The Paris Caper by Nina Bruhns Page A

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 vieux .”
    “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 plait .”
    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
course.”
    Lieutenant