ItTakesaThief (7 page)

Her muscles protesting being stretched, she eased out of the
low-slung Jag and heard the girls chattering at Ian, one beginning a sentence
that the other finished. She heard
madre
and
padre
and assumed
these were Ian’s sisters, the twins.

Looking at them smiling into Ian’s face, seeing him smile
back with tenderness and love in his dark eyes, TC felt a pain around her
heart, twin emotions of joy and envy.

The twins’ faces mirrored each other. Patrician noses, ebony
hair and brows, dark eyes so like their brother’s, their cheekbones high and
pronounced, but their cheeks fuller, softer, with the mark of childhood still
on them. They were simply lovely.

Ian lowered them to the ground, then held out his hand to
her. Just as she had in London, she went to him, but stopped short of going
into his arms. She felt…shy of these girls, like an unwanted guest at Christmas
dinner, tolerated solely because a loved one had invited her. And, dressed as
she was in baggy corduroy trousers and a faded UCLA sweatshirt, she looked like
a frump, especially when compared to the elegant young creatures now eyeing her
with unconcealed curiosity.

What had Ian told them about her? About her bruised and
abraded hands and face?
Merde
! His family would think she was a battered
woman fleeing a monster, something she should have considered before she let
Ian bully her into this trip. Only his threat to call her “husband” had gained
her acquiescence for her removal from London.

The twins’ olive complexions bore no trace of acne, while
hers looked like a war zone, right eye black and red and swollen half-shut. Her
faded pants and sweatshirt looked like rejects from the ragbag, while their
clothing seemed to proclaim their individual personalities.

“This is Peace,” Ian said, nodding at the twin who wore
jodhpurs, polished English riding boots and a peacock-blue blouse. “And this is
Adeen who, like her name, dresses like a little fire.”

“Hi,” TC said, taking in Adeen’s black leather jeans and
vest, the piratical style of her crimson silk shirt.

“Say hello to Tiffany darling.”

“How’d you do, Miss Darling,” they said in unison, like
kindergartners greeting their teacher.

TC’s blush seeped up her neck and settled on her cheeks. “My
name’s TC,” she explained to the girls while slanting a glare at their brother.

“Her name,” the grinning idiot corrected, “is Tiffany
Foster.”

“I prefer TC,” she insisted through clenched teeth. “But,
since I’m Ian’s guest, I suppose I should answer to what he calls me. So long
as it isn’t ‘Tiffany darling’,” she added
sotto voce
for his ears only.

“Miss Tiffany, then,” said Peace.

“TC,” Adeen said, directing a challenging look at Ian.

“Mama has ordered a late luncheon,” Peace said, linking her
arm with TC’s. “We’ll get you settled first and you can call us when you’re
ready to come down.”

“Yeah, call us, ‘cause the castle’s a bit tricky to navigate
until you learn your way around.” Adeen caught TC’s other arm and tugged.

“I will bring Tiffany down,” Ian said in that lordly tone TC
both loved and hated. Loved because, when he used it, his voice took on that
upper-class British tone American women routinely fell in love with. Hated
because it made her feel so bloody inferior.

“I’ll find my own way down, thank you. My sense of direction
is infallible.”
Take that for imperiousness, you arrogant ass!

The twins’ giggles made TC lower her nose and blush again.
She had to get a hold on her tongue or she’d make an even bigger fool of
herself than she just had. If only Ian wouldn’t provoke her! But asking that of
him was like asking the sun not to rise.

“Easy, girls,” her tormentor cautioned as the twins pulled
her toward the house. “Tiffany dar—Tiffany took a nasty fall last night and is
not up to sprinting.”

“You mean you didn’t beat her?” Adeen asked in a voice
theatrically full of surprise.

“No, I did not beat her.” TC could almost hear Ian grind his
teeth. “But that does not mean I would refrain from spanking you.”

“You wouldn’t,” TC gasped.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Peace said, dark eyes sparkling with
amusement. “All bark, our Ian.”

TC smiled at the aptly named girl, but she wondered all the
same. How much did she really know about Ian, this man who seemed so perfect?
So tender. So gentle. So loving.

Ian Soria is not what he seems.

“Mama’s put you in the green suite. Something about it
matching your eyes.” Adeen released TC’s arm and, walking backward across the
gravel drive, studied her face.

“Maybe she should have chosen the red room,” Peace
suggested, revealing she shared her sister’s mischievous sense of humor.

“Do you have a mottled room? Something in red and black and
blue? I’ll blend in perfectly with the wallpaper.”

The twins giggled. At her back she heard Ian groan, as if he
imagined her stark naked and waiting for him against the wall, full of need,
weak and wet with it. Which, God help her, she already was.

Ian Soria is not what he seems.

But neither was she.

Chapter Four

Half an hour later, true to her word, TC descended the grand
staircase alone and made her way over the black-and-white diamond-shaped marble
floor toward the blue salon. Looking back over her shoulder, she marveled at
the artistry that had created the majestic sweep of the solid oak staircase
rising up and up and up. Far above her, the ceiling was painted blue, as blue
as a summer sky and was adorned with frolicking cherubs—naked cherubs who
resembled baby Cupids more than angels.

The scale of the entry hall should have humbled her, but
vases of spring flowers—irises, gladioli and tulips—filled the foyer with
glorious colors and heavenly fragrances. Sights and scents TC remembered from
her childhood, before her mother’s desertion, before Charles stopped making
even token gestures of fatherly concern.

Turning her head, dismissing the pleasant and unpleasant
memories, she headed left, down a wide corridor filled with the same lovely
flowers and scents as the entryway. She stopped before she reached the open
double doors of the blue salon and used the Rococo hallway mirror to peer into
the room. An enormous Georgian crystal chandelier reflected back at her,
hinting at the size of the room it graced. Below the mantel-less fireplace, a
blue marble bolection framed the hob where a cheery fire burned. Pale blue
velvet chairs and couches beckoned her to enter, to sit or join the twins, now
shoeless, on the thick carpet where they played some board game or other.

Butterflies swirled in TC’s belly. She fought down the
impulse to turn on her heel and run like hell, as far away from Ian Soria and
his loving family as she could get.

Ian’s mirrored image stopped her. No, it wasn’t Ian who
stood looking down at the twins with such obvious affection it made her heart
hurt. This man had silver streaks at his temples and deep lines around his
crystal blue eyes. Smile lines, she bet herself, not scowls like Charles
perpetually wore. He looked up and smiled at her in the mirror. She couldn’t
tell if he really saw her or was simply sharing his love of his children with
his reflection. In a curious way, she was trapped, obligated to share the love
within these walls that encompassed his family.

She wiped damp, shaking hands down trim chocolate-brown
slacks and checked the tag on her beige cowl-necked sweater to make sure it lay
flat against her nape. Out of excuses, she forced a smile and stepped into the
room.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, an
overwhelming sense of relief blooming in her when Ian stood, came to her side
and wrapped his arm around her waist. He still wore the University of Barcelona
sweatshirt, faded jeans and deck shoes he’d worn on the drive down. TC resisted
snuggling against him and inhaling his scent.

“Mamacita,” Ian said to the striking dark-haired, dark-eyed
woman who studied her face for a long moment and then smiled up at her. “This
is Tiffany dar—Tiffany Foster.”

The twins sniggered behind their hands. Ian shot them a
warning glare.

“Tiffany, my mother, Margreta Maria Esperanza—”

“Kindly refrain from boring Tiffany, and me, with all my
multisyllabic names. Margreta is sufficiently difficult as it is.” She held out
her hand—a delicate, elegant hand, its nails unpolished, but buffed to a
mirror-like shine TC envied. She also envied the woman’s elegant clothes, a
pale pink pantsuit, low-heeled sling-back shoes in hot pink leather and an opal
necklace with matching earrings.

“TC prefers TC, Mama,” Adeen said as TC took Margreta
Hunter’s hand in hers, her abraded fingertips barely brushing the other woman’s
fingers before curling around her hand.

“Hush,” Peace said, grinning wickedly at her big brother.

Ignoring both siblings, Ian said, “And this is my father,
Marcus Hunter, Baron—”

“Of beef,” the twins chorused, earning a chuckle from their
father and mother.

“And Mark is sufficient for me, Miss TC,” he said in a
resonant basso surely capable of vibrating crystal glasses into shards. He wore
casual brown slacks, a de rigueur tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and a
pale yellow shirt, open at the neck. Like the twins, he was shoeless.

“Would you like an aperitif before we go in to luncheon?”
Margreta asked, her lovely voice bearing witness to her son’s intriguing accent.
“Please, sit here next to me.”

“A small sherry would be lovely,” TC said straight-faced, a
laugh at Ian’s red cheeks threatening to erupt any second. Did he really
believe she would tell his parents that she and Ian had shared a
lovely
wine while making love? She might distrust Ian Soria, but she would never
embarrass him in front of his family.

“Did you enjoy the play last night?” Mark asked, then turned
beet red at his gaffe.

“Up to a point,” TC said ruefully, gently touching her
swollen right eye.

“What happened?” Margreta asked, her fingers twitching as if
she wanted to soothe away every one of TC’s aches.

“I foolishly allowed Tiffany—”

“Ian graciously arranged for a backstage tour after the
performance. I went out on stage and fell down a rabbit hole.” TC directed a
reassuring smile at the wide-eyed twins, who had quit playing their board game
when she came into the room.

“Thank you,” she said to Mark when he handed her a glass of
sherry. “You should see what this face did to the post it hit.”

“Papa, will you take us to see it?”

“It already has been replaced,” Ian said, an odd note in his
voice suggesting… What? That he had sent the shattered post to some crime lab?
Had it analyzed to see if it had been cut?

Ian Soria is not what he seems.

Was he a cop?

* * * * *

Late in the afternoon, Damian tapped on Tiffany’s bedroom
door. Receiving no answer, he went in and spotted her asleep in the window
seat. An open book lay on her stomach, spine up. Snagging a velour throw from
the bed, he lifted the book away, noting it was P.D. James’
An Unsuitable
Job for a Woman
. He spread the throw over Tiffany and stared as she turned
on her side and sighed.

For a long moment he simply gazed at her, savoring the way
her hair slid over her robe-clad shoulder, almost hiding her long lashes—a
crescent half-moon against her cheek. Her bruised and abraded cheek.

Rage roiled in his guts. He wanted to wrap his hands around
the neck of whoever had messed with that star cover. His instincts told him
Tiffany’s fall was no accident. Someone had set out to injure her. Injure,
hell! They had wanted to kill her. Why? Because whoever they were, they knew
Tiffany would catch them sooner or later? Or because she knew who they were and
could send them to prison for the rest of their lives?

With an inward sigh, he pulled a chair to the window seat.
Sitting, he went on conjecturing about Tiffany and her role in this mess.
Memories distracted him.

When the Colombian police caught Yulie Cardoza—his brother’s
betrayer—she accused Michael of sharing secrets before, during and after sex.
Damian knew his brother was too smart, too careful to give up information as
“pillow talk”. Damian also knew Yulie was part of the drug taskforce Michael
was working with at the time of his death. He not only trusted the woman, he
loved her.

Tiffany whimpered, drawing Damian’s attention back to her.
She knew more than she was willing to tell him. Could he…? Was he cold-blooded
enough to use sex, use the hope of love to seduce Tiffany into spilling her
guts? As she was a suspect, he knew he shouldn’t lay a hand on her again. As
his only viable lead, he knew he would do anything to catch the murdering bitch
who had killed the two Parisian bank employees.
Or the murdering bastard
,
he corrected, fighting the impulse to convict Tiffany on the basis of flimsy
circumstantial evidence.

Mumbling, Tiffany flung off the throw, then shouted, “No!”
Bolting to her feet, she stumbled over Damian’s chair and landed in his lap.

Fate, it seemed, had dictated his path to perdition. “Good
afternoon,” he said, kissing her nose on its up-tilted tip.

Covering her yawn with her fist, she asked, “What time is
it?” Her eyes widening, she tried to wiggle off his lap.

Holding her in place, he said, “Six, six-thirty.” He
shrugged. Toying with a thick strand of her hair, he tucked it behind her ear,
then traced its whorl. Shivering, she pushed at his hand. “Are you hungry?”

As if drawn back in time to St. Anton, her pupils dilated
and she sucked in a breath. “Are you?”

“I could use a snack. A bite of your neck will do for now.”

She shoved away. “Not here.”

“My room then.”

“I meant, not in your parents’ home.”

“Why not? They obviously have had sex here. The twins,” he
added at her blank look. Tugging on her hand, he sat on the window seat, then
pulled her down beside him. “Besides, they have gone to the cinema. We have the
entire house—thirteen bedrooms anyway—to ourselves.” He waggled his eyebrows,
making her grin. “I could nibble your neck here, in your room—”

“What film are they seeing and why didn’t you go with them?”

“
A Thousand-and-One Dalmatians
, I think.” He kissed
her cheek.

“
A Hundred-and-One
,” she corrected. “Aren’t the twins
a little…mature for that sort of movie?”

“The twin terrors may be, but my parents are not.” He waved
a dismissive hand. “Its appeal has something remotely related to conception.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” she repeated.

“A lack of your presence.” He captured her hand and brought
it to his mouth. He kissed each knuckle, stroked her palm with his tongue and
looked into her eyes. “I could kiss your lips in my room,” he went on,
undeterred by their brief foray into family matters. “In the red room—yes, we
have a red room—I would kiss your neck, your lips, your ears.”

“Ian.”

As he suited action to words, she quit trying to pull away.
“In the blue bedroom, I would strip away your robe and suckle your nipples.”

“Dammit,” she protested, her robe pooling over the belt at
her waist. Her nipples pearled.

Damian pulled her across his lap, her knees straddling his
hips, her nipples level with his mouth. Through his worn jeans he could feel
her heat along his growing erection. Cupping her breasts, he laved each rigid
peak in turn, but when his hands drifted lower, she hissed with pain.

“Sorry,” she said, lacing her fingers in his hair and urging
his face to her breasts.

“I should not have taken advantage of you.” He pulled up her
robe, then eased her from his lap. So much for pillow talk. Odd, despite his
cock’s objections, his mind sighed relief. Or maybe it was the remnants of the man
he had been before his brother’s murder who felt remorse for using her.

She stood and wandered to the desk. “Who’s this? In this
picture?” she asked, holding it up for his inspection.

“That? A picture of me taken about ten years ago. Mama
cannot resist peppering the palace with pictures of her progeny.”

“No,” TC contradicted, “it isn’t you. Oh, it looks like you,
but it doesn’t. I mean, there’s something about that man’s smile, the way he’s
standing. He looks carefree and devil-take-the-hindmost.”

“Ten years can change a person.”

“I suppose so, but… Maybe you can explain why you look so
much like your stepfather.”

“You know what they say about couples who have been together
a long time. They start to look like each other. It may also be true of
children.”

She flashed a bullshit gesture and opened her mouth to say
the word. When he frowned, she stiffened as if expecting a painful blow. If he
could not seduce her into sharing her secrets, perhaps shock would work.

“Imagine this if you will, Tiffany,” Damian said,
forestalling the questions building in her eyes. “A dark room—a very large,
dark room in, say, a closed jewelry shop. A security patrolman paces the shop,
his thoughts on getting home to wife and kiddies and dinner. Out of the dark, a
wire rope—very thin, but unbreakable—loops over his head, settles around his
neck and tightens. He raises his hands, resisting the irresistible pull of
death on his neck. He struggles, stumbles, but by now he’s too weak to fight.
He falls to the floor, his life ending even as his elbow shatters the glass
case containing…” His hypnotic voice, along with the monstrous vision it
evoked, trailed into silence until he said in a cold, uncaring tone, “Say,
Isabella’s Belt. What do you think of that scenario?”

“It’s hideous. Heinous,” she added, no hesitancy or thought
in her response. “Is that what happened at the bank?” Her face blanched.

Shrugging, he said, “I have no idea, Tiffany. I was merely
conjecturing, playing the endless game writers play. You know… What if…?”

Certain he had the answer to his unasked questions, Damian
looked into Tiffany’s horror-stricken face. Thief, Tiffany Foster undoubtedly
was. Murderer she probably was not. Probably.

* * * * *

Having tossed and turned most of the interminable night,
early the next morning TC welcomed the timid knock on her bedroom door. Facing
the Inquisition was easier than trying to figure out what Ian had been up to
last night. But she knew fear when she felt it. She was scared spitless.

“Come in,” she called and a maid, complete with silver
salver, came into her room.

“This just came, miss.”

Puzzled, TC took the velvety velum envelope from the tray
and nodded her thanks, dismissing the pleasant-faced young woman with a smile.
Foreboding shivered down her spine. She removed the typewritten note from its
elegant cocoon.

He failed this time. Will you give Ian Soria another
chance to kill you?

Every muscle quivering with fear, TC dressed and sneaked
down the servants’ stairs to a rain-threatened morning. She had shoved her
passport into the back pocket of her jeans. Deep in her denim jacket pockets
she carried her cell phone and a few hundred Euros. If anyone from the castle
caught her leaving the grounds, she would say she was going shopping in
Torquay.