The Paris Caper Page 15

  She walked home deep in thought. And came to a decision.

  At their inevitable confrontation tonight, she’d bring it up with Jean-Marc. See what he had to say. Ask if he could help her deal with Beck. Help her find a better solution.

  It was with a much lighter step that she skipped up the steps from the métro and walked the few blocks to her apartment.

  He would help her. She knew he would.

  As she approached her building, she spotted a police car parked at the curb; a lone figure sat behind the wheel. Her heart leapt. She ran the last few steps and thrust her head down to the open window.

  “Jean-Marc! I’m so glad you’re here. I need to—” He turned toward her and her words choked off with a gasp.

  The man was not Jean-Marc.

  Chapter 15

  “There’s a call for you, Commissaire.” The bored voice of the dispatcher crackled across the police radio in Jean-Marc’s Saab. “A woman. She sounds a bit hysterical if you ask me.”

  Irritated, Jean-Marc stretched his back, wincing at the sharp bite of muscles popping. Hell. Whatever this was, he did not want to deal with it right now. It had been a long, frustrating day and it didn’t appear to be ending anytime soon. “Isn’t there anyone else who can take it?” he asked. “What about Pierre?”

  “She asked for you by name, sir.”

  He sighed in resignation. “Fine. Patch it through.”

  “Jean-Marc? Are you there?”

  He ground his jaw at the sound of Ciara’s voice. But his initial anger was stalled by the fact that something was obviously wrong. She did sound hysterical.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded. And immediately regretted it. Her welfare was of no concern to him. Especially after what she’d put him through today.

  “You’ve got to get over here! Please, Jean-Marc, right now!”

  And yet, he couldn’t help himself. “Where are you? What’s going on, Ciara?”

  “He’s after me. I’m afraid—” There was a loud pounding in the background, and a man yelling. “I’m hiding in my landlady’s apartment. He’s trying to break down the door!”

  Jean-Marc was already turning the Saab in the direction of her apartment. Not exactly the way he’d envisioned picking up her trail again after she’d ditched him that morning. “Is it the guy who beat you up?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Hurry!” Then the line went dead.

  Putain. He grabbed a portable cherry and reached up through the window, smacking it onto his car roof at the same time he hit the siren. With the crazy Paris rush hour traffic it would take forever to get to her place. He hailed the dispatcher again and yelled at her to divert any nearby police units to rue Germain Pilan. Hopefully someone would get there in time to catch the bastard before he did any harm.

  Fifteen harrowing, stress-filled minutes later Jean-Marc roared up to her building. Three police cars were already pulled up front, yellow and blue lights flashing off the smooth sand-colored stone. He sprinted out, seeking Ciara’s blond hair among the knot of policemen. He finally spotted her standing to one side, ramrod straight, lips pressed together and arms tightly banded across her midriff.

  “Let me through,” he commanded, pushing his way past the curious neighbors and passersby. He flashed his carte at the officers. “Did you get him?” he asked without taking his sights off Ciara.

  At his voice, her head jerked around. Relief flew across her face for a brief second, then her eyes filled with uncertainty. She didn’t move.

  “No one to get,” one of the cops replied in answer to his question. “Whoever it was, he was gone before the first car arrived. The old lady—” he pointed at the plump landlady with salt and pepper hair who was talking a mile a minute, gesturing animatedly to another officer “—she doesn’t know who it was. The young one—” he pointed to Ciara “—isn’t talking. Says she’ll only speak to you.”

  For a moment Jean-Marc let the war rage freely within him. He wanted to shake her and shout at her at the top of his lungs, he wanted to slap her in handcuffs and throw her in jail for a hundred years. He wanted to murder the man who was doing this to her.

  He wanted to take her home and fuck her.

  He never wanted to see her again.

  “All right,” he said to the first cop. “You guys write it up and do your thing.” He bobbed his head at Ciara— “I’ll take her statement and—”

  “But she’s our witness,” a third officer, a swarthy, plug-shaped man, protested.

  “She’s not much of a witness if she’s not talking,” Jean-Marc shot back, not in the mood for interdepartmental bickering. “I’ll forward her statement to you.” He handed the first cop a business card and took one of his. “Get in the car,” he ordered Ciara.

  She obeyed without saying a word, keeping her eyes to the sidewalk. The swarthy officer made a move to follow, then halted with fists clenched when the other man put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  Jean-Marc pulled the Saab out with a squeal of tires and blasted his siren to stop traffic so he could get away from there.

  She winced, but still didn’t say anything. Not until a good five minutes later when they were stuck in the choke of rush hour traffic on boulevard de Clichy and he did nothing to extract them from it. He had no idea where to take her, so he was just driving, letting the flow of traffic carry them along as he tried to compose himself and quell the voices in his head.

  “You’re angry with me,” she murmured.

  He glared at her but didn’t reply. Angry didn’t come close.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she murmured.

  He bit his tongue. How many years would he get for strangling her? Hell, a judge would probably go easy on him. Catching le Revenant had to count for something. Did the courts do dead or alive any more?

  “Thank you for coming for me,” she murmured.

  Coming for her...

  Fuck.

  He knew that wasn’t remotely what she meant, but already he could feel his traitorous cock lengthen and harden. His capricious member could care less that she was a notorious felon wanted by every law enforcement agency in France. It still wanted to ram itself into her wet heat and take its pleasure between her silken thighs. Come for her. Fuck.

  He swallowed, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

  “Thank God the other cops got there quickly,” she said. “I don’t know what he might have done—”

  Jean-Marc made a concerted effort to focus. “I want his name,” he interrupted. His voice came out as a harsh, low growl.

  She blanched. He watched her pretty lips part a fraction, then close again.

  The same lips he’d laved with his. Lips that had kissed him back with such ardor. Lips that had glided slowly up his cock and taken him between them, and—

  “Beck,” she said reluctantly. “Louis Beck.”

  He shifted in his seat in frustration. Scowled. “What does he want?” he gritted out. Praying it wasn’t her. Because then he really would have to strangle them both.

  “He wants money.”

  That finally pried his attention off his dick. He turned to her. “Explain.”

  She fiddled with her purse strap for a moment, as though deciding what or how much to tell him.

  “Damn it, Ciara. Tell me everything right now or I swear I’ll tie you to a stake and let him—”

  “Jesus, Jean-Marc. Don’t even joke about that.”

  “Who’s joking?”

  His expression must have convinced her just how close to the edge he was. “All right,” she said. “All right. He wants Sofie. He didn’t appreciate it when I took her off the streets.”

  “Where does the money come in?”

  “He’s threatened to tell her father where she lives if she doesn’t spread her legs for him. Either that, or pay him an outrageous blackmail. Fifteen thousand. The first is not an option. And the second...” Her words trailed off.

  “Have you reported this to the cops?” was his
first reaction.

  Again she hesitated.

  He hit the steering wheel with his fist and swerved the Saab out of traffic and to the curb. “Fuck it, Ciara! You’re the one who called me. Spill it—all of it—or get out!”

  His anger echoed through the small confines of the vehicle and she seemed to sink deeper into the leather of her seat, looking unhappily down at her fingers.

  “I can’t,” she said quietly. “He is a cop.”

  ♥♥♥

  Outside the car, horns blared, delivery vans rumbled, pedestrians clattered along the sidewalks speaking loudly to each other to be heard above the din of traffic. Inside, the silence was absolute. At least for the handful of seconds it took for Jean-Marc to respond to Ciara’s obviously unexpected confession.

  She flinched when his snort of disbelief finally came. “You’re telling me a cop beat you up? That a cop is blackmailing a sixteen year-old girl for sex or money?”

  She should have known he wouldn’t believe her. Hell, who could blame him? It wasn’t like she had the highest credibility on the planet. Especially with him. Still, he might at least listen to her story.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  He stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly in blatant skepticism.

  He really didn’t believe her.

  How would he react if she told him Beck had been there, pretending to be one of the responding officers, and had even spoken to him? He’d probably turn the car around and confront him. And believe Beck’s lies when the bastard claimed complete innocence. And if she thought Beck was angry now, that would really set him off. But not until later, when Jean-Marc couldn’t help her. Or Sofie.

  Lord, how could she ever have thought Jean-Marc would help her expose a fellow cop’s corruption? Cops were cops, and they stuck together. She must be completely delusional. With a sigh, she reached for the car door handle.

  “Don’t,” he said, the single barked word making her jump. She jerked her hand back.

  He studied her cheeks, his gaze penetrating below the layer of makeup that covered her bruises. His hand snaked over and lightly drew the hem of her skirt up over her knees. His fingers hovered above the scabs there. Her body shivered, knowing his touch wasn’t sexual but wishing to God it were. She squeezed her eyes shut. Insanity.

  “What préfecture is he in?” he asked.

  Damn, she regretted calling him. Why hadn’t she listened to Hugo and Valois? No good would come of pulling Jean-Marc into this. He’d admitted he hated her for what she did, for who she was. God...maybe he’d even join up with Beck, in order to force her to turn herself in! He knew how she felt about Sofie, and could easily use that knowledge against her.

  Because of her misguided feelings for this man, she’d left herself totally vulnerable to him, in nearly every way.

  “Maybe,” she said uneasily, “it would be better if you don’t get involved. We can deal with Beck ourselves.”

  “How?” His gaze bored through her misgivings. “How are you going to deal with Beck, Ciara?” His voice was eerily soft.

  She licked her lips. She could practically hear the possibilities running through his head. Would le Revenant steal even more so she could pay Beck off? Or maybe she’d sacrifice Sofie...? Perhaps sacrifice herself?

  Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

  Hell, she was damned no matter what, and she knew it.

  “I’ll find a way,” she said, and reached for the door again. “I shouldn’t have called you. I’m sorry.”

  His firm grip halted her escape. “Ciara.”

  She looked up at him. For the first time that day truly looked at him. The fury was still there in his eyes, but it was tempered by something else. Something that gazed back at her with frustration and...longing?

  Could she be wrong about him?

  “Where did you go this morning?” he asked coldly. Smacking her right out of that nice little fantasy world.

  She lifted her chin. “I had errands. I didn’t want company.”

  “What kind of errands? Where?”

  She didn’t think so. Her chin went up even more. “Am I under arrest?”

  He didn’t answer. His face didn’t move a muscle.

  “In that case, I’ll be going,” she said, but then added, “Thank you for the rescue, Jean-Marc. I know...” She shook her head and this time succeeded in opening the door. She unclipped her seat belt.

  He took it from her and clipped it back in, reaching over her to slam the door shut. “I’m driving you home.”

  Despite her misgivings, she didn’t argue. She recognized his tone of voice. It was the one that didn’t brook any compromise.

  Against her will, her nipples spiraled, her body turned on by his almost casual air of power and authority. She looked away from him, mortified by her unbidden reaction.

  Neither of them spoke during the stop-and-go return trip to her apartment. The other police had left by the time he pulled up to the curb in front of her door. She hurried out of the car as fast as she could. So she wouldn’t make a fool of herself. Maybe invite him up.

  The passenger window glided down and he called after her, “Ciara.” She stopped and looked over her shoulder, heart beating fast. “Don’t think,” he said, “that this changes anything. I’m going to be all over you like a bad smell. Eventually I’ll catch le Revenant red-handed, and then I’m going to put you in jail. Don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  How could she when he kept reminding her?

  She felt the sudden hot sting of tears behind her eyes, and turned away again. Walked away from him, hurried into the building, and ran up the stairs.

  She knew her time had run out. It was too late to change her fate.

  She’d made her bed. And now she had to lie in it.

  Alone.

  ♥♥♥

  Jean-Marc met with Pierre in the office at 7:00 am the next morning to talk strategy.

  “We’re changing priorities,” he told him. “Now that we know who le Revenant is, our main goal is obtaining good, hard evidence to prove it.”

  Pierre regarded him. To his credit, his face held only concern, not skepticism...or all-out incredulity. “You’re that sure it’s her?”

  Jean-Marc sighed. “She didn’t deny it, Pierre. Didn’t even try. If I accused you to your face of being this thief, wouldn’t you tell me I’m wrong?”

  Pierre pursed his lips. “Daresay I would.”

  “There are too many connections to her. They can’t all be coincidence.”

  “Okay. So let’s assume it’s her. What do we do? How do we get evidence?”

  “I’ve put a tail on her. Day and night. And I’m going to make myself visible, so she knows I’m watching her. Crank up the pressure. Sooner or later she’ll slip up and give us something to work with.”

  “Like a clue to where she gets her intel, or the fence she’s working with?”

  “Exactly that kind of thing. She’s too smart to let me catch her in the act. But we’re smart enough not to need that for a conviction. I want you to find out everything you can about Ciara Alexander. Friends, family, jobs. Financials, school records. I want to know about every place she’s ever been, every person she’s ever spoken to, every breath she’s ever taken.”

  Pierre raised a brow. “Every lover she’s ever had?”

  An unexpected coil of possessiveness tightened around Jean-Marc’s groin, but he ignored it. “Only if she speaks or breathes when she’s with him.”

  “Marc, are you sure about—”

  “I’m sure,” he bit out savagely. “This one’s not getting away.”

  Not like that other thief who’d made a fool of him. Catching le Revenant would do much to erase the blight on Jean-Marc’s professional reputation the incident five years earlier had left. But if he didn’t get her... Well, a photo of them together had already been splashed all over the tabloids. He may as well retire to the South Pole now, as go through the profe
ssional humiliation her escape would engender for him, both within the ranks of the DCPJ and among journalists seeking a sensational story. That would not happen again.

  Pierre nodded. “I understand how badly you want this.” He paused. “There’s another way we could try, you know,” he said, glancing up. Looking just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

  Jean-Marc stilled. Somehow knowing in his gut he wasn’t going to like what Pierre was about to suggest. Whatever it was.

  “Yes?”

  “Those kids of hers,” Pierre said slowly. “We could get one of them to flip on her.”

  ♥♥♥

  Jean-Marc was still chewing over Pierre’s suggestion an hour later as he climbed the stairs to Ciara’s apartment.

  He’d gaped at his partner after he’d spoken, letting the distasteful idea float disembodied about the office for several seconds before forcing himself to face it head on. Then he’d said just two words before stalking out the door.

  “Do it.”

  It was a totally fucked up plan, even if it was standard police procedure. He knew how Ciara felt about those Orphans, as she liked to call them. They were like her own children. They were her good reason and her bad excuse for doing what she was doing. She loved those kids. And he was a fucking prick for even contemplating deliberately turning one of them against her. She’d take it hard. She’d feel incredibly betrayed.

  Kind of like him.

  Alors, merde. He was a cop, he reminded himself. And she knew the goddamn score. He’d be a fool not to use every bit of ammunition at his disposal to put le Revenant behind bars.

  And he would. Better believe he would.

  He raised his fist and banged on Ciara’s door, adjusting the bag under his left arm. And waited. He knew she was home from the officer doing surveillance. Jean-Marc checked his watch. Late sleeper. He banged again.

  After several minutes, her groggy voice asked, “Qui est là?”

  “C’est moi.”

  He heard a sigh. “Go away.”

  “Let me in, Ciara.”

  “I’m not dressed.”

  “Since when does that matter? I’ve brought coffee.”