A Paris Melody

Jill's Night Out

"It doesn't make sense!" Jill objected, rising gracefully from her seat and following tall, broad-shouldered Marc onto the crowded dance floor. "If I'm in so much danger, why bring me here?"

"This club is for tourists," the French cop growled, drawing Jill's lithe young body close. "The Russian mob would never look for a chic and sophisticated Parisian jazz singer in a place like this!"

"Give me a break!" Jill had to shout into Marc's ear because the dance track started up just then. It wasn't her music, the aching jazz of late-night hours and broken hearts. And it wasn't the soaring and ethereal Mozart she'd once played at the Sorbonne. That lofty music was for the soul. This was purely for the body.

"Everybody needs a break now and then," Marc said lightly. He was making a joke of their night out, yet Jill sensed he was longing to escape some heavy burdens as well. His big body mastered the sexy beat, both letting loose and taking control. Marc was a very determined man. He worked so hard on cases that obsessed him. Especially if someone was in danger . . .

"So have you heard anything about my uncle?" Jill was breathing rapidly and her cheeks were slightly flushed by the time the hypnotic beat of the dance track throbbed to a climactic finish. Marc had given her room to move, letting her dance circles around him while she let loose and unwound. Yet at every twist he seemed to pull her back, twirling her closer and relishing the heat.

"Actually, there's someone I want you to meet." Marc rested his big hand lightly on Jill's slim shoulder as the two of them left the dance floor. He steered her to a quiet corner where a sweet-faced older woman sat alone, her brilliant red hair clashing oddly with the deep lines on her face and the worry in her watery blue eyes.

"Jill McDonald, allow me to present Mrs. Mabel Weeks of Wichita Kansas."

"Oh, how are you?" Mabel's smile was polite, but Jill caught the look of disappointment in her eyes. She shot Marc a curious look as the tough French cop politely pulled back a chair for her.

"Mrs. Weeks has been here in Paris for over a week, frantically searching every district, hoping to locate her missing daughter."

"To tell the truth, when I saw you out on the dance floor, I sort of hoped . . . I mean, I thought that you might be my Meredith." Mabel Weeks smiled bravely, her eyes swimming with tears. "She's about your age, Miss McDonald. Not as tall as you, and maybe not quite such a knockout figure. But she's a pretty girl and she loves to dance. She was studying dance in Paris when . . ."

"Please, call me Jill." Jill took the older woman's plump, moist hand and squeezed it, thinking all the while of her own missing uncle. "I'm sorry, but I don't know any girls named Meredith."

"Perhaps you know this man. He was seen with Meredith shortly before she disappeared." Marc tossed a photograph on the table.

"That's him! The man from the photos you showed me before. It's the Russian Uncle Simon was with just before he vanished!" Jill looked at the heavily muscled mobster with the star tattoo. His companion was a skinny girl with a kind face and a trusting smile. "Do you think the two of them ran off together?"

"Oh, no," Mabel Weeks objected. "Meredith would never . . ." With a little choking cry, the American woman cut short her protest. Clearly she grasped the bleak alternatives in the case.

"If she didn't run off, she was taken against her will. And my uncle might have been abducted in the same way!" Jill's dark brown eyes were drawn once again to the smiling girl in the photograph. Her expression was innocent. But did she really trust the bald and menacing man standing beside her? Who else was with them?

"There's clearly a connection between your Uncle Simon and Meredith Weeks," Marc Moreau said gravely. "But given his past record, we have to consider Simon a suspect and not a victim."

"My uncle would never hurt anyone!" Jill shot Marc a challenging look, daring him to argue. He met her gaze and held it.

"I'm sure your uncle is innocent," Mabel Weeks said, her voice unsteady and uncertain. "I'm sure they'll both be home soon!"

"Yes, I'm sure you're right." Jill gave Mabel's hand another warm squeeze, feeling like a traitor. Deep down she didn't believe that Meredith Weeks had run off with the sinister-looking Russian. It was her uncle who excelled at charming young women.

It was well after midnight by the time they dropped Mabel Weeks at the brightly-lit front entrance of her hotel. As the plump little American mother waved a brave goodbye, Jill found herself blinking back unexpected tears. It was ridiculous, since she barely knew the woman. But the hour was late. And she was very tired.

"We won't find the girl," Marc grunted, gunning the motor of his sleek jet-black Peugeot. The engine thrummed with power, seeming to underline his words with grim finality. "In France, more than fifteen thousand people go missing every year."

"That's a cheerful thought!" Jill gave her words a sarcastic bite, but the drawn and haunted look on Marc's chiseled features told her that the case was eating him up inside. And she understood now why her forceful ex-lover had been so determined to hustle her out of Paris. Instead of trying to challenge him, Jill stretched her long legs and sank back into the luxurious leather upholstery. "So what's next for me? Back to your aunt's place in the country?"

"What's next for you is bed." Marc huffed a laugh, and the fine golden hairs on the back of Jill's neck all stood right up on end. "But not at my place, cherie. Better if you get some rest instead. I'll drop you at my aunt's townhouse in the 16th arondissment. Far more sensible than driving two hours in the dead of night."

"Oh. I get it. We're being sensible now." Jill's disappointment didn't make sense. She wanted Marc to back off Uncle Simon, and that was why she was playing nice and obeying orders and going along with his investigation. And that was the only reason!

"If we make love now, Jill, it will feel as if you were trying to influence me. The way you did with Daoud. I won't risk that."

Jill ignored the dig about Daoud. They weren't ready to talk about that. "Our big night out wasn't a risk? Dancing, having drinks together in public? Keeping me at your aunt's place isn't a risk? What's it all about, Marc? What do you really want from me?"

"I want you back in my bed," Marc growled, finally coming clean. "Back in my life. But I won't let my feelings change the facts."

"You mean you won't risk blowing an important case for a night of cheap sex? Or do you mean . . ." Jill left her thoughts unfinished.

"Yes," Marc said. "That is exactly what I mean."

"Humph!" Jill closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the comfort of her reclining seat. Marc wasn't the only one who felt they had unfinished business. She reckoned that when the case was over he was going to take her back into his bed. But would it be for keeps? She pictured Marc making love to her like before. Yes. That was what she wanted. Only she wanted more. She wanted Marc's trust and respect as well as his passion. It seemed hopeless, like finding a single lost girl in a city of millions.

But she was still smiling when she fell asleep.