French Twist

  “You’ll just have to trust me, Janine.”

  Luc’s voice was smoke and velvet.

  “Let me see my vases,” she insisted. What’s the worst that he could do? Say no? Close further in on her?

  He started to smile, a dangerous spark in his gaze. “For a price.”

  “A price?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Good God, was he asking her out on a date?

  “So we can discuss the security of the exhibit.”

  She eyed him warily. “Only if I see the vases right now.”

  “That can be arranged.” He reached into his pocket for the key, and his eyebrow tilted upward. “Trust me,” he said again.

  “Is there any reason not to?”

  A low, sexy laugh was his only response.

  Praise for

  Roxanne St. Claire’s sizzling debut—

  Tropical Getaway

  “Tropical Getaway is a reader’s paradise. A tour de force of sizzling suspense and scorching sensuality. Roxanne St. Claire is a hot new author to watch!”

  —Teresa Medeiros, New York Times

  bestselling author of A Kiss to Remember

  “Sizzling romance and tangible suspense make Tropical Getaway a most enjoyable read. Get ready for adventure, passion, and danger!”

  —Romantic Times

  “Romance, danger, and adventure on the high seas in just the right combination makes St. Claire’s debut a very impressive one.”

  —Booklist

  “Roxanne St. Claire adds an exciting new voice and considerable talent to the romantic suspense genre…. This first-time published author dazzles with witty repartee and sultry dialogue…. St. Claire’s narrative is so vivid that readers can almost smell the aroma of spices and feel the wind in their hair. Beautiful, spellbinding, a novel from the soul.”

  —Winter Haven News Chief

  “Roxanne St. Claire packs a punch with her debut novel Tropical Getaway. In-depth characterizations and an intriguing plot make this book hard to put down. Ms. St. Claire is definitely one to keep an eye on.”

  —The Word on Romance

  “Tropical Getaway twines mystery and romance into a realistic and interesting tale. St. Claire’s debut book would be great to read while looking out the window over snow and ice, dreaming of the sun-drenched isles of the Caribbean.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “Roxanne St. Claire’s debut is a steamy mixture of intrigue, passion and red herrings. Set in the exotic locales of the Caribbean, Tropical Getaway is the perfect escape for a cold winter night.”

  —AOL Romance Fiction Forum

  “Captures the essence of paradise, tosses in some heated passion, and meshes it into a compelling suspense…. The setting is perfect; the romance, one of the best; and the suspense will have you on the edge of your seat!”

  —Romance Reader’s Connection

  “Tropical Getaway sucks you into the story from the moment you read the prologue. The pages just keep turning and before you know it you are so engrossed in the story you forget everything around you.”

  —ARomanceReview.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2004 by Roxanne St. Claire

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-9859-3

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  www.SimonSays.com

  For Dante and Mia,

  my children, my treasures, my raison d’être

  Acknowledgments

  A heartfelt merci beaucoup to:

  Elizabeth Anderson, a talented writer and genuine friend, whose keen insights, helpful suggestions, and rich out-pouring of smiley faces are shining through on every page. Thanks for helping polish the Plums to high gloss finish, ’Zie.

  The City of Versailles webmaster, who generously offered precise details and conducted personal fact-checking to ensure the accuracy of all things pertaining to his great city and Palace. Avoir la paix, Gregory.

  Former FBI Agent James Vatter, for providing a wealth of information about investigations of art crimes committed by U.S. felons on international soil. Any inaccuracies regarding the workings of law enforcement in this area are mine, not his.

  Prologue

  A s he picked the lock, Nick Jarrett hummed Mozart’s Piano Concerto in A Major. An extraordinary melody. Complex, dynamic, a bit irreverent. No wonder he liked it. He glanced down the empty hotel corridor—no one in sight. His fingers moved to the sprightly minuet of the second movement. A simple matter of pick, pluck, and run.

  Even though his client thought the script on this job should read pick, pluck, murder, and run.

  But Nick had no intention of killing anyone. He was a thief. Sometimes a liar and occasionally, when pushed to the wall, a cheat. But not a murderer. This was Karim Benazir’s idea of a test.

  The pick vibrated the key shaft and released the six-pin lock with a tiny ping.

  Nick hated to be tested.

  If he’d followed Benazir’s commands, there’d be a man sleeping in this hotel room. Nick had been instructed to put a bullet in the guy’s head before emptying the safe of the half million dollars worth of diamonds that waited there.

  Of course, Nick had arranged things differently. He’d still get the diamonds and a healthy percentage of the take, but nobody would die tonight. In fact, he’d just passed the portly businessman in the restaurant downstairs, enjoying a bowl of lobster bisque.

  Benazir wouldn’t be happy. But the dethroned Indian prince could climb into a hole in hell if he expected anything more than the usual burglary services.

  Nick inched the door open, stepping into the ink black suite as lightly as the tune that played in his brain. He paused, held his breath, and listened. Silence. Without making a sound, he strode across the marble floor of the living room toward the bedroom.

  The room darkeners had been pulled so that not a single sliver of the lights of Manhattan peeked through. Surprising, but not a problem. He’d been born with exceptional night vision. He’d also been born with natural coordination, dexterous fingers, and titanium nerves. All ideal qualities for his chosen profession. Or, more precisely, for the profession that had chosen him.

  He placed a latex-gloved hand on the ornate closet door handle and opened it. Behind the clothes inside, he inched his fingertips along the wall until he felt the hard surface of the safe. It required just nine twists of his wrist to get it right. This was too easy.

  A fine chill danced down his spine. This was too easy. But as his left hand curled around the bag of jewels, he ignored the inner voice. He was nearly finished, and he’d be home drinking a bone-dry martini in fifteen minutes.

  There was just one last task to complete the job. His last job, ever.

  He pulled a felt-tipped marker out of his jacket pocket with his free hand and bit the red cap with his teeth. Using the inside of the closet door as his canvas, he swiftly sketched the familiar elongated body. Several slashes on either side represented the fingerlike appendages. A final flourish completed the segmented, curved tail and its venomous stinger.

  As always, the Scorpion had left his mark.
>
  The cap still in his teeth, Nick eased the safe closed and pushed the closet door with his shoulder. As it snapped shut he heard another sound, and suddenly the room was bathed in light.

  “FBI. Don’t move.”

  Nick bit hard on the pen cap as the bag of diamonds fell from his fingers and hit the floor. Son of a bitch. He’d fallen right into a trap.

  “Hey, Nick.” He could have sworn he heard a chuckle in the familiar voice. “You’re under arrest.”

  An image of his mother and his sister flashed in Nick’s mind as he made an abrupt decision. He had to die. But before he did, he’d turn the tables on Karim Benazir and put the bastard away for good. Then the only two people who mattered to him would be safe.

  A quiet breath shuddered through him. Now he was ready to face his captor, ready to give Tristan Stewart the satisfaction of holding a gun to the head of the Scorpion.

  You win, buddy.

  Nick turned and stared into the hard gray eyes of the FBI agent he’d successfully eluded for years. He didn’t think about the prick Benazir, or the trap that he’d waltzed right into with his “flawless” night vision. He didn’t dwell on the fact that, at thirty-four, his life was about to end. He thought only of his mother, Gabrielle, and his sister, Claire. They’d be miserable and betrayed and confused—but they’d be alive.

  Ignoring the two other agents who flanked Tristan, Nick held his arms out from his body, gripping the open red marker so hard that the ink stained his rubber gloves.

  He was, quite literally, caught red-handed. The irony made his lip curl around the pen cap still trapped in his teeth. His gaze locked on the man who had made a career out of searching for the Scorpion.

  Could there be any sympathy in his heart? After all, Tristan had eaten plenty of meals at Gabrielle Jarrett’s kitchen table, and he’d never been able to conceal his adoration of Claire.

  The agent looked victorious but wary, as though the thief would once again disappear into thin air.

  If only he could.

  Nick tilted his head and spat the cap onto the floor. “Let’s make a deal, Tris.”

  The steel eyes flashed just enough for Nick to know he’d get his deal. Nick Jarrett was about to die. The Scorpion had to be squashed. And someone else would live and breathe in his place.

  Chapter

  One

  H oly hell. Her Plums were missing.

  Janine Coulter blinked against the blinding May sunshine reflected off hundreds of Venetian mirrors. Even in the chaotic cavern of light, glass, and enough gilded fleur-de-lis to eliminate world hunger, she could feel that her precious Pompadour Plum vases were not in Versailles’ famed Hall of Mirrors.

  “Monsieur le Directeur, where are the Sèvres vases?”

  Henri Duvoisier started to smile, but then must have remembered he was French. “How astute of you to notice, Dr. Coulter. We are not including them in this area of the exhibit.” At her intake of breath, he lifted a bony shoulder. “We have been advised against doing so.”

  Janine closed her eyes, digging deep for every ounce of diplomacy and patience. This was a test. He resented her because, in his eyes, she was a novice, an American, a woman, and an intruder.

  “Advised?” This would be a battle of wills, but her will was steel. Hadn’t she proved that by her sheer determination to assume the position of exhibit curator? “By whom?”

  He didn’t respond.

  She looked directly into Henri’s limpid blue eyes. “The vases are the centerpiece of the exhibit, monsieur, and our plans call for them to be in the middle of the hall.” She turned and crossed the polished parquet, the staccato tap of her high heels echoing off the marble walls and richly painted ceilings. “They were supposed to be right here.”

  She stood below the massive portrait of Madame de Pompadour. If little bourgeoisie Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson could march into the most splendid palace in France and convince the surly court that she deserved to be the king’s mistress, certainly one unwelcome art history professor from UCLA could handle Versailles’ embittered director.

  “We have altered the design of the exhibit because of security issues, Dr. Coulter,” Henri said.

  Was there a French equivalent to “I don’t give a shit”?

  She squared her shoulders and matched the haughty expression captured in Boucher’s famed image of la Pompadour. “I wasn’t apprised of these security issues.”

  Henri cleared his throat and suddenly sent a beseeching glance over her shoulder. Someone else had entered the hall. She didn’t hear footsteps, but she sensed a presence. She turned to follow Henri’s gaze.

  At first she couldn’t see anything but a shadow against an arched window at the very end of the hall. Then the shadow became a silhouette of a man as he silently approached.

  “That’s because you were unavoidably detained.” The English words, buried in a smoky baritone and rich French accent, echoed through the massive hall.

  He strode toward her with all the assurance of the three Bourbon kings who’d played God in this very room. They had been tall enough to look down on their subjects, dark enough to be the focal point of every portrait, and handsome enough to have their legendary libidos constantly satisfied.

  This man could be a direct descendant. And then some.

  His eyes, nearly as black as his thick, straight hair, glinted as he gazed at her. A shadow of stubborn whiskers in his hollow cheeks balanced the dark slash of brow. Everything about him—from the elegant thousand-dollar suit fitted to his wide shoulders, down to the rich Euro loafers—screamed control, perfection, and superiority.

  Not only did he have the drop-dead looks of French royalty, he had the ’tude to match.

  Janine tilted her face up to him, something a five-foot-seven-inch woman in heels rarely had to do.

  “Ah, Luc.” Henri’s voice startled her; she’d forgotten he was in the room. The museum director murmured something indecipherable while he shook the new arrival’s hand.

  The corner of the man’s mouth curled, and he turned to Janine, sweeping a glance over her and lingering a moment longer than necessary on her legs. Maybe the spunky skirt was a little too L.A. hip and not enough Paris couture?

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Evidently you were unable to be involved in the last-minute decisions, Madame la Curator.” His English was flawless, softened by a French accent. “I understand you had urgent personal business keeping you from joining us.”

  The musical cadence didn’t mask the little dig. Whoever Luc was, he knew, like everyone else, that she’d been delayed because her wedding had been scheduled to take place the week before. And like everyone else, he would soon realize that she had no ring, no new last name, and no husband in tow.

  For the millionth time, she cursed Sam Benjamin and the ground the cheating, lying bastard walked on.

  She held out her hand. “I’m Dr. Janine Coulter.”

  With a slight bow of his head, he engulfed her hand with a large, strong grip. “Luc Tremont.”

  “Luc is our spécialist de la securité,” Henri explained. “A consultant, as you would say, whom we have hired to control the security of the Pompadour exhibit. And yes, Luc, this is the newly appointed Madame la Curator, our distinguished guest from the Université de Californie, Janine Coulter.”

  A shower of resentment sparked at her nerve endings. She hadn’t been told a thing about a security consultant.

  “The pleasure is mine, madame.” A decidedly un-French smile revealed perfect white teeth. His handshake relaxed as one of his fingers lightly moved over her skin. More resentment sparked. Something sparked. She withdrew her hand.

  “From California,” he said, in a tone so soft it could be considered seductive…or mocking. “But your beautiful name is so French. Janine.”

  Szha-neen. It sure never sounded like that before. She shook her head and tried to respond in his language to be polite and demonstrate her fluency, but every syllable she’d ever known eluded her. Damn. �
�No, not French. Just…American.”

  She crossed her arms self-consciously. This was probably part of their sabotage strategy. They sent this hunk to sidetrack her, make her stumble on the job, steal her attention from her responsibilities. Who said the French weren’t effective warriors?

  “We were so sorry to hear of the passing of Dr. Farrow,” he said.

  The familiar dull ache settled around her heart at the mention of the man whose death she’d yet to accept. “Thank you. His death was a tremendous loss for the art world and for the university.”

  But she didn’t want to discuss her friend and mentor. Or the fact that she’d persuaded the French minister of culture to give her Albert Farrow’s coveted assignment. She’d defended her position enough; she was the curator and she wanted the Plums.

  “Monsieur Tremont, do you know where the Sèvres vases are?”

  He extended an arm toward an artful arrangement of porcelain under a portrait of Louis XV. “Some are right there, madame, and there are still more in the Salon de la Guerre.”

  She’d already been through that area of the Hall of Mirrors, nearly a football field away. No vases. Not the ones she wanted. “Non, monsieur. The Pompadour Plum vases.”

  She heard Henri stifle a moan at the phrase. The American media had dubbed the three exquisite vases “the Pompadour Plums” after they had been found in the dusty basement of a French château a year ago. The purist French historians despised the catchy description of the matchless purple porcelain that had been the subject of such great debate in the art world.

  Luc Tremont regarded her from under thick, dark lashes. “It’s my strong recommendation that we limit the viewing of the Sèvres to one of the anterooms, guarded twenty-four hours a day. I’ll allow entrance by invitation only.”

  He’ll allow entrance?

  “I don’t think so,” she responded. “The vases are the heart and soul of the exhibit.”

  “There are nearly a hundred other artifacts on display,” he countered.