The French Detective's Woman Read Online Free PDF Page B

sure you want to deal with me?” Ciara said, grinning back at the portly, balding old man for whom she had a huge affection. Valois had taken her in as a protégé when she’d brought him her first antique silver piece, accidentally stolen along with a purse on the métro during her first year living in Paris. Had it really been eight years ago?
    “Surely, you jest! My star pupil? I haven’t taught you everything I know just to let le keuf intimidate me.”
    “The cops?” she asked, clued in by the righteous indignation that suddenly flavored his words. “Have they been here?”
    “ Mais, bien sûr . They were waiting for me when I opened.” His grin returned. “One would think I was first on their list of suspected fences for stolen jewelry.”
    Which, of course, he was. And paintings and antiques, as well. Those items were his specialty. His antique store was filled to the rafters with scrupulously legal wares: tons of old furniture and art pieces, rugs and marble, knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. The store had been in his family for generations. Ciara often thought that some of the things crowding the overfilled rooms must have been bought new two hundred years ago and simply gotten lost in the clutter.
    But the items he was fencing were well-hidden, in a tunnel under the shop which his father had discovered during the War, part of the ancient Parisian sewer system below the city.
    She knew she was in good hands. M. Valois was nothing if not careful. The police had never gotten a single shred of evidence against him. As ruthless as he was loyal, no one ever betrayed the old man. Ciara herself would go to jail in a heartbeat before breathing a word against him. Because she knew he would do the same for her.
    “This time it was one of the commissaires who visited me. CPJ Lacroix. Angry as a hornet, he was.”
    “Jean-Marc?” she asked uneasily. “He came here?” How the hell... ? This was too close for comfort.
    Valois peered at her over the rim of his jewelers loupe, brows raised. “Jean-Marc?”
    She suddenly realized her mistake. Lord . She gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, well, I actually met him last night at the club.” She cleared her throat. “We danced. Before I realized he was a cop, of course.”
    Valois pursed his lips and slowly regarded her. “A very attractive man, non ? In a rough sort of way.”
    She picked up a paper-thin Limoges porcelain teacup from the counter and examined it so she didn’t have to meet his eyes. “I suppose.”
    “Lacroix appears regularly in the tabloids. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize him from his photos. Before you danced with him.”
    She carefully set down the delicate cup. “I don’t read the tabloids, Valois.”
    He chuckled. “Sure you don’t. And you don’t love how they’re treating you as the new Robin Hood. Robbing from the rich...”
    She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” Over the past few months, the evening papers had grown quite fond of the infamous le Revenant and his daring exploits against the spoiled and privileged. But Ciara didn’t like the publicity. It only forced the cops to concentrate harder on catching her. “Why would a police commissaire be in the tabloids?”
    Valois made one of those Gallic clucking noises with his tongue. “A rather unsavory business several years ago. He was lead detective on a case involving a high end car theft ring. The ringleader was clever. A suspect, he played the helpful citizen to perfection and deliberately befriended Lacroix during the investigation...then betrayed him. Set him up to look corrupt and take the fall. Got away with a few million euros before Lacroix realized what was happening. Then the thief disappeared without a trace, and Lacroix went through hell trying to prove his innocence. The tabloids had a field day with him. They still like to give him a hard time.”
    “That’s awful,” she said. She might be a thief, but she always went out of her way to choose wealthy targets who