To Steal A Heart (Secrets and Spies #1)

Chapter 1.

Paris, June 1815.

A thief. With a parasol. On a tightrope.
Even in his strange world, it was a first.
Nicolas Valette drew his evening cloak around him, crossed his arms, and smiled into the darkness. Mademoiselle Marianne Bonnard was proving to be everything he’d been promised, and more.
He watched in amusement as she opened the window across from his office, climbed over the balustrade, and settled the tips of her toes on the narrow stone ledge. She turned, extended her arms out to the side, and took a cautious step onto the wire suspended across the street. The lamp attached to the cable swayed. Shards of light bounced drunkenly over the cobbles below.
She’d chosen a perfect night for thieving. The Seine rippled a dull, gunmetal gray in the moonlight, and a concealing mist snaked low over the dirty water, blanketing the faint, fetid odor of refuse and rotten fish. Notre Dame lay behind her, Pont Royal to her left, though it was called Pont de L’égalité nowadays. Everything had a different name since the Revolution. Including the woman in front of him.
Nic shook his head at the incongruous sight she presented, clutching that small black umbrella in one delicate hand—the same parasol she used for her performances at the Cirque Olympique.
She’d just reached the halfway point when a shout broke the silence. Nic held his breath, despite the fact that he’d seen her perform this trick countless times without falling. The parasol dipped but she kept her balance, as sinuous and graceful as a cat.
It was only two late-night revelers staggering home to their beds. They weaved along the street, far too drunk to notice the slim figure wavering above their heads.
Nic’s nerve endings hummed with a delicious prickle of anticipation as she closed the gap between them. At the circus she wore a flamboyant pink-frilled corset that made her look like a silk-encased bonbon just waiting to be unwrapped. Tonight she wore black, tight-fitting garments that outlined the contours of her lithe body.
The only inconsistency was her footwear: dainty, pale pink ballet slippers tied at the ankles with silk ribbons. Hardly the usual hallmarks of a hardened criminal. But criminal she undoubtedly was. Nic tilted his head, intrigued by the contradiction she presented, and waited.
When she was within arm’s reach of the window, he uncurled himself from the shadows, swung open the glass, and savored her gasp of dismay.
“Good evening, chérie.” He leaned forward and offered her his hand, enjoying the expression of dawning horror on her piquant little face. “Or should I say good morning?”

Chapter 2.

Merde!
Marianne’s knees buckled, and the wire lurched in response. She seesawed her arms, managed to right herself, and stared at the apparition in front of her with undisguised horror.
Nicolas Valette.
Her quarry. Her target. Her very worst nightmare.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
His reputation among the criminal underworld was legendary, his name breathed in hushed whispers by those who assiduously tried to avoid his notice. One of Fouché’s most trusted agents, he was rumored to be as powerful and as omnipotent as his master. And as dangerous when crossed.
Her breath came hard and fast, shallow pants of fright in the chill night air. Dieu! He’d send her to prison, or worse, and there’d be no one to take care of Sophie. How could she have been so stupid?
She couldn’t turn on the wire without falling. She glanced down at the cobbles twenty feet below. Too high to jump. She’d break her neck. Even if she survived, she couldn’t risk an injury. She had her parasol, but with her luck, if she tried to hit him, she’d probably just fall and dash her brains out on the street. The only choice was that outstretched hand.
She didn’t want to touch it. It was a beautiful hand—strong and elegant. But it was the hand of the enemy.
Marianne raised her eyes. He was in evening dress: an immaculate black jacket that molded to his broad chest and shoulders like a second skin. He probably needed three valets just to get him into it. Expensive white lace glowed at his throat and wrists, and his midnight-black hair was slicked back to reveal a wicked, clever face with arched black brows and a thin, straight nose. A faint, mocking smile curled the corners of his mouth.
She edged backward.
Valette folded his arms and leaned one shoulder negligently against the window frame. “I can wait here all night. Can you?”
His voice was low and intimate. It brushed against her nerve endings like a silk scarf dragging across her skin. Speech was impossible. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She concentrated on balancing instead.
He tilted his head to one side and studied her. “So, what’s one of Duval’s little lackeys doing sneaking into my lair?”
That stung. She was nobody’s lackey. Well, she was, but she didn’t need reminding.
“Did he send you here to steal?”
Marianne shook her head, though the movement made her teeter even more. He raised a brow. His eyes bored into hers, full of wood smoke and shadows, and she had the unnerving thought that he was reading her soul.
“Strangely enough, I believe you,” he said finally. “So if you’re not here to take anything, you must have been sent here to leave something.” It was a statement, not a question. He extended his hand again and flicked his fingers imperiously. “Hand it over.”
Marianne finally found her voice. “Hand what over?”
“Whatever you’ve been sent here to plant.” He waited, infinitely patient, a spider at the center of his web.
Her face heated with guilt. She pressed her lips together.
Valette sighed at her stubbornness. “What’s Duval up to? And why such extraordinary lengths to deliver it to me? Why not a simple foot messenger? Not that I don’t appreciate your skills, mademoiselle . . . ?” He let the end of the sentence trail off invitingly.
It was her turn to raise her brows. “You’re one of France’s greatest spies, monsieur. I’m sure you already know my name.”
A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. Marianne wished it wasn’t so distracting. It was hard enough to stay upright as it was.
“You’re right, of course, Mademoiselle Bonnard. I know far more than just your name.”
A chill ran down her back. The wire gave a corresponding wobble, and she had to take a few steps toward the window to avoid falling. Valette’s hand was still there. Beckoning. Tempting.
“Come on. Take it. I won’t hurt you.”
What a lie. Of course he would hurt her. She knew men like him. He’d be as bad as Duval, in his own way. Oh, he might not be so heavy-handed; no doubt he used subtler methods to extract the information he wanted from people. But he would hurt her, all the same. Still, what other choice did she have?
With a sigh of defeat, she took his hand. A jolt rushed through her at the contact, like faint lightning. She gasped, but if he felt it, too, he made no sign. He just hauled her inelegantly over the stone parapet, through the open window, and into the shadowed room beyond.
In the circus ring she’d been bathed in dramatic candlelight. Here, faint slivers of moonlight crept through the shutters and caught her high cheekbones and startled eyes. She was even prettier close up, Nic realized with a start, despite glaring at him like she was putting a curse on him.
He couldn’t resist the temptation. He gave her arm a deliberately hard tug. She fell against his chest with a satisfying little “oomph” and dropped her parasol. He used her momentary imbalance to search her, slipping his fingers under her shirt to brush the warm skin of her lower back. He found a knife in her waistband and tossed it aside, then snatched the sheaf of papers she’d hidden there, too.
She gave a gasp of outrage and tried to grab them, but he held them up, out of reach. He caught a tantalizing hint of her perfume, the briefest imprint of her body against his, before she pushed herself away and stumbled backward as if burned.
He let her go, regretting the loss of contact. She’d probably slice his hand off if he tried to touch her again. He’d bet she had more than one knife hidden on that delectable body. The top of her head might barely reach his shoulder, but she could take care of herself. He had a file on her an inch thick in his desk to prove it. She was a neat, lethal, little package.
Satisfaction burned through him. Duval’s package. And now his.
Keeping her would be like trying to tame a snake: exciting—and potentially deadly. But hell, he loved a challenge. Life had lost its luster a long time ago; the promise of danger was all that kept him going. That, and revenge.

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