A Paris Melody

Coffee With Marc

Jill got off to a late start the next morning. She wanted to look up the American woman, Mabel Weeks, and find out more about her missing daughter. She wanted to do a bit of searching in the Latin Quarter, a section of Paris she knew extremely well.

But the morning didn't go quite as planned. Jill overslept, and when she rolled over in bed and fumbled for the antique ivory telephone, she drew a blank on the name of Mabel's hotel. Well, she reckoned that Marc would remember. So she dialed the central number of the Paris Municipal Police, only to be told that Detective Moreau had gone out on an early call.

Jill set down the old-fashioned phone, frowning as she lay back. Marc was up already and hard at work while she was still in bed. No wonder he didn't want her help! After a long stretch, she dragged on some slippers and shuffled down the hall, still yawning as she fastened her robe. Jill wasn't a morning person. She had a sudden craving for coffee.

More disappointment awaited her in the kitchen. The gleaming metal refrigerator was empty, and the cupboards were bare. Jill hissed an unladylike curse in gutter French. But crude words couldn't fill her stomach. Just then there was a knock on the door.

"Feel like a cup of coffee?" Marc Moreau was standing in the doorway, looking dark and rumpled and sexy and very French, holding a large carton of takeout breakfast and coffee.

"I thought you were working." Jill frowned as Marc kissed her cheek. She had to fight the urge to kiss back, to caress his cheek. But Marc didn't linger in the doorway. Instead he breezed into the cozy little apartment like he owned the place. Jill got a good whiff of his musky male cologne as he brushed by. It was his aunt's apartment, she reminded herself idiotically. That was why big strong Marc felt so at home. Only his aunt wasn't here now. She was relaxing in the country at their stately family chateau.

So it was just the two of them.

"Can I ask a favor of you?" Marc always got right to the point. He was already sitting in the breakfast nook, sipping coffee. It reminded Jill of the old days, all those sleepy morning chats before he went back to work and she went back to school. Smelling the coffee, Jill missed those days. And those nights . . .

"What sort of favor?" Still wary, Jill slid into the seat opposite his, their knees brushing beneath the tiny table. The first sip made her sigh with satisfaction. Marc had gone to a lot of trouble to get up early and bring her coffee exactly the way she liked it. Come to think of it, he'd done the exact same thing in the interrogation room at that horrible grimy police station, before whisking her away to his secluded family chateau. And now here they were in Paris again, with Marc bringing coffee and letting her sleep in his aunt's posh apartment. "What sort of favor?" she asked again.

"Give me your feelings about Mabel Weeks."

"Huh?" Jill drank more of the rich coffee. "Mabel Weeks?"

Marc laughed. "The American woman you met last night."

"She seemed lonely," Jill ventured. "And scared. And very sad. I could understand why, with her daughter missing. I could relate to her because of my uncle. Why do you ask?"

"I want you to spend some time with Mabel Weeks." Marc's midnight-black eyes held her gaze. "I don't think she's told us everything about her daughter's disappearance. Meredith is missing, but her wealthy American mother is holding something back. I can feel it. I think she might be more open with you."

"But I'm not a policeman!" Jill reached for a flaky croissant, suddenly feeling ravenous. Marc was always so hard to predict! She'd been waiting for him to say he wanted her to lay low and relax at his aunt's place for a few days. That might not be so bad. But Jill was quite determined to dig in her heels and resist his commands if he tried to pack her off to the country again.

"I know you're not a policeman," Marc acknowledged. He squeezed her knee beneath the table. "That's why you're the only person I can trust."

"Huh?" Jill felt her tummy turn flips as Marc patted her knee.

"You're the one person who can get close to Mabel," Marc told her. Under the table, he parted the folds of her robe. "You have a good heart, Jill. You feel it deep down when others are hurt. People sense that."

"What I sense is that you're trying to manipulate me," Jill snapped. She looked at him sharply. "If you want my help, just ask for it. Don't try to bribe me with free coffee and cheap sex!"

"I don't want your help. I need it." Marc didn't back off. His strong, gently knowing fingers began to caress her tenderly and intimately. "I need you, Jill. Tell Mabel about your vanished uncle, and the unfair tactics of the stupid Paris police. Tell her how we've falsely accused an innocent man and bungled the search for the missing jewels!"

"I never said all that," Jill protested. Her cheeks were flushed. "Marc, you said last night you didn't want . . . didn't want . . ."

"Didn't want to make love to you," Marc smoothly finished for her. He was deep inside her now, his fingers slippery in her wetness. "It's true. I want you too much, Jill. I'm afraid of blowing the case. Afraid that if we go back to the way we were, I'll forget all about justice and give in to you completely. Just like before."

"Oh, Marc!" Tears welled up in Jill's velvet-brown eyes. She hated the way Marc took over and guided her to the edge. She hated how easy it was to let him take control. It was like being a slave. But it wasn't one-sided, a sly voice in the back of her mind insisted. He wanted her too. He wanted her too much. Once before Marc had set aside the law to please her, and because of that a boy named Daoud was dead.

"Do this for me, Jill," Marc coaxed, his voice raw and pleading. "Give me what I need, and then we can both have what we want."

"Marc! Oh, Marc, you bastard!" Jill hated the way he made her almost come, and then pulled away at the last possible moment. It left her weak and trembling, and powerless.

And wanting him more desperately than ever.