The Paris Caper (33 page)

He drilled a hand through
his hair and studied the four closed, presumably locked, doors to the
individual sleeping compartments.

Which one?

A subtle movement drew
his attention to the floor below the doors. There was only one compartment with
a tiny strip of light showing beneath. Suddenly, it went out.

His instincts centered.
His blood surged.

Without giving himself a
chance to think, he stalked forward and rapped. “
Police. Mademoiselle,
ouvrez la porte
!”

A moment later the door
opened, and she stood there in the darkened compartment. Still dressed in her
cloud gray skirt and jacket, she looked impossibly sensual with her
flame-colored hair and scarlet lipstick. Her large eyes were heavily made-up,
rimmed by black kohl in the Arab way, with long thick lashes framing
startlingly turquoise eyes. Turquoise, not green.

He faltered. Suddenly
uncertain.

“
Oui
?” she
whispered in that sweet, breathy princess accent.

He gathered himself and
showed her his
carte
. “
Commissaire
Lacroix of the DCPJ. I would
like to search your compartment, if I may,
mademoiselle
?”

She held his gaze for an
instant, then bowed her head in graceful acquiescence. “If you wish,” she said,
voice still hushed. She stepped aside to let him in.

His body brushed against
hers as he stepped past. He smelled a hint of her intoxicating perfume. Goose
bumps cascaded over his skin.

The compartment was from
another era. Narrow, with plush seats and wood appointments. A tiny bathroom
with a folding door was squeezed into one corner. A pull-down bunk was folded
up and locked above the bench seat, which could also be turned and made into a
bed. All excellent hiding places for something small, like stolen jewels.

“Luggage?” he asked
brusquely. She indicated a silver bag on the red velveteen seat. “Is that it?”
he asked.

She nodded. “I travel
light.”

He emptied the bag. It
contained a bottle of fifteen-year-old cognac and a sheer black teddie. He
fingered the silky barely-there fabric and sent her a look.

She raised a shoulder and
her scarlet lips curved.

His heart pounded. His
cock grew stiff. His rational mind tried to decipher clues. Was she Ciara? Or
was she a stranger?

Returning the things to
the bag, he set it aside and ran his hands over the rest of the seat and
between the cushion and the back.

“Shall I turn on the
overhead light?” she asked.

“Don’t bother.” The moon
shining through the compartment window was plenty for his purposes.

He wasn’t going to find
anything. He already knew that. But it annoyed the hell out of him. Out of
sheer stubbornness, he brought out the porter’s key and unlocked the sleeping
bunk, pulling it open. He ran his hands over the cold, crisp sheets under the
pillow, and between the mattress and back wall. Nothing, of course.

Jetting out a breath, he
straightened and turned to her.

The breath fastened in
his lungs.

She had closed the door.
And unbuttoned her jacket.

Slowly, she pulled it
open. She wasn’t wearing anything under it. Anything at all.

Her bare breasts glowed
creamy white in the dim moonlight; lush, round, just big enough to overflow his
cupped hands, tipped with rose-dusky nipples.

Ciara’s breasts.

Raw desire detonated
through his veins, fed by his anger at her, amplified tenfold by the erotic
game she was playing.

“As long as you’re
searching...
monsieur le commissaire
,” she said, low and sultry, “you
should search everywhere, don’t you think?” The jacket slipped off one pale
shoulder.

He...he was almost
certain...

“What is your name?” he
asked.

“What would you like it
to be?” she whispered.

In an instant he closed
the distance between them. With an unsteady hand, he reached up and touched her
breast. She mewled softly and her nipple spiraled to a tight bud.

He touched the other,
watching her extraordinary turquoise eyes darken. And noticed she was wearing
contact lenses.

The tension of
uncertainty unfurled into the tautness of desire. He took her breasts fully in
his hands, a little roughly, and listened with gratification to her moan of
pleasure. Yes, his own lover’s moan. Unmistakable in its timbre of hushed need.

He bent and took her
nipple in his mouth.
Her
nipple, pert and responsive.
Her
taste,
the flavor of midnight spiced with the musk of her desire for him. He sucked
hard, bringing her to her toes and her hands to reach for him blindly.

He grabbed her wrists and
stopped her, peeled the jacket down her arms and flung it aside. He pinned her
wordlessly against the door, breathing hard, his chest squashing her breasts,
sensing the want build in her body.

His was already beyond
reason.

She reached up to kiss
him. He turned his face from her.

“
Non
,” he said
harshly. “I’m going to fuck you. Not kiss you.”

Her breath sucked in. He
went for her skirt zipper and pulled it down. Then he yanked her skirt over her
hips.

She wore nothing under
that, either. She stood there trembling in a pool of shimmering moonlight,
naked but for her black, thigh-high stockings and high heels, waiting for him
to take her.

He put his face close to
hers, close enough to smell her nervousness, close enough to feel her warm,
staccato breaths on his throat. He took hold of her shoulders. Then slowly,
deliberately, drew his hands down her quaking body, feeling the velvet heat of
her skin, the wild beat of the pulse at her throat, the erotic weight of her
full breasts. His fingers traced the arousingly elegant curve of her waist and
hips, tested the tempting wetness between her thighs. Slipped between swollen
lips and plumbed the depths of her woman’s center.

She whimpered softly, and
tried to move.

“
Non
,” he said,
and splayed his hand again on her shoulder, holding her in place. He shoved one
knee between her legs and spread them wide. And kept touching her.

She moaned, grasping at
his arms for purchase, her breaths now coming in gasps. He didn’t stop until
she came apart. She shuddered and cried out, threw her arms around him and held
on as he relentlessly wrung every last quiver of pleasure from her body.

Then, when she was
boneless and helpless, he took the handcuffs from the case at the back of his
waistband and clipped one end to her wrist.

She looked at it in
shock. “Wh-what’s this?”

“What does it look like?”
he said calmly. “Now, get on the bunk.”

She swallowed. “
Commissaire
?”
she said in a shaky whisper.

“
Do it!
” he
ordered.

She hesitantly obeyed.
Her red high heels fell to the floor as she climbed up onto the narrow bunk.
Ignoring her reluctance, he snapped the free end of her handcuff to the metal
bar holding the bunk to the outer wall.

“There,” he said with
velvet resolve. “You won’t be going anywhere tonight.”

She tugged at her firmly
shackled wrist, then glanced up at him, her expression a telling mix of fearful
apprehension and aroused expectation. “What happens now?”

He slipped off his suit
coat and unbuckled his shoulder holster. “Now, princess, you do exactly as I
say.”

Ciara hadn’t counted on
Jean-Marc being so angry.

She should have known.

She should have cared.
But the truth was, his anger and her longing for him were like flame to oxygen.
Both fueled their passion so a single look, a mere brush of fingers, ignited
the conflagration.

Their bodies were the
battlefield, and the bliss.

She surrendered to him,
as she always did, in the kinetoscopic light of passing scenery, in their
silvery moonlit compartment of forbidden pleasure.

She gave. He took. He
gave. She took.

And in the rough slide of
his skin, the firm touch of his hand, the slick insistence of his tongue, she
found her place in the world.

With him.

At Lyon he rose and
pulled the window shade down tight, plunging their secret hideaway into
complete darkness.

They barely spoke, save
his husky murmured commands and her breathless moans of encouragement. With her
wrist shackled she felt bound, frustrated when she reached for him and her
movement abruptly halted. She wanted to hold him.

“Turn me loose,” she
complained.

“
Non
,” he said,
and shackled her other wrist to the first.

He ravished her. Slowly
and methodically taking his pleasure in her helpless, hopelessly thrilled
flesh.

Hours later, when he had
finished with her, he removed one handcuff and clipped it to his own, binding
them, captor and captive, together. Then he stretched his tall, powerful frame
over her sated and trembling body. And fell asleep.

She lay there in the
darkness as long as she dared, savoring the weight of him as it pressed
rhythmically into her to tune of the clack-clack-clacking of the train’s
ambling forward progress. Loving the musky bouquet of their spent bodies and
earthy lovemaking. Comforted by the steady beat of her lover’s heart and the
soft burr of his breaths.

He would be even angrier
when he awoke.

But it couldn’t be
helped.

When he was deep in
dreamless slumber, she gently eased out from under him, skimmed the floor for
his trousers, and found the key to the handcuffs.

♥♥♥

“It’s actually going to
work!”

Hugo’s excited words
boomed through the apartment. It was the next afternoon and they had all
gathered to discuss how the previous day had gone. The others nodded in
enthusiastic agreement with Hugo. Ricardo slapped Davie a high five, and CoCo
hugged Sofie close.

Ciara smiled broadly, but
held up her hands. “We still have a few critical pieces to put in place,” she
reminded them. “Without those, our plan is as good as useless. Yesterday’s
goals and run-through went well. But next Friday everything must come together
perfectly, or we fail.”

Again they nodded. More
somberly, but no less optimistically. It was only Saturday. They had time.

“We won’t fail,” CoCo
said firmly.

“My copy of the Monet is
almost finished,” Sofie said, her mood brighter than Ciara had seen it in a
long, long time.

CoCo hugged her again.
“And it’s beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“How is the box coming
along, Davie?” Ciara asked.

He grinned. “Looks just
like the real one. The photos I took yesterday of the Faberge Egg to mount
inside it should fool anyone. For a few minutes, anyway.”

Ciara grinned back. A few
minutes was all they needed. “And the Jag?”

“My parents won’t be back
from Rome for two weeks. We’re all set.”

“That’s great.” She
turned to Ricardo. “How did your job interview go?”

His hands swirled in an
enthusiastic Italian gesture. “The manager of the
Casino Palais d’Or
kitchens was very impressed with my culinary experience.” He blew his
fingernails and polished them on his shirt. “
And
my considerable charm,
of course. Hired me for the whole two weeks of the film festival.”

“Excellent!” Ciara said,
feeling a rush of relief. Getting someone inside the casino, with access to
door codes and security badges, had been a concern. She hoped they wouldn’t
need them, but extra escape routes were imperative, just to be safe. “When do
you start?”

“Monday,” he said,
laughing as everyone descended on him with hugs and backslaps.

After a moment Ciara
pulled Hugo aside from the chattering knot. “What more did you learn about Jose
Villalobo and his conflict diamonds?”

Hugo folded his arms and
watched the others with a smile. “Uncle Jacques was able to confirm that
Villalobo has not yet exchanged the diamonds. He says they are only of medium
quality—but unmarked.”

Ciara nodded. “Which
makes them perfect for low-end designer jewelry that won’t attract unwanted
attention. Easy to sell, and high profit.”

“According to Jacques’
sources, the diamonds are in a high-tech safe on his heavily guarded luxury
yacht. Right now it’s moored off Monaco, but he’ll be sailing to Cannes on
Wednesday.”

She nodded thoughtfully.
“Good.”

“Ciara, you’re not
thinking of breaking into Villalobo’s safe, are you?” he asked worriedly. “It
would be suicide.”

“I know. Luckily, there’s
an easier way.”

“How?”

“Valois. I’ll have him
set the exchange in motion for Friday.”

The others were listening
again, and at the outsider’s name they all looked surprised.

“You mean Victor Valois?”
Davie asked. “What does he have to do with this?”

Ciara sat on the arm of
an easy chair. “I approached him a couple of days ago with our plan, and he has
agreed to help us. Valois works with precious gems all the time. And he is
known throughout Europe as a completely reliable fence. Villalobo won’t be
suspicious of his offer to exchange the diamonds for money.”

“But why would he do this
for us?” Davie persisted with a frown.

“He’s my mentor,” she
reminded him. “He taught me everything I know. He likes all of you, and he
hates Beck.”

“You’d think a fence
would be sympathetic to a corrupt cop.”

“Corrupt, maybe. But not
a sadistic animal.”

Her harsh words sliced
through the quiet apartment. After a moment Davie nodded. “
D’accord
.”

“Speaking of which...”
Ricardo ventured.

Ciara bit her bottom lip
at the final item on their agenda. “Right. Beck.”