The Paris Caper (19 page)

Frankly, neither did she.

He shook a finger at her.
“You,” he said, stalking past her, “can forget it.” With that, he swept out the
door, slamming it behind him.

She stood perfectly still
for a long time, half expecting him to come crashing back in, grab her, fling
her to the floor and...

Wishful thinking,
obviously. Or mental illness.

Well, at least now she
didn’t have to come up with any more lame excuses. She wouldn’t have to avoid
him. Because next time she saw him he’d probably be putting her in handcuffs.

And unfortunately, it
wouldn’t be for a night of kinky sex.

♥♥♥

As it happened, the next
time Ciara saw Jean-Marc was the very next morning. She was astonished to find
him propping up the building across the street, watching her door. And although
his handcuffs were displayed prominently in their case on the front of his
belt, he didn’t make a move for them when he spotted her coming out.

“What are you doing
here?” she asked, marching across the narrow street to confront him.

“Waiting for you.” His
sharp-angled face was neutral, his fury from last night gone. Or at least
carefully hidden away.

“Why?”

He unpropped himself.
“I’m tailing you.”

“Tailing me.” She
regarded him with a spike of annoyance.

“Everywhere you go, I
go.” He smiled. The serpent was back. “I happen to know your last job didn’t
come off quite as expected. And it’s still your time of month.”

“Ex
cuse
me?”

His teeth gleamed in the
morning sun. “To steal something. Rent due? Bills piling up? Eh?”

His smug, arrogant
attitude made her want to kick him. Good thing she wasn’t a violent person. She
thought about Beck’s threats and clenched her still-tender jaw.
He was a cop
,
she reminded herself. He wouldn’t care about that.

“
Va te faire foutre
,”
she suggested tartly, raising his eyebrow.

She turned on a toe and
stalked off toward boulevard de Clichy, the main tourist area in this
arrondissement. She had things to do, but not with Jean-Marc’s shadow glued to
her ass.

Half an hour later, she
emerged from the maze of souvenir shops, triple-X theaters and sex boutiques
minus one arrogant tail.
Take that
, she thought, sliding on the hat and
pair of sunglasses that she always kept in her oversized handbag. She trotted
down the steps of the entrance to the
métro
. Luckily she’d put on heavy
make-up that morning to disguise her bruised face. Nothing made a woman more
noticeable to others than potential abuse.

Making a quick decision,
she got off at the la Chapelle stop and walked through the tunnel to Gare du
Nord. Around the corner there was a no-questions-asked business that did
mail-forwarding and rented out lockers. There she kept with an envelope of fake
IDs, a wig, extra tools and a small amount of money, again for emergencies.
After extracting a driver’s license with a different name, the tools and a hundred
euro in cash, she used her Swiss account’s debit card to buy a ticket for the
Thalys train going north to Brussels.

As annoying as he was,
Jean-Marc had hit the nail on the head. Rent and tuition were due in a few
days, taking up nearly all of the money the princess’s bracelet had brought in.
Hugo’s new job barely paid for food, let alone make a dent in Beck’s blackmail.
Neither Valois nor Davie had come up with anything more profitable yet. Fencing
few good pieces of jewelry would hopefully stave off Beck for now. She needed a
fast lay-down—outside of Jean-Marc’s jurisdiction.

A favorite with
daytrippers from Belgium and Germany, the high-speed Thalys train to Brussels
was usually liberally sprinkled with ladies toting newly-acquired Hermès
luggage stuffed with expensive designer fashions—jewelry included. Not that
train work wasn’t tricky. Most people kept their real valuables in the overhead
compartment by their seat, only leaving their larger, unwieldy suitcases in the
communal rack by the door. So striking on the train itself was unproductive.
Instead, she’d pick out a couple of promising targets and hang around the taxi
stand to overhear where they were staying in Brussels, then hit one of the
hotel rooms later in the afternoon or evening while the lady went out for a
meal or more shopping.

Unless you had an inside
accomplice, hotel jobs were only slightly easier than the train. Which was why
she almost always avoided them. Hotels had plain clothes security and cameras;
maids and maintenance people were everywhere. It was a real measure of her
desperation that she was taking the risk now. But she had no choice.

Settling into her plush
seat with a good view of the communal luggage rack, Ciara surreptitiously
studied the single women who stowed cases there as they came onboard, looking
for a likely candidate who matched her own size. The pretty boho skirt and
blouse she’d put on this morning were cute, but she’d stand out like a sore
thumb in the rarified atmosphere of the upscale Brussels hotel her potential
mark would no doubt be staying in.

There. A slim blonde
wearing this season’s Donna Karan. Nothing too flashy, but definitely classy.
Ciara watched with satisfaction as the blonde stowed her Louis Vuitton rolling
bag and sashayed down the aisle to the far end of the car where she had a club
seat facing the opposite direction. Perfect.

After waiting until the
blonde had settled in, Ciara nonchalantly went and pulled the suitcase off the
rack, and slipped into the tiny restroom across from it. Moments later she came
out wearing the wig she’d grabbed from her locker, along with a soft lilac silk
suit from Chanel and matching kitten heels that were only a tad loose. From her
fingers dangled a gold handled Ponte Vecchio shopping bag which contained her
own clothes and purse. Sliding the Louis Vuitton back into the luggage rack,
she casually made her way through the connecting door into the next car. Easing
a breath from her backed-up lungs, she took her time strolling through the
other first class cars, scoping out the ladies most likely to have jewelry
worth stealing.

She wasn’t disappointed.
By the time the train pulled into Bruxelles Midi station, she’d picked out four
older, obviously wealthy candidates.

One was met on the
platform by a husband and whisked off. One hurried toward another track and got
on a connecting train. But the other two went straight to the taxi stand. One
of them gave the driver the name of a grand, aristocratic old hotel—which still
used real keys instead of cards with magnetic strips.

Ciara’s choice was made.

After following the
woman’s taxi to the hotel, Ciara perused the brochure rack until she’d
registered, then preceded her into the elevator and got out on the same floor.
Exchanging a friendly nod, she noted the woman’s room number, then as soon as
the door was closed went back to the elevator and returned to the lobby,
carefully checking the locations of the security cameras as she went.

In the lobby she cast
about for a lounge bar with a good view of things, where she could sit and read
the novel she’d picked up on the train and wait for the woman to come down.

She’d just finished a
quick lunch when her mark rushed into the lobby and straight into the arms of a
grey-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman. The woman had changed into a
gorgeous Roberto Cavalli day dress, which probably meant a leisurely luncheon
for the couple, and enough time for Ciara to safely complete her task.

She had one more cup of
coffee just in case the woman had forgotten something, then strode purposefully
back to the elevator and went straight up to the room, keeping her head down
and face averted from the security cameras. She pulled on her gloves. The lock
wasn’t an easy type to pick, but Valois had taught her well. After several pulse-pounding
moments she heard the distinctive
snick
of the cylinders yielding. She
slid into the room and closed the door behind her, heart thundering with nerves
and adrenaline.

Turning on the light, she
went for the suitcases. Nothing but clothes. Lots of them. Expensive. She
quickly checked the dresser drawers. Bingo. Bottom drawer. A small jewelry case
was tucked in back. She grabbed it; emptied it onto the bed. And let out a low
whistle.

Jackpot. The real thing.
Emeralds and opals. Antique mine-cut rubies. Several high quality pieces of
amber in thick gold settings. A magnificent pair of diamond earrings with
matching pendant.

She lifted the pendant.
It was a huge pear-shaped diamond, as were the earrings, in a surprisingly
plain setting. Newish.

Ciara tamped down a
prickle of guilt. Normally, she carefully researched her jobs in advance so she
only took recently acquired pieces. People tended to make a lot bigger fuss
over missing heirlooms than impulse baubles. She could be fairly certain this
woman was insured to the hilt, but...some of her pieces were obviously old. No
doubt treasured possessions.

After a minute of inner
struggle—conscience against necessity—she sorted the jewelry into two piles.
Old and new, according to style. Dumping the pile of old pieces back into the
case, she snapped it shut and surveyed what was left.

A nice set of emeralds in
modern settings, a gorgeous fire opal ring and, thankfully, the diamonds. She
scooped the lot into her handbag, then put the case back into the drawer. With
luck the woman wouldn’t notice anything was missing until the next day. Or the
day after.

Steeling her pulsing
nerves, she slipped out the room and strode from the hotel at a businesslike
clip. Hailing a taxi, she checked her watch. If she hurried, she’d be home well
before
Valois Vieilli
closed for the day.

After which she’d have to
face the wrath of a frustrated
Commissaire
Lacroix. She couldn’t help a
grim smile. He didn’t know her very well if he’d thought following her would
intimidate her, or deter her from what she had to do.

Next time it may prove a
bit more difficult to elude him. But she still had a few tricks up her sleeve.
Meanwhile, he’d likely be waiting for her when she got home, prepared to give
her the third degree.

Whatever. He could ask
all the questions he wanted, and search her from head to toe. But he wouldn’t
find anything.

When the train pulled
back into the Gare du Nord in Paris, she carefully threw her ripped up train
tickets into a trash basket several tracks down from where she’d arrived, and
her thrift store gloves in another. Then she found a phone and called Valois.

“The shop is being
watched,” he warned before she could say anything but hello.

Damn. “Can you meet me?”

“The usual place?”

“How soon can you get
away?”

“Right now.”

She let out a sigh of
relief, and silently blessed Valois’s father and the war for providing him with
the secret tunnel along with a hidden grated entrance several blocks away. He
rarely used it, but it did occasionally come in handy.

She had a feeling it
would be coming in handy more and more as Jean-Marc increased the pressure.

She really had to get out
of this business.

For the millionth time
she went over in her mind how much longer she’d have to maintain her illegal
activities. Hugo was already working and contributing to the household. Next
would be Ricardo, who’d be graduating from cooking school this fall, and CoCo,
who was finishing up her nursing assistant courses in the spring. Between the
three of them, at that point they would be able to take care of all the
Orphans’ expenses, except for Sofie and Davie’s tuition. Which would be a
tremendous burden lifted from Ciara’s shoulders.

If only they could
somehow make Beck go away, she might actually have a shot at a normal life
soon.

After returning her ID,
wig and tools to the locker, she found a restroom, peeled out of the beautiful
lilac Chanel suit and shoes, and put her own outfit back on. Using a tissue,
she wiped the slick gold bag of fingerprints, then folded the suit into it. She
washed her hands at the sink, then walked back to the station. It didn’t take
her long to find what she was looking for.

A young woman about her
own size wearing a threadbare dress sat on a wooden bench next to a battered
suitcase. A small child played with a rag doll at her feet. Ciara went over and
held out the gold bag to her.

“Please,” she said. “I’d
like you to have this.”

The woman looked up
uncomprehendingly. “
Pardon
?”

She answer, but smiled
brilliantly, patted the child on the head and walked away, heading for the
métro
.
Once there, she found a seat, gave herself and her handbag a thorough check,
just to make sure no evidence remained of her day’s work—other than the jewels
nestling at the bottom of the purse.

Valois was waiting for
her on their usual bench by the Pompidou Center. He rose as she approached, and
greeted her with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. She slipped the jewels into
his jacket pocket.

“If we make this quick,”
he said with a grin, “the idiot watching the shop will never know I’m gone.”

 “Sounds good,” she said,
returning his smile. “Well, I guess we’ll have to be careful contacting each
other from now on. For some reason,
Commissaire
Lacroix has gotten it
into his head that I am
le Revenant
.”

Valois’s eyes registered
shock. “He accused you? To your face?”

She nodded, and he gave a
low curse. A flock of pigeons at their feet took wing, flying in a circle
before swooping down on the other side of the square.

“You should probably
deposit my whole cut into the Swiss account this time,” she said. “I don’t want
to be caught with a lot of cash.”