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 scented the cool evening air
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 scented the cool evening air
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