Chapter Eleven

Marie-Clare gathered their cups and saucers, setting them on the silver tray. “I think what you need first of all is a disguise. Oui? You’ll be safer. You can come and go undetected by those terrorists. It is a good idea. Don’t you think?

“Oh, this will be so much fun. I will have Christophe color your hair and give it a chic cut.” She touched a fingertip to her cheek as if mentally working out a plan. “Perhaps sunglasses to hide those lovely blue eyes. Minor changes to make you safer. Oui, this we do. Come.”

Alyson couldn’t face lugging around her shoulder bag again, so she removed her Visa and euros, slipping them into the pockets of her jeans. She checked her phone, too. There were several voice mails. She listened to the first one. It was Niko demanding she call. No doubt the other messages were from him, too. She couldn’t deal with him now, if ever. She slid the phone back into her yellow shoulder bag.

When she thought of how she responded to Niko’s advances and how close she came to sleeping with him, she was both ashamed and angry. She’d be better off ignoring his voice mails and texts. Obviously she had little willpower where he was concerned.

Wasn’t she fine before she met Niko Reynard? She’d be fine without him, too. Today, she was taking charge of her life, keeping herself safe from the terrorists and Niko’s dark eyes and magic fingers. She sighed and rolled her eyes. And his talented lips.

The terrorists knew her as a blonde. Once Christophe dyed her hair and she donned a pair of sunglasses, she’d be difficult to recognize. There was much of Paris to see yet, and she was determined to see the sights. Paris was changing her and she loved it. Her once regimented life became a spinning vortex, drawing her into new experiences and new worlds.

Christophe Robin’s salon on the first floor of the Maurice Hotel was certainly another world. Cream walls and elegant furnishings in understated style flourished beneath sky-painted ceilings. The first thought that screamed through Alyson’s mind was, I can’t afford this. Then another wiser, more feminine one countered. Perhaps you can’t afford not to. You need a disguise; one the terrorists won’t recognize.

For the next three hours, Christophe’s team pampered her in ways she only read about in magazines. Wait until she told Gwen about this head-to-toe experience. Scrumptious was the only word that came to mind. She had a manicure and pedicure, haircut and color. Now the team was applying makeup. She’d long since given up worrying over the cost. Surely her safety was worth it.

When Christophe spun her chair around so she could see herself, she merely blinked. Who was this woman with the chin-length bobbed haircut? He’d given her jagged bangs and an eye-popping color. Venetian red, Christophe called the shade when he applied it. She looked like a model. A smile blossomed and grew. She, boring, staid Alyson Moore looked like a red-headed vixen.

“Well, cherie, you look magnifique, oui?”

“You are a genius, Christophe.”

“Well, yes, we know this, but now, you are a beauty. You look much younger, sexier, desirable. Oui?”

“Oui, merci beaucoup.” Alyson stood and hugged Christophe. “Thank you for squeezing me into your schedule.”

“Christophe gave you a beautiful disguise. No?” He fussed a little more with her hair. “Oh, how I will regale my clients with stories of you, our American heroine with karate moves that topple giants. Go now, shoo. Get dressed. I believe Marie-Clare, who I call Mother-Sunshine-in-Stilettos, has a new outfit for you. I saw her come in with bags.” He placed his hands on the shoulders of her white terrycloth robe and turned her toward the dressing room.

Marie-Clare was waiting, practically exploding with anticipation. “Ah, I hardly recognize you. What a transformation. Do you feel better, my dear?”

“Yes. I feel marvelous.” She did. With all that had happened or nearly happened in the last twenty-four hours, suddenly she felt rejuvenated and beautiful. Whatever today cost her, it was worth it. She eyed the bags Marie-Clare was holding. “Are those for me?”

“Oui. Since I didn’t get my hair colored, I had time to shop while you did. I found this delightful dress in a vintage shop. It was a marché, a bargain. Slip it on, and we shall see how it looks.” She handed Alyson the pink bag.

Alyson stepped into the dressing cubicle and removed the robe. In the shopping bag was a rather short black stretchy dress. She slipped it on, straightened the cap sleeves and tried to pull up the low neckline to no avail. Tugging on the hem didn’t help the brevity of the dress, either. She checked her image in the full-length mirror. It fit her body too well. She turned to view the back and grimaced. If she had a mole on her rump, it would have shown through the dress. The thing fit like a second skin. The front overlapped in a gathered stretch design that hugged her curves.

A soft knock sounded at the door. “I’m dying to see it on you. Open the door.”

When Alyson stepped out of the dressing room, Marie-Clare clapped her hands. “Tres magnifique! Oh, my dear, wait until Niko sees you in this. It will take his breath away.”

“It’s so tight, it’s taking my breath away. You don’t think it’s too…”

“Too what, my dear?” Marie-Clare took Alyson’s hand. “Listen, in matters such as this, Marie-Clare knows. Oui? In battle, one must wear armor.” She shrugged. “This little dress is merely your armor in the battle of love.”

Alyson glanced down at the dress. “Little being the optimal word here.”

Marie-Clare, self-appointed war general, handed her a shoebox. “Put these on. They’ll make a slave out of him.” She winked. “He will not know what hit him.”

“Well, I don’t know if I want to make a slave out of him. He has a girlfriend, after all.” She opened the lid and smoothed back the tissue. “I’m going to pay you back for these and for the dress, too.”

Marie-Clare waved an impatient hand. “Put them on. I’m eager to see the entire effect.”

The shoes, stilettos, of course, were red platforms with ankle straps. Alyson held one out, turning it around. “Looks like something a whore would wear.”

“Yes, that is exactly what Niko will think and they will drive him to his knees.” She got a faraway expression on her wrinkled face. “I had a pair quite similar my Pierre just adored. Every woman should have some tricks up her sleeve. A hint of sex. Oui?”

Alyson’s gaze slid from the shoes to the little woman in front of her. “Marie-Clare, these shoes don’t hint sex. They scream it.”

“Oui, from time to time a woman must scream sex, but silently, you understand.”

After Alyson put on the shoes, her senior sex instructor slipped some narrow red bangles on her wrist. Then she presented her with a pair of black-framed sunglasses with rhinestones across the top of the frames. Marie-Clare folded the jeans and blouse Alyson wore earlier into the shopping bag while Alyson preened in front of the mirror. Good Lord, I look like a call girl, a hooker, a woman primed for sex. She turned slowly and laughed. Good thing I’m in Paris, ’cause I would never step out on the streets of Asheville dressed like this.

“I can’t believe how different I look.” She looked confident and sexy. Well, one would have to be confident to wear this outfit, wouldn’t they? Who was this woman?

Two hours later, Alyson was arrested for solicitation. It was undoubtedly the shoes.

She hadn’t done a thing wrong. Okay, so maybe she flirted with the guy sitting at the table next to them at the café where she and Marie-Clare stopped for a glass of wine. Granted, if she’d had more to eat that day than a couple bites of croissant, the wine wouldn’t have gone to her head and made her so chatty. Still, she did not solicit that undercover policeman. Not that she always understood what he was saying—or what she was saying in return. Her wine-hazed mind and minimal understanding of the language might have contributed to her arrest, too. Marie-Clare tried correcting her faulty French, but the undercover policeman ignored the older woman; he was focused on her. All those things combined probably contributed to her arrest.

But mainly, it was those damn red stilettos.

When she said—or thought she said—after the man’s compliment about her shoes she’d have to pay her friend back for them, the policeman slapped handcuffs on her. Maybe her phrasing was a tad off…

****

Niko was in his office, frantically going over reports pertaining to the search for Aly. If he didn’t have a nervous breakdown first, he was going to kill the woman. Where in God’s name could she be? He spent hours driving the streets of Paris looking for her. He went to every place he took Aly yesterday, including the hotel and Marie-Clare’s. Or he tried to. Marie-Clare’s little shop was closed and no one answered his knock upstairs at her apartment. So, he came here to keep his finger on the pulse of the search for Aly and the investigation into The Red Hand.

Large LCD screens filled one wall of the unit’s command center. As a matter of habit, his gaze swept over the many screens—observing, analyzing and reacting within a couple blinks of an eye. This was his milieu. He was at home here. He’d rather be here than anywhere else, or so Hae-Won claimed. Only now…only now he wanted to be with Aly and this shift in priorities rattled him. No woman ever came before his job. Until her.

His phone rang, and he snatched the receiver off the cradle. “Yeah.”

“Captain Reynard, this is Louis Breton at the criminal holding area. We just got a prostitute in here who says she knows you.”

“What the hell? Me? Are you sure she said she knows me?” He didn’t have time to deal with this nonsense. “I’m in anti-terrorism, not vice.”

“Yes, Captain, I know this, but the woman identified you and your department by name. She had no identification on her. Claims she’s an American, working with you.”

“Working with me…” It couldn’t be. He stood. “Did she give a name?”

“Alyson Moore. Her alleged tenancière de bordel’s name is…”

“Madam?” he yelled. Aly had been out of his sight for half a day and she had a madam? “Who is this woman?”

“Strange, sir. A genteel elderly woman by the name of Marie-Clare Aukland.”

Niko slapped a hand over his eyes. Oh, I am definitely going to kill her…and her aged pimp, too. “I’m on my way.”

“Should we remove the handcuffs then?”

“No.” A thought coalesced with visions of paybacks; worrying over her caused his self-control to snap. “Put her in an interrogation room, one of the private ones at the end of the hall. Keep the handcuffs on her and tie her to a chair. Put a blindfold on her, too. No one sees her, but me. Understood?”

“Well, yes, but this is most unusual.” Doubt tinged the officer’s remark.

“Not in the interrogation of terrorists. There are ways we make them talk.” And squirm. Damned if he wouldn’t make her squirm after running away from him. “I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t tell her you’ve talked to me. Let’s see if she really knows who I am.”

“You think she’s a terrorist and not a prostitute?”

“Twenty minutes with me, and I’ll know exactly what she is.” He slammed the phone, his gaze sweeping the office area for something or someone to rip apart. By the time Niko charged out of the unit’s office wing and stepped onto the elevator, cold resolve and Italian passion, as his maman called his temper tantrums, were joining forces to teach this clueless American a lesson. Had she no idea what she meant to him? Had she given any thought to the danger she would put herself in when she left the safe house? He stepped off the elevator and into the criminal intake area.

“Louis Breton? Captain Reynard.”

The harried officer behind the counter glanced up from papers he was signing. “Yes, Captain Reynard. I have your prisoner in the last room on the left as requested.” He motioned over his shoulder with a pen. “If you want to speak to the undercover policeman who arrested her, he’s over there at his desk.” Breton gave a jerk of his head and the corners of his mouth twitched. “With an icepack on his groin. The prostitute gives a mean karate kick.” He snorted and shook his head.

Niko spun in the direction of the rows of desks and spied a man with a pained expression, his feet on his desk and a huge icepack on his groin. He approached him. “You the undercover officer who arrested a prostitute?”

“Who the hell are you?”

Normally Niko would squelch that smart-ass attitude from an officer, from most anyone, in fact, but given the location of the officer’s injuries, he’d let the man’s insolence slide this time. “Captain Reynard, Counterterrorism Unit.”

“Yeah, well pardon me if I don’t get up. The prostitute claimed she was working with you. Since when are prostitutes part of the task force against terrorism? You guys getting benefits we normal police aren’t?”

Niko didn’t like this guy or his attitude. “I’m going to let that preposterous remark slide because you’ve been hurt, but my patience has worn thinner that your hairline.” He leaned a hip against the desk and crossed his arms. “Now, temper your attitude and tell me about the arrest.”

The officer narrowed his eyes at Niko for a beat, then shook his head. “Damndest thing I ever saw. These two broads came sauntering into Deux Maggot. One was this older diminutive woman. Total class. Sweet looking. She was followed by this redhead. I mean she was sensational loo…”

“Redhead?” Aly was blonde. “Did she have any ID on her?”

“No passport as required from non-French visitors. Had an American driver’s license. According to it, her name is—” he pulled a notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped to the page he wanted “—Alyson Moore, from Asheville, North Carolina, to be exact. The picture on the license was of a blonde. Same blue eyes, though. Claimed her passport was stolen and that she was working with you.”

“Why the arrest? Was she soliciting?” That didn’t sound like his prim and proper Aly.

“She was hot, you know? I mean, I had a hard-on from the time she walked past me in that dress.”

As if a red curtain of jealous rage lowered over Niko’s eyes, he clenched and unclenched his fists. The bastard deserved a good whipping. No man talked about his Aly like that and kept his teeth intact. “There’s no crime in a woman being attractive.”

“True. She had a glass of wine. Asked me if I liked her shoes. Held her leg out to me.” He rolled his eyes. “What a pair of legs! We exchanged a few remarks. Her French is terrible, by the way. Next thing I knew, she was asking me if I’d like to pay for her.”

“’Pay for her.’ Those were her exact words?”

The officer shrugged. “Something like that. Her French was so bad, but her body language spoke for her.” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows. “She was soliciting all right.”

Niko jerked his head toward the ice pack. “How’d you get hurt?”

“I arrested her and slammed on the handcuffs. She behaved fairly well. No resistance. The older woman spoke up, claiming the redhead was living with her. So, I handcuffed her, too. Or tried to. The redhead went into protection mode—you know how protective prostitutes are of their pimps.” He snorted and shook his head. “That’s when she went berserk. Hell if she didn’t do some fancy karate moves. Kicked the hell of out of my groin. Dropped me to my freakin’ knees. The little old lady stood up and applauded. Then the damn redhead took a bow and laughed.”

Niko stared down at his shoes so the man couldn’t see him smile. His Aly was in a class of her own. Full of delightful surprises. “Thanks. Take care of your injuries. I’ll take care of the hellcat.” He turned and headed to the officer at the desk. “Officer Breton, please fill out the paperwork to have the prostitute remanded to my custody. I’ll be taking her with me after I interrogate her.”

“As you wish.”

Niko headed for the water dispenser. He was stalling, planning his next step before he faced the woman who turned him inside out with need. Niko pulled out his cell and called Jean-Luc. “I found Aly. Cease all search operations.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll explain it all to you later. It’s a story you won’t believe.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got a problem up here.”

“What?” He had a sinking feeling. Jean-Luc had that foreboding tone to his voice.

“We just got a call. Looks like it’s our jurisdiction. There’s been a murder at Aukland’s les Arts Atelier. Isn’t that where you said you hid Aly while you apprehended that guy who was following you two?”

Niko leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Tell me it wasn’t Marie-Clare.” Wait, wasn’t she in custody here? He was so worked up over Aly he failed to check on the older woman.

“No, an employee, Josette Ogden.” Jean-Luc exhaled a long breath. “The Red Hand left their usual calling card—a handprint of the victim’s blood on the wall.”

“Sweet Jesus. Do you know the time of the murder? I stopped by Aukland’s in my search for Aly, but the shop was closed.” Had the murderers been inside at that very moment? Could he have been one locked door away from The Red Hand?

“Something else. They left a note.”

“That’s a first. What does the note say?”

“Three words: ‘For Alyson Moore.’”

“Shit! I want you at Aukland’s right away. You and Laurant. Call me after you check out the scene. You are the only one I trust on this. Don’t let me down.”

Niko slapped a hand against the wall and closed his eyes for a minute. An innocent woman dead. So many innocents dead thanks to The Red Hand, the scourge of the earth. Damn them all to hell. He would not let Aly be their next victim.

He turned and approached Officer Breton. “I’m sorry to bother you again. I failed to inquire about Marie-Clare Aukland. Is she still in custody?”

Breton checked his computer. “Yes, cell three.”

“I’ll need to have her remanded to my custody, too. Can you have her brought to me, please?”