The Paris Caper

 

 

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About the Author

6 More books by Nina Bruhns

Copyright info

Praise For THE PARIS CAPER (formerly The French
Detective’s Woman)

"
The characters are complex and compelling. I love that the author can
write great romance and thread it with suspense and action, too. This is a
meaty story and well worth the price!
"

"[A]
sexy hero, bad-girl heroine and plenty of exciting
action.
"

Overview of
THE PARIS CAPER

A rogue French commissaire will do anything to catch
the beautiful international thief he’s fixated upon. When their dangerous game
of cat and mouse grows shockingly intimate, he must make the impossible choice
between honor and duty...and the notorious woman he has unwittingly come to
love.

What people are saying about
THE PARIS CAPER

"
The romance is hot and the twists and turns of the plot are fun and
unexpected. Once you start reading you'll be handcuffed to your kindle until
your done reading.
"

"
I've enjoyed many of Nina Bruhns's novels and this was no exception. I
loved the international flair
—
I've always
been a sucker for cops, but one with a French accent, too? Wow!
"

August

Paris,
France

Ciara Alexander felt
naked without a disguise.

Sliding into the darkness
of the swanky
Club LeCoeur
, her heart pumped fast to the hard beat of
the rock music as she scanned the crowded dance floor. She didn’t know what had
possessed her tonight, coming as herself. Recognition would be disastrous.

But for some reason she’d
felt reckless all day. Anticipatory. She had an irrepressible feeling something
was going to happen tonight. Something big.

Something that would
change her life forever.

Little did she realize
how right she was. Nor just how disastrous things could really turn out.

But at this moment she
felt incredible. Invulnerable.

Not that she was an
adrenaline junkie. That time going in the second story window at Baron
Palchow’s Strasbourg chalet and running into a German shepherd had nearly given
her a heart attack. And the job she’d pulled at Le Mans during the famous race
and there been cops everywhere...that one had shaved a few years off her life,
too.

No, she didn’t enjoy the
feeling of danger roiling in the pit of her stomach, knowing she was about to
risk life and limb and years of freedom. Frankly, anyone who did was a fool.
However, she had no choice. It was time, and the job had to be done.

Joining the dancers on
the floor, Ciara lifted her arms and closed her eyes in pleasure. This she
did
enjoy.

Moving her feet and her
body rhythmically, she felt the driving music clear to her toes. It didn’t
bother her that she had no partner. She’d find someone eventually. Or maybe
she’d dance solo all night. No matter. She could lose herself in the throng and
dance for the sheer love of it.

Aside from which, being
on the dance floor would bring her closer to her target—the jet-setting Dutch
middle princess, here in Paris on her annual million-euro shopping spree.

That was something else
Ciara didn’t get. Shopping. The need to possess all that...stuff. Stuff was
transitory, here today, gone tomorrow. You got attached to it, but anyone could
come along and take it away from you. Who needed the grief? Besides, stuff was
irrelevant if you had a million euros in the bank.

Money
. Now there
was something a person could rely on. Money kept a person safe.

Someday Ciara would be
safe. If she just had patience a little longer.

It was difficult. But
what was she supposed to have done when CoCo had approached her shortly after
Etienne’s death, far wiser, even then, than her tender eleven years, wanting to
escape her seemingly inescapable life of crime? Ciara hadn’t hesitated for a
second. Nor had she with the four other street kids she’d taken under her wing
during the eight years since. So tonight she must swallow her fear and the
niggling guilt, and do what must be done.

Looking around the club
she didn’t see the Dutch princess, but she was there somewhere, or would be
soon. Davie had said so, and Davie always had the inside scoop. Plus, the
evening tabloids had been closely following the young princess’s every move for
the last week, and paparazzi were lined up outside the front doors. The
princess would be at
Club LeCoeur
and stay till the wee hours of the
morning, no doubt about it.

Patience, Ciara, and
all things will come.

The first song blended
into the next, and then the next, as she worked her body to the music. She’d
been in
LeCoeur
before, so the trendy black and silver décor, the pink
marble bar with gleaming crystal glasses hanging in racks over it and a
multitude of bottles lined up behind, the canopy of white fairy lights
twinkling above the dance floor, were all familiar in their posh ostentation.
It was the perfect gilded cage in which to trap her avaricious young pigeon.

The patrons were as
pretentiously showy as the furnishings. With their self-consciously chic and
expensive designer clothes, they were not regular Parisians, but the
countryless jet set habitués of international society. The masses of jewels
heaped around their wrists and necks—diamonds and emeralds and rubies—sparkled
and glittered in the darkness of the club like bright stars in a black sky.

Perfect
.

A tiny bead of
perspiration trickled down Ciara’s neck and as she danced, she reached back to
lift her hair off her nape, momentarily glad for her decision not to wear a wig
in the warm summer night.

Suddenly she noticed a
man watching her, leaning against a pillar at the edge of the dance floor. Tall
and dark-haired, he had broad shoulders enhanced by an elegantly tailored
jacket—Helmut Lang, if she wasn’t mistaken. His smoldering eyes followed her
body’s every move. When their gazes collided, it was all she could do not to
stop in her tracks and stare back at him.

She turned away,
irritated.

This
wasn’t
what
she was here for. A man like that was a one-way ticket to disaster.
Distracting. Hell, downright dangerous. The kind of man who could start a woman
to fantasizing...

But fantasies weren’t
real
. Ciara knew that. Only the job was real.

Two large, strong hands
surprised her, brushing over her hips from behind and holding her lightly. “
Voulez
vous danser avec moi
?” a smoky male voice whispered in her ear.

Making a pretense of
moving to the music, he pulled her back against his torso. It was firm,
muscular. All male.

“No,” she answered,
suddenly tongue-tied, her usually flawless French vanishing into an awkward
patois. “I don’t want to dance with you.”

But for some reason her
feet refused to move away from him.
God, he felt good
.

“You are American?” he
asked softly, not letting her go.

“Yes,” she answered
without thinking.

Instantly, she regretted
telling the truth. She didn’t want this man—or anyone—knowing anything about
her. The truth could be traced.

Still, her nerve-induced
accent had probably made her nationality obvious. A dangerous slip.

“You don’t like dancing
with Frenchmen?” he murmured, sliding his impertinent hands up to her waist.
His fingers gripped her a shade tighter; he pulled her a shade closer. Her
heart pounded a shade harder.

“I like dancing alone,”
she said firmly.

She could smell him.
Musky. Masculine. She fought not to enjoy it, and the feel of his large hands
on her.

He chuckled, the sound
rich and savory in her ear. “In France we think it’s more fun with two people.”

“In America we like to
choose our own partner.”

“So do we,” he said, and
lowered his voice. “I choose you.”

Her stomach zinged. Under
other circumstances she may have considered taking him up on his not-so-subtle
offer. The man was sexy as hell, and it had, after all, been quite a while. But
not tonight. Tonight she had no time for hooking up. No time to indulge her
fantasies. Or her loneliness.

Intent on sending him on
his way, she turned in his arms. And caught her breath.

He wasn’t handsome. Not
even close. His face was a conglomeration of sharp angles and harsh features,
his dark eyes more penetrating and intense than any she’d ever seen. But something
about his look was so compelling a shiver spilled through her entire body.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t
cajole. Just reached up and traced a thumb along her jaw. And murmured, “Dance
with me.”

She licked her lips. As
if that were answer enough he drew her close and put his arms around her,
sliding the fingers of one hand into her hair.

Her will to resist
slipped completely. He felt too good. Solid and built, and...oh, so male. His
voice oozed power and confidence. Not the prissy French of the upper class, but
the coarse accent of the Paris
banlieue
—the rough and tumble melting-pot
‘burbs. A little wild, a little uncivilized.
A little like Etienne
.

It had been a long, long
time since she’d lost Etienne, her first and only love. And ages since she’d
given in to any other man. Her lifestyle since his untimely death hadn’t been
conducive to anything more than a brief affair, so she’d passed up most
opportunities for masculine company. Something so shallow wasn’t worth the
hassle, or the memories, or the heartache of wanting more.

But this man... Lord,
this man was damn tempting.

“Okay,” she found herself
saying, and the corners of his lips curved up. “But just dance.”

He tipped his head in
graceful acquiescence.

She wound her arms around
his neck and let him guide her out into the middle of the throbbing chaos of
the dance floor. She didn’t care that they were the only couple doing it the
old fashioned way, cheek to cheek. The music was loud and his body hot and
hard; the feel of it moving against her nearly drove everything else from her
mind.