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.”
Chapter 26
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.”
They all traded somber looks. One by one their expressions turned hard. Sofie went white.
“How do we deal with him?” Ricardo asked.
“I’ll take care of Beck,” Ciara said grimly.
“But the blackmail deadline is Monday.”
“Which is why you can bet he’ll be coming around soon. I’ll talk to him when he makes contact.”
Hugo glanced at Sofie, his expression softening. “I’m not leaving her side until Friday is over.”
“Probably a good idea,” Ciara agreed.
“Are you sure he’ll give us until Friday?” Hugo asked.
“For twelve million, wouldn’t you?”
That was the beauty of the plan. She would promise him five million. Beck was cruel and brutal, but he wasn’t stupid. He would figure out what they were planning, and come up with a way to take it all. And they’d let him. Because a cop who’d stolen twelve million had only two choices: leave the country fast and never return, or go to jail.
“For twelve million,” Hugo said wryly, “most people would probably sell their own grandmother.”
Which was what she was counting on. And when Beck fell for it, his hold on Sofie would be over forever.
Pulling it off would be tricky. Timing was everything. They had to lure Beck to Cannes on Friday. And they had to make sure he knew exactly where and when the exchange would take place. Ciara wanted him to pull his double-cross right afterwards. No way did she want blood diamonds in her possession any longer than absolutely necessary. Jean-Marc would just love catching her with
those
.
Davie went to the fridge and fetched a bottle of champagne. “I think this calls for a celebration.” He popped the cork and grabbed some glasses.
“Make mine a small one,” CoCo called to him. “I’m meeting Pierre tonight.”
Ciara winced inwardly at the reminder of what she’d set in motion with that part of the scheme. Pierre always plied CoCo with good food and drink. Ciara didn’t want to think about what else he plied her with.
Early on, she’d changed her mind and begged CoCo not to see him again. Warned her not to get involved in something that would only hurt her in the end.
CoCo hadn’t listened. “He’s important to our plans,” she had maintained, despite Ciara’s insistence that they didn’t really need Pierre. They could feed misinformation to Jean-Marc a different way. “Besides, Pierre won’t hurt me. He’s a good man.”
Ciara wanted to believe that. But in any case she had no real say in the matter. CoCo was of age, and had made her own decisions since she was in diapers.
“Are you ready for his questions?” Ciara asked with real concern. “Under no circumstances can you tell him what we’re really doing.”
CoCo nodded. “Don’t worry, I’m ready for him. I’ve got the cover story down.”
Pierre was the wild card. Ciara had thought to use him only for the setup, to keep Jean-Marc from getting too close. She had no idea what Pierre would do if CoCo really let her guard down and something important accidentally slipped out. Would he guess their real plan? Would he interfere or stop them? Or would he get greedy? Ciara had made contingency plans either way. But it was still nerve-racking.
“
Alors
,” CoCo said, lifting her champagne. “Here’s to Friday.” They all drank, then she rose from the sofa. “I’d better get ready to meet Pierre.”
Ciara watched her walk from the room with a sudden spurt of uneasiness. CoCo was acting perfectly normal. And yet...
Ciara gave herself a mental shake. No. CoCo was fine. Pierre had not gotten to her. And would not get to her, no matter how much good food and drink he plied her with. Or...anything else, for that matter.