The Paris Caper (31 page)

Nope. He was not going to
like being taken prisoner one bit. Unless of course, when she returned, she
found a way to soothe the sting of his anger....

♥♥♥

The next morning,
everything went off without a hitch.

It was a lovely April
day, warm and sunny after the gray, rainy days that had gone before, so Ciara
decided to wear a sassy little vintage YSL sundress she’d picked up at a flea
market on one of her morning wanderings with Sofie. Classic, yet sexy. Just the
thing to warm Jean-Marc’s arctic gaze. Well, right up until the part where they
locked him up for the day.

She sashayed up to the
Saab, which was parked out front as usual, knocked on the passenger door for
him to unlock it—cops, always so security-minded—and when he did, she got in,
sliding her case onto the floor.

“I’m going to the
airport,” she said with a brilliant smile. “Why don’t you save us both some
time and give me a ride.” She crossed her legs, making sure the dress slipped
way up her thigh.

“Leaving the country?” he
asked, giving her outfit a clinical once-over, ending with the small case by
her feet.

“Marseille,” she said
evenly. “Family reunion. I’ll be back tonight. You could pick me up if you’re
really that worried.” She flashed him her e-ticket, and he took it from her.
“Surely, you aren’t going to follow me all the way to Marseille?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You can
steal as easily there as here.”

Genuine irritation spiked
through her. “You really must not think very highly of me, Jean-Marc.”

“On the contrary. I think
very highly of your skills. Perhaps not of your intelligence at the moment...”

“On second thought, I’ll
take a taxi,” she said stiffly, reaching for the door.”

He grabbed the handle and
slammed it shut. It was becoming a ritual with them.

“Forget it. I’m going
with you.”

“To Marseille?” she
asked, feigning incredulity, then huffed at his steely nod. “Fine. Whatever.”

She ignored him for the
entire drive to the airport. It stung her to the quick that he would so easily
believe she’d reverted to her old life the day after she got out of prison.
That she had learned absolutely nothing. From prison. From him...

She reminded herself that
she’d given him every reason to think that.
Wanted
him to think that.
But unreasonably, illogically, it still hurt. She was not the same woman as
when she’d met him. Couldn’t he see it? Feel it?

“So. How much does he
want this time?” he asked, breaking the prickly silence as he pulled into a
parking spot at the airport reserved for police.

“How much does who want?”

“Beck. For his
blackmail.”

She picked up her case,
fighting butterflies in her stomach. “What makes you think—”

“Cut the crap, Ciara.
You’ve got no other motive to steal now. And don’t even try to tell me you like
it. How much?”

As harshly as the words
were spoken, they were like a sweet salve. Maybe there was a hope he’d
understand...

But no way could she
could tell him. Not yet. Not until the job was done and she’d sent Beck away
forever with twelve million reasons never to return.

“Nothing, Jean-Marc,” she
said. “There’s no blackmail. I’m not going to steal anything. It’s a family
reunion. And by the way, you’re not invited.”

♥♥♥

When the plane arrived in
Marseille, Ciara was collected by one of Madame Felicité’s girls driving a
chartreuse Smart Car the size of a sardine can on wheels. Jean-Marc had
apparently called ahead for a local cop friend to chauffer him around, because
they spotted the white police car behind them almost immediately.

“I wonder what excuse
le
commissaire
will give for spending the entire day at a brothel?” the girl
said with a giggle.

Ciara gave her a wry
smile. “If he doesn’t like it, tell him to go back to Paris. I’ll be on the
flight tonight, as promised.”

It turned out to be
ridiculously easy to lure him upstairs, into the same room they’d shared so
many months before. She simply went up, sat on the bed and waited for him. He
appeared a few minutes later and stood in the doorway looking grim.

“Come in,” she said.

“My rate’s going to be
considerably higher than fifty euro this time,” he said.

“Ah. Too rich for me,
then,” she said, leaning back against the silk and lace pillows. Morbid
curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, “How much more?”

He wandered into the
room, casually examining the contents. The rich fabrics, a bouquet of
wildflowers on the dresser, framed erotic prints on the wall. “More than you’re
willing to pay.” He cocked an elbow on the mantel and crossed his ankles in a
negligent pose. “You must give up your life of crime, forever.”

She smiled. If only he
knew...

“What if I
am
willing,” she ventured, “and I do that, give it all up? Would you actually
believe me? Could you ever truly trust me, Jean-Marc, without following me
around all day, every day, to be sure?”

The muscle in his cheek
twitched. He remained silent.

She sighed, and rose from
the bed, more depressed and hurt than ever. “I didn’t think so.” She turned
from him, but in the door she glanced sadly over her shoulder. “Well, make
yourself at home,
chéri
. I have a reunion to go to.”

With that, she walked
out, closed the door and with a decisive
snick
turned the key, locking
him in.

She let out a sigh. He’d
be mad, but he’d get over it.

No doubt just as easily
as he’d gotten over her.

Pasting a smile to her
face, she pulled the key from the lock and placed it in the hand of the waiting
girl.

A shame she couldn’t do
the same thing with her heart.

♥♥♥

“Ciara?”

Jean-Marc frowned when he
heard the door lock behind her.
What the hell?

“Ciara! Let me out of
here this instant.”

“I am sorry,
monsieur
le commissaire
,” came the reply—
not
Ciara’s-- “I cannot do that just
yet.”

He strode to the door and
rattled it. Hard. “Do you have any idea what the punishment is for kidnapping a
police officer?” he growled, the situation finally penetrating his thick head.
How stupid could he be?

There was an exchange of
hushed voices. Then, “Do not be silly,
commissaire
, you are free to
leave any time you wish. Unfortunately, we seem to have misplaced the key. Just
relax
un petit moment
, while I find the extra one.”

Monumentally
stupid, apparently. When he got his hands on Ciara...

He rammed his fists into
his pockets and had a sudden, erotic vision of what he’d done to Ciara last
time they’d been in this room and she’d angered him. Her bare bottom, the sharp
slap of his hand on her flesh... The blinding pleasure that had followed.

He swallowed heavily. The
woman had deliberately deceived him and trapped him, and all he could think of
was seizing his pound of her delectable flesh any way—and every way—he could.
He was beyond salvage.

“If that door is not open
in fifteen minutes,” he called through gritted teeth, “I
will
break it
down.”

♥♥♥

It took half an hour. But
by that time Jean-Marc knew Ciara was long gone, so it really didn’t matter. He
also knew that not a single soul in Marseille would ever tell him where she’d
gone or what she was doing. This was her turf. Her family knew they were
lovers, but they also knew he’d put her in jail.

Frustrated as hell, he
phoned his friend Cheveau to come pick him back up and return him to the
airport. Despite his friend’s amused smirk, he just rolled his eyes and didn’t
bother explaining.

When he got back to
36 Quai des Orfèvres
, CD Belfort immediately summoned him to
his office.

“What the fuck are you up
to, Lacroix?” he demanded. He slammed a copy of an evening tabloid onto his
desk and whipped it open.

A photo of Jean-Marc
sitting in his Saab graced the center of the page. Ciara was leaning into the
driver’s side window. Kissing him.

Jean-Marc swore under his
breath.
Putain de Merde
. He’d never even seen the damn paparazzi that
morning.

“If I’m not mistaken,
that’s Ciara Alexander you are kissing. The woman convicted as
Le Revenant
.”

“Yes, sir. That is, no,
sir. She was kissing me. A bribe, to leave her alone. I’m doing surveillance on
her,” he explained before he dug a hole so deep he’d never get out.

Belfort’s eyes narrowed.
“Why? She just got out of jail a few weeks ago!”

“Yes,” he said. “And
she’s already back to her old tricks.”

“What are you talking
about?”

“She’s planning a
robbery. A big one.”

“And you know this how?”

He hesitated. “A hunch.”

He winced as Belfort
pounded his fist on his desk. “
Putain
, Lacroix! I am not spending
valuable OCBC funds financing a wild goose chase! What evidence do you have of
this robbery?”

Jean-Marc straightened
his spine. “Nothing concrete yet. But she’s been acting—”

“Acting?
Acting
?”
Belfort exploded. “I heard rumors during the trial, Lacroix,” he ground out.
“Rumors I refused to believe because, given your history, I knew for a fact you
would never again allow yourself to become personally involved with a suspect!”
He slapped at the newspaper so it flew off the desk. “This photo calls me a
fool. Tell me the truth, Lacroix! Are you involved with this woman?”

Myriad emotions flooded
through Jean-Marc as he struggled to come up with an honest answer. “No,” he
finally said. “I’m not.”

Belfort’s jaw clenched,
and he regarded Jean-Marc with a long glower before saying, “I will do you a
favor and
not
start an internal investigation into why
le Revenant
was only charged with one theft instead of dozens, or why she only served
eighteen months instead of eighteen years, or into what, exactly, your
relationship with her was and is. The important point remains, the OCBC caught
and convicted
le Revenant
under your watch.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,
sir,” he added grudgingly.

“Stay
away
from
her, Lacroix. I mean it.”

He jerked to attention.
“But, boss—”

“You have plenty of other
investigations to work on.
Le Revenant
is a closed case, and I want it
to remain that way. Do I make myself clear,
Commissaire
?”

“I’m telling you, boss,
she’s planning—”

“
No more surveillance
!”
Belfort roared. “Get over your obsession with this woman, Lacroix. That’s an
order!”

Jean-Marc clamped his
mouth shut, turned and stormed out.

If only he could, he
thought dourly.

If only he could
.

Jean-Marc had never
disobeyed a direct order from a commanding officer. Before now.

It felt strangely
liberating. In a Kafkaesque sort of way.

But he just couldn’t stay
away from Ciara.

Pierre shook his head
sadly when he showed up at
36 Quai des Orfèvres
each morning for the next two weeks looking more and more frustrated and drawn
from putting in a full day’s work, then sleeping in his car as he kept watch
over her—if you could call reclining the seat amid the litter of file folders
and take-out cartons and staring up through the sun roof all night, wired from
too many espressos, sleep. The times he couldn’t be there himself, he hired two
buddies with different shifts than his to watch for him. He paid them well to
keep their mouths shut.

“You don’t need to be
doing surveillance on her. It’s killing you,” Pierre said from the visitor’s
chair in his office. “Let me get the information from CoCo. All those dinners
are finally paying off. She’s starting to trust me.”

Jean-Marc ground his
palms into his gritty eyes. “Great.” That made him feel so much better.
Especially since he was fairly certain he knew what they were doing
after
dinner. Pierre had gotten painfully chipper in the mornings.

“Last night she let
something slip.”

“Besides her panties, you
mean?”

Pierre vaulted to his
feet. “Hey!”

Jean-Marc held up his
hands, surprised at the vehemence of his partner’s reaction. “Sorry,
mec
.”
Merde
. He’d fallen for the girl. This was getting way more complicated
than either of them had anticipated.

Pierre straightened his
jacket and sat back down. “I don’t feel good about deceiving CoCo,” he said
grumpily.

“Oh. Like I do?”
Jean-Marc sighed. “It’s for her own good,
mon ami
. You don’t want her
involved in anything illegal. Have you tried having her speak to Sofie and
Ciara about pressing charges against Beck instead of paying his blackmail?”

His mouth thinned.
“Subject’s off-limits. She won’t talk about it.”

Big surprise there. “Keep
trying. So, what did she spill?”

“She told me she couldn’t
meet Friday night because they were all going out of town.”

Jean-Marc perked up.
“Where?”

“She wouldn’t say. But
she seemed a bit miffed, so I asked why, and she made a face, and said because
some of them had to take the train like peasants while others got to drive
there in a ritzy Jaguar. Then she realized she’d said too much, and clammed
up.”

Jean-Marc steepled his
fingers and sat back in his office chair which,
d’habitude
, squeaked in
protest. “Hmm. Did she say what they were all doing?”

Pierre shook his head.
“Something about a reunion.”

Jean-Marc’s chair almost
toppled backwards. “A reunion? A
family
reunion?”