Read Online The French Detective's Woman by Nina Bruhns - Free Book Online

everyone and everything, including about her and Jean-Marc. With the one small omission—that she was the thief they were looking for. It took her over half an hour to go through everything, making sure to occasionally stumble over her French. Her flawless language skills were a big part of her usual disguises; a vital fact to keep from the police.
    As she spoke, Pierre wrote in a pocket notebook and Jean-Marc continued to prowl wordlessly around, examining everything in sight. At one point she heard him open the door to her bedroom, which was behind her, and go in. Her pulse skittered. What was he doing in there? Would he find anything? No. She was always careful to put things away.
    As she told Pierre the part about her and Jean-Marc having sex, she didn’t dare look up from her hands. She could feel her lover’s eyes bore into the back of her neck from inside her bedroom. Pierre just nodded and took more notes.
    Breaking off in embarrassment, she fanned her flaming face with the photo sheets. Paris wasn’t usually this warm, even in the dead of summer. “I’m sorry it’s so hot in here. No air conditioning.”
    Suddenly she felt the whisper of fabric against her shoulder. Startled, she realized Jean-Marc had taken off his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of her chair. His scent lingered on it, curling around her like a python, robbing her of what little breath she had. Reminding her of being in his arms. Of him being inside her.
    She shook off the memory. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some iced tea?” she asked Pierre.
    “Well, maybe—” But just then his cell phone rang. “ Excusez-moi ,” he said, and answered it, listening for several moments before saying, “ D’accord ,” then hanging up. He stood abruptly and gathered up the photo sheets from her. “My apologies, but I must go.” He glanced at Jean-Marc. “ Commissaire Lacroix will finish the interview. Au revoir, mademoiselle .”
    Before she could think to protest, he’d swept out of the apartment, leaving her alone with Jean-Marc.
    She jumped to her feet, starting for the rapidly closing door. “You should go with him. There’s really nothing else to—”
    Jean-Marc grabbed her arm. “ Arrète .”
    She swallowed a gasp. And peered up at him. His eyes blazed with...anger? Could he really be angry about her not calling?
    “Listen,” she said, “about last n—”
    He cut her off with a swift shake of his head. His fingers dug into the flesh of her arm as he tugged her nearer and grasped her other arm, holding her fast in front of him.
    The dark brown leather of his shoulder holster stood out in stark contrast to his crisp white shirt, as did the black stubble on his jaw. His suit trousers, expensive navy blue worsted with subtle pin stripes, covered athletic, muscular thighs. He looked cool and elegant, as he had last night...and incredibly dangerous.
    Her heart skipped a beat, then sped out of control. She tugged uselessly at her arms.
    “You are afraid?” he asked, his voice low and guttural.
    She thought of Sophie, and Etienne, and said, “Yes.” Then she thought of last night, and shook her head. “No.” She gave up trying to hide her confusion. “I don’t know. Should I be?”
    His mouth was cruelly beautiful, sculpted and smooth, a sensual slash of cold disapproval. She remembered it sliding over her body last night, insistent, demanding. She shivered. She wanted it on her again.
    His eyes dipped to her breasts. “Your body is not afraid. I can see your nipples through your top. They’re hard. Like I am.”
    He started to walk her backwards into the bedroom. She tried to resist, really she did. This would be a bigger mistake than last night. One that could not be undone.
    He was dangerous. Wrong for her.
    But she wanted him even more now than she did then.
    He halted in front of her dresser, low with a big, round mirror. From the corner of her eye she could see the bed with the blue Hand of Fatima design Sofie