The Paris Caper Read online

  He slowly let out the painful breath he’d been holding. Sweet relief flooded through him, washing away the last of his uncertainty. She hadn’t gotten rid of it. Dieu merci. He didn’t think he could have forgiven her for that.

  “Viens,” he said, wanting badly to take her in his arms. To take comfort in her arms. “Come home with me now.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “I’m going to the Orphans’.”

  “And spoil the surprise party tomorrow? They’ve been working on it for weeks.”

  Her eyes shot to his, narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  “I promised you I’d take care of them, Ciara. I always keep my promises.”

  That took her by surprise. He’d had kept in regular touch with the kids while Ciara was in prison, even attending Sofie’s graduation, as well as CoCo’s, and Ricardo’s just last month. He’d also kept a close eye on Beck as promised.

  “But...”

  He guided her to the Saab and opened the passenger door. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, mon ange. If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t. I promise.”

  He met her gaze and waited for her to make up her mind whether or not to trust him. With a huff she relented, and at last she slid into his car.

  Kneeling down, he snapped on her seat belt for her. And said, “But if you feel like touching me, chérie, you go right ahead.”

  ♥♥♥

  Ciara was jumpy as a frog who’d made a wrong turn into La Tour d’Argent restaurant.

  “Relax,” Jean-Marc said, taking his jacket and her purse from her and hanging them in the hall closet. “There’s a bottle of wine breathing on the bar. Pour us a glass and I’ll start a fire.”

  Arms clamped tight across her abdomen, she scanned his living room. “Nice digs.”

  Jean-Marc’s apartment occupied half of the penthouse level of one of the few modern apartment buildings in the Opera district. Actually, it was from the thirties, complete with sleek curved windows, ship-like balcony railings and stylized cornices. He owned the whole top floor, but had divided the penthouse into two separate apartments and rented the other to a divorced government official. He’d bought the place years ago, at a time when many Parisians turned up their noses at modern architecture, and had gotten quite a good deal.

  Ciara leveled him an openly suspicious gaze. “I’m surprised a cop can afford this kind of address.”

  “Most can’t,” he said, unperturbed, heading for the fireplace. “Years ago, in my misspent youth, I got lucky in Monaco. Made several good investments with the winnings. This apartment was one of them.”

  Early on, he’d discovered that his uncanny ability at math gave him an unfair advantage in card games. One summer just after applying to the DCPJ he’d decided to test that ability to its fullest at the blackjack tables all along the Riviera. He’d won an obscene amount of money—for back then, anyway—before wisely deciding to decamp back to Paris lest he be thrown out for card-counting and barred from the casinos for life—not to mention losing his chance with the DCPJ. To this day, he wasn’t sure how much his winning had been due to skill or just pure dumb luck.

  But he had not stepped foot in a gambling establishment since. He’d decided that was one addiction no cop needed.

  Ciara was looking at him with an indecipherable expression. “Lucky break,” she said neutrally.

  “Nah. My real lucky break came five years earlier when my math teacher took an interest in me. He yanked me out of that viper pit called my childhood and showed me there was a different way to live life. If it weren’t for his influence, when I discovered those gambling abilities I wouldn’t have stopped. I’d probably be in jail right now. Or some lowlife barfly hustling people like your friends in Marseille out of their ill-gotten gains.”

  She chuckled and wandered over to the bar. “Somehow I doubt that.” She picked up the wine bottle he’d opened earlier and whistled at the label. “You sure you’ve stopped gambling?”

  With a smile, he lifted a shoulder. “Like I said, I made some good investments.”

  She poured a glass of wine and leaned back against the granite edge of the bar, perusing his expensive but minimalist furniture and bare walls. “A decorator wasn’t one of them, I see.”

  “Smart ass.” He pushed a button and flames leapt to life behind the glass doors of the fireplace. “My ex-wife decorated it. When she left she took everything, and I had the whole place painted white. New décor, new life. That was the theory anyway. I never quite got around to following through, though”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Five years.”

  She nodded and poured him a glass of wine as he walked over to her. “You could use some art on your walls. Liven up the joint.” She held out the glass. “I know where you can find a Picasso cheap.”

  He gave her a withering glance as he took it. “Très amusant.” He tapped his glass to hers and the ring of crystal tinkled through the room, clear, pure, sweet. “Welcome home, Ciara.” He bent down and kissed each of her cheeks in the traditional French greeting.

  She stiffened. He was oh, so tempted to kiss her on the lips, too. If only to rile her even more. But he resisted. After all, he’d promised no touching.

  “This isn’t home, Jean-Marc,” she murmured, turning away.

  He just smiled and drank to his toast.

  “Hungry?” he asked. “I stopped at Fauchon for a little something for lunch. Figured you’re probably sick of macaroni and cheese.”

  “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, flic?”

  “I usually get my way,” he said with a modest smile. “Now, would you like to eat before or after your bath?”

  Her glass stopped dead halfway to her mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “Whenever I’ve been to prison,” he said, strolling over to the windows, taking in the incredible view over the rooftops of Paris, “in a professional capacity of course—the first thing I do when I get out is take a nice relaxing bubble bath. Relieves the stress of all that noise and ugliness. I imagine you’d like to wash away your whole experience.” He knew that she hadn’t had anything untoward happen to her in prison—he’d made sure of that with several well-placed bribes. French women’s prison wasn’t exactly Sing-Sing, but it still couldn’t have been pleasant.

  She stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. “You honestly think I’ll take my clothes off in your apartment?”

  Again he shrugged. “Keep them on, then. But I just want to remind you that getting wet jeans off can be murder. Bring your wine,” he said, and walked the length of the living room into the master suite without looking back. She’d follow. It might take a minute or two, but he’d been inside enough times to know she’d probably kill to be able to scrub the prison stench from her skin and hair.

  He went into the master bath and turned on the taps that filled water into the luxurious spa tub like a waterfall. “Vanilla or jasmine?” he called, pausing over a couple of ornate bottles of bath beads he’d picked up yesterday. “I have some of my usual citrus blend left, too.”

  He sensed her in the doorway. “You take bubble baths often, Lacroix?”

  “Comes from having spent much of my childhood fetching water from an apartment down the hall, I guess.” He smiled wryly. “Our landlord wasn’t terribly responsive. Of course, who could blame him when my mother was always a year behind on the rent?”

  She studied him silently for a moment, then said, “Jasmine, please.”

  A tiny curl of victory spun through him. He poured the sweet-smelling beads into the steamy, roiling water. “I’ve set out towels and a robe for you.” He nodded to a tall pile of white fluff on the counter. “Take your time. Lunch will wait.”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip and he nearly weakened. Damn, he wanted to be in that tub with her! But he just smiled and closed the door behind him as he went out.

  After half an hour of putzing around the kitchen getti
ng the lunch things together, he picked up the open wine bottle and headed for the bathroom. On second thought, he set it down, unbuttoned his dress shirt, rolled up the cuffs and pulled the tails from his waistband. Then he grabbed the wine bottle again, knocked on the bathroom door and went in without waiting for an answer.

  Ciara was stretched out in the tub under a mound of bubbles, her head resting on a plastic pillow, her wet hair curled in a tangled halo about her face. Her eyes popped open, startled, when he walked in.

  Before she could react, he breezed over and picked up her wineglass. “Brought you a refill,” he said, pouring. “How’s the water? Still hot enough?” He handed her the glass and dipped his fingers into the bubbles. She gasped. But he was careful not to touch her. “Feels good. But don’t stay in too long or you’ll turn into a prune,” he warned with a smile. “Though, I’ll admit I’ve always been partial to prunes.” He winked. “Especially when they’re soaked in wine.”

  Her eyes widened even further.

  He stood and set the bottle on the sink. “You don’t mind if I change, do you? I thought we’d eat in front of the fire and I don’t want to get carpet lint on my suit.”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  But he’d already peeled off his shirt and was tossing it into a hamper hidden under the sink. Her words cut off when he unbuckled his belt. He unzipped his trousers. From the corner of his eye he saw her take a large gulp of wine.

  Hiding a smile, he opened the door to the large adjoining walk-in closet and went in. There he stripped off the rest of his clothes, set the shoes in their place on the rack and hung the trousers on their hanger. Picking up his discarded things, he walked back into the bathroom. Naked.

  He heard her intake of breath and the splash of water as it sloshed onto the marble floor. “Jean-Marc...” she said in a warning tone.

  “I’ll put your clothes in the wash with mine, eh?” he said, and grabbed her jeans and T-shirt from the floor.

  “That’s not necessary,” she protested, but again too late. The things were already in the washing machine, which was conveniently located in a recessed alcove with folding doors between the bathroom and closet.

  He spun the dial. “Fresh clothes, fresh start,” he said, and leaned casually against the polished stone vanity counter.

  “You’re just full of pithy little sayings, aren’t you?” she muttered, avoiding looking at his body. She sighed. “Why are you doing this, Jean-Marc? Why did you bring me here?”

  He, however, had no such qualms. She’d sat up when he’d walked in, exposing her breasts above the water. Her plump wet flesh was rosy from the heat of the bath, her cheeks flushed from the wine—or maybe it was from the sight of his body?—and trails of soap bubbles trickled down over her lush curves. A blob of white had fastened to one nipple, looking so much like whipped cream he had to physically restrain himself from licking it off.

  He felt his cock rise.

  “Look at me, Ciara,” he ordered softly.

  Grudgingly she did so. Her gaze wavered at his growing erection, then rose to his eyes. “You have to be out of your mind.”

  “Possibly,” he admitted. “But I still want you. You’ve got a clean record now, you’ve paid your debt to society. There’s no reason we can’t be together.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Then it snapped shut and she shook her head. “You really have gone over the deep end.”

  “Surely, you’ve forgiven me by now. I never made it a secret I intended to put you in jail.”

  She gave a humorless laugh. “True. But I have to hand it to you, Lacroix, your method of closing the case was ingenious. Your seduction was singularly effective.”

  He frowned. “You surely can’t mean— If you think I used our relationship to—” He ground his jaw. “For the record, I had nothing to do with your arrest. I didn’t even know about it until minutes beforehand. If it had been me—”

  He cut himself off before he blurted out that he’d have waited to arrest her until they had solid evidence on all her thefts, so she’d have spent a whole lot longer than eighteen months in jail. Unless she’d turned herself in, as he’d implored her. In which case he’d have done everything he could to help her plead out and come back to him as soon as possible.

  “Yes, I know,” she said quietly. “But for the record, I really didn’t steal those rubies. Beck had them stolen and planted in my purse, to frame me. I’m sure of it.”

  He sighed. “I figured that out, too, eventually. The whole thing was just a little too convenient.”

  “Not that it matters,” she said even more softly. “I was guilty of all the rest. I am a thief, Jean-Marc. I am le Revenant. Which is reason enough we can’t be together.”

  His breath caught in his lungs. It was the first time she’d admitted her guilt out loud to him. Admitted who she’d been. But no more.

  “You were le Revenant,” he corrected firmly, pushing off the counter. “But Le Revenant is dead and buried now in a closed case file at the bottom of a locked cabinet in the basement of 36 Quai des Orfèvres. Your slate is clean, Ciara. You can do anything you want with your future.”

  She looked unconvinced, but didn’t say anything as she watched him slip on a pair of black linen drawstring pants.

  “Viens,” he said. “I’m starving, and that water’s got to be stone cold by now. Hop out and let’s have some lunch.”

  He swiped up the wine bottle and wagged a finger at her. “Five minutes, chérie. Then I’m coming back to get you.”

  ♥♥♥

  He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be.

  Clean slate. Right. Who was he kidding? If Commissaire Lacroix took up with her, a convicted felon, the DCPJ would fire his ass so fast it wouldn’t be funny.

  Still, he looked so sincere...

  He probably just wanted to fuck her again.

  Hell. She was tempted to let him.

  Except he’d no doubt end up fucking her over again.

  Ciara didn’t know what it was about the man, but every time she got within five meters of Jean-Marc, her brain seemed to vaporize.

  Every time she told herself, don’t listen to him, don’t let yourself fall for his pretty promises. But every damn time she ended up in the same damn place. Under him with her legs spread.

  Last time she’d believed his promises she’d also ended up in jail.

  So, no. Not this time.

  She’d just spent eighteen months hating Commissaire Lacroix and studiously avoiding him, with damn good reason.

  She thought about him naked.

  Damn good reason.

  And she’d remember what it was any minute now.

  Fuck.

  She glanced down at the long, soft terry cloth robe he’d left for her and pulled the belt tighter. Then walked out of the bathroom to face him.

  She found him sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, his bare chest cast in tones of red and bronze from the glow of the flames. A feast of delicacies was spread out on a low table in front of the sofa. Her mouth watered.

  She told herself it was because of the food.

  “There you are,” he said as she took a spot on the floor next to him.

  He sat up, refilled her wineglass, and they began to eat. She didn’t know what was more orgasmic, the taste of the incredible gourmet morsels he plied her with, or the sight of his virile male body clad only in those semi-transparent linen pants. Everything he possessed was clearly visible, but enhanced by the intriguing play of shadows and firelight through the gauzy black cloth.

  “You look beautiful,” he said when their eating had slowed to nibbling. Breaking into her thoughts about how beautiful he was. “I hate to say prison must have agreed with you, but...”

  She smiled, distressingly pleased by the unexpected compliment. He had lolled back, elbow bent and head resting on his hand, one knee bent up, clearly showing her exactly how beautiful he thought she was.

  Unconsciously, she licked her lips. “I, um...”
She tore her gaze away from the tempting sight. “It did agree with me, actually. As far as it goes. I hadn’t realized how stressed out I was, about the Orphans, money, Beck’s blackmail. Everything. When I was inside and social services told me a benefactor had come forward as a result of the trial, to pay the Orphans’ rent and tuition, that they weren’t going to split them up...it was like a reprieve.”

  “I understand you took some classes. In interpreting?”

  She stared at him. “You checked up on me?”

  “Of course. You’re my lover, Ciara. I never stopped caring about you.”

  A spiral of desire curled through her center, immediately crushed by a slash of hurt. Suddenly she remembered why she’d hated him for eighteen months.

  “Not your only lover, from what I understand,” she said acerbically. “You can’t have cared all that much.”

  “Checked up on me, too, eh?”

  “Not me. But I was in prison, Jean-Marc, not the Antarctic. The rumors—” She shook her head. “Let’s just say my fellow inmates delighted in showing me the tabloids every time you graced the centerfold, I couldn’t help noticing you had a new woman on your arm in every photo. Catching le Revenant made you quite the eligible Paris bachelor, I must say.”

  “I was invited to a lot of functions,” he said evenly. “The boss made me go. It was good publicity for the OCBC. But you weren’t the only one affected by the rumors. I had no choice but to be seen with other women.”

  “Kicking and screaming, I’m sure.”

  “Most of them were paid escorts, chérie.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That makes it so much better.”

  “May I remind you, you wouldn’t even see me? For eighteen months you wouldn’t see me. You were the only woman I wanted, Ciara, but I’d have been a fool to turn into a monk for eighteen months for a woman who didn’t even want me.”

  She snorted derisively. “Eighteen months is a long time for a woman, too, mon cher.”

  She realized her mistake immediately. She slammed her eyes shut. The ensuing silence was thick enough to slice.

  “Well,” he finally said with classic Gallic insouciance, “I could help you out with that now, if you like.”