put me in there, in case you’d forgotten!”

“You put yourself in there, Ciara. Not me. And you were lucky to get away with as little time served as you did,” he reminded her pointedly. “Real lucky.”

They glared at each other for a long moment before she looked away. “I suppose it was you who arranged for my release a day early,” she said resentfully.

“Tomorrow was going to be a media circus. Thought I’d spare you the ordeal.”

She snorted, studying the ground beneath her sandals. She rubbed her arms. “Let me go, Jean-Marc. I have nothing to say to you, and I’m cold.”

He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. For a second he thought she might toss it to the sidewalk and stomp on it. But she just jetted out a breath and said a clearly reluctant, “Thanks.”

“
C’est rien.
Now get in the car before you catch pneumonia.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you, Jean-Marc. I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I hate you,” she said, attempting vehemence, but the fight had gone out of her. The words came out breathy and petulant.

Like a lover’s.

“No, you don’t,” he refuted calmly, squeezing her shoulders. “You love me. You told me so yourself.”

“In your dreams, Lacroix.”

“Not what I recall. Ciara, what happened to the baby?” He waited for an endless silent moment.
Putain
. “Did you...?”