The French Detective's Woman (7 page)

“It won’t be easy,” Pierre said, stroking his chin. “This guy does his research. His jobs are obviously carefully targeted, as opposed to crimes of opportunity.”

“At least now they are. Which is good. Totally random would be much harder to follow backwards.”

“I suppose.”

“The other thing I noticed is, the value of the jewelry has been steadily rising. I’d like to know why. Is his confidence rising, or is it his need that’s rising for some reason?”

“Drugs, maybe?”

Jean-Marc stopped pacing and shook his head. “No. He’s far too organized and contained for an addict. Which is why I think we have a real shot at figuring this out.
Something
is driving him. When we find that, we’ll have the bastard.”

Pierre rose as well, flipping the chair back around. “In that case, we’d better get to it.”

Jean-Marc grabbed a short stack of files off his desk. “First stop, the archives. To order up all the unsolved robbery cases from all over the country for the past five years.”

Pierre choked on a laugh. “Jesus, that’s going to make us popular.”

Jean-Marc snickered. “Hope you’re not still trying to chat up what’s-her-name down there? Nicole?”

Pierre made a pained face as they walked out together. “Guess I can kiss her goodbye, eh?”

“
Désolé,
mon ami
.”

“Sure you’re sorry. Speaking of which, how did it go last night with your latest female obsession? You were in awful early this morning.”

Jean-Marc ignored the involuntary curl of anger in his gut at the mention of Ciara. “I didn’t speak to her.”

Pierre looked surprised. “But why? I thought you were in love!”

“She’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She promised to call me. She didn’t. Besides, I don’t need the distraction. Especially now, taking over this damn case.”

Pierre lifted a palm. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but after we’re done in the archives, you’ll
have
to call her.”

Jean-Marc halted at the elevator and stabbed the down button. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because you took over this case. She was a witness to the robbery last night. We’re in charge now,
mon ami
, and I don’t intend to lose my job just because your male ego got bruised. She may have seen something. We’re interviewing her, and that’s that.”

Jean-Marc ground his jaw. He really hated it when his partner was right. They couldn’t afford to ignore a single witness. Especially one who’d danced as close to the robbery victim all night as they had done. He may have had eyes only for her, but obviously she didn’t share his blinders.

“I don’t have a phone number,” Jean-Marc said, still looking for a reasonable way out.

“Then we’ll go to her place.”

His stomach tightened at the thought. Could he see her again without doing something monumentally stupid? He sincerely doubted it. But Pierre was correct. She had to be interviewed. Even if it would strain his self-control.

“Okay, fine,” he gritted out. “But
you’re
asking the questions. If I open my mouth I’m liable to get us both in trouble.”

Chapter 4

Every time there was a knock at her door, panic skimmed up Ciara’s spine. This time was no exception.

Firmly, she pushed the fear into the far corner of her insides where she normally kept it at bay. She’d already taken the diamonds to Valois. There was no reason to panic, regardless of who was knocking.

Nevertheless, she swept a quick glance over her tiny living room, making sure nothing incriminating was lying out in the open. No stolen goods. No bits of elaborate disguises. No maps, floor plans or notes for her next job.

“Who is it?” she called.

“
Police Nationale
,” came a loud male voice.

Panic tore back through her veins, this time for real, riding on a burst of adrenaline.
How had they found her
? The police had never been to her apartment before. Never!

What should she do?
Fight or flight
?

Neither.
Answer the man.

“
Oui
?” she called. The word cracked in half and she had to clear her throat. “What do you want?” she asked in French dosed with a deliberate American accent.

“Open the door
madamoiselle
,
s’il vous plais
.”

With a final check around, she took a steadying breath and plastered what she hoped was an innocent expression on her face. Then she opened the apartment door.

And froze. A familiar man in a suit stood there in the cramped hallway, holding up a credentials wallet. It was Jean-Marc’s friend from
Club LeCoeur
. A holstered gun peeked out from his jacket, tucked under his arm.

“Sorry to disturb you,
mademoiselle
, but we need to ask you some questions about last night.”

Oh, sweet Jesus
.

“We?” she croaked, for some reason homing in on the pronoun he’d used. She fought to get her brain back into working order. Surely, Jean-Marc hadn’t—

Her heart stood still as her lover emerged from behind the central stairwell.
Oh, God
.

“You remember
Lieutenant
Rousselot,” Jean-Marc said evenly. “And me,
peut être
?” His eyebrow flicked up infinitesimally.

She made herself say, “Of course.”

Lieutenant
Rousselot stepped forward again, insinuating himself into the small space between them. He smiled pleasantly. “Good. Then you won’t mind if we come in and talk for a few minutes?”

“Well, actually, I—”

Too late. Rousselot was already walking past her. Jean-Marc also stepped through the narrow doorway, silently crowding her into the tiny living room with his towering bulk. His eyes were hot, volatile, as he shut the door firmly behind them and leaned his back against it. Trapping her.

She smoothed her hand down her thin blue skirt, suddenly wishing she were wearing something a lot more substantial than the flimsy camisole she’d put on hoping to beat the summer heat.

“Why are you here?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

He didn’t answer, but flicked his gaze to his partner.

“We need to ask you about last night,” Rousselot said, his smile widening. It seemed incongruously genuine. “We want to know exactly what you did at the club.” He looked at her expectantly.

This couldn’t be happening
. “I, um...”

“Yes, I know you were—” he made one of those expressive Gallic gestures with shoulders, hands and face “—busy...with
Commissaire
Lacroix, but we hoped you might remember something. Anything. You two were dancing close to the princess before the bracelet went missing. Any little detail you could recall would help tremendously.”

Help?

She regarded him for a moment, letting the sweet rush of relief sink in. He was treating her as a witness.

Not a suspect
.

Her gaze stuttered to Jean-Marc for a brief second. His face was expressionless, except for his turbulent eyes... He stood like an angry statue guarding the door. Clearly, he had a different agenda than his partner.

“Naturally I’ll try,
Lieutenant
,” she said, gathering her wits.

“Please. Call me Pierre.”

She gestured to the miniscule main room of the apartment, which suddenly seemed even more dwarfed, filled to bursting by these two giant men. “Won’t you sit down...both of you? Something to drink? Coffee? Iced tea? Beer?”

Ignoring her offer, Jean-Marc folded his arms across his chest and studied the apartment, such as it was. The Latin Quarter had been built in the Middle Ages, and the size of the apartments hadn’t grown since. Her entire space was maybe two-hundred square feet, on a really hot day.

“
Merci, non
,” Pierre said, but he sat down on the sofa.

Nervously, Ciara took a seat in the mismatched easy chair. Both pieces of furniture were old, probably Victorian, and not really her style. But they’d come with the apartment, along with the two bedroom pieces. Someday she’d buy furniture of her own, but this surprise visit reminded her vividly of why she hadn’t, yet.

“I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said as calmly as she could under the circumstances. “I wasn’t really paying attention to anything except—” She darted a glance at Jean-Marc, and felt her face go hot.

Thank goodness he was still ignoring her, now perusing the collection of books on her one shelf and the few paintings on her walls—mostly interpretive copies of well-known artists, done by Sofie.

Pierre gave her a grin. “I understand.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a manila envelope, from which he extracted several sheets of glossy paper with rows of photos printed on them. “Perhaps you can look through these, tell me if you recognize anyone.”

She leafed through them, recognizing several people from the club last night. Presumably the photos were taken from a video surveillance camera at the entrance.

“Tell me what you remember about them,” he urged. “One at a time.”

One thing Valois had taught her well, always stick to the truth as far as you can. Cops were real sticklers for detail. If you lied unnecessarily about something small, they’d be all over it like sharks on blood, circling in for the kill.

So she told the truth about everyone and everything, including about her and Jean-Marc. With the one small omission—that she was the thief they were looking for. It took her over half an hour to go through everything, making sure to occasionally stumble over her French. Her flawless language skills were a big part of her usual disguises; a vital fact to keep from the police.

As she spoke, Pierre wrote in a pocket notebook and Jean-Marc continued to prowl wordlessly around, examining everything in sight. At one point she heard him open the door to her bedroom, which was behind her, and go in. Her pulse skittered. What was he doing in there? Would he find anything? No. She was always careful to put things away.

As she told Pierre the part about her and Jean-Marc having sex, she didn’t dare look up from her hands. She could feel her lover’s eyes bore into the back of her neck from inside her bedroom. Pierre just nodded and took more notes.

Breaking off in embarrassment, she fanned her flaming face with the photo sheets. Paris wasn’t usually this warm, even in the dead of summer. “I’m sorry it’s so hot in here. No air conditioning.”

Suddenly she felt the whisper of fabric against her shoulder. Startled, she realized Jean-Marc had taken off his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of her chair. His scent lingered on it, curling around her like a python, robbing her of what little breath she had. Reminding her of being in his arms.
Of him being inside her.

She shook off the memory. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some iced tea?” she asked Pierre.

“Well, maybe—” But just then his cell phone rang. “
Excusez-moi
,” he said, and answered it, listening for several moments before saying, “
D’accord
,” then hanging up. He stood abruptly and gathered up the photo sheets from her. “My apologies, but I must go.” He glanced at Jean-Marc. “
Commissaire
Lacroix will finish the interview.
Au revoir, mademoiselle
.”

Before she could think to protest, he’d swept out of the apartment, leaving her alone with Jean-Marc.

She jumped to her feet, starting for the rapidly closing door. “You should go with him. There’s really nothing else to—”

Jean-Marc grabbed her arm. “
Arrète
.”

She swallowed a gasp. And peered up at him. His eyes blazed with...anger? Could he really be
angry
about her not calling?

“Listen,” she said, “about last n—”

He cut her off with a swift shake of his head. His fingers dug into the flesh of her arm as he tugged her nearer and grasped her other arm, holding her fast in front of him.

The dark brown leather of his shoulder holster stood out in stark contrast to his crisp white shirt, as did the black stubble on his jaw. His suit trousers, expensive navy blue worsted with subtle pin stripes, covered athletic, muscular thighs. He looked cool and elegant, as he had last night...and incredibly dangerous.

Her heart skipped a beat, then sped out of control. She tugged uselessly at her arms.

“You are afraid?” he asked, his voice low and guttural.

She thought of Sophie, and Etienne, and said, “Yes.” Then she thought of last night, and shook her head. “No.” She gave up trying to hide her confusion. “I don’t know. Should I be?”

His mouth was cruelly beautiful, sculpted and smooth, a sensual slash of cold disapproval. She remembered it sliding over her body last night, insistent, demanding. She shivered. She wanted it on her again.

His eyes dipped to her breasts. “Your body is not afraid. I can see your nipples through your top. They’re hard. Like I am.”

He started to walk her backwards into the bedroom. She tried to resist, really she did. This would be a bigger mistake than last night. One that could not be undone.

He was dangerous. Wrong for her.

But she wanted him even more now than she did then.

He halted in front of her dresser, low with a big, round mirror. From the corner of her eye she could see the bed with the blue Hand of Fatima design Sofie had painted on the wall above it, palm out, like a warning against the folly of what she was about to do with Jean-Marc. Their profiles reflected back in the mirror, him with his merciless grip on her arms, her with a look on her face she’d never seen before—somewhere between terror and breathless anticipation. She attempted to pull away again, but her limbs were strangely powerless.

“Tell me, Ciara,” he demanded. Pulling her closer still.

“Tell you what?” she asked, befuddled and distracted by his legs tangling with hers.

His breath was hot in her ear. “Tell me why you’re afraid of the police. Tell me what you’re doing that’s illegal.”