not still trying to chat up what’s-her-name down there? Nicole?”
Pierre made a pained face as they walked out together. “Guess I can kiss her goodbye, eh?”
“ Désolé, mon ami .”
“Sure you’re sorry. Speaking of which, how did it go last night with your latest female obsession? You were in awful early this morning.”
Jean-Marc ignored the involuntary curl of anger in his gut at the mention of Ciara. “I didn’t speak to her.”
Pierre looked surprised. “But why? I thought you were in love!”
“She’s not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She promised to call me. She didn’t. Besides, I don’t need the distraction. Especially now, taking over this damn case.”
Pierre lifted a palm. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but after we’re done in the archives, you’ll have to call her.”
Jean-Marc halted at the elevator and stabbed the down button. “Oh? And why’s that?”
“Because you took over this case. She was a witness to the robbery last night. We’re in charge now, mon ami , and I don’t intend to lose my job just because your male ego got bruised. She may have seen something. We’re interviewing her, and that’s that.”
Jean-Marc ground his jaw. He really hated it when his partner was right. They couldn’t afford to ignore a single witness. Especially one who’d danced as close to the robbery victim all night as they had done. He may have had eyes only for her, but obviously she didn’t share his blinders.
“I don’t have a phone number,” Jean-Marc said, still looking for a reasonable way out.
“Then we’ll go to her place.”
His stomach tightened at the thought. Could he see her again without doing something monumentally stupid? He sincerely doubted it. But Pierre was correct. She had to be interviewed. Even if it would strain his self-control.
“Okay, fine,” he gritted out. “But you’re asking the questions. If I open my mouth I’m liable to get us both in trouble.”
Chapter 4
Every time there was a knock at her door, panic skimmed up Ciara’s spine. This time was no exception.
Firmly, she pushed the fear into the far corner of her insides where she normally kept it at bay. She’d already taken the diamonds to Valois. There was no reason to panic, regardless of who was knocking.
Nevertheless, she swept a quick glance over her tiny living room, making sure nothing incriminating was lying out in the open. No stolen goods. No bits of elaborate disguises. No maps, floor plans or notes for her next job.
“Who is it?” she called.
“ Police Nationale ,” came a loud male voice.
Panic tore back through her veins, this time for real, riding on a burst of adrenaline. How had they found her ? The police had never been to her apartment before. Never!
What should she do? Fight or flight ?
Neither. Answer the man.
“ Oui ?” she called. The word cracked in half and she had to clear her throat. “What do you want?” she asked in French dosed with a deliberate American accent.
“Open the door madamoiselle , s’il vous plais .”
With a final check around, she took a steadying breath and plastered what she hoped was an innocent expression on her face. Then she opened the apartment door.
And froze. A familiar man in a suit stood there in the cramped hallway, holding up a credentials wallet. It was Jean-Marc’s friend from Club LeCoeur . A holstered gun peeked out from his jacket, tucked under his arm.
“Sorry to disturb you, mademoiselle , but we need to ask you some questions about last night.”
Oh, sweet Jesus .
“We?” she croaked, for some reason homing in on the pronoun he’d used. She fought to get her brain back into working order. Surely, Jean-Marc hadn’t—
Her heart stood still as her lover emerged from behind the central stairwell. Oh, God .
“You remember Lieutenant Rousselot,” Jean-Marc said evenly. “And me, peut être ?” His eyebrow flicked up infinitesimally.
She made herself say, “Of
Pierre made a pained face as they walked out together. “Guess I can kiss her goodbye, eh?”
“ Désolé, mon ami .”
“Sure you’re sorry. Speaking of which, how did it go last night with your latest female obsession? You were in awful early this morning.”
Jean-Marc ignored the involuntary curl of anger in his gut at the mention of Ciara. “I didn’t speak to her.”
Pierre looked surprised. “But why? I thought you were in love!”
“She’s not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She promised to call me. She didn’t. Besides, I don’t need the distraction. Especially now, taking over this damn case.”
Pierre lifted a palm. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but after we’re done in the archives, you’ll have to call her.”
Jean-Marc halted at the elevator and stabbed the down button. “Oh? And why’s that?”
“Because you took over this case. She was a witness to the robbery last night. We’re in charge now, mon ami , and I don’t intend to lose my job just because your male ego got bruised. She may have seen something. We’re interviewing her, and that’s that.”
Jean-Marc ground his jaw. He really hated it when his partner was right. They couldn’t afford to ignore a single witness. Especially one who’d danced as close to the robbery victim all night as they had done. He may have had eyes only for her, but obviously she didn’t share his blinders.
“I don’t have a phone number,” Jean-Marc said, still looking for a reasonable way out.
“Then we’ll go to her place.”
His stomach tightened at the thought. Could he see her again without doing something monumentally stupid? He sincerely doubted it. But Pierre was correct. She had to be interviewed. Even if it would strain his self-control.
“Okay, fine,” he gritted out. “But you’re asking the questions. If I open my mouth I’m liable to get us both in trouble.”
Chapter 4
Every time there was a knock at her door, panic skimmed up Ciara’s spine. This time was no exception.
Firmly, she pushed the fear into the far corner of her insides where she normally kept it at bay. She’d already taken the diamonds to Valois. There was no reason to panic, regardless of who was knocking.
Nevertheless, she swept a quick glance over her tiny living room, making sure nothing incriminating was lying out in the open. No stolen goods. No bits of elaborate disguises. No maps, floor plans or notes for her next job.
“Who is it?” she called.
“ Police Nationale ,” came a loud male voice.
Panic tore back through her veins, this time for real, riding on a burst of adrenaline. How had they found her ? The police had never been to her apartment before. Never!
What should she do? Fight or flight ?
Neither. Answer the man.
“ Oui ?” she called. The word cracked in half and she had to clear her throat. “What do you want?” she asked in French dosed with a deliberate American accent.
“Open the door madamoiselle , s’il vous plais .”
With a final check around, she took a steadying breath and plastered what she hoped was an innocent expression on her face. Then she opened the apartment door.
And froze. A familiar man in a suit stood there in the cramped hallway, holding up a credentials wallet. It was Jean-Marc’s friend from Club LeCoeur . A holstered gun peeked out from his jacket, tucked under his arm.
“Sorry to disturb you, mademoiselle , but we need to ask you some questions about last night.”
Oh, sweet Jesus .
“We?” she croaked, for some reason homing in on the pronoun he’d used. She fought to get her brain back into working order. Surely, Jean-Marc hadn’t—
Her heart stood still as her lover emerged from behind the central stairwell. Oh, God .
“You remember Lieutenant Rousselot,” Jean-Marc said evenly. “And me, peut être ?” His eyebrow flicked up infinitesimally.
She made herself say, “Of
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