The Taming of the Thief (2 page)

 
   
Sophie did not roll her eyes or snort. Mrs.
Bruno meant well. She had been trying to fix Sophie up with a nice young man
for 18 months, ever since Sophie moved into the walk up. Mrs. Bruno had lived
here for forty years and often boasted that 608 was the lucky number. She'd
found a match for ten occupants. She planned to make Sophie number 11.

 
   
“No, I'm good. If your grandson has a date
the next time you have to shop, call me. I love shopping with you.”

 
   
“I’ll be baking on Sunday.”

 
   
Mrs. Bruno's version of thank you always
involved fresh blueberry muffins and cranberry scones. Sophie gained five
pounds after every favor. Fortunately, the muffins were worth every pound.

 
   
“Great! Have a good night, Mrs. Bruno.”
Sophie leaned one foot onto the stairs heading up to the sixth floor, but
waited until Mrs. Bruno closed and locked her door. When the third dead bolt
closed with a
snikt
, she relaxed the
false cheer in her smile.

 
   
Exhaustion crept up her limbs as she climbed
her way up to the sixth floor. The image of Royce Hinkley's face swam into her
exhausted vision. The cops said he wasn’t dead. They hadn't found any evidence
of his death. She couldn't have imagined the gunshot. Her passion was the past,
not cops and robbers or gun battles at the O.K. Corral.

 
   
Sophie slid her key into the locks and undid
them one at a time. Tears burned her eyes and a sob stuck in her throat. She
hadn't liked Doctor Hinkley, but no one deserved to be shot.

 
   
 
Had he been shot?

 
   
 
The
last lock gave and Sophie leaned on the door and opened it. Her bag weighed
hard on her shoulder and all she could think about was a shower or a bath and a
good night's sleep. Then back to the museum to her archive and to making sense
from chaos. Dr. Hinkley could come back from his sabbatical and it would turn
out to just be too many episodes of her favorite crime shows infecting her with
their gestalt.

 
   
 
She
pushed inside, purse sliding down her arm and dropping on the floor. Hitting the
lights with one hand, she shut the door with the other and snapped the locks
into place, one at a time. It took her a moment to focus, to see the man
sprawling in relaxed pose on her sofa, his ankles crossed,
one
over the other.

 
   
 
Dark
hair tumbled over a ruggedly good-looking face of chiseled features under a
growth of stubble. His eyes were soft amber, like fine liquor and his lips were
full and even as they spread into a smile.

 
   
 
Sophie gaped.

 
   
 
“
Bonjour,
cheri
.”
The lilting French rolling off his tongue sounded as sexy as it was unexpected.

 
   
 
She
opened her mouth and screamed, scrambling for the door locks and just as she
wrenched open the door,
he
leaned past her and pushed
it closed.

 
   
 
“I'm
sorry, Professor Kingston, I didn't mean to startle you.” The heat of his body
burned into her as he pressed her against the door.

 
   
 
Sophie stared at him. The shooter’s French
from the museum washed over her. But this man was taller.

 
   
 
Much taller.

 
   
 
“What
are you doing in my apartment?”

 
   
 
“I
need your help.”

 
   
 
“Breaking into my apartment is a bizarre way
to ask for help.”
How do I sound so very
calm?
Her heart beat against her ribs like a hummingbird desperate for
escape.

 
   
 
“
Oui.
”
Tall, dark
and French had the grace to look abashed.
“My apologies.
I waited at the museum for a few hours, and then outside your apartment
building. I admit
,
I got a little tired. I came inside
to see if you'd gone out of town, but fortunately, here you are.”

 
   
 
Sophie's mouth fell open further. Her heart
stuttered over his grin, but quickened at the sense of outrage.

 
   
 
“Are
you going to let me go?”

 
   
 
“Are
you still going to scream?”

 
   
 
“I'm
thinking about it.”

 
   
 
“Well
then, I shall hold you here until you have considered the options.
Oui?
”

 
   
 
“My options?”
Sophie's eyebrows climbed. Was this man for
real? Outrage smothered fear.
“My options?
You broke
into my apartment. You're holding me against my will. You just confessed to
stalking me. And you want me to consider my options? Are you out of your mind?”

 
   
 
The
bastard grinned. Grinned! A broad, toothy, flashing grin that sent shivers up
her spine. Her stomach flipped over. He brushed so close the scent of his
aftershave tickled her nostrils. She fought the urge to take a deeper inhale,
to taste the flavor of the man on her tongue.

 
   
 
“I've
been accused of worse,
cheri
.
Fortunately for you, I am not insane. But I do need your help and I do need to
talk to you without you screaming for help and putting us through a long night
of uncomfortable questions.”

 
   
 
“I
suppose you have a counter offer?” Had she gone completely insane that morning?
Imagining a coworker felled by a bullet?
A day of bad coffee
and questioning at the police station?
She was hungry. She was tired.
Maybe that explained why she would entertain this lunacy.

 
   
 
“Of course.
Dinner.
Some wine.
A conversation.
After which, I go away and you get some
sleep.” Her uninvited guest trailed a finger down her cheek, sending shivers
radiating across her flesh. “And forgive me
cheri
, but you look very tired.”

 
   
 
“I've
had an abysmal day. I am not in the mood for entertaining much less having a
meal with someone I don't know and who broke into my apartment and is currently
threatening me.”

 
   
 
“I am
not.”

 
   
 
“Yes.
You are.” Sophie punctuated the words with a hard shove against his chest. To
her surprise he stepped back, nimble as a cat and held his hands out wide.

 
   
 
It
was her chance. She could slip out the door and make a run for it. If nothing
else she could yell her lungs out. She knew all of her neighbors. Valorie across
the hall with her five kids would call the police in a heartbeat.

 
   
 
But
Sophie didn't yell.

 
   
 
She
didn't yank the door open.

 
   
 
She
didn't bolt.

 
   
 
“What's your name?” Sophie asked instead.

 
   
 
“Then
we chat?
Perhaps over wine?”

 
   
 
“No,
then I check your references and perhaps we meet tomorrow for coffee.”

 
   
 
He
laughed then; a long, inviting, warm chuckle that beckoned her to abandon
caution for the sheer exhilaration of leaping.

 
   
 
“I am
not sure what references you intend to check. Is there a database for cat
burglars?”

 
   
 
“Is
that what you are?”

 
   
 
“An
outdated term to be certain, but I rather doubt that you will find me listed
under some typical B & E reference of a library database.” His too sexy
mouth twitched. He enjoyed the banter.

 
   
 
Call me crazy, but so am I.

 
   
 
“Then
maybe Interpol would be a better reference point.”

 
   
 
“You
wound me little bird. Interpol is extremely low brow for someone of my
caliber.”

 
   
 
“And
I only have your word for that.” Sophie countered.

 
   
 
“True.” He stepped back, giving her more space
and still, Sophie didn't make a run for it. Despite her better judgment, the
Frenchman intrigued the hell out of her tired mind, arousing her curiosity. He
aroused a lot more than her curiosity, but she ignored that traitorous thought.

 
   
 
Sophie studied the man standing in the middle
of her living room. Surrounded by the muted, antique colors of soft golds and
browns, he was a splash of color, vibrant, alive and very raw. The twinkle in
his eyes teased her, dared her.

 
   
 
“Why
are you here?”

 
   
 
“Existentially?”

 
   
 
“No.
Physically.
Here.
My apartment.
Why
are
you
here?”

 
   
 
“Honestly?”

 
   
 
“Call
me quirky, but I think that's exactly what this situation calls for.”

 
   
 
His
laughter washed over her. The corners of Sophie's mouth tugged wider. She loved
the sound of his laughter and her smile spread wider at the sound of it.

 
   
 
“My
name is Pietr Sauvage. I am here because I need your help.”

 
   
 
D
octor Sophie Kingston's chocolate
brown eyes combined with a waterfall of thick black hair set off her exotic
golden skin and his blood on fire. She was nothing like Pietr expected.
Nothing at all
.
When Walter sent him on this wild goose chase, he'd expected to be chatting up
an academic with thin wire glasses, dust in her hair and a complexion to match.

 
   
“I'm sorry, what?” Her tousled hair,
shadowed eyes and wary expression tugged at his soul.

 
   
“I need your help, Doctor Kingston.”

 
   
“It's Ms. I haven't finished my dissertation
yet.”

 
   
“My mistake.”
Pietr
flashed another apologetic smile and it grew as the tension in her shoulders
loosened. Her white knuckles relaxed and she leaned against the closed door of
her apartment more easily. The mistake did more to win her over than the offer
of wine and charm. He'd have to remember that.

 
   
“But if you need my help, why are you in my
apartment?” Her suspicion returned.

 
   
“Because I looked for you at the museum and
then waited here for hours. I was getting worried.” Not to mention her severe
deviation from schedule had him wondering if their shadowy opponent had already
tracked her down. Kingston's specialty in near-Eastern antiquities was a rare
one, rare enough that she made a short list of five names
who
could authenticate
The Fortunate Buddha,
particularly if someone wanted to move it through the States as Pietr's sources
suggested they were.