French Twist Read online

  She could almost taste the air trapped in the tiny space between them.

  “What did you hear?” His repeated demand was gentle, as though he was coaxing a child.

  “Nothing but rumors. You know, gossip.”

  Still he didn’t move, and she plastered herself harder against the door. His gaze held her as effectively as if he pinned her with his muscular arms.

  Why was she letting him intimidate her? She raised her chin and glared at him. “If you don’t mind, I need to be sure the Plums are okay.”

  “They are fine.”

  “How do you know?”

  His blistering gaze dropped over her face, settling on her mouth for a millisecond, then sliding down to her chest. A ribbon of response curled inside of her, winding all the way down to knot low in her stomach. Way, way too low to qualify as fear.

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

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single key. “That can be arranged.”

  “Assuming no one has taken them.”

  “Oh, no one has taken them.” His eyebrow tilted upward. “Trust me.”

  “Is there any reason not to?”

  A low, sexy laugh was his only response.

  Luc memorized the image she made, flushed and trapped, her long, blond hair spilling out of its confines. Her delicious lips parted as she struggled to breathe. Some night when isolation and solitude gnawed at him, he’d remember the pretty girl from California and imagine the things he could do with her against a wall.

  He finally let her step away, so he could unlock the door.

  “Where’d you hide them?” she asked.

  “In the bedchamber.” He placed a hand on her back, liking the damp heat that seeped through the fine material.

  She sidestepped his touch. “Who might have been in there? I could have sworn I heard someone.”

  “Security.” They turned the corner of the Clock Cabinet and then entered the enormous bedchamber. And this was the intimate bedroom. He had little tolerance for the egos of the kings.

  “Where are the Plums?” she asked immediately.

  He tsked emphatically, distracting her while he checked the position of the cabinet lock. “Patience, Janine, patience.”

  She strode toward a bank of electrical switches that had been blended into the woodwork.

  He caught her hand just before she touched the wall. “If we turn the lights on, we’ll have sixteen security guards up here with guns drawn in a minute. Spare me the trouble.”

  She pulled out of his grip. “Fine.”

  Walking to the massive armoire, he pulled out a second key. “They’re in here.”

  “It doesn’t seem so all-fired secure,” she commented, moving closer to him. “Anyone could take a whack at that cupboard and get them out.”

  “Have some faith in our security, Janine.”

  “I got through half the palace and no one even saw me.”

  He doubted that was true, but didn’t bother to explain the network of miniature cameras they’d recently installed. He tugged at the door of the chest and opened it. The three vases, two about twelve inches high and one about eighteen, stood side by side.

  Well, Dr. Coulter, let’s see just how good you are.

  She gently nudged him aside to stand in front of the vases. He allowed her the space, carefully watching her expression. Her gaze traveled over the center vase, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

  “They’re extraordinary,” she whispered, reverence deepening her voice. Everything male in him responded to that soulful inflection, imagining how she would make gentle demands of a lover.

  She lifted her hand to the vase, and he stopped her. “Non.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes, and her delicate jaw set. “I want to touch them.”

  Of course she wouldn’t be satisfied until she actually had her hands on them. He’d have to take the chance of removing one. He gripped the middle vase by the narrow neck and pulled it out, holding it up for her to examine.

  “The color is awesome, isn’t it?” Her fingers grazed the handle, then caressed the magnificent glaze. “It’s just amazing for soft paste.”

  Even in the dim evening light, the smooth indigo and violet tones were evident. And he’d seen these under the harsh light of day. They were nearly perfect.

  With two hands, Janine eased the vase higher as she bent down to see under the base.

  “This is precarious,” he lied. “I could drop it.”

  She laughed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  This was the final test: now he’d discover whether she was a hired distraction or an innocent one. He watched her eyes narrow as she squinted at the base. She wore almost no makeup, except for mascara to darken what were undoubtedly pale lashes. A natural blond.

  “Please, can you bring it over to the light?” She glanced at him.

  “It’s awkward.” He’d rather not stand in the window and broadcast their presence. At her look, he angled the vase toward the window.

  She leaned closer, the beginnings of a frown forming. With the tip of her fingernail, she scraped at a gold-leaf rose petal. He heard the tiniest gasp.

  “Is something the matter, Janine?”

  Slowly she straightened, a look of horror in her eyes. “This is not a Sèvres vase.” She took a step back, crossed her arms, and glared at him. “This is a fake.”

  Sacrè Dieu. She was that good.

  Chapter

  Four

  T he vase trembled in Luc’s grip, and Janine was certain he was about to drop it on the hard wood floor. She almost reached out to grab it, in an instinctive response to protect something so beautiful, fake or not. But he just shook his head, letting out a long, low whistle.

  “Very impressive work, Madame la Curator.”

  She blinked in confusion. “What? You knew?”

  He carried the vase back and set it between the others, adjusting it so that its design—a continuum with the other two—faced forward. “Did you really think I would hide priceless vases protected only by a three-hundred-year-old lock?”

  “Was that some kind of a test?” She slammed her hands on her hips to keep from throttling him.

  He grinned. “You passed.”

  “Where in holy hell are my Plums, Tremont?”

  His laugh surprised her. “They are not in holy hell, I assure you.” He laid a casual hand on her shoulder. “They are hidden. They are safe. You have to—”

  “No.” She dodged his touch. “I don’t trust you. There is no reason why the curator of this exhibit can’t see those vases. Right now.”

  He studied her for a moment, then held his hand toward the door. “Après vous, madame.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, without moving.

  “To the vases.” He gently nudged her forward. “But we will have to take a circuitous route because there are hidden cameras all over Versailles, and no one knows where I’ve put the vases.”

  Irritation washed over her. He was too much. “Where you’ve put them?”

  “I trust no one, Janine.” His mouth lifted in the beginnings of a smile. “But I will trust you.” The pressure on her back increased ever so slightly, his hand large and warm. “If you will do the same of me.”

  She followed him to another anteroom, this one darker and smaller than the others.

  “You know so much about this palace,” he said as they walked. “Surely you are aware the kings of Versailles had many places to hide. For their o
wn safety, which was constantly at risk.”

  “Of course.” She reached back to her early education to remember those hiding places. She was the expert in French art and history, she should know them all. He was just a glorified guard.

  They moved through an oversized bath chamber and then the ostentatious library beyond it. Through another open door, they arrived at “the new rooms” and the decor changed dramatically to simpler design—still gold, but with less flamboyance in the artisan’s handiwork. This was not Pompadour’s area of Versailles, and her absence was tangible. The rooms grew colder, somehow, with the loss of the fleur-de-lis grandeur.

  When they reached Louis XVI’s game room, Luc approached a paneled wall next to the ornate marble fireplace. They’d come to the end of this wing of Versailles.

  “A secret door,” Janine said softly.

  “Absolument.” He eased a side table away and reached behind the gilded frame of the mirror above the fireplace. She heard something click, and sure enough, a wall panel opened soundlessly toward a darkened hallway.

  She choked back a laugh. “Who knew?”

  “Almost no one.”

  As they stepped in, she blinked to adjust to the darkness. Very little light came in behind them, and the hall turned into a black hole at the far end.

  “I had no idea this was here,” she exclaimed in a whisper, rubbing her arms at a chill of surprise. “I can’t believe it.”

  He slid the door closed behind them, and Janine flinched at the sound. Instantly, he draped his arm over her shoulder, pulling her to his warm side with a reassuring tug. “Stay next to me.”

  She wouldn’t dream of arguing. It was ink black and impossible to see. She inhaled the musty smell that clung to the stone walls, mixed with Luc’s heady, masculine scent.

  “I can’t believe there’s a passageway in Versailles that I don’t know about,” she murmured, almost afraid to speak aloud.

  “This was built as an escape route for the king in case of attack. It remains a well-kept secret.” Without so much as a stumble, he eased them around a corner she hadn’t even seen, then guided her down three unexpected steps.

  “Are the Plums in here?” she asked.

  “No. They are on the other side of this passageway.”

  She automatically extended an arm to keep from bumping into a wall. “I hope you don’t carry my vases through the dark like this.”

  He laughed softly, stopping to do something she couldn’t see. Suddenly, soft light spilled into the hallway as he opened a small door.

  Over a raised threshold was the second-story gallery of the Royal Chapel.

  Janine broke into a slow, surprised smile as they entered it. “Well, they’re certainly not in holy hell.”

  Immense stained-glass windows lined the walls, casting a soft glow and a hundred eerie shadows. Janine approached the stone-and-gold balustrade along the upper level and paused to take in the cavernous church. It was so stunning, so perfect, she almost couldn’t breathe. She’d always loved this awesome cathedral, tucked away in the corner of the palace.

  “Balance,” she said softly.

  “Pardon?”

  “Absolutely everything is in perfect symmetry.” She held out a hand to indicate the relief painted on the curved ceiling over the gold organ and the altar below it. “The art is balanced in color and form, the columns a perfect blend of traditional and classical.” She leaned further over the railing to see the dramatic layout of glistening marble along the center aisle. “Nothing is even slightly off-kilter here.”

  His hands locked on her waist. “You will be, if you go any further, Janine.”

  Szha-neen. He practically whispered it in her ear, threatening her…balance. She turned, forcing him to remove his hands or allow his protective gesture to transform into something far more intimate.

  He took a single step back, holding her gaze as he let her go.

  That ribbon wound tighter inside her stomach. “Where are the vases?”

  “Hidden behind the altar.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Too sacrilegious for you?”

  She let her breath out in a little laugh. “Well, it is the place where kings were married and princes were baptized.”

  “And now it is the place where your vases are hidden.” His wink was devilish. “You should approve of my ingenuity.” Taking her hand, he led her toward the stone stairs and the first floor of the chapel. “Come with me.”

  It was eerie to travel the same route as a king to his coronation or a queen to her marriage. Janine gazed at the columned archways that lined the aisle, imagining throngs of French men and women, honoring their monarchs, praying to their God. Luc’s feet made no sound; her heels tapped the marble.

  It suddenly felt very much like a wedding.

  “Oh.” She hadn’t meant for the little exclamation to escape her lips, and she swallowed the sudden lump that formed in her throat.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, laying a solicitous hand on her back.

  Damn Sam Benjamin and his empty promises. “This much beauty always overwhelms me.”

  He walked around the three curved steps below the enormous gilded altar and approached a two-foot-high iron railing. In one swift move, he was over it and turned to her. The sacred area was meant to be entered from a room behind it. “Would you like some help?” He glanced down at the fitted skirt that stopped a good four inches above her knee.

  “I can handle it.” She hiked the skirt up her thighs to avoid tearing the fabric, straddled the railing, then brought her other leg over. She looked up to see him watching her—and her legs—with an amused expression.

  Her tummy twirled again. “I hadn’t planned on hurdling barriers in a cathedral today.”

  “Clearly.” He smiled, then approached the golden door of the tabernacle, used to house the Holy Communion.

  “In the tabernacle?” Her quick laugh echoed through the church. “Are you hoping that the fear of God will keep a thief away?”

  “The only thing a thief fears is getting caught,” he said. “There won’t be any visitors in this church while the exhibit is open. We’ll bring the vases to the king’s bedroom every day. When you close to the public each night, the counterfeit vases will be in their place. And the Plums will be here.”

  She stood a step behind him, watching him work two separate locks. One with a key, the other a combination lock that he artfully covered as he spun it in alternating semicircles. While he worked the locks, her gaze traveled over the breadth of his back and the snug fit of the chambray cotton over his muscles, tucked neatly into the narrow waist of his pants.

  Good God. She was standing under Jouvenet’s Descent of the Holy Spirit admiring the backside of a security specialist who chose the tabernacle of the Royal Chapel as the secret hiding place for rare art.

  What had gotten into her?

  The door unlatched with a resounding snap, but Luc held it closed, as though waiting for precisely the right moment to reveal the treasure.

  “Do you really think this is the smartest place to keep these?” she asked, forcing her attention away from his impressive torso.

  “A thief will work to find his way into the room where the vases are kept, and he is most likely to do that in off hours. If there was nothing there, he would start searching for them. But if he sees the replicas, he will take those.”

  “And then what? A trio of forged Sèvres vases is on the gray market?”

  “Until someone proves they are fakes.” He turned to her, a lock of hair falling over his brow. “But if something should happen to me, then you will know where the real Plums are.”

  “What could happen to you?” She fought the urge to touch that fallen lock.

  He gave her a cavalier shrug. “Who knows?”

  “You’re full of it.” Surely other people knew where the vases were. Certainly Simone de Vries was in on his big secret. She tapped his arm. “Let me see them.”

  He opened the do
or with a flourish. “Voilà, madame. Your Plums.”

  Her fingers grazed the cool porcelain. All three had handles of gilded bronze ormolu shaped into profiled busts of Madame de Pompadour. At the center of each was a unique image made entirely of “jewels” that were actually drops of translucent enamel over stamped foils.

  She knew by the Sèvres artisan’s imprint that they’d been created early in Jeanne-Antoinette’s reign as mistress. Each image depicted a different moment in the young woman’s relationship with King Louis XV. Meeting him in the woods during a hunt, being courted at a masquerade ball, and the most stunning of all: her presentation to the queen, the wife of her lover. That was the central vase and unquestionably the most beautiful. The scene itself had launched the outcry of disbelief when the vases were found. Why would the king’s mistress commission a vase to commemorate such an awkward moment? But Janine, and Albert Farrow, had understood.

  “It tells you everything you need to know about this woman,” Janine said quietly.

  “That she feared nothing,” Luc agreed.

  She couldn’t resist a smile. “Exactly. Meeting the queen was her pivotal turning point.” Janine ran a finger over the pretty face on the painting. “Getting the king’s devotion was easy. But when she won over his wife, she achieved true acceptance. And power. She knew it, and that’s why she chose to memorialize that moment with this vase.”

  “She’s holding Louis’s medallion in her hand,” he noted. “A symbol of who controlled whom, no doubt.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, stroking the glaze with one finger. “That medallion is the equivalent of a wedding ring to her. It elevated her from mistress to…legitimate.” She dug her fingernail into the soft paste of the base, with just enough pressure—the amount of pressure was key to the process—to lift any black specks left from an imperfect firing. There were none. The gold leaf remained impenetrable to the slightest demarcation. She looked up at him victoriously. “These are definitely my vases.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “That’s a trade secret.” She straightened the vase. “One that takes years to learn.”