The Sapphire Affair (Jewel #1)

Jake understood enough French, thanks to having lived overseas. But he didn’t need a dictionary to decipher bloody bastard. That translated in any language, and those guys wanted the violin on his back.

There was no way in hell he’d let them near it.

He’d been on the trail of the Strad for nearly a month, and had been tracking it here in Paris for a full week. He was prepped and ready to go. He’d paid a taxi driver to wait for him by the curb, so he’d be peeling away from Pigalle any second. Jake didn’t need much time to make it to the street, then to his getaway vehicle, then out of the country.

Bon fucking voyage.

He took off, hightailing it around the corner of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk, narrowly sidestepping a trio of already inebriated twentysomethings, who stumbled out of a club with red neon lights that were blinking faintly in the March afternoon. Stopping in his tracks, he scanned for the idling car.

A garbage truck was parked in the spot the cab had nabbed minutes ago, and men were dumping cans of trash in the rear of the vehicle. The cab was gone. Naturally. He’d opted for a taxi rather than a car service so there’d be no trail, no name attached. Just his luck that today of all days the garbage strike ended.

Improvise.

He raced nimbly around the drunks, hoping their wobbliness would serve as a roadblock for the guys on his trail. The sound of footsteps intensified, but he continued his assault on the sidewalk, running quickly. Outpacing enemies was second nature. He sped around the corner, darting down a quiet side street that cut across at an odd angle on the way to the edge of Montmartre. Should be easy to grab a taxi there. Slip into a cab, glide into traffic, make the getaway. No need to worry about the first cab; he’d find another, no problem.

But as he curved past a lingerie shop at the end of the block, he stopped short, coming face-to-face with the two men. Mere feet away. Of course. They knew this neighborhood better than he did.

The taller of the pair glared at Jake and bared yellowed teeth. “Give back the Strad, and you won’t get hurt,” he hissed, rolling his Rs in a way that almost made his threat sound classy, as he brandished a gleaming silver knife.

The blade, though . . . it ruined the sophisticated feel of the moment.

“In theory, that sounds like a fair deal. But I’m going to have to take a pass,” Jake said, and swiveled the other way, then flinched as cold, sharp metal dug into his forearm. Oh, that hurt like a son of a bitch, and blood spurted out from his arm. “So, the bloody bastard comment? That was literal. Well, so’s this,” he said, then jammed his elbow in the gut of the yellow-toothed guy. Briefly, Jake clenched his fist, tempted to throw a punishing punch. But even though he could easily land one or many, he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. A street brawl would only draw more attention, and right now, he needed less.

As the great Kenny Rogers said, you’ve got to know when to run.

And when to motherfucking sprint.

Six years in the army served Jake well right now as he sped away, lengthening his stride and barreling past a boisterous scarf-and-coat-wearing and espresso-sipping crowd at a café. The sounds of French chatter about work and politics, art and the news, fell on his ears, and not a single person at the café seemed to care that a man was running like a receiver for the end zone, as red leaked from his forearm.

He gritted his teeth. Damn cut smarted.

A siren blared and Jake cursed. He’d have a hell of a time explaining to the French police that he was simply retrieving a stolen item. Officer, I know it sure looks like I made off with this priceless instrument, but in reality, I was stealing it back. Yes, I’m a modern-day Robin Hood. Cops, generally speaking, weren’t the friends of men like him, men who were called when the law couldn’t or didn’t or wouldn’t help. He snapped his gaze toward the sound of the siren. Mercifully, the bleating came from a white ambulance. Well, that was good for Jake, bad for whoever was lying on the stretcher inside.

Up ahead, he spied his goal—a busy boulevard, thick with cars and green taxis. He wondered if his disappearing cabbie had come to hunt for fares here.

From behind, the men shouted at him in English as he ran. The red awning of a butcher shop came into view, and the scent of roast chicken from a rotisserie cart parked outside it drifted into his nostrils.

Smelled fantastic. His mouth watered.

If he were in a movie, he’d yank the chicken grill into the middle of the sidewalk and trip the bumbling men, who’d double over in pain as Jake took off into the sunset, leaving them in the dust while nibbling on a tasty cooked chicken. But life wasn’t a movie. It was full of risks, and it was up to him to get away with this million-dollar object and return it to his client. No return, no pay. Simple math.

He blasted by a gray-haired French woman in a tweedy skirt and knit hat pushing a shopping bag, as he muttered, “Excusez-moi.” Then, mere feet away, he spotted a jewel.

Better than an emerald. Prettier than a pile of greenbacks.