A Magnificent Crime (24 page)

Ethan rubbed his jaw, thinking. “You know what? I think you may have it, Montgomery.”

She beamed.

He leaned forward, toward her. “We need to hammer out some details. You're going to need a lot of practice, and we'll have to get tickets to the gala. And figure out a way to fix you as the winner.” His gears were locking on now, rotating faster.

She nodded. “And one other big thing,” she said, nibbling a fingernail.

“What?”

“We're going to need a really good fake Hope Diamond.”

After our train pulled into Gare de Lyon in Paris, Ethan headed back to his hotel and I went to mine. Although it was mildly inconvenient to be staying in separate hotels, I was somewhat thankful. The lines were getting blurred enough, and things were confusing enough, thank you very much, without adding hotel coziness to the mix.

Plus, I was exhausted. I had visions of a hot shower and a long sleep.

But when I returned to my hotel, there was a surprise waiting for me. I walked into the lobby, and sitting there in an armchair, reading a newspaper, with a small carry-on suitcase, was Jack.

I blinked and halted in my steps. “Jack! Oh my God, you're here. What are you doing here?”

In the back of my mind, there hovered a very relieved woman who was counting her lucky stars that Ethan was not staying in this hotel. We could have easily been strolling into this lobby together. And that would have been difficult to explain.

I dropped my bag and rushed over to him. But as I did so, I noticed his face looked somewhat less than pleased.

“Oh, have you been here . . . a long time?” I asked hesitantly when I reached him.

I wanted to embrace him. Standing this close, I suddenly craved the feeling of his body. He looked amazing. Black T-shirt and jeans, hair a little rumpled from the flight maybe, and a bit of scruffiness . . . but he didn't seem in quite the right mood to be touched.

“If you consider six hours a long time,” he replied, looking up at me.

Ah.

He put his newspaper down with a snap. “Where the hell were you, Cat? Nobody here knew where you'd gone, and you weren't answering your cell.”

I sat down in the armchair beside him. “Jack, you know I can't always tell you where I'm going or what I'm doing.”

He stared at me, tightening and releasing his jaw. He knew I was right. It didn't make it any easier, though.

I put a hand on his leg; I could feel the muscles underneath his jeans. “Why don't we go upstairs? We can keep talking there, if you like. And order room service maybe?”

With a whole lot of silent treatment, we took the elevator up to my suite. He carried both bags.

I had a ton of questions. I wanted to know how long he could stay in Paris, what had changed his mind about coming, how the flight had been . . . everything. But his body language was about as open as a bank on Sunday, and he clearly had a bunch of pent-up annoyance from waiting in a hotel lobby all day, wondering if I was dead in a ditch somewhere. So I left him stewing in front of the TV, watching tennis, while I ordered some food to be brought up.

“I'm just going to hop in the shower,” I called from the bedroom. No response. I padded into the marble bathroom.

The hot water felt like a miracle. It washed off all the remaining stress and exhaustion of my day. What a crazy day that had been. Images of our narrow escape flashed through my head as the steam surrounded me.

Then the bathroom door flung open. I jumped, and the shampoo bottle went flying.

“It's just . . . I
worry
about you,” Jack said in a sudden outburst, striding into the bathroom. “I know you have to keep the details to yourself.
I know,
okay? But at the same time, I just need to know you're safe.”

Jack pulled the steamy shower door open, practically ripping it off the hinges. He had more to say.

He stood in the bathroom, in front of the open shower door, his face full of anger and passion. “I've spent the past six hours imagining all kinds of horrendous things happening to you. You could have been injured, trapped, dead somewhere. I can't stand it. I just . . . I want to protect you at all times.”

“Um—”

“I know it's not an answerable problem,” he continued, barreling on. “Lord knows, I am well aware of that.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. My initial shock had passed now, and my face softened as I watched him struggle for words, and struggle with his emotions. “But . . .”

He trailed off here, and then his eyes focused on me in a different way. And suddenly he was climbing into the shower with me, clothes and all, and reaching for my face to kiss me with desperate, hungry kisses. His hands were all over me, and then I was tearing at his soaking clothes, and the hot water just kept running over our bare skin.

I think a while later room service knocked on the door, but food was the very last thing on either of our minds.

 

The next morning, I woke up with a smile, Jack sleeping peacefully beside me between the cool sheets of the giant hotel bed.

I stretched and luxuriated there for a minute, and then I remembered. I had important things that had to get done today. Ethan and I had put together a detailed plan of action yesterday. He was going to be working on securing blueprints and schematics, and I had my own mission.

I climbed out of bed to get started, tiptoeing quietly away. Jack could keep sleeping; there was no need to wake him.

I opened my laptop to confirm a couple of things with Gladys and began getting dressed at the same time. I had a lot of work to do. When I was partway through an e-mail with her, Jack walked out of the bedroom. He looked unbelievably sexy in the hotel robe, rubbing the remnants of sleepiness off of his face.

“How is it possible that you look so awake . . . and you haven't even had coffee yet?” he said, voice gravelly from sleep.

“Ah, but that's where you're wrong.” I rolled the desk chair out of his line of view, revealing the tray of breakfast pastries and fruit and hot coffee that I'd had brought up. “Ta-da.”

He beamed and reached for the food.

While he ate, I finished composing my e-mail to Gladys and sent it. And then I sat back, frowning slightly. Today was going to require some fancy footwork.

Getting me listed as the contest winner was easy enough. Gladys was already on it. And of course, we could get our names on the gala guest list the same way, but there was a problem with doing it like that. I knew that when we turned up in front of the security guards, we would need to produce the actual printed invitations.

So Gladys had hacked into Louvre e-mail and had learned that the gala invitations were being taken to the museum today. The events coordinator's assistant was picking them up at the print shop and was due to arrive at the Louvre later this morning. Somehow, I needed to liberate three. One for me, one for Ethan, and one for Brooke.

I didn't actually know yet if Brooke would be willing to come along as an extra pair of eyes, but I hoped I could convince her. And bribe her with a ticket.

So today my plan was to go and wait outside the Louvre, by the Porte des Lions entrance, for the assistant to arrive with the invitations.

But there was a problem. I chewed my lip and turned slightly to look sideways at Jack, who was contentedly biting into a croissant and flipping the pages of
Le Monde.

“Jack, you know, you still haven't explained why you decided to come to Paris, after all,” I said with a light tone.

He looked up from the paper. “Well, the idea of us being in Paris together was just too good to resist,” he said. Then he grinned. “Besides, I know how Frenchmen are. I couldn't leave you to fend them off alone.”

I laughed, but I couldn't help wondering, did he really mean Frenchmen? Or Ethan?

And then I studied him carefully. I knew he was involved in an investigation with the Interpol agent Hendrickx. Was that the real reason for his arrival in Paris? But the FBI had no official jurisdiction here. So what was he doing?

Problem was, I really needed to get to the Louvre and intercept those gala invitations. But Jack had flown all the way over here. I couldn't just abandon him. After everything that had happened lately, I had to do some damage control on my relationship.

But maybe I could do both.

And then I got an idea.
Bicycles.
Paris has little stations for renting bikes all over the city. We could borrow bicycles—nice and romantic—and go to the Tuileries together. It was a nice day, so we could lounge in the gardens . . . and then casually make our way over to the part of the Tuileries adjacent to the Louvre. I could stake out the Porte des Lions entrance and canoodle with Jack at the same time.

I proposed the plan and had to feign extreme enthusiasm to get Jack on board. He was all for spending the day in bed together with coffee and croissants as our sole nourishment.

Eventually, he agreed.

 

An hour later we were lounging in the lush greenery of the Tuileries Garden. I had positioned myself so I had a clear view of the Porte des Lions doorway—a grand arched door flanked by two green-copper lions. This was not the public entrance under the pyramid; it was the entrance used by staff and VIPs, among others.

The plan: I'd knock her down with my bicycle. I wasn't going to hurt her, of course, but I did expect the box to go flying. Then I could help her pick it up and would palm three invitations in the process.

I knew the box would be only loosely closed—one of the instructions in the e-mail was for her to check the invitations before leaving the shop, to make sure they were printed properly.

It was an overcast day, typical for spring in Paris. A fresh breeze moved gray clouds across the sky. It wasn't raining yet, but that probably wasn't far off. The air carried a metallic scent, the ozone smell of sparks that heralded rain.

The threatening weather didn't seem to discourage tourists. I glanced over my shoulder and watched people trundling toward the Louvre's main entrance, heading in and out of the museum like honeybees in a hive.

Mostly, I kept my gaze fastened on the Porte des Lions door. And so far, I hadn't seen anyone who matched the description of the assistant. But that was okay. I just had to be patient—

“Cat, are you listening to me?” Jack said, his voice slicing into my thoughts. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, of course,” I said with a smile. “I just . . . I just got distracted by the traffic over there. . . .”

He nodded but looked somewhat skeptical.

“French drivers are insane, aren't they?” I said halfheartedly, with a short laugh. I had to work harder at paying attention to the conversation with Jack. But I couldn't ignore the entrance.

I asked him about his flight overseas, how long he had managed to get off for vacation, that sort of thing. All the while keeping half an eye on my objective.

Then he stopped talking again. “Cat, why are we here, really?” he asked abruptly.

I didn't like the sound of that. “What do you mean?” I kept my tone breezy.

“Well, is it really a coincidence that we're here, right across from the Louvre? I mean, maybe you've forgotten I work for the FBI.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out rather brittle. “Oh, Jack, you're so suspicious. I guess that's part of the job, huh?” I was sure he noticed I didn't deny his accusation. “Anyway, tell me more about what you were just saying. You had an idea for what we should do tonight? A boat cruise on the Seine?”

One eyebrow rose as he looked at me sideways. “Cat. That's not what I was saying. Now I know you weren't listening.”

Crap.

And I was about to lob another recovery when I saw somebody who looked a lot like the assistant emerge from the gardens and start walking in the direction of the Porte des Lions.
Damn.
This needed my full attention. I flicked my eyes back to Jack. He had leaned back against a low stone wall, sipping his water bottle.

“It's fine, Cat,” he said. “Do whatever you need to do. I'll be sitting right here whenever you're ready.”

I couldn't tell if he was pissed or amused. Or a little of column A, a little of column B.

The girl got closer. She was definitely headed toward the lions. Now I could see her better, and she looked exactly like the photograph: flame-red hair, tortoiseshell glasses, round, sweet face. And she carried a box.

I had to make my move. “I'll be right back, Jack. I, um—” But I didn't have any time to offer an explanation.

I hopped on my bike and headed down a gravel path, straight for the girl. To make it appear like an accident, I looked down at my phone, pretending to be distracted.

“Watch where you're going!” came the shriek in French as I veered away from her at the last second.

My reflexes were much faster than hers, but she made an attempt at lunging out of the way of my bicycle. Which sent her flying and tripping and sprawling on the pathway.

The box also went flying, as predicted. But, distinctly not as predicted, it rolled on the ground intact. The top remained tightly sealed with packing tape.

Damn.
I picked up the box and for a brief second considered running away with the whole thing. But that wasn't going to work. Stealing the invitations would raise an alarm. Then they'd be vigilant with the guest list, and getting into the gala would become a big hassle. No, I really needed to get three invitations out of the box in a subtle manner.

At that moment, I heard Jack's voice.

“Oh, madam, that was a nasty fall. . . .”

I turned around. Jack had arrived at the girl's side.

“Stay sitting, please,” he was saying. “I'm a doctor. I need to check you for head injuries.” He was speaking in English. In spite of the language, the girl seemed to understand.

She made an attempt at standing, uttering an embarrassed “
Non, non
. . .”

But Jack placed a hand on her shoulder and gazed gently into her eyes. His face was full of concern. I recognized the look he was giving her. It was one that had frequently turned my own knees to jelly.

I knew how French people felt about Americans. They weren't exactly fans. But an American doctor who looked exactly like a professional athlete would, perhaps, be an exception.

The woman nodded. “
D'accord . . . ,
” she said faintly.