ItTakesaThief (3 page)

His gaze flicked over her before he said, his voice bland
yet rich with amusement, “Indeed.”

“I…I’m sorry,” she murmured, the apology given before he
could demand it of her.

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” Again he studied her and she fought
to remain still under his seemingly careless scrutiny. “But are you—”

“Guilty? No! Not of stealing Isabella’s Belt. Not of—”

“Arrogance? Vanity?”

She fidgeted under his suddenly stormy gaze, but refused to
lower her eyes from his. “Of those failings I am guilty, Sir James. I thought—”

“You didn’t think at all,” he said.

Defeated by his disapproval, despite its gentleness, she
hung her head. “You’re right, of course,” she muttered before turning away and
pacing to his massive desk. “I gave in to an impulse.” Of more than one kind.
“I wanted to prove to you that I…that I’m as good at security as William was.”

Heavy with approbation and remorse, the silence hung between
them. TC rearranged his desk set, then straightened the picture of Sir James,
William and her in its silver frame. They were decked out in wedding finery,
William’s mother adamantly having refused to be photographed with the newly
married couple.

The mailing tube she’d sent from Paris lay unopened on the
pristine cream and black Zebra wood surface of Sir James’ desk. If the outer
office proclaimed stability, his office oozed modernity.

Ignoring the tube, she raised her eyes to meet his
condemning look. Before she could say anything he put warm fingers over her
lips and gazed into her eyes, his own compassionate.

“Tell me everything you can about Isabella’s Belt.”

“It’s a fake,” she replied without hesitation, relieved that
he hadn’t turned the conversation to his departed guest. “Only in the historic
sense, I mean. Isabella of Castile died long before the Belt was ever heard of
in Europe. Its name was given, I suspect, because someone liked the subtle
alliteration. ‘Bella’s Belt’.”

“Yes, yes. Describe it,” Sir James commanded, his tone
surprisingly impatient.

Sensing he wanted more than physical details, TC closed her
eyes and let legend take her captive. “Fabèrgé proclaimed it barbaric, Cartier
exquisite. Gauguin, in his time, wished he could bestow it upon his models.
Lautrec tried to paint it adorning his dancers. Legend claims it cannot be
painted, that its purity and beauty can be appreciated only when worn by…”

“Go on.” Sir James’ breathing sounded harsh in the quiet
room.

“By Venus rising from the sea.”

His snort of disbelief shocked her as much as his intensity.
She eased away and took up a post by his windows. The fog seemed to thin a
little, allowing glimpses of yellow fog lights that pierced its denseness. But
she felt as if she was drowning in the mists within the warm, still room.

“Is that how they intend to display it at the Musée de
Luxembourg? Did they mold Botticelli’s Venus and hang the Belt around her
hips?”

TC cringed inwardly, but managed to keep her body still.
“No, they molded Queen Isabella instead. It was late in the day when I met the
curator to check the general security. As you know, they hadn’t opened the
exhibit yet and— Well, as you also know, I’ve been a little busy since the
theft.” Every muscle in her body tense, she waited for his disapproval. When he
remained silent, feeling as if she had gained a stay of execution, she drew a
deep breath for courage and turned to face him. “I swear to you I had nothing
to do with stealing Isabella’s Belt.”

“I believe you, Tiffany. But will Interpol?”

His sly expression startled her, evoking an involuntary gasp
of fear. Her gaze darted to the mailing tube, then back to her mentor’s face.
“Why is Interpol involved? And h-how do they even know I was in Paris?”

“Interpol is involved because the Belt might be sold to
finance drug running or terrorism. And surely you spotted the newly installed
security cameras,” he jibed. “The ones you insisted be installed even though
they only record the exhibit room and nobody monitors them. They certainly captured
you in that ridiculous fedora. Honestly, Tiffany, you should learn to dress
down when doing reconnaissance. At least remove that ghastly red feather from
your hat.”

Feeling somewhat better now that she apparently had his
support, she joined in his teasing laughter and then swept a hand over her
body. “It’s a little difficult to hide a body of this size.” What he would
think when he opened his Paris present, she didn’t want to consider.

“Or beauty,” he countered, taking her hand before pressing a
light kiss into her palm. “I am sorry about William.”

The turn in the conversation, his very unpredictability,
unsettled her. Aside from a little lighthearted flirting, the gentle bantering
of an experienced roué with a young and still basically innocent girl, his
condolence was the most intimate thing he had ever said to her. And his
stepson’s death must have affected him deeply, as well.

“He’s at peace,” she said.

“But you aren’t.”

She hadn’t realized her restlessness showed. She had
attributed her sudden longing for a permanent home and family as nothing more
than maturing. Although expected, William’s death had left her standing at a
crossroad. She raised her hand dismissively, puzzled by the weariness the
gesture revealed. She hadn’t realized she was so tired, that more than her body
needed rest.

“You need to go home,” Sir James observed, his voice seeming
to come from a great distance.

I don’t have a home
. She had never had a home, even
with William. She had lived in his house, eaten his food, entertained his guests,
but it had never been home to her. She never had felt as if she belonged there.
Admiration and respect she’d had from him, but not his love. Once, that had
been enough for her, but not anymore. God, she hated feeling maudlin!

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m more tired than I thought, that’s all. And,” her lips
twisted wryly, “I’m scared. For the first time since you hired me, the
possibility of going to jail seems real.” Once more feeling deeply, ominously
chilled, she paced to his fireplace and held out her hands. “If Interpol
suspects I’m even minimally involved…”

“No matter what happens, Tiffany, I’ll stand behind you.”

His hand on her shoulder offered warmth and comfort, but she
felt colder than ever. She barely restrained the compulsion to cringe away and
bare her teeth in feral defense against him and everything he represented.

“Ah, but will Bijoux?” she asked flippantly, turning
quickly, hoping to surprise him into revealing again that disquieting
unpredictability, that greed for Isabella’s Belt so akin to lust.

“You seem to forget, my dear. I am Bijoux.”

Meant to reassure, the calm statement fed her fear. He was
her sole protection and her greatest danger. He knew everything about her, from
her first theft to her foolish appearance at the Musée de Luxembourg. Soon he’d
know about the surprise she’d sent him along with the Luxembourg security plans
she had mailed from Paris.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, her voice a stressed
whine.

Taking her arm, he led her to a chair. Seating her, he
returned a moment later with a cup of tea, fragrant and steaming. Her hands
trembled when she held them out and he placed the saucer on her palms. With him
towering over her like a vulture waiting for its food to die, she felt hemmed
in, trapped.

“Sir James?” she demanded, hating the quaver in her voice,
the speculation in his cool gray eyes.

“For now, my dear, we wait.”

“Wait?”

“Don’t borrow trouble, Tiffany,” he advised in a gentle
voice that frightened her even more.

“How can I help it?” she wondered aloud, putting aside her
cup and saucer and surging to her feet. Sir James settled at his desk. She
paced to the windows and stared out morosely, not expecting an answer, but
terrified by his silence.

At any moment he might telephone Interpol or Scotland Yard
or whoever else was responsible in cases like these. Her mind leaped ahead to
her trial and conviction, to her imprisonment. She felt the walls closing in on
her and searched for an escape.

It was a futile effort, as well as senseless. If she ran,
she would proclaim her guilt to the world. If she faced it now there would be
doubt, wouldn’t there? Did English law provide for reasonable doubt? Wishing
she knew, confession on the tip of her tongue, she said nothing.

Before she could bare her soul, she noticed a cab gliding to
a stop in front of Sir James’ offices. A familiar, dapper figure exited, the
man obviously in a hurry.

Moments later the doors to Sir James’ office crashed open,
then slammed shut with the ominous clang of a jail cell door closing in its
prisoner. TC’s knees almost buckled as she turned and met the intruder’s
blazing blue eyes.

The man stalked to her, his gloved hands clenched around a
newspaper that proclaimed Priceless Artifact Stolen. His looming posture told
how much it cost him not to strike her.

“Just when,” he demanded on rising fury, “did you decide to
come out of retirement, Emerald?”

From the depths of her churning stomach she mustered a smile
and held Charles Cartierri’s furious gaze. “Hello, Father. How…nice to see
you.”

Chapter Two

Ensconced in his London town house, Damian Hunter y Soria
heard Reynard’s “Nice legs” echo in his mind and sneered at the obvious
understatement.

They were not just “nice”, they were great legs. He rewound
the videotape Reynard had had couriered from Interpol, Lyons to Sir James’
office in hopes the older man might recognize someone. Damian started the tape
again, noting the sensuous walk that turned sophisticated Frenchmen in their
tracks and made Parisiennes glare. If that distinctive walk had not caught his
attention, he might have missed her.

Despite her nonchalance, Tiffany Carter-Foster obviously was
more interested in the security cameras than she was in the objets d’art. And
she had gone to some effort to disguise herself. The raincoat she wore loosely
belted made her waist seem thicker. Her broad-brimmed fedora, pulled low on her
forehead, nearly obscured her tip-tilt nose and completely shadowed her
remarkable green eyes. Unlike the stiletto heels she had worn today and that
memorable night in St. Anton, her shoes were low-heeled, sensible—ugly—but they
could not alter the provocative, sinuous walk that even on grainy tape fired
his blood. He froze the tape and turned to his companion.

“Well, Reynard, is this the same girl we saw in Sir James’
offices?” Damian glanced at the Interpol agent whose clothing and appearance
enhanced his name. Rust-colored hair and eyes, rust-colored tie and suit that,
somehow, always looked rumpled.

“No doubt about it,” George Fox, the redoubtable Reynard,
pronounced as he refilled his brandy snifter on his way to the television set.
“See this?” He pointed at a chain surrounding one slender ankle. “Slave
bracelets, I think they’re called. Big in the sixties and making a modest
comeback in the States.”

Damian grinned. “Pretty flimsy evidence for bringing Mrs.
Foster in for questioning.”

Reynard cleared his throat. “Indeed, the shapeliness of an
ankle, slave bracelet notwithstanding, is insufficient reason to bring her in.
Still, we cannot dismiss the possibility she is involved somehow. After all,
we’re talking about murder.”

“I know, Reynard.” Again Damian rewound the tape, but this
time he turned off the television set. “I want you to go back to Lyons. I want
a complete dossier, including all overseas travel. I want to know everything
about Mrs. Carter-Foster, from her favorite perfume to her bra size. I want to
know about everyone—and I do mean everyone, Reynard—she’s ever known.” Pushing
his authority as a “friend of the family”, but Reynard’s superior had given him
carte blanche for Interpol’s resources. His godparents, owners of the stolen
artifact, had named him their representative in Europe.

Reynard groaned. “Your brother would never—”

“My brother’s talents lie—lay—in other areas. If you want to
remain a member of this investigation, Reynard, you will do as you are told.”
Another level of “friend of the family”—his dead brother’s agent status gave
Damian control of field agents—for the moment.

“I’ll leave for Lyons right away,” Reynard muttered, donning
his raincoat. “Shall I deliver what I find in person or have it couriered to
you?”

“By all means, deliver it in person. The fewer people
involved at this juncture the better chance we have of recovering the Belt.”
And catching the murderer, although that was beyond Interpol’s jurisdiction.

Damian watched Reynard stalk to the door, his anger obvious
in his jerky movements.

“Reynard.” Damian’s voice halted Fox’s departure and he
turned. “How tall were the murdered staff?”

“Five-foot-ten and five-eleven respectively.”

“And how tall is Mrs. Foster?”

“In her stocking feet, I’d say five-eleven. Is it
important?”

“Perhaps. Would you say she is tall enough, strong enough to
have garroted those men?”

Reynard’s face flushed, heightening his resemblance to his
namesake. “In person, I only saw her sitting down, but I’d say fear or anger
could make her strong enough. And the element of surprise would work in her
favor.”

“Yes, I suppose it would. They were found together?”

Reynard nodded. “Admitting someone into the safe deposit vault
apparently. Anything else?”

“I am having difficulty envisioning how one person, one
woman, could overpower two men without one of them setting off an alarm or
shouting for help.”

“So, we either have two suspects or… Or what?”

“Or they were subdued somehow before they were murdered.”

“I’ll get you their autopsy reports.” Once again, Reynard
turned to leave.

“Thanks. Find out who they took to the vault.”

His hand on the doorknob, Reynard turned back. “I never told
you how sorry I am about your brother. It must be especially hard, you being
twins and all.”

“Thank you,” Damian said, then with a sigh and in a stronger
voice added, “The sooner you get the information, the sooner we can catch our
thief.”

With a nod, Reynard left.

Damian pushed aside thoughts of his murdered brother and
retrieved his raincoat. He had a date. He also wanted to know who the man was
who had rushed into Sir James’ office. He had looked furious enough to kill
someone. Damian could not help wondering if his dinner companion tonight was an
angel or yet another scheming, ruthless bitch.

* * * * *

TC stared at the open suitcase on her bed, thinking it
resembled nothing so much as the ragged-toothed mouth of a hungry shark. On a
resigned sigh, she removed the few articles of underwear she had thrown in it
and returned them to a drawer. Damn it, lover or no lover, theft or no theft,
she wouldn’t run! She stowed the suitcase atop the armoire, then sat in a Queen
Anne chair to wait. For what, she hadn’t a clue. But she knew that whatever
came her way was bound to be disastrous.

Stupid, she thought. How could she have been so stupid? She
wasn’t worried about pregnancy, but how could she have had unprotected sex with
a stranger and expect never to see him again? Hadn’t she learned anything over
the years? Hadn’t she learned that the gods—or Fate—had a way of paying her
back for each and every misstep she made? But, dear God, when Ian Soria shook
her hand in Sir James’ office she’d wanted him to grab her like he had in St.
Anton. She’d wanted him to make her hot and wet and achy again.

That night she’d seen danger in his eyes and recognized he
wanted to hurt her, to punish her for something she hadn’t even done. Part of
her wanted that, even welcomed the threat that he could hurt her. But part of
her knew that whatever lay beneath the veneer of anger was—just
barely—civilized enough to keep her safe. Seeing him again today brought it all
back.

How tender, how gentle he’d been with her. It was as if he’d
known she’d never done it before, not with a man with hard muscles covered with
firm, tanned flesh.

William
, she thought, her heart aching for her dead
husband. Ian Soria was so very different from her late husband. Dark where
William was fair. Muscular where William was slender. Tender and passionate where
William saved those emotions for others. Had she chosen Ian Soria because he
was the complete opposite of William?

God, she wanted him here with her now! But she had more
important things to think about than mind-blowing sex with Ian Soria.

She should have told Sir James the truth about Paris the
minute she entered his office, but he’d frightened her so. She was afraid he
would throw her to the wolves before she could explain what she had done and
why. Charles Cartierri’s arrival had put an end to her opportunity to confess
her sins. Seeing Ian Soria, his fathomless black eyes consuming her from across
Sir James’ office, she’d felt her body ready for his penetration.

But how could she seek safety in a stranger’s arms with Sir
James gaping at her as if she’d grown a second head?

“Oh God,” she groaned, burying her heated face in her hands.
That night in St. Anton she’d heard words, said words she’d never expected to
hear let alone say. Words that even now made her wet and weak and wanting.

A knock sounded on her door.

“Go away.”

Another knock, more insistent.

“Oh, all right. Keep your shirt on,” she yelled, closing the
bedroom door and opening the living room door to the hotel corridor. She came
nose to chin with Ian Soria, the man she’d been fantasizing about.

“If you insist,” he said, easily stepping by her and closing
the door.

Her spacious suite seemed to shrink. She stepped back,
slowly expelling her breath when he leaned against the door as if he hadn’t a
care in the world.

“How did you find me? I mean, the Savoy doesn’t give out
guests’ room numbers,” TC said, barely suppressing the need to tear off his
clothes and… Oh, hell, screw his brains out.

“They sometimes do,” he said, laughter lurking in his deep
voice, metaphorically dousing her with ice water. “To other guests. With
sufficient incentive.”

“What was so urgent you had to bribe a desk clerk to find
me?”

“Actually, I bribed the manager.”

“At least you didn’t put some menial’s important job in
jeopardy.”

“Come here, Tiffany,” he murmured, one arm opening to enfold
her when she unwittingly obeyed.

She snuggled against his wide chest, feeling as if she had
come to safe harbor after months on a stormy sea. His sweater was damp, as if
he’d walked through the fog from Sir James’ office to the Savoy. He smelled
like winter, cold and woodsy, but she knew what lay beneath the civilized mask,
knew his scent, his taste, the feel of him deep, deep, deep inside her.

“I hate the name Tiffany,” she said, grateful her voice
sounded as frosty as she wished she felt.

He tipped her chin to gaze into her eyes with a tender look
that made her reconsider her position. In truth, she’d rather be flat on her
back with him buried in her.

“I think it’s a beautiful name.”

“TC,” she insisted. “My name’s TC.”

“And mine, as you know, is Ian Soria.”

Soria. Spanish then.
Which accounts for the accent and
makes sense of the barrage of sweet words he breathed into my ears while making
love—no, while fucking me.
Her mind made the connection she hadn’t made in
Sir James’ office or in St. Anton, while her body urged her to snuggle into Ian
Soria’s arms and stay there. But some instinct deep within her questioned his
truthfulness, his real reason for insisting they dine together.

“Look,” she said, pushing out of his arms, “if you have to call
me anything I prefer TC.” She stalked away and then whirled to face him. “What
the devil are you doing here anyway?”

“We have a date,” he taunted, his voice brimming with a
triumph that set her teeth on edge. His grin faded, replaced by a look of pure determination.

Uncertain of his mood, or her own, she retreated a step. Her
instincts were at war. Her mind buzzed with warnings, but her body ached for
his nearness—a longing she had never known before, except in his arms.

“And London? Nobody in his right mind comes to London in
March.” His quirked eyebrows made her aware of the anger in her voice, in her
stance, of the stupidity of her claim. She was here, wasn’t she?

“Well, they don’t,” she insisted, stepping around him to
escape a sudden closed-in feeling. And, if she were completely truthful, the
need between her thighs. God! He’d barely touched her and she was already eager
for him.

“My family lives here. Near here.”

“Is something wrong? Is someone ill?”

He stalked her, but she wasn’t so terribly afraid of him
anymore. His fingers were gentle when he stroked her cheek and his dark eyes
gleamed with tender bemusement.

“What an odd little sprite you are,” he murmured, his
quaintly accented voice tinged with something strangely close to tenderness. “I
simply felt a need to come home.”

“Home,” she echoed, turning her back so he could not read
the envy she suspected filled her eyes. “Then everyone’s all right? No one’s
sick or…?”

“Dying? Everyone is fine. Fit as the proverbial
Stradivarius.”

Finding Ian eyeing her with a quizzical look of his own, she
said querulously, “Are you still here?” Maybe rudeness would make him leave.
“If you’re here for a post-coital evaluation, forget it.”

He splayed her hand over his wide chest. “Is my heart still
beating? Then obviously I am still here,” he replied, holding her hand captive
despite her feeble attempts to free it. “And I do not require any kind of
evaluation. Your body told me everything I need to know. In St. Anton and
here.”

“I don’t see any point in your being here. Except you
wanting to torture me.”

“What is it that frightens you, Tiffany? Is your husband
waiting in the wings? Or was that man you were with earlier your lover?”

“Sir James?” she gasped, covering her mouth to hold in a
very unfeminine guffaw.

“No, the other one, the one who rushed into Sir James’
office right after I left. The one with the overbearing attitude.”

Like yours?
she silently sniped before saying, “Oh,
you mean Charles.” Angry that he had spied on her yet relieved she could tell
him the truth, she smiled up at him. “No, Ian, I have no lover. Charles
Cartierri is an old friend of Sir James’.” A circuitous truth, but not a
bald-faced lie.

Summoning every ounce of resolve she could muster, she said,
“Get out. If you come to this door again, I’ll have you arrested.”

“Would an apology help?”

“Help what? Help get me into your bed again?”

“I would like to take you to dinner. You know, a date.
Besides, we need to talk—about the theft if nothing else.”

“Yes,” she heard herself agreeing. His real reasons for
being in London were linked to Isabella’s Belt and had little to do with her.
Closing the distance between them, she hesitated and then touched his chest.
Absorbed, like lightning seeking ground during a summer storm, the heat of him.
It arced through her, igniting need and longing. “But this isn’t a date.”