Hunt Me (Love Thieves #3) (18 page)

Lady Hardwicke was in London. She’d flown home after the funeral—and a stop in Thailand, apparently. His stomach churned, and a burning sensation crept up through his chest. He took another swallow of the wine. His ulcer seemed to be acting up. He’d gained nothing from going after her, but teaching her to stay out of his business was a lesson she needed to learn. A cough surprised him, and he covered his mouth with a cloth napkin.

Another swig of wine and a second round of coughing as the burn in his stomach turned into a fire in his chest. He stared at the napkin as he lowered it.

Blood covered the cloth.

A fist wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He coughed again and pitched out of the chair, pulling the table with him. Shouts came from the waitstaff, but the noise faded as the pain in his chest became unbearable and the light winked out.

Jarod wrapped the white coat around the bottle of wine and tucked both into a backpack. He slid his arms through the straps and knelt to tie his sneaker. A mixed playlist of symphony and hard rock played via his earbuds while he strolled to the bike rack to get the twelve-speed he’d locked up before entering the restaurant. The Paris streets hummed with activity in the midafternoon.

The phone in his pocket vibrated, and he tugged it out and scanned the text message. After a week with his parents and a couple of side trips, he’d sent Kit home to London while he paused to deal with duMonde. He had left a book in her bag—a racy historical which had caught her eye at the airport—with a message in it. He knew she’d ferret out the story from his parents, and his mother had showed her exactly how to read hidden messages.

So, he left a proposal for her in code.

The text was her answer.

Yes.

He laughed when the phone buzzed with a second text message.

Ten-eleven, my point. Did you seriously think I wouldn’t find the ring in my own jewelry box?

He sent back
Twelve-eleven—it’s only the engagement ring.

Dad was right—this was how one defined success.

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Catch Me
by Heather Long

Chapter One

The rope would hold. Her timing ran perfectly even under the clock for the bag, tag, and replace. High above, the ambassador’s guests celebrated the New Year’s Eve ball. Orchestra music penetrated the reinforced shaft walls. Hovering five feet above the pressure-sensitive floor of the ambassador’s private vault, Anya Swift—recovery agent extraordinaire—flipped on the rope, tightening her abdominals so she hung upright rather than upside down.

The change in position made the ascent easier and reduced the chance of nausea. Excitement skittered through her belly as she shimmied up the rope. The sweet scent of the vanilla lotion she’d applied earlier mingled with the saltier tang of sweat.

Hush.

Never get too excited before a job finishes.
Her butterflies would have to stay in their cocoons until the
Fortunate Buddha
could be returned to where he belonged. Five minutes before her absence at the party could become an issue. Clearing security as a disheveled guest might be overlooked; clearing security after a prolonged absence with a valuable stolen object in her possession invited trouble. One did not tempt the hands of fate, for fate possessed a mean right hook.

The weight of the idol pressed along her spine. Crafted of gold, the religious icon wore a ruby solitaire in its belly button. The value of the
Fortunate Buddha
lay not in precious stones or metals, but the legend of good luck it brought to temple visitors who prayed while rubbing its ruby-studded belly. True or not, her job meant retrieving the Buddha from the hands of the thieves who’d removed it from the Taiwanese temple.

I am so taking next week to spend time working on my tan.

The inane thought might seem out of place under more ordinary circumstances
,
but the inane kept her sane. The strong, tensile cord coiled into a compartment in her belt as she ascended. If not for the sound sensors, she’d whistle.

I can work on my tan, eat at the cafes on St. Ville Riches, and maybe even read Mom’s last manuscript. I told her I would read it last week, but it was Moscow and then Tel Aviv and then Morocco and, silly me, I left it at home. I am so….

The fuel spurring her absurd thoughts sputtered out on an empty tank of shock. Halfway up the shaft, strung between the hatch and a hard place, she stared right into the lens of a slender, flat cam pressed into the wall. Casual surveillance would call it a rivet in the structure, but, up close, the lens glowed with a faint red light.

An undocumented camera.

In the vault.

Staring right at her.

Anya considered her options. Slide down the rope and return the
Buddha
—accepting failure for her assignment—or continue up and leave the party as swiftly as possible. Her watch vibrated a warning. The loop on the security cameras lasted forty-five seconds. Not enough time to descend, replace, and ascend again.

The red light stared at her unblinkingly.

I am so screwed.

She could spare just five seconds for the mental debate. The memory of Max’s familiar face drifted across her mind’s eye. She’d seen him at the party earlier, but she came to Morocco for a job, not a flirt. Now she would have to combine both.

She continued her ascent, barely clearing the access hatch and closing it with the borrowed code before her watch signaled the loop ended. Every camera below recorded live once more.

Ready or not, Max. Here I come.

Max took another pass around the dance floor with Roberta, a woman who smelled too heavily of sweet caramel and summer apples. Worse, she wore the scent his mother favored, most likely purchased after researching him. He’d seen her too often at his parents’ recent schedule of events to consider it a coincidence.

The scent transported him to his childhood, hot parties, uncomfortable suits and his mother’s soft recriminations when he failed to behave. Fond memories, some of them, but hardly seductive, and he had no desire to associate them with this vapid partner. So, he kept his arms loose, but his frame locked, preventing the voluptuous breasts desperately trying to escape his partner’s sequined V-neck from pressing against him.

“New York, London, and, of course, Milan. You have homes in all three, yes?”

“Hmm.” The situation required only noncommittal answers.

“I thought so. I will be traveling with the show, but we are allowed additional days in each city as needed. The menswear debuts are always ahead of the ladies. I know the best designers, and I could help with any selection process.”

Too conditioned to let his boredom hang on his sleeve, Max tilted his head to the side. The gesture urged her to continue.

“Of course, if fashion isn’t what appeals to you, the parties are divine. Valentina throws a gala in New York and Milan, but she usually gives London a pass. The masquerade in Milan is the greatest event of the season. I think we could make a striking couple, my light to your dark; of course, we’d have to work on the color coordination. I do not look good in purples or greens, I prefer the deeper blues—a sea theme, it has appeal, yes? Like your home in Majorca?”

He nodded his head absently. Roberta’s conversation weighed on him, as did her careless attempts to entice him with her lowered voice. Even with the wall of glass doors turned out to the crisp desert air beyond, the great ballroom combined a sultry mix of foreign dignitaries, under-dressed celebutantes, the bedazzled and over-pedigreed nobles, and just the right amount of
nouveau riche
. Not that he wasn’t just as pedigreed as all the other bluebloods present, more so than some.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He wasn’t sure how he let himself get dragged into these events. He spared a glance at his dance partner, who seemed to think she’d said something amusing. The first-born son of Lady Amanda Prentiss and French financier Jacques Sauvage, he was used to the insipid attempts to engage him on and off the dance floor. His partner continued to prattle on in bastardized French tinged heavy with a New England accent.

Then
she
appeared, her perfectly toned body sheathed in a black silk dress. He shut out the sound of his dance partner’s voice and studied the captivating woman across the room. The slit in her dress played peek-a-boo with a length of bare, tanned leg. The red heels were nearly his undoing, a riot of color like a whisper of provocative promises.

Anya.

“Max?”

“Hmm?” A perfunctory response to her use of his name.

“You’re not listening to me.”

“I heard all about Milan, Paris, and New York. Fashion does not interest me, I’m afraid,
chérie
.” High fashion certainly held no fascination for him, but his palms itched to follow the sway of Anya’s hips beneath the sheath. The sheen of boredom dulling his evening ripped away, and victory dangled her like a succulent fruit, ripe for the plucking. His lips curled into a deeper smile as she hunted the room, passing him briefly before returning. The connection sizzled along his nerves.

He met her smoky gaze with frank appreciation and barely checked the urge to beckon the nymph in her sexy-as-sin black dress with tousled hair piled into an artful display. She looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. He nearly groaned at the image because he’d love to roll her right into that bed once more.

“Do you know her?” Roberta’s tone climbed, a thin wire of high-pitched annoyance vibrating beneath the words.

“Our paths have crossed from time to time.”
She’s the one who always gets away, the one who haunts my dreams.

“Time to time?” Roberta’s nails dug into his shoulders, but he barely felt them. Only years of relentless drills about manners and decorum kept him from shrugging her off. “I think your eyes say much different.”

“Roberta, you are a sweet woman when the mood strikes you, but let’s not pretend it’s more, hmm?
Excusez moi, s’il vous plait
,” he murmured, releasing her and patting her hand before abandoning his dance partner without a backward glance.

Prague, Four Years Earlier

The meetings were dry, boring, and populated with one too many self-proclaimed security experts. Max wasn’t even sure why he’d agreed to the meetings in the first place, except Pietr had volunteered him for the task.

Pietr, his cousin and a consummate troublemaker, had probably lost a bet and ponied Max up as a way of paying it off. After a long day of meetings, Prague’s fogged-in airport had stranded him. A wide variety of foreigners populated the private lounge.

The Prague Conference involved a large number of security firms competing for bids at the best corporate computer security jobs. He had declined to bid on any one contract, a fact that failed to discourage any of the authors of the five thick proposals cluttering his briefcase. Corporate security never lacked for wordiness. He contemplated a second bourbon when the crowd thinned enough to reveal her, sitting at the other end of the bar. The black silk skirt hugged her curves when it wasn’t parting to give him a wild glimpse of long legs.

Her body caught his attention, but the wide, full-lipped smile she bestowed on the bartender punched him in the solar plexus. As if aware of his scrutiny, she tossed a glance his way, one eyebrow lifting in inquiry.

It might not have been an invitation, but Max wasn’t about to let the window of opportunity slide shut. He abandoned his perch to circle the bar, loosening his tie with one hand and wishing he’d dumped the briefcase with his pilot.

“Dobré odpoledne.” He didn’t let a little thing like broken Czech be a barrier to a beautiful woman.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak the language.” Her low, throaty voice carried a distinctly American lilt.

He grinned. “May I buy you a drink?”

Anya resisted the urge to fidget. The ballroom population consisted of a cabal of fashion that belonged on
The Bold and the Botoxed
.

The last place she wanted to be.

Making it exactly where she needed to be. Her mother had often insisted on creating what she called plastic pearls of wisdom or as Anya dubbed them “playful platitudes” to placate the recalcitrant. Who knew Mom, the librarian, could get it so right?

Sorry, Mom
, she offered up in silent apology.
But I need the real thing at the moment, not the plastic kind
.