The Sapphire Affair (Jewel #1)

The door creaked shut, leading him to the empty foyer of the tiny building. A row of rusty, once-coppery mailboxes lined the wall, with surnames like Durand and Fournier. Circulars and envelopes lay untouched on the stone floor, having been spit up by too-full boxes. Probably meant the building drew transients. Judging from the dilapidated state of it, that was a good bet. Jake peered up the curving staircase and took the first step, expecting it to groan—not from him, though he was certainly a sturdy, solid man, but from the weight of years. This building had seen a handful of centuries and could probably whisper tales of horse-drawn carriages and blood in the street from the French Revolution.

Watching both his back and the path up, he climbed the steps that were so timeworn they had dips and grooves in them. When he reached the second floor flat that he’d tracked down as the most likely location for the treasure he sought, he stood flush to the wall. From that angle, he had a read on the hallway, the stairs, and the door to the flat. Scanning the surroundings once more for prying eyes or ambushes, he was satisfied he wasn’t being watched. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for a cough, a bit of chitchat, any signs of activity.

If the guys were inside the flat, he’d have to improvise. But hell, that was his stock-in-trade. In this line of work, you had to be ready to make it up as you went along. For now, the coast appeared clear. After rapping his knuckles twice on the door just in case, he waited.

Nothing but silence rang in his ears. He surveyed the cramped hallway once more. All was quiet. He removed that handy-dandy lock-picking kit from the back pocket of his jeans, quickly worked open the old French lock, and slipped inside the thimble-size studio apartment. He gagged, covering his mouth with the neck of his gray pullover. The garbage strike in Paris took no prisoners in this home. It reeked of rotten fruit, moldy bread, and unwashed laundry.

He shook his head in disgust. Fucking pigs.

Lowering the neck of his shirt, he did his best to breathe through his mouth as he riffled through a few cupboards and drawers, then spied under the couch.

Nothing but papers, dust bunnies, and bottle caps.

Where could it be? He turned in a tight circle, hunting for nooks, crannies, and hiding places, when he noticed a small bureau in the corner. Clothes were piled high on top of it. Something about the bureau called out to him. Whispered what it might hold inside. His fingertips tingled. He kneeled down, cracked open its doors, and nearly pumped a fist in victory when he spotted the prize.

A gorgeous, glorious Stradivarius.

With a new, long, and unsightly scratch down the body. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Bastards didn’t even treat something this precious with care.

Reaching for it from amid a mountain of dirty clothes, he gently grasped the neck of the instrument in one hand. Unzipping his backpack, he removed the violin case he’d brought with him, because a goddamn Strad needed to be carried in a padded home. He tucked the rare instrument inside, closed the case, and slid it inside the large backpack. The violin was safe and shielded, and only if you looked closely could you make out the shape of the case pressing against the nylon of the pack, the end of the neck stretching the top.

So be it. No one would get that close to him. That’s how he rolled.

Then he heard the sound of voices floating through the window from the courtyard below. Speaking French, but with an Irish accent.

His pulse spiked.

Yup. Don’t trust easy. Someone was always lurking around a corner.

Adrenaline surged in him, his veins pumping with the thrill of getting the hell out of Dodge with the prize. He closed the door on the bureau, crossed the five feet in the tiny apartment to the front door, and exited, shutting the door behind him. He adjusted the straps of his pack so the bag hung low on his back. As he headed down the stairs, he grabbed a pair of shades from the front pocket and covered his eyes. Just an average guy, visiting friends in this building. Nothing more, nothing less. When he reached the entryway, he strolled straight past the two men as if it were business as usual.

“Nothing but bills,” one of them muttered with disdain, grabbing some envelopes from the mailboxes. Their backs were to him.

Hell of a time to be checking the mail. Some might call that a lucky break. Jake certainly did.

He reined in a grin as he made it to the courtyard without them noticing, or seemingly caring about the unknown American in their building, who was walking at an angle to shield the outline of the million-dollar instrument’s home. He exhaled, his breath leaving a faint imprint on the chilly air. The men were in his rearview mirror now, probably trudging their way upstairs, where it would take them a few minutes to realize what was missing from their mess.

Served ’em right.

A few minutes was all he needed. A few minutes gave him plenty of time and space and distance. He hoofed it across the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the street ahead, when his boot hit a wet stone.

Squeak.

Like a goddamn burglar alarm.

He winced in frustration from the louder-than-hell sound the sole of his shoe had made. Damn rain.

So much for those minutes he’d been betting on.

The men spun around. One peered at him, narrowed his eyes, then pointed at his back, speaking French in an Irish brogue.

Ah, hell. Guy must have spotted the shape of the instrument.