Honest illusions(BookZZ.org) (19 page)

She looked first for a weapon, a plank, a rock, a piece of metal. In the end she settled for the lid of a

garbage can and, hefting it, advanced on the fight.

It took her only a moment to see that Luke didn’t need her help. He was straddling Sam now and methodically, mercilessly, pounding his fists into Sam’s face.

“That’s enough now.” She tossed the lid aside to use both hands on Luke’s pumping arms. “You’ve got to stop. We’ll get in trouble if you kill him.” She had to get down so that Luke’s fierce eyes could meet hers. “Luke, Daddy wouldn’t want you to hurt your hands.”

Something about the cool, logical tone had him looking down. His knuckles were bruised and raw and bloody. He had to laugh. “Right.” But he touched one of those bleeding hands to her face. He’d been furious about Annabelle, but that was nothing, nothing compared with what he’d felt when he’d seen Roxanne on the ground and Sam looming over her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I was going to go for his balls, but thanks for beating him up for me.”

“No problem, I enjoyed it. Go pick up your bookbag. Wait for me on the sidewalk.”

“You’re not going to hit him again, are you?” She glanced down dispassionately into Sam’s battered face. Unless she missed her guess, his nose was broken, and he’d lose a couple of teeth.

“No.” He jerked his head toward the mouth of the alley. “Go on, Rox. Wait for me.”

With one last glance at Sam, she turned and walked away.

“I could kill you for touching her.” Luke leaned down close. “You come near her or any of my family again, and I will kill you.”

Sam struggled onto his elbows when Luke rose. His face was on fire, his body felt as though it had been hit by a truck. No one, no one, had ever hurt him before.

“I’ll pay you back.” His voice was a croak that made Luke’s brow lift in derision.

“You can try. Free lesson, Wyatt, quit while you’re able to walk away. Next time I’ll break more than your nose.”

When Luke left him, Sam curled up in a ball to try to stop the pain. But it ate through him, tangling with the hate. One day, he promised himself as he wept and dragged himself to his feet. One day, they’d all pay for hurting him.

11

Paris, 1982

“I’m not a child anymore.” Roxanne’s temper was up. It snapped in her voice, sizzled in her eyes as she whirled from her view of Paris in the spring.

“I’m aware of that.” In deliberate contrast, Max’s tone was mild. He seemed completely unaffected by his daughter’s fury as he added a dash of cream to his strong French coffee. The years had turned his

hair to a gleaming pewter.

“I have a right to go with you, a right to be a part of it.”

Max spread butter generously on his croissant, nibbled, then dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “No,”

he said, smiled sweetly and continued to eat.

She could have screamed. God knew she wanted to—scream and rant and rave. And that sort of behavior would hardly convince her father that she was a competent adult, ready to assume her place in his business.

The parlor of their suite at the Ritz was beautifully appointed, sumptuous in comfort. In her flowing silk robe splashed with vivid flowers, the discreet emeralds winking at her ears, the intricate French braid spilling down her back, she looked as though she belonged there.

But Roxanne’s heart and soul longed for dark alleys, sooty rooftops. The blood that pumped through her veins under that lily-soft skin was the blood of a thief. She only needed to convince her father it was time for her debut.

“Daddy . . .” She topped off his coffee, giving him another engaging smile. “I understand you only want to protect me.”

“A parent’s most important job.”

“And I love you for it. But you have to let me grow up.” He looked at her then. Though his lips remained curved, his eyes were unbearably sad. “All the magic at my disposal couldn’t have stopped you from that.”

“I’m ready.” She took advantage of his long sigh, cupping his hand in hers, leaning forward. Her eyes were soft again, her smile persuasive. “I’ve been ready. I’m every bit as good as Luke—”

“You have no idea how good Luke is.” Max patted her hand and went back to his breakfast. How often had they had this discussion? he wondered, since she had announced at the tender age of fourteen that she was ready to join his after-hours show? He’d had no idea she’d even known what he did when the spotlights dimmed and the crowds went home.

Roxanne’s eyes iced over. Max nearly chuckled. Such was a woman’s magic, he thought. “However good he is,” she said, “I can be better.”

“It’s not a competition, my love.”

He was wrong there, Roxanne mused as she sprang up to pace the room again. It had been a competition, a fierce one, for years. “It’s because I’m not a man.” There was bitterness in every syllable.

“That has nothing to do with it. I take some pride in considering myself a feminist.” Max sighed again, pushing his plate aside. “You’re too young, Roxy.”

That was the wrong button to push. Outraged, she spun around. “I’m nearly eighteen. How old was he when you took him with you the first time?”

“Years older,” Max murmured. “Inside. Roxanne, I want you to go to college, learn the things I can’t

teach you. Discover yourself.”

“I know who I am.” Her head came up, her shoulders straightened. Max saw a glimpse of the woman she would be. The pride burned so hot and fast it caused his eyes to swim. “You’ve taught me everything I need to know.”

“Not nearly enough,” Max said quietly. “Lily and I have kept you close, perhaps too close, because we couldn’t bear to do otherwise. We only want you to take a step away, on your own. If you come back, I’ll be content it’s right for you.”

“What about what I want?” she demanded. “I want to be there when you go to Chaumet, when you open the safe. I want to know what it feels like to stand in the dark and hold the Azzedine diamonds in my hands.”

Max understood, only too well. He could regret that he’d told her about the jewels, their history, their spectacular beauty and the mystique that went along with the glittery stones. But there was little room for regret in his life.

“Your day will come, if it’s meant to. But not this time.”

“Damn it, I want—”

“Your wants have to wait.” His tone was flat and final. Only he knew how relieved he was when the knock on the door interrupted them. He gestured for Roxanne to answer it and went back to his coffee.

She managed to fight her fury back, to open the door with a pleasant smile on her face. It faded immediately when she saw Luke. The look she aimed at him was sharp enough to cut bone.

“Got turned down, did you?” He grinned, tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled past her. The teasing, feminine scent of her perfume kindled an instant fire in his blood. He’d learned he couldn’t ignore it, but he could keep her from seeing his reaction to her, and making him pay for it.

“Max.” He poked through the silver basket of pastries and helped himself. “I thought you’d want to know, the rest of the equipment finally arrived.”

“Ah, at last.” With a nod he gestured for Luke to sit. “Have some coffee. I’ll go check it myself. You can keep Roxanne company.”

Damned if he wanted to be alone with her. It was hard enough in the day-to-day order of things. But he knew, he damn well knew, she was wearing nothing under that robe. “I’ll go with you.”

He was half out of his chair when Max stood and pushed him down again. “No need. Mouse and I can make sure everything’s in order. We should be able to rehearse this afternoon.” He moved to the mirror to straighten his tie and brush at his moustache.

Didn’t they realize the sparks they set off each other? Max wondered. An innocent bystander could go up in flames. Youth, he thought with a sigh and a smile. In the mirror, he could see their reflections, both of them tensed as alley cats with most of the room between them.

“If Lily wakes soon, tell her to enjoy her morning. We’ll meet at La Palace at two.” He crossed over to kiss his daughter’s cheek.
“Au revoir, ma belle.”

“We’re not finished with this.”

“Two o’clock,” he said. “Meanwhile you two should go out, take a walk in the Paris sunshine.”

The minute the door closed behind her father, Roxanne rounded on Luke. “I’m not going to be left behind this time.”

“It’s not up to me.”

She marched to the table where he sat, slapped her palms down on the linen cloth hard enough to make the china rattle. “And if it were?”

He looked her square in the eyes. He could have strangled her for becoming so beautiful. And she’d done it slowly, insidiously over the last few years, sneaking up on him like a thief to steal his breath away with a look. “I’d do exactly what Max is doing.”

That hurt. She sucked in her breath on the sharp pain of betrayal. “Why?”

“Because you’re not ready yet.”

“How do you know?” She tossed her head back. The light through the windows shivered over her hair and turned it to flame. Luke was afraid she’d read the passion in his eyes. “How do you know what I’m ready for?”

It was a direct challenge. Much too direct. His palms dampened. “Heisting jewels from the Trimalda villa’s a far cry from scamming tourists with the Cups and Balls, Rox.” Needing a prop, he picked up his coffee. Years of training kept his hand steady. He could make her angry, he knew. It was best. As long as she was angry he could keep his hands off her. He hoped.

“I’m every bit as good as you, Callahan. You didn’t even know how to riffle a deck until I taught you.”

“It must be tough to know you’ve been outreached.”

Her skin went ice-white then flushed deeper than the roses on the table between them. She straightened, and to his misery, Luke saw every curve of her body beneath the robe. “You witless bastard. You couldn’t outreach me if you were standing on stilts.”

He only smiled. “Who got the most press the last gig in New York?”

“An idiot who has himself chained in a trunk and gets tossed in the East River is bound to get press.”

How she hated the fact that the escapes he’d gravitated to were spectacular. Every time he’d lock himself into another box, she was torn in two parts—one thrilled by his skill and his daring, the other disgusted by it.

“I got the press for getting out,” he reminded her, and took out one of the French cigars he’d developed a fondness for. “For being the best.” He flicked on his lighter and puffed smoke from the cigar. “You should be content with your pretty illusions, Rox, your pretty boyfriends—” All of which he’d like to murder. “Leave the dangerous work to those of us who can handle it.”

She was quick. He’d always admired that in her. He barely had time to shoot up a hand and catch her

fist before it plowed into his nose. Still gripping her curled fingers, he rose. They were face to face now, bodies almost brushing.

She felt a tingle skitter along her spine. A yearning bloomed inside like a flame she’d never been able to stamp out. She wanted to hate him for it.

“Watch your step.” The warning was quiet, telling her she’d managed to fan the fires of his temper if nothing else.

“If you think I’m afraid you’ll hit me back—”

He shocked them both by catching her chin in tensed fingers, holding her face close. Her lips parted as much in surprise as anticipation. Her mind went blessedly blank.

“I could do worse.” He ground the words out. They tasted like glass in his throat. “And we’d both pay for it.”

He shoved her away before he did something he’d never forgive himself for. As he strode to the door, he tossed back a clipped order. “Two o’clock. In costume.” And slammed the door behind him.

When she realized her knees were shaking, Roxanne lowered herself into a chair. After several deep breaths, she rubbed a hand along her throat until she could swallow over the obstruction lodged there.

For an instant, just a flashing instant, he’d looked at her as though he realized she was a woman. A woman he could want. A woman he did want.

On another shaky breath, she shook her head. That was ridiculous. He’d never thought of her as anything but a necessary nuisance. And she didn’t care. She’d long ago gotten over that silly childish crush.

She wasn’t interested in men anyway. She had bigger plans.

Damn if she was going to wait through four years of college before she implemented them. Her lips firmed. Damn if she was going to wait another week.

It was time to flesh out the idea that had been brewing in her mind. Past time. Smiling to herself, she brought her long legs up, crossed them and casually reached for the cigar Luke had left burning. She sat back, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. And plotted.

Luke could only thank God he had so much on his mind. Between preparing for the gig at La Palace and the job at Chaumet, he didn’t have time to dwell on Roxanne.

Except at three A.M., when he’d awake in the cold sweat of frustration from dreams of her. Incredibly clear, incredibly provocative dreams of that long, white body wrapped around his. Of that glorious hair spread over a patch of dewy green grass in some secluded glade. Of those witchy eyes, clouded with passion.

If there was a hell, Luke was certain he would burn for those dreams alone. He’d been raised with her, for Christ’s sake, and was the closest thing to a brother she had. The only thing keeping her safe from him was the idea he’d fixed in his head that doing what he wanted to do would be a kind of spiritual

incest.

And the certainty that she would laugh at him, that the laugh would rake him clean to the bone, if he let his feelings show.

He had to get out, he realized when he’d paced the length and width of the room a dozen times. A nice long walk before dinner, a stroll in the Parisian twilight. He grabbed his black leather bomber jacket and paused in front of the mirror long enough to run fingers through his hair.

He didn’t notice the changes in himself over the years. So much was the same. His hair was still dark, still thick, still worn dramatically long to curl over his collar, or to be caught in a queue. His eyes were still blue, and the length of his sooty lashes had ceased to embarrass him. He’d learned that his poetically good looks could charm women who put stock in such things. His skin remained smooth, with long bones pressed taut against it. Once in his teens he’d grown a moustache, but it hadn’t suited him. Now his mouth was unadorned.