triangular emblem of the police
nationale rolling to a halt behind the Jag reminded her just a little too
much of those nightmares. She dabbed moisture from her upper lip and smoothed a
hand down her dowdy brown gown.
It was the weekend of the
Michaud’s soiree. The day of her big job.
Davie
had...borrowed...the Jag from his parents’ country estate carriage house.
“They’ll never miss it,” he’d assured her. “They’re in Quebec for a few weeks.”
Davie hadn’t spoken to
his parents in years, but he had lunch with his old nanny once a month, so he
always knew what was happening with them. And on what days he could liberate
the car.
Typical bad luck that a
police patrol was the first thing to drive by after she’d deliberately deflated
the Jag’s back tire. She’d counted on someone else stopping on their way to the
Michaud estate to help out a stranded fellow guest. And give her a ride to the
exclusive end-of-season soiree. Thus solving her tiny problem of not having an
invitation.
If she weren’t about to
have a freaking heart attack, she might have laughed at the cosmic irony. But
at the moment she needed all her energy to maintain her composure and stay in
character.
Chill, Ciara, they’re
not here to arrest you , she told herself. They were just doing what cops
did, helping an old lady in distress.
Tamping down on her
speeding pulse, she watched a uniformed officer emerge from the vehicle and
approach her. For effect, she fanned her forehead with a bit of lace from her
sturdy handbag. Praying her disguise would stand the test.
Of course it would.
Disguises and slipping into different characters were her specialties. Between
Davie’s coaching and her own gift for languages, she could become anyone from
an East End street urchin to an East European countess. Even looking carefully,
no one would ever guess that the aristocratic old lady with a flat tire was
really an American who’d just turned thirty-one. The uppity accent would throw
off the cops once her robbery was reported, if by some miracle the old lady was
remembered.
Yes, the disguise was
perfect. And she could handle these cops, too.
“ Madame, vous avez
besoin d'aide ?” asked the young, blue-clad officer, with a small bow.
Smiling at him, she
daintily lifted the hem of her matronly gown and resisted the urge to scratch
her cheeks. Masquerading as a sixty year-old woman might render her as good as
invisible, but the fake wrinkles could be torture in hot weather.
“Why, thank you officer,”
she answered in flawless upper crust French.
“A flat tire?” he asked,
glancing at the Jag.
“So it seems.” She aimed
for an air of pompous entitlement. “If the officer would give me a ride to the
Michaud estate, I would greatly appreciate it. It is just up the road.”
The man looked
uncomfortable. “Taking passengers in the patrol car is against regulations, madame .
But I would be happy to—”
“Young man,” she interrupted
haughtily, “Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”
The officer sputtered,
but before he could reply, a deep voice came from the passenger side of the
cruiser. “We’re going the same place. Give the lady a fucking ride.”
She froze in her tracks,
every one of her nightmares swirling into terrifying reality.
That voice .
The officer glanced at
her contritely and she drew herself up, mainly to hide her fear and dismay.
“W-Well!” she stuttered, seizing onto the man’s obvious belief that it was the
crude language that had shocked her to the core.
“Don’t mind the commissaire ,”
the officer said. “He’s in a foul mood. Come, madame .” He extended a
hand toward the radio car. “We will take you.”
Yes, but where?
She forced herself to
follow him, sliding into the back seat. Praying Jean-Marc would not turn
around.
She couldn’t see much of
him, just his broad shoulders and dark hair as he leafed through a thick file
in his lap. He didn’t look up, but in the rear view
nationale rolling to a halt behind the Jag reminded her just a little too
much of those nightmares. She dabbed moisture from her upper lip and smoothed a
hand down her dowdy brown gown.
It was the weekend of the
Michaud’s soiree. The day of her big job.
Davie
had...borrowed...the Jag from his parents’ country estate carriage house.
“They’ll never miss it,” he’d assured her. “They’re in Quebec for a few weeks.”
Davie hadn’t spoken to
his parents in years, but he had lunch with his old nanny once a month, so he
always knew what was happening with them. And on what days he could liberate
the car.
Typical bad luck that a
police patrol was the first thing to drive by after she’d deliberately deflated
the Jag’s back tire. She’d counted on someone else stopping on their way to the
Michaud estate to help out a stranded fellow guest. And give her a ride to the
exclusive end-of-season soiree. Thus solving her tiny problem of not having an
invitation.
If she weren’t about to
have a freaking heart attack, she might have laughed at the cosmic irony. But
at the moment she needed all her energy to maintain her composure and stay in
character.
Chill, Ciara, they’re
not here to arrest you , she told herself. They were just doing what cops
did, helping an old lady in distress.
Tamping down on her
speeding pulse, she watched a uniformed officer emerge from the vehicle and
approach her. For effect, she fanned her forehead with a bit of lace from her
sturdy handbag. Praying her disguise would stand the test.
Of course it would.
Disguises and slipping into different characters were her specialties. Between
Davie’s coaching and her own gift for languages, she could become anyone from
an East End street urchin to an East European countess. Even looking carefully,
no one would ever guess that the aristocratic old lady with a flat tire was
really an American who’d just turned thirty-one. The uppity accent would throw
off the cops once her robbery was reported, if by some miracle the old lady was
remembered.
Yes, the disguise was
perfect. And she could handle these cops, too.
“ Madame, vous avez
besoin d'aide ?” asked the young, blue-clad officer, with a small bow.
Smiling at him, she
daintily lifted the hem of her matronly gown and resisted the urge to scratch
her cheeks. Masquerading as a sixty year-old woman might render her as good as
invisible, but the fake wrinkles could be torture in hot weather.
“Why, thank you officer,”
she answered in flawless upper crust French.
“A flat tire?” he asked,
glancing at the Jag.
“So it seems.” She aimed
for an air of pompous entitlement. “If the officer would give me a ride to the
Michaud estate, I would greatly appreciate it. It is just up the road.”
The man looked
uncomfortable. “Taking passengers in the patrol car is against regulations, madame .
But I would be happy to—”
“Young man,” she interrupted
haughtily, “Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”
The officer sputtered,
but before he could reply, a deep voice came from the passenger side of the
cruiser. “We’re going the same place. Give the lady a fucking ride.”
She froze in her tracks,
every one of her nightmares swirling into terrifying reality.
That voice .
The officer glanced at
her contritely and she drew herself up, mainly to hide her fear and dismay.
“W-Well!” she stuttered, seizing onto the man’s obvious belief that it was the
crude language that had shocked her to the core.
“Don’t mind the commissaire ,”
the officer said. “He’s in a foul mood. Come, madame .” He extended a
hand toward the radio car. “We will take you.”
Yes, but where?
She forced herself to
follow him, sliding into the back seat. Praying Jean-Marc would not turn
around.
She couldn’t see much of
him, just his broad shoulders and dark hair as he leafed through a thick file
in his lap. He didn’t look up, but in the rear view