The French Detective's Woman by Nina Bruhns Page A

look up, but in the rear view mirror she saw the reflection of his left eye. Unmistakable porcelain blue. Outlined by the familiar sculpted brow, and a frown of concentration.
    Another shower of nerves skittered down Ciara’s spine. What business did Jean-Marc have at the Michaud soiree?
    As if she didn’t know. He’d predicted she’d strike at Club LeCoeur , hadn’t he? Somehow the man had gotten inside her head, knowing her next move almost before she did.
    Okay. Okay. She was not going to panic.
    She considered her options. She didn’t have to do this laydown. There would be other paintings, other pieces of silver and jewelry. She could go to Spain, or Italy, so she wouldn’t have to worry about Jean-Marc and his uncanny insight.
    Except, Sofie was depending on her. Right now. Beck would not wait much longer for his blackmail money—he’d already threatened Sofie again. Ciara must protect her, and keep Beck placated until they could come up with a fail-safe plan to take care of him for good. No, she could not fail today. She must proceed.
    The sun was just dipping below the horizon, painting a rosy pink glow over the rolling fields of green, heavy with ripening vegetables, neat, endless rows bursting with their fat bounty. Even in the stale confines of the police car, the French countryside smelled verdant and ripe. Expectant. Abundant.
    She loved the country. If she ever got her million, this was where she’d live. Far from the ugly urban chaos where she’d grown up, the decaying towns that stretched on and on, one after the other without respite. Instead, she’d be in the clean, nurturing country, within a stone’s throw of the most beautiful city on earth, Paris.
    In just a few minutes, the fields gave way to stately trees, pristine lawns and the long, majestic entrance drive of the Michaud estate. Bypassing the valet, the officer parked the cruiser behind the manor house, next to a jumble of catering vans.
    Ciara looked around, getting her bearings. Where was Ricardo? Davie had managed to get Ricardo hired on at the last minute as a waiter for the sizeable party. She didn’t like giving the Orphans an active role in a laydown, but if the job was risky they usually insisted on one of them playing backup, to stage a diversion in case things went south. She just hoped Ricardo wouldn’t give either of them away if he saw her being escorted into the house by the police.
    The officer held open the service door and accompanied her through the kitchen into the public rooms, apologizing for not taking her in via the grand front entrance.
    “Nowhere to park,” he explained. “And valet service for a police car...” He made a face. “Not a great idea.”
    “Don’t give it a thought,” she said, grateful the whole invitation issue had been neatly skirted. “It’s rather exciting having a police escort. I shall be the talk of the party.”
    The pitying smile he returned assured her that unless she walked in with Brad Pitt on her arm there was no way in hell she’d be the talk of anything, let alone this gathering of the glitzy and glamorous.
    For a split second old insecurities swamped over her. Her stomach squeezed with nausea before she could remind herself that this was exactly the image she’d striven for with her disguise.
    She dared a peek over her shoulder at Jean-Marc, who was still following them, a few paces behind. When he saw her glance, he gave her an absent nod then continued to scan the other guests.
    She wanted to jump for joy that he didn’t recognize her. Or maybe fall to her knees with relief. Her confidence returned with a surge. She was really going to pull this off. If her own lover couldn’t identify her, nobody could.
    Making her way through the crowded grand salon, she thought to rid herself of her unwanted escorts by slipping through a set of double glass doors outside to the sprawling courtyard. Even in the growing darkness, she could see the gardens were spectacular. Flowers