The French Detective's Woman (27 page)

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,
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.”

“They gave me fifty euro to get started. I could pay you,” she threw back.

He chuckled, unoffended. “Fifty? I usually charge more, but I guess I could give you a break, considering your dire need.”

“You’re a riot, Lacroix,” she ground out.

He rolled onto his side and regarded her. He was fully, flagrantly aroused. His brow rose. “Well?”

At some point her belt had come loose and her robe gaped apart. She didn’t bother to pull it closed. She had the sinking feeling she’d already lost this battle. Had lost it the moment she’d seen him outside the prison, lounging there against his Saab like some modern-day French James Dean.

Jesus, how had this happened
again
?

He reached over and tugged her belt all the way off. Her robe fell open and his gaze caressed her body, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She felt ravished by it, by him, and he hadn’t even touched her.

Damn, damn,
damn
.

“What do you want me to do, Ciara?” he asked, his voice rough as sandpaper, husky as a lion’s purr.

She gave up. Gave in.

What the hell. She’d been eighteen months without a man. And Jean-Marc was the only man she wanted to be with. Would probably ever want to be with.

“Let me touch you,” she murmured, reaching for him. “Let me touch you and smell you and taste you. Let me kiss you all over, and make love to you. Then let me do it all again.”

Chapter 22

Jean-Marc met her halfway but Ciara pushed him back onto the floor. “I’m paying,” she said. “I get to do what I like to you.”

A corner of his lip curved up. “Hmm. Sounds a bit backwards. Shouldn’t I be pleasuring you?”

“Oh, you will be,” she assured him, climbing onto his big, muscular body.

She grasped his broad shoulders and stretched her body out on top of him. Putting her nose to the crease of his neck, she breathed deeply of his dusky, male scent, enjoying the rough scratch of his chest hair on her breasts. She wanted to rub herself all over him until the smell of him surrounded her like a blanket. She wanted to lick his body until she drown in the rich, erotic taste of him. She wanted to touch and meld with his flesh until she didn’t know where he stopped and she began. She wanted to kiss him until she forgot the pain and loneliness of the past year-and-a-half, and once again believed in him.

He reached for her and she caught his wrists. “No.” She tucked them above his head. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

A shadow of uncertainty flitted through his eyes. But he obeyed. “There are condoms in my pocket,” he murmured.

“You won’t need them.”

His pupils flared, so she leaned down close to his ear, and whispered, “I’m not going to let you come.”

And she didn’t. Not for an hour or more, until after he’d made her climax at least three or four times. Not until she’d tortured him with her lips and her tongue and the hot passage between her thighs, keeping him on the edge, pleasuring herself by pleasuring him to the brink of explosion, only to stop and start all over again. He groaned. He pleaded. He begged.

She felt immensely satisfied.

And he roared like a beast when she finally allowed him completion.

“
Mon Dieu
,” he swore when he could speak again. “
Bon Dieu de merde
. I think you’ve killed me.”

She rolled onto her back next to him and smiled at the ceiling. She was floating on a sea of delighted gratification. The torture had done the trick. Revenge was sweet; prison had receded to an indistinct blur. She was back to loving him.

She didn’t dare think about tomorrow. Tomorrow was too complicated. But in prison she’d learned to live each day on its own, one day at a time.

Tonight she loved him. And that was enough.

But the next morning...

The next morning, everything changed.

Ciara and Jean-Marc slept in, happily exhausted from their long night of making love. She awoke in his arms, content, optimistic, and dimly aware of a faraway chirping sound. His cell phone.

“Damn Pierre,” he muttered. “I told him I wouldn’t be in today.”

“Probably should get it,” she said with a yawn and a stretch. “Must be important or he wouldn’t call.”

Jean-Marc grunted, sighed, and slid out from under the massive goose down quilt. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Thirty seconds later he walked back into the room, cell phone to his ear and a worried look on his face. “Ricardo, slow down. I don’t underst— Speak French, Ricardo! For chrissake—”

Ciara was already on her feet. She grabbed the phone from him. “Ricardo, it’s me. What’s happened?”

“Sofie!” came the boy’s almost hysterical reply. “
Dios mio
, Ciara. Sofie’s been—It was Beck. He raped her.”

♥♥♥

“Hell of a homecoming,” Davie murmured, and kissed Ciara on the cheeks. “Sorry, darling. We had a big party all planned...”

Ciara gave him a squeeze. “Yes. Jean-Marc told me.”

Ciara, Davie, Ricardo and CoCo were sitting in the waiting room of the
Hôpital la Rochefoucault
while a forensic nurse did a rape kit on Sofie. Jean-Marc had stormed off earlier to question Beck. Hugo was doing his usual pacing back and forth, looking like he would murder the first thing that moved. Thank God Jean-Marc had read him the riot act before leaving, telling him to stay put on pain of death. And Hugo had actually heeded the order, to Ciara’s everlasting wonder.

For herself, she was so angry she prayed she didn’t see Beck anytime soon or she’d do Hugo’s murder for him. “How did this happen?” she asked them, despising what Sofie must be going through.

CoCo shook her head. “She went out for a few last-minute things for the party. We could hear her singing all the way down the stairs. We were all so happy you were coming home today...” She glanced up, and Ciara could see the mild question in her eyes.

“Jean-Marc arranged for me to be released yesterday. To avoid the media,” she explained, feeling incredibly guilty. “If only I’d gone straight to rue Daguerre.”

“How could you know? There was nothing you could have done, anyway.” CoCo gave her a crooked smile. “So you spent the night with the man who put you in jail?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Ciara muttered.
Damn
.

Davie choked. “That is so wrong.”

Hugo halted and glowered at Davie. “The
commissaire
is a good man, and you two know it very well,” he snapped, then resumed his pacing. “Ciara could do a lot worse.”

Ciara’s jaw dropped in astonishment at his supportive outburst. Davie and CoCo looked suddenly uncomfortable. A red flag went up at the speed of light.

“All right,” she demanded, “what are you not telling me?”

Everyone studied their hands.

“Come on you guys. No secrets. I mean it.“

“Lacroix paid the rent while you were gone,” Hugo said almost belligerently, raking the others with a glare.

Momentarily stunned, she regarded at them one by one.

“And our tuition,” Ricardo said when she got to him.

“
Jean-Marc?”
She could scarcely believe it. “
Commissaire
Lacroix
was social services’ mysterious benefactor?” Except...it made perfect sense. He’d promised, hadn’t he? Why should it surprise her that the most honorable man she knew would take his promise seriously? She should have guessed immediately.

“He also kept Beck away,” CoCo said, then glanced toward the room where Sofie was being examined. “At least until now.”

Which explained why he’d been on such a tear when he’d taken off after Beck. Ciara wasn’t sure what she should think of it all. But she didn’t get the chance to decide. The forensic nurse emerged from the exam room and gathered them all together.

“The good news is that Sofie is doing just fine. No lasting physical trauma. Psychologically?” She frowned. “Only time will tell. The bad news is that the man left no evidence behind to nail him with.”

“Nothing?” Ciara asked, dismayed.

“I’m afraid not. No fluids, no fibers, no hairs. Nothing at all.”

Ciara’s heart sank. “So it’s her word against his. There’s no way to convict the bastard.”

“Not unless he confesses. Physically, he was too careful. I’m so sorry.”

Everyone’s mood was subdued as they collected Sofie and took a taxi home. The colorful decorations festooning the Orphans’ apartment seemed grotesquely out of place.

As CoCo and Davie ripped them down, Ciara gave Sofie a long hug.

“I’m sorry I’ve spoiled your homecoming,” Sofie whispered with a hiccough in her voice. “I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’ll go to bed now.”

Feeling helpless, they all watched her go into her room and softly close the door. Ciara wanted to scream and throw things and rage against the injustice.

“We need to get him,” Hugo said savagely. “We need to make him pay.”

Ciara agreed. So did the others.

A knock sounded at the door. “That’ll be Jean-Marc,” Ciara guessed, and went over to answer it.

But it wasn’t Jean-Marc. It was two police officers. And one of them was Beck.

“Good evening,” the first officer said politely. “The hospital informed us someone at this address reported a rape. We’ll need to get the victim’s statement.”

Beck stood behind the first officer, wearing a bland expression, as though his presence here weren’t the most perverse insult Ciara could possibly imagine.

She forced herself not to leap on his filthy carcass and tear his eyes out. That wouldn’t help Sofie. Instead she ground out, “No, I’m afraid it was all a misunderstanding. My friend doesn’t wish to press charges. Sorry to have wasted your time.” She was proud of herself. Her voice barely shook at all.

Beck’s mouth twitched into a smile as the other officer tried to change her mind. “Please reconsider. If she doesn’t report this man, he’ll only do it again,” he argued sensibly. He seemed sincere enough. Obviously he didn’t have a clue.