The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance Page 8

  Chapter Thirteen

  Andrew

  I’m in awe of two women. One holds the key to my past, the other my destiny. The odd thing is, I'm not sure which is which.

  “This is about your legacy, André.”

  I push both of them to the back of my mind as I walk Laura to the exit toward an empty spot near the foyer that leads to the elevators.

  “So, this should put you in good with that obnoxious boor, Gaultier. I assume I’m free to go?” she asks, raising one eyebrow.

  “Correct, your services are no longer required for the night.”

  “Excuse me?” she asks, nostrils flaring with indignation at my dismissive tone. There are very few people in the world who could talk to her like this and I happen to be one of them.

  “I don’t need you anymore,” I say in a slow, patronizing tone.

  Laura stares hard at me, eyes lit with the flame of resentment. I’m sure she wishes she could slap my face, reminding me who she is—then, she thinks better of it. Her temperature does a complete one-eighty, cooling off to something approaching subzero.

  “And…as far as my little problem?” she asks in the sort of sotto voce usually reserved for the confessional.

  I meet it with a sardonic grin. “Not to worry. Your reputation will remain as lily-white and pure as the driven snow.”

  She narrows her eyes with contempt at my choice of words but seems appeased all the same. The insult is nothing compared to what she’d face if Thornston discovered the not-so-pristine photos of her with not one, but two professional basketball players. I wonder how much of a shock it would come to her husband if he learned that his lovely wife has a thing for black men over seven feet tall.

  It’s a definite detour from my disinclination toward blackmail, but the irony makes it worthwhile. Mostly considering a few of the affiliations the Wincrofts have (both husband and wife)—affiliations that the Harlem Children’s Arts Center they so publicly support might take issue with.

  “Well, then, I suppose I will take my leave,” Laura sniffs. “I’m sure you can find your own way home,” she adds with an acidic glare.

  She doesn’t bother saying goodbye as she turns on her heels and walks toward the exit.

  I put her completely out of my mind and refocus on the two women waiting for me at the event. Walking back inside, I grab two glasses of champagne on the way back to Brielle.

  I’m pleased to find her standing where I left her, staring at me as I approach with a look that indicates I had a fifty-fifty (maybe more like sixty-forty) chance of her being there. The kind of look a mouse might have toward a piece of cheese that’s too tempting not to be anything but bad for her.

  “I noticed you were without a glass,” I say, handing the one in my left hand toward her.

  “Is she feeling better?” she asks in a tone that indicates she’s perfectly aware it was nothing more than an excuse to leave.

  “As good as new, but she thought it best to head home anyway.”

  “And you didn’t escort her back home?”

  “My night has just begun, and I have another woman I’d rather spend the evening with,” I reply with a smile.

  “Are you referring to the painting or me?”

  “Yes.”

  She breathes out a laugh before taking a sip of champagne and swallowing. “I’m sure there’s a joke in there about a ménage à trois.”

  “I, for one, would love to hear the punchline.”

  “Of course you would,” she says giving me a smirk.

  Something has changed since escorting Laura out and my return. I can’t help but attribute at least part of it to the woman on stage. Both Brielle and I have been waiting for her to make an appearance for a while and now that she’s here Brielle seems more at ease, more carefree, more…interested.

  Merci beaucoup, Noémie.

  “Let’s take a closer look,” I say, boldly reaching out to take her hand. She doesn’t resist, allowing me to guide her through the crowd to catch a front and center glimpse of the woman that’s had a hold on both of us for a while now.

  “I assume this means I’m no longer persona non grata?” I say as I lead the way.

  She laughs. “For tonight anyway. Come Monday, I’ll probably once again wish I’d never met you.”

  “Hmm, all weekend then. Lucky you, my schedule is free.”

  She laughs again. “Don’t get cocky. Who says I’m going to allow this to go further than tonight?”

  “Tonight then. Longer than five minutes at least.” I muse as we approach the bottom of the stage. “I think you’ll be quite impressed with my…painting skills, Brielle.”

  “What did I say about being cocky?”

  Once we’re near the stage, I turn around and come in closer to her. “Cocky is for men who don’t have the means and equipment to back it up. I’m not cocky, I’m self-assured, based on many years of experience.”

  The fact that she doesn’t have some quick retort right on the tip of her tongue tells me I’ve inched my way closer to getting what I want.

  But the painting beckons.

  We both turn to face it now that we’re as close as either of us is going to get to the painting, what with Tweedlelunk and Tweddlehulk guarding it. That doesn’t stop my criminal mind from analyzing the various ways I could still get away with nabbing it from right under their noses.

  “It looks different up close,” I remark.

  “That’s Chabat’s genius,” Brielle says, once again entranced by the painting. “He was heavily influenced by predecessors like Monet and Degas. Then, he grew into his own style. It’s an absolute masterpiece.”

  I study the painting for altogether different reasons. Noémie stares down at me with a taunting air, as though waiting for me to make my move.

  Patience, Noémie, your turn will come.

  “Speaking of masterpieces,” I say, turning all my attention to the woman standing next to me. “Since I no longer work with you, I think that means we’re free to play?”

  That dimple that I’ve seen only once before dents Brielle’s cheek as she smiles up at my rival for her attention. She turns to me with a coy look. “What did I say about being cock—?”

  This game of ours ends with my lips on hers.

  Fuck playtime, I’m ready to get straight to business.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brielle

  Hmm…French does taste delicious.

  It feels even better. I gotta give it to the man, he knows how to kiss.

  Almost every part of me resists him at first, purely by reflex. I can actually feel Noémie staring down at me with envy, wondering where the obsession I’ve had with her for the past few years has suddenly gone.

  Then again, she’d probably be the first to cheer me on.

  Something about finally letting go of this crusade—if only for the evening—feels wonderful.

  Formidable.

  I don’t even know if I’m using the term correctly, but I don’t care. Especially when Andrew slides one palm around my neck, gripping me by the nape, fingers blindly tracing invisible lines across my skin. The hand holding champagne comes around my waist, pulling me in closer so that my body gets a full geological survey of exactly what gymnastics has done to every inch of his landscape.

  Full points to team France!

  Then I remember where we are. Most people here are probably looking on with either amusement or distaste at the blatantly public display of affection. A few, far more important individuals likely have stronger opinions on the matter.

  I begin to fuss in his arms, which only causes Andrew to hold on tighter. As much as part of me would love to stay here forever—seriously, does he have any body fat under that tuxedo?—a saner part of me knows we need to take this elsewhere.

  The “if only I could” doesn’t come on the heels of that. I’ve been toying with the idea of having sex with him for almost a week now, but something always stood in the way. The culprit is right there on stage. N
ow that I’ve finally come face to face with her, I feel a renewed sense of energy seep into my veins, as though all the constrained sexual energy and—what do the French call it, joie de vivre?—radiating from Noémie is infecting every part of me.

  And then there’s Andrew, who has steadily—deliberately?—crashed right through my resistance with reckless ambition.

  And now I’m left with none.

  Noémie is here, practically in the flesh. Mine for the taking. She’ll still be here come Monday.

  But tonight is Friday.

  Okay, Andrew, let’s play.

  “Not here,” I whisper against his demanding lips.

  That’s enough to get him to pull away. When he’s no longer close enough to leave me cross-eyed, I’m left breathless yet again by the way he looks at me.

  This wall I built up between us is officially shattered. For once, something other than Noémie or Georgette (a tiny stab of guilt pierces me thinking of her, until I remember how much she encouraged me to do this very thing) occupies real estate in my head. Now, Andrew is more than just an occasional rental, passing through in brief, chaotic moments before getting evicted. Tonight, he holds the mortgage to not only my mind and body, but that deep, primal need in me…and payment is due.

  I can see it in his gaze. He has me, and he’s relishing it. If he doesn’t do something with that soon, I’ll scream.

  “Viens avec moi,” he urges. The translation is in the way he grabs my free hand and leads me through the crowd. Something about his presence or his single-minded determination has them instinctively parting for him like so many sheep in the presence of a wolf.

  I don’t even have a chance to put my glass down, and I see the eyes of the woman standing at the front entrance go wide, wanting to stop us but failing hopelessly. I smile with what I wanted to be an apology, but it feels more gloating.

  Look at me! I’m finally getting laid!

  A giggle gurgles up in my throat as I trot after Andrew’s long strides. I feel silly and flirtatious and giddy, like a teenager about to attend her first boy band concert. It’s all spurred on by Andrew’s very adult command over me. His grip feels like a glove surrounding my entire hand, leaving only the ends of my fingers any freedom.

  At the elevators he smashes his finger into the down button then turns to me. There’s no teasing smirk or seductive smile on his face tonight. Tonight, this game of cat and mouse is over. The prey has been caught and the predator is done playing with it.

  Before he can act on it, the elevator sounds its arrival. Andrew hooks one arm around my waist and pulls me in, like a lion dragging a gazelle into his lair. I’m as frozen as a trapped animal, eyes wide, breath stalled, heartbeat racing underneath all this paralysis as I wait to see what he’ll do first.

  His eyes remain glued to mine, the flecks of green all but gone underneath the power of that darkly intense gaze. Without breaking that stare, he slowly finishes off what’s left of his champagne while the doors close on us. When the glass is empty, he simply lowers his hand and lets it fall to the floor. It lands with a dull clank as though it realizes its role in the moment is not even worth a distracting shatter.

  Andrew’s eyes fall to the glass still in my hand and he audaciously sticks two fingers into it. He lifts them toward me and my gaze narrows in on them. The bubbles are already beginning to pop along the glistening tips as they draw nearer to my mouth

  “Suck,” he orders with a sinister grin. “Some more French to prepare you for what’s to come.”

  I greedily indulge, my lips wrapping around the two fingers—a champagne flavored popsicle. I roll my eyes up to meet his, eyelids lowered to make them slant into sultry slits. I know they’re one of my best features and I have no problem working them, especially if it has the effect of getting him as heated up as he’s got me. I smile around his offering, sinking down to the second knuckle. His gaze practically smolders as he watches me. Just to turn the dial up, I force my tongue between the two digits, curling it up the space in the middle then circling the tips once again.

  How’s that for good old American ingenuity, Andrew?

  He pulls his fingers away, which my lips release with a pop.

  The elevator has finally arrived and I shoot him a seductive smirk. “Was that meant to be foreplay?”

  He presses in closer, ignoring the open doors that encourage us to exit.

  “If that was your idea of foreplay, I feel sorry for your body,” he allows his eyes to wander with impudent ease, “both for what it has never truly experienced, and for what I’m about to do to it.”

  So the game isn’t entirely over with, after all. I feel like I’ve been bested. But hell if it doesn’t make me eager for more.

  The doors begin to close during my stasis and Andrew instinctively shoots one arm out to stop it, using the other to curl tighter around my waist and draw me out with him.

  “I left my purse in my desk,” I say once I see the turnstiles ahead.

  Andrew pauses to consider that. “Can you get back up without it?”

  “It’ll be a pain, but yes.”

  “Good,” he says with a devilish grin, urging me forward.

  “So…I guess that means your place?” I hint.

  “I have a better idea,” he says.

  I want to ask what that means, but the mystery of it is more exciting. Realizing that I still have a glass in my hand, I finish off the rest of the champagne and set it on the edge of the security guards’ desk with an apologetic shrug.

  Andrew quickens his step and I laugh, jogging in my heels to keep up with him as we push through the doors. With his arm still securely around my waist, he guides me a few short blocks until we’re in front of Gild Hall, a boutique hotel downtown. I’ve only been as far as the restaurant and bar attached to it—one failed attempt at a date that certainly didn’t end up in one of the hotel rooms as he’d been hoping for—but I’ve been fascinated all the same.

  The logistics are quickly worked out at the front desk: the clerk studiously ignoring our dressy attire and blatantly spur-of-the-moment one night stand. Only thing left is a King Suite…yes that’ll do…me protesting the cost…Andrew’s counter-protest shutting me up.

  With key card in hand, he leads me to the elevators. I’m wondering how he can afford all this, but I ease that thought from my mind when we once again have the elevator to ourselves. During the short flight up, he’s on me once again, closer this time, his hand sliding down my sides, hot breath against my forehead, all a precursor of what’s to come.

  He pulls away too soon when the doors open, dragging me with him as he exits, a playful smile on his lips. I laugh as I clip down the hall with him to our room.

  “It’s nice,” I remark once we’re inside. I take a moment to admire the decent sized sitting area, beyond which lies the bedroom.

  “Formidable,” Andrew’s voice says behind me and I turn to find him completely ignoring the room, all attention focused on me.

  Suddenly, I’m stupidly nervous and self-conscious. So far, it’s all been fun and games, push and pull, the sexual tension between us growing so taut I’m surprised it hasn’t snapped before now.

  I suppose the next step is obvious. I start with my earrings, reaching up to remove one hoop from my left ear. That’s as far as I get before Andrew comes in closer and stops me, his hand gently sliding up over mine just as I free it from my lobe.

  “Tonight, I’m the artist.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Andrew

  I release the free earring from her hand. Rather than the efficiently quick movement with which she removed the first one, I take my time with the second.

  Once again, her breath is heavy, accelerating as my fingertips whisper across the side of her neck tracing their way up to the delicate spot just behind her lobe before working the gold hoop free.

  “Andrew,” she sighs, closing her eyes as a shudder runs through her body.

  I feel the sides of my mouth rise into a smile. T
he thrill of conquest runs deep. I can’t imagine stealing the Mona Lisa itself would give me as much satisfaction as this. It’s taken almost a week but now Brielle is mine.

  My smile falters when I realize what comes next. This part of the job is usually the easiest, at least in those situations where I’ve gone this far. Seduction has always come naturally to me, all the more so because I can separate emotion from the equation. The ultimate goal—theft of some priceless treasure or equally valuable bit of information—has always been my climax.

  Brielle is different. I hate that cliché as much as I hate the truth of it. It isn’t just the work I’ve put into this, it’s the passion that she has for her ultimate prize, the kind of passion that I haven’t felt in a long time. It’s the way she stared up at Noémie, stirring an envy in me that longed for her to look at me with those same eyes.

  And hell if it isn’t the way she looks in this dress tonight.

  I force my mind to home in on that last part, pushing all the other thoughts away. I’m certainly not going to let them interfere with the main course presented to me now that the amuse-bouche has been devoured.

  “Open your eyes,” I command. If I’m going to enjoy this, I want to see her reaction, fully and completely.

  I set the earrings on the counter for the small kitchenette. Her eyes follow them, then dart back up to me, pupils wide with either excitement or nervousness.

  I adore it.

  The stubborn she-wolf is now a helpless pup. When my hand comes up around her neck again, I feel the movement of her hard swallow underneath my palm. The fingers glide around to the nape and trace her spine, heading up into her hair. I can see the struggle to keep her eyes from closing with pleasure as I breach the confines of the complicated twist she has it in.

  I reach the first bobby pin and quickly pull it out, flicking it away. Before long I have them all out, scattered on the floor like discarded seeds from a delicious, ripe fruit I'm about to enjoy.