ItTakesaThief (15 page)

Chapter Ten

“Shit,” Agent George Fox muttered under his breath.
What
the fuck is Tiffany Cartierri doing in Medellin?
He raised his newspaper
and shrank into himself, cursing his lapse of caution. He should be sitting
inside the cafe, not basking in the sun like some rank amateur. On the other
hand, had he been inside he would have missed seeing Cherub, trailing along
like a puppy on a lead behind Reynard’s prime suspect. How had Tiffany Cartierri
managed to hook up with Nick Troy, Hunter’s number one researcher? And where
the fuck was Hunter?

Somehow things had gotten out of hand. He and his silent
partner had miscalculated badly. Their carefully laid plans were starting to
unravel. Fox had not thought Tiffany Cartierri would leave London so
precipitously. Suspecting Sir James Foster kept his daughter-in-law under a
firm thumb, he had expected the girl would stay put, wring her hands and bemoan
her certain fate at the hands of newly appointed Agent-in-Charge George Fox.

When she had disappeared from London, he had expected her to
surface at one of Sir James’ country estates, one where his wife was not in
residence, of course. One where Sir James could take full advantage of the
lovely Tiffany’s distraught emotions. Recently widowed, all but accused of the
theft of the millennium, the girl would succumb to the first person who offered
her not only protection, but also emotional support. And that powerful,
supportive, protective figure would not be Charles Cartierri, the father who
barely acknowledged his daughter’s existence.

But none of that had happened. Instead, the girl had fled to
a country whose political turmoil made extradition difficult if not impossible.
A shrewd move on her part and on that of her puppet master, Sir James.

Yes! George Fox thought, scenting the kill. All he had to do
was link the girl’s escape to Sir James and his own future was assured. The
wealthy British lord could not afford the scandal of his daughter-in-law’s downfall—not
if he were involved, by fact or by innuendo, in the girl’s crimes.

Realizing his thoughts had distracted him from his quarry,
George returned his attention to Cherub and the lad’s lovely companion. Seeing
them enter a long, sleek limousine, George hastily paid his bill and raced to
his rented car.

He’d expected to find the bitch in Bogotá. He couldn’t risk
losing sight of the woman now or he might lose her completely. Again.

Chapter Eleven

The woman had not one ounce of common sense, Damian thought
as he watched Tiffany through high-powered binoculars. Dressed in white from
her impractical sandals to her cloche hat, she refused the offered coveralls
that would protect her clothing and slung one elegant leg then the other
through a tire suspended on a chain. Grinning like a cat about to devour the
proverbial canary, she waved at Nick Troy, then slowly disappeared below the
earth’s surface. But before she vanished, Damian could have sworn she called
out “Tally-ho.”

Well
, he thought, impatiently observing Nick Troy
pace all around the hole where Tiffany had dropped from sight,
go on,
Cherub. Get down there, you twit. You are supposed to guard her, you
lily-livered ninnyhammer
.

Dios mio
, he sounded like his own nanny, he thought,
wondering what madness had made him let Tiffany out of his control. Nor should
he have entrusted her to Nick’s safekeeping. Instead of charming her like he
had every female between the ages of one and one hundred, Nick obviously had
fallen victim to Tiffany’s wiles.

Damn it, they were supposed to be in Bogotá, not
gallivanting over rough and muddy roads in a bloody conspicuous limousine. What
was she looking for anyway? Why had she not simply walked into the mine like a
sane woman would? Why had that idiot Nick not gone down into Muzo with her? And
what the devil was Reynard doing tailing them?

* * * * *

As the tire began its descent into darkness, TC turned on
her flashlight and tried not to listen to the chain squeak. Her overactive
imagination got busy, conjuring pictures of the rusty chain breaking or the
worn tire falling apart.

What was she trying to prove, anyway? That she wasn’t afraid
of the dark? She was afraid of the dark, she admitted, swinging the light over
the rock walls of the mineshaft.

Fighting down her rising fear, she recited everything she’d
learned about emeralds during three intensive years of studying to become a
certified gemologist.

The name emerald came from the Greek Smaragdos or possibly
the Persian for “green stone”. Only the finest of the beryls, the most precious
being emeralds of the deepest green, were transparent. Inclusions, liquid or
gas bubbles, healing cracks and foreign crystals, were not considered faults,
but distinguished genuine emeralds from synthetic. Emeralds were brittle and
sensitive to pressure and must be treated carefully when heated. The host rock
was normally found near pegmatite veins, where the emeralds grew into small
veins or on the walls of holes like the one she was descending.

At Muzo, miners loosened the black carbonaceous limestone
with sticks and pecked out the stones by hand. Safer, somewhat, than at the
hydraulic mines, where miners and risk-seekers were accosted by armed thugs and
often shot if they refused to surrender their finds.

Muzo itself had borne the flawless cabochon emerald that was
the centerpiece of Isabella’s Belt.

So, what did she expect to find when she reached the bottom
of this endless vertical tunnel? That someone—Emilio Santana, perhaps—had
dropped the Belt down this miserable excuse for a mineshaft? That the minute
her feet touched ground, she would stumble across the Belt and re-emerge with
it clenched in her fist like a trophy?

Of course not. She simply wanted to see an emerald mine,
something she never had seen in all her travels during all the years she had
worked almost exclusively with the lovely gems.

Far above her head the chain sang in the Stygian blackness,
then fell silent. Closer to her, perhaps only inches away, she thought she
heard individual links groan as her weight forced them open.

Not wanting to see how far she would fall, she let go of the
flashlight. Above the roar of her own heartbeat, she did not hear the light
careen down the walls of the shaft.

The chain jerked. TC bit her lips to hold back a scream,
then screamed anyway.

“Stupid,” echoed back at her.

* * * * *

“Of all the stupid things you have done, this is the
stupidest,” Damian said the minute Tiffany opened her eyes.

She winced. “Don’t shout.”

“I am not shouting,” he shouted.

“I hope you didn’t not shout like this at poor Nick,” she
said, sitting up and reaching into the limousine bar to take out a club soda.
“Where is Nick?”

“Finally attending to business.”

“I see.” She stared at Ian over the rim of her glass, then
raised it in a silent toast. “Seeing to my extradition, is he?”

“No, you little fool, he is following someone. Someone who
should not be here. Someone,” he added with calculated menace, “who would not
hesitate to take you back to Paris and have you locked away for the rest of
your life.”

Setting her drink aside, she eased onto his lap and wreathed
her arms around his neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Thanking you for saving me, from the mine and from this
nameless ‘someone’ who would arrest me.”

“Do not push your luck, Tiffany darling. I am not sure I
have forgiven you yet.” Sliding his hand over her thighs, he rubbed his aching
knee where she had kicked him as he pulled her from the clutches of her
precarious perch in the tire.

“Shall I kiss it and make it better?” She feathered kisses
along his jaw and cheek, then sought his lips. Her fingers massaged his neck,
then slid into his hair, bringing a sensuous tingling to his scalp.

Grabbing her wrists, he brought her hands to his chest and
held her immobile. “What the devil are you up to now?”

Frowning, she twisted out of his grasp, then moved to the
seat facing him. “I was trying to seduce you, you jerk. And don’t you dare
laugh.”

“I would not dream of laughing at you, Tiffany darling.” He
pulled her back onto his lap and kissed the pout from her lips. “As for
seducing me, I think we can find more appropriate surroundings.”

“Nuts. I’ve never—”

“You have never what?”

“Never mind.”

“You have never made love in the backseat of an automobile.
Was that what you were going to say?” His smile made her glare.

“Tell me about this nefarious ‘someone’ Nick is following.
He isn’t dangerous, is he?”

“Not to Nick.” Forgetting about Nick, George Fox and his own
aching knee, Damian kissed her until her moans told him she, too, had forgotten
them. Too old for the kind of gymnastics backseat lovemaking required, he was
more than willing to indulge in some old-fashioned necking.

“Why isn’t this person dangerous to Nick?”

Shifting Tiffany off the evidence of his arousal, Damian
conceded he might be getting too old for backseat necking, too. “They know each
other.”

“Ian, we have to find Nick right away. Do you know how many
people are murdered by people they know?”

I know one who might be if she does not stop talking
,
he thought. “No, do you?” Banishing mayhem from his mind, he kissed her.

“No, but—”

“It is all right, Tiffany, luv. They work together.”

“That’s even worse. Maybe you don’t have a problem in
England, but in the United States—”

He kissed her again. This time she stayed quiet, except for
her sighs, which mingled with his until they sang with one voice.

The soft burr of the limousine telephone announced a call
from their chauffeur. By then Damian was beyond caring about gymnastics. If he
had to stand on his head to make love to her he would.

“Ian,” Tiffany murmured against his lips, “the phone.”

“To hell with the phone.”

“It might be Nick.”

He knew it was not, but her concern for his assistant was
like a bucket of ice water over Damian’s head. Growling, he sat up and snatched
the receiver from its cradle, then smashed it back.

“Was it Nick? Is he all right? Where—?”

“We are almost at the hotel. You might want to neaten
yourself.”

TC gasped at Ian’s icy tone. Climbing off his lap, she flung
herself into the rear-facing seat and fastened the buttons on her blouse. With
trembling hands she smoothed wisps of hair off her face and belatedly wished
she had kneed the jerk. That would have paid him back for the pain she felt
around her heart.

“I am sorry I snapped at you.”

He looked grateful he had an excuse to pull away from her.
Maybe he was afraid his cock and his conscience would wage another battle—one
he couldn’t decide which would win. But they were consenting adults and could
have sex whenever they wanted. If he wasn’t a cop, why should his conscience
bother him?

“Are you?” TC said, resolutely fastening her gaze on the
passing scenery. “You’ve been doing it a lot lately—between rescues.”

“You were not in any danger today,” Ian admitted, sounding
sheepish.

“I know that. I knew it before I started down. But when I
stopped moving, I—um—panicked.” Looking down at her hand, she twisted her new
emerald ring and wondered aloud, “Why did you buy this for me?”

“I did not buy it. The mine superintendent gave it to you
for bravery. Apparently you are the first woman who has ever attempted to go
down that shaft.”

“Really?” She looked at him and saw nothing but mischief in
his eyes. “Okay, Ian, let me have the rest of the joke.”

“And come up clean. How do you do that? Except for a smudge
on your cheek, you did not have a speck of dirt on you.”

“Dirt repellant. Every morning I spray my clothes with it.
Now you know all my secrets.”

“Not by half,” he muttered, exiting the limo, then holding
out his hand to her.

She took it and felt the familiar tingle his touch always
brought. She should stay at a safer distance, she told herself, but let him
keep her hand while they crossed the wide, elegant lobby of the Hotel Royal
Bogotá.

Prepared to surrender her passport, TC opened her handbag,
but Ian’s kiss forestalled her.

“Darling, you know I have yours with mine.” With that he
produced twin folders bound in British racing green. He handed them to the
clerk, then turned to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You will have to
trust me on this,” he muttered in a low voice, his dark eyes willing her not to
make a scene.

“I suppose I must,” she murmured and received a kiss full of
jubilant relief that left her ears buzzing. That buzzing surely accounted for
her hearing the clerk say, “Escort Señor y Señora Soria to the bridal suite.”

“Ian?”

He kissed her again, whispering, “I will explain everything
once we are upstairs. Right now, we need to get out of sight. Understand?”

“No.” But she let him tuck her hand into the crook of his
arm and lead her into the elevator that whisked them to the top floor.

They ascended in silence, Ian’s grip on her hand cautioning
her to stay quiet. The bellman opened the doors to their suite with a flourish.
Ian swept her into his arms and carried her across the threshold.

“Try to look excited, Tiffany darling,” Ian whispered in her
ear and spun them around until TC felt dizzy. “As if we are on our honeymoon.”

“Oh, Ian, darling,” she squealed, her mouth close to his
ear, “this is so beautiful.” He flinched, maintained his balance long enough to
stagger across the room, then dumped her in an ignominious heap on the couch.
“Is my sugar buns angry with his snookums?”

“Sugar buns wants to talk to snookums, as soon as sugar buns
gets rid of the nosy guy who is going through our luggage in the bedroom.”

“Didn’t you lock your suitcase?”

“No.” He kissed her briefly, then went to the partially
closed bedroom doors.

Easing off her shoes, she tiptoed across the thick carpet to
peer over Ian’s shoulder. She couldn’t see a thing, but heeded his gesture to
stay quiet. She did, however, reach around him to nudge the door open a little
wider.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, holding her hand over her
mouth to stifle her giggles.

Flushing under his tan, Ian whirled and stalked her across
the suite.

Falling backward onto the couch, TC burst out laughing. When
the bellman flashed her a puzzled look along with a toothy grin, she buried her
face in a throw pillow.

While Ian shoved a tip into the bellman’s hand and escorted
him to the door, TC made her way back to the bedroom. Shoving the doors open
wide, she gave full voice to her laughter.

“It is not that funny,” Ian groused from behind her.

“It’s hysterical and incredibly sweet. Look, Ian,” she went
on, taking his hand and pulling him along in her wake. “See how he’s nipped in
the waist on the pajama top, just as if I was wearing it. And look at how he’s
arranged the bottoms so that you’re on your side, snuggling up to me.”

“I do not wear pajamas. Especially not pink ones.” He looked
indignant that anyone—especially another man—would think him such a sissy.

“Our bellman didn’t know that. What’s wrong, Ian? Lose your
sense of humor?”

“I dislike the idea—” Raking both hands through his hair, he
strode back to the living room.

She followed. “Of what?”

“Do you want to go out to dinner or order up?”

“Oh, I think the newlyweds should order up.” She turned on
her heel and stalked to the couch. Finding a room service menu, she buried her
nose in it and studiously ignored Ian.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation for all this.”

“I find all this,” she swept the suite with her arm, “extremely
generous on your part. What do you want me to steal?”

“Steal?”

“Since I’m not working, I can’t give you money for my share
of the rent on this palace. And any other form of payment is out of the
question.”

“What the hell brought that on? Did I ask you to pay? Did I,
in any way, suggest you should pay anything?” Scowling, he strode to her side
then sat.

“Charles always says there’s no such thing as a freebie.”