Entrapment

Chapter 3

Sam watched Juliette stalk from room to room in her luxurious Paris penthouse like a sleek feline on the prowl. And when she slammed the door of the last empty room and strode toward him, he braced himself in case she pounced.

“Where is she, Tremaine?”

He didn’t make the mistake of underestimating the danger in her lethal purr. Not when it was coupled by that gleam in her eye. Nor did he pretend to misunderstand her.

“Your grandmother is safe with some associates of mine.”

Juliette placed her balled-up fists on her hips, he assumed in an effort to restrain from using them on him. “I want to see her. Now.”

Sam shook his head. He’d been up for two days. The sun had risen hours ago, and it would be several more hours before he’d get any sleep. During the near silent train ride back to Paris his leg had stiffened up on him, and right now his thigh was a twisting mass of cramping muscle. Pain tended to piss him off, and she was the cause of that pain, so he wasn’t in the mood to be diplomatic. What he was in the mood for was a stiff Scotch and an hour in a whirlpool. Since he was unlikely to get either any time soon, there would be no concessions granted.

Juliette’s first demand was quickly followed by another. “Then I want to talk to her.”

“You and I have to come to terms first.”

“Let me guess. You’re thinking that you get to set those terms.”

He allowed himself a grim smile. “Well, I am the one holding all the cards here, aren’t I, honey?” Brushing by her, he went to the phone he spotted on the eighteenth-century desk near the window. Picking up the receiver, he dialed room service and ordered a pint of their finest Scotch, and then belatedly sent her an inquiring look. “Do you want breakfast?”

“No.”

He turned back to the phone. “And send up two orders of eggs Benedict, a couple sides of potatoes and assorted pastries.” Replacing the receiver, he turned back to her. “What you don’t eat, I will.”

She looked as if she were going to explode before she turned her back on him, visibly fighting for control. The close-fitting suit she’d worn earlier had been shed, along with the hood she’d used to cover her features. The black tank top she wore followed her curves faithfully and the snug-fitting black pants showcased the long line of her slender legs. Given the picture she made with her riot of long black curls and creamy skin, he imagined there were few men alive who wouldn’t willingly give up some valuables in return for her company.

Of course, he reminded himself, she didn’t make those kinds of trades. She took what she wanted, without regard to anyone’s wishes. Consequences were variables to be weighed only as they affected her risk assessments. People unfortunate enough to be chosen as targets were given no consideration at all.

For a man who’d lived his life adhering to a cherished family code, her choices were reason enough to despise her.

She was moving about the penthouse with a smooth easy grace at odds with the steel in her spine. She’d picked up an ivory carving and held it in her palm, rubbing her fingers over it rhythmically.

He sat down on the overstuffed sofa, propped his feet on the matching hassock in front of him and barely managed to stifle a sigh of relief. The furniture was designed for both style and comfort. As a matter of fact, there’d been no expense spared in decorating the entire suite. Her career had been, to this point, quite lucrative.

“I have money.”

Her bald statement could have been plucked from his thoughts. Rubbing his thigh with one hand, he cocked a brow at her. “I’m not surprised.”

“I mean I can pay you. A reasonable price, at least.” Apparently having reached a decision, she crossed toward him, her face stamped with determination. “All you have to do is release my grandmother. And turn over this file you claim to have.”

He waited until she stood next to him before saying, “No.” Taking her hand, he pulled her down next to him. He’d have to be dead from the neck down not to appreciate the way her dark eyes flashed. He was tired, not dead. “There’s only one way for you to get your grandmother released.”

“And that is?”

“To do exactly as I tell you.” He could have been more persuasive, he could have been smoother. But where charm could be misconstrued as weakness, he knew she’d understand control. She was too used to wielding it herself to mistake it. And the sooner she learned that she was no longer calling the shots, the sooner the operation could commence.

She tugged at her hand. He didn’t release it. “Tell me what you want.”

It was, he knew, a concession of sorts. The first step toward admitting her options had narrowed dramatically. “I need something that someone else has.”

“And you want me to steal it for you,” she said flatly.

He inclined his head. “You have to admit that you’re uniquely qualified. This job will be challenging, and secrecy is imperative. There are maybe ten people in the world capable of pulling it off. Three of them are in prison. Le petit voleur is one of the five top remaining candidates.”

If his assessment of her ranking annoyed her, she didn’t let it show. “If any of the five would have done as well, why go to the trouble of tracking my identity?”

“Because my target is Hans Oppenheimer.”

Her face remained expressionless, her gaze steady on his. “Again…why me?”

He felt a flicker of admiration. She was a cool one, he’d give her that. “How do you think I discovered your identity, Juliette? It was Oppenheimer I was interested in all along. He’s suspected of insurance fraud, did you know that?” Sam thought he saw a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, there and gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure he’d seen it at all. “He’s sustained so many losses over the last several years that I’m told his insurance premiums are astronomical. He had to buy an insurance company himself because no one else would underwrite him.”

“Life can be tragic for the rich.”

“Can’t it, though? Especially when you’ve been targeting him almost exclusively for the last five years. That’s what led me to you. Law enforcement focuses on the individual thefts, or a pattern of them. That line of inquiry gets murky quickly, especially since they can’t be sure which jobs to credit le petit voleur with, and which are the work of others. But my focus was Oppenheimer. He’s a man who collects enemies. If he wasn’t running an insurance scam, and was suffering real losses, that meant someone had singled him out. I followed that possibility and it led me to you.”

She succeeded in pulling her hand away from him and with a studied movement shifted away, curling her feet under her. “Did he send you after me?”

Now it was his turn to be offended. “No, although I understand he’s given several investigators that particular assignment. He seems to believe that a ring of thieves is responsible, hired by one of his rivals to deplete his resources.”

She gave a little smile. “He sounds like a fool.”

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him. The price he has on your head is one million American dollars.”

Cocking her head, she seemed to consider his words. “So he raised the reward. It’s still rather low, given the value of everything he’s lost, but he always was a man to want something for nothing.”

There was a tinge of bitterness in her tone. He wondered what Oppenheimer had done to cause it. Sam knew exactly just what the man was capable of. “You sound like you know him well.”

The words, quietly spoken, had her expression turning cautious. “You’re not the only one who does research. So you’re not representing Oppenheimer and your methods are too unorthodox for me to believe that you work for an insurance agency…” Her words trailed off as she raised her brows questioningly. When Sam didn’t respond, she asked, “Exactly who are you working for?”

There was that flash of admiration again. He really was going to have to curb it, given the circumstances. But her instincts were, once again, right on the mark. “What makes you think I’m working for anyone? Maybe Oppenheimer has something of mine that I want back.”

She was shaking her head before he even finished the words. “You’ve expended too much time, effort and manpower for that to be true. That translates into money. Lots of it. You may be independently wealthy, but most people with a grudge wouldn’t go to these lengths to strike at their enemy.”

“The details don’t matter, my goal does. If that requires unorthodox methods, unorthodox allies…” He shrugged. “It’s the end result I’m interested in.” That much, at least was true. With the renewed interest in antiterrorist activities, executive orders had changed to allow for more latitude. An agent was no longer prohibited from recruiting criminals to further the country’s goals.

Which only meant that now he could do so openly.

The discreet door buzzer sounded. “Must be room service. Check for sure before you let them in.” If he tried to get up again, he was afraid his damn leg would give out on him completely. And he knew enough not to expose that kind of weakness to the woman beside him.

Woodenly, Juliette obeyed. She crossed to the door and looked out the peephole, saw the white-jacketed waiter in the hallway. She got some bills from her purse, opened the door and exchanged the tip for the food-laden tray.

“Put it here.” He patted the cushion beside him, and she did as he bid. He studied the label on the Scotch with satisfaction. The French knew their liquor. Handing the bottle to Juliette, he asked this time, politely, he thought, “Can you pour me three fingers over ice?”

The civil phrasing of the request was obviously lost on her. She fairly snatched the bottle from his hand as she turned and marched to the galley kitchen. When she returned, he already had a plate balanced on his lap. He took the glass she thrust toward him and indicated the other plate. “You should eat something.”

“I don’t think so. There’s something about blackmail that affects my appetite.”