The Taming of the Thief (3 page)

 
   
“French?”

 
   
“
Oui.”

 
   
“We have carry laws in the United States and
breaking into people's homes can get you shot.”

 
   
“Good to know.” Pietr tried for another
grin. Whatever wore on the academic, she drooped with exhaustion. “Can we start
again, perhaps over a bite to eat?  It's late and I'm sure you're tired
and I can think of nothing better than a great meal as a pick me up.”

 
   
Sophie blinked slowly, long silky black
eyelashes seemingly kissing her cheeks in a move Pietr found that he wanted to
mimic.

 
   
“You do eat, don't you?”

 
   
“You're either insane or I'm having a really
bad night.”
Neither phrased as a question.
In one
short move, she pulled her front door open and pointed.
“Out.”

 
   
“Sophie…”

 
   
“Ms. Kingston.” Ice glided over the words.
“Please leave, Mr. Sauvage. I've had a very long day. I don't know who you are
or why you're here, but if you don't walk back out that door in three seconds,
I will scream the building down around your head.”

 
   
Pietr cocked his head to the side
consideringly. Her eyes blazed at him in challenge. A challenge he was eager to
meet, but not at the noticeable cost of a police visit and possible
arraignment.

 
   
“Very well.”
He
could concede with graciousness, particularly because this skirmish was a
first, not a last. He saw the surprise flash across her features and concealed
his own amusement. Slipping a business card from inside his jacket, he held it
out to her with two fingers.

 
   
She took it, reluctantly, but she took it.

 
   
“May I?” He gestured towards the door she
stood next to. A delightful blush stole up her cheeks as she backed up another
step, allowing him access to pass through into the hallway.

 
   
He could practically feel the suspicion in
her gaze as he exited her quaint apartment. The six-story walk up just didn't
do the woman justice. She belonged in a more exotic setting, with sandstone and
marble to accent her dark beauty.

 
   
He positioned his foot perfectly to block
the door as she closed it. Her startled gaze jerked up towards his, but they
reflected heat not fear. “Look me up if you have to, but call me. I would very
much like to take you out for that drink and I really do need your help.”

 
   
Pietr's gaze locked on her pale pink lips
that parted and the tongue that moistened them. The nervous gesture washed over
his desire with an uncomfortable sense of shame.

 
   
“If I promise, will you go?” Hesitation
trembled in the center of the question.

 
   
“Yes.”

 
   
“And if I don't promise?” Her hot chocolate
eyes burned with promise of retribution.

 
   
“Yum.”

 
   
That caught her off guard. She blinked
again, as though puzzled by his response.

 
   
“Yum?”

 
   
“Oh yeah.
Dark spice and hot fire.
The perfect
combination.”
He grinned, winked and withdrew his foot. “I'll talk to
you soon.”

 
   
Sophie gaped at him for breathless seconds
before slamming the door shut. Pietr's grin fell away as he gazed at the length
of oak separating him from his goal. The locks clicked into place in rapid
succession. He had to force his hands into his pockets for his cell phone and
turned for the stairs.

 
   
On the third flight, the phone rang.

 
   
Gotcha.

 
   
S
ophie
had no idea why she agreed to meet the Frenchman, particularly after he broke
into her apartment. But he'd taken nothing and he could have hurt her and he
didn't. Not the best logic for agreeing to meet a total stranger for a drink in
the middle of the night after seeing someone shot.

 
   
Oh
God. Maybe I have finally cracked.

 
   
She stood outside of the neighborhood's pub.
Big Mac owned the pub and she'd known Big Mac since her student days at NYU. He
ran a comfortable pub, live music on Fridays and Saturdays, local ambience the
rest of the week. It wasn't unusual to find students crammed into corners
working on papers, reading, studying or chatting about the latest lectures late
into the evening, spaced out by the neighborhood regulars sliding in for a
drink, the news and a game of darts.

 
   
The pub saw more foot traffic than vehicles,
but those hummed through the streets in ones and twos as locals made their way
home from jobs. Sucking air past her teeth, Sophie wiped her damp palms against
her jeans before grabbing the door.

 
   
The scent of beer, Old
Spice and sandalwood wrapped around her as she entered.
Big Mac held
court at the corner of the bar, drying glasses as he chatted with his daughter
Wendy. Seven months pregnant, Wendy typically worked as a waitress in the pub,
but in the last month, she'd spent more time on a corner stool than on her
feet.

 
   
Big Mac no doubt preferred it that way. Sophie
waved, gaze sliding over the patrons and finding the two thousand dollar suited
Frenchman sitting in the back, away from the dartboard, the students and the
commuters arguing over the latest Yankees losing streak. He stood the moment
she entered, but he waited by the table.

 
   
She swallowed hard, hit by the curious
desire to smooth back the hair falling over his forehead. It gave him a rakish
air despite the suit. Adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder, she comforted
herself with the knowledge of the taser tucked inside of it. She crossed the
floor of the pub, miming with her thumb and pinky to Big Mac that she'd like a
drink.

 
   
He knew what she liked.

 
   
Pietr offered her a wide, charming grin that
probably had women lining up to fall into bed with him. Two co-eds in the
corner had given up any pretense of studying to just stare at him
speculatively.

 
   
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me.” Pietr
pulled out a chair for her.

 
   
“Thank you for waiting for my phone call.”
She didn't miss the irony in her own words, considering her phone call came
less than three minutes after he'd left her apartment.

 
   
“Heyo Sophie.” Big Mac delivered the large
glass of iced tea with three squeezed lemons buried amongst the ice.
“Business tonight?”
Mac's gimlet gaze fixed on Pietr.

 
   
“Something
like
that.” Sophie eased up onto her tiptoes and gave the big man a kiss on his
cheek. His face ruddied at the attention, but he gave her a familiar pat on the
head.

 
   
“You call me if you need
anything.
” He gave Pietr another hard look
before sidling back to the bar.

 
   
Pietr lifted his brows at her, waiting for
her to sit before taking his own seat. He chose the chair near hers rather than
across the table as she would have preferred, and the flutters in her stomach
became a hurricane as his mouth turned up into a slow, easy smile.

 
   
Behind her the co-eds sighed and it took
considerable effort on Sophie's part to avoid the same fate.

 
   
“He doesn't trust me.”

 
   
“He doesn't know you.”

 
   
“But he does know you.”

 
   
“Yes he does.” Sophie didn't elaborate and
took a drink of her tea. The door to the pub opened, letting in a wash of sound
as four more people entered the fray. It wouldn't be long before the evening
slow crowd gave way to the louder, rowdier late night crowd.

 
   
“Good.”

 
   
“Good?” His reaction pricked her curiosity.

 
   
“Yes. As grateful as I am that you agreed to
meet me, I am doubly glad that you chose a venue you could feel secure in.” The
odd words echoed with a sincerity she couldn't dispute. He picked up a bottle
of some dark imported beer and took a swallow. “Why did you agree to meet me,
Sophie?”

 
   
Wow. He spoke her name like a caress. It
whispered dark promises over her skin.

 
   
“I wasn’t going to, but then I thought of a
Maxwell Sauvage that just endowed the British Museum with more than three
million pounds as well as a sculpture reportedly done by Da Vinci and I began
to wonder if you were related to him and, if you were, why you would then want
to meet with me.”

 
   
“Ahh, the Da Vinci Man.
I told Max we should keep him for the house in Majorca, but I fear his fiancé
has had a profound effect on his random acts of altruism.” Pietr grinned.

 
   
“Then maybe it’s his fiancé that I want to
meet.”

 
   
“Alas, they are planning a wedding and what
brings me to your door.”

 
   
“You mean inside my door, right?”

 
   
Pietr’s lips parted with another devastating
grin and Sophie fought the urge to fan herself. Definitely warm, despite the
fans circling lazily overhead and the air conditioning running.

 
   
“
Oui.
Inside your door.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table,
the aged-whisky color of his eyes more intoxicating than the drink. “Will you
forgive me for how we met and let me make it up to you?”

 
   
Sophie swayed forward, and caught herself as
her elbow banged against the table. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

 
   
“Yes, but I would still have your
forgiveness. I suspect you are someone who does not care to be surprised, much
less by a stranger in your home.”

 
   
“No, I’m not. And would you like to explain
how you got into my apartment and around my alarm? I know I activated it before
I left.”

 
   
“If you will agree to forgive, I could be
persuaded to explain.” Pietr waggled his eyebrows, the impish reaction totally
at odds with his chiseled features.

 
   
Heaven help her, she was charmed.

 
   
“Well if forgiveness is only a step towards
the persuasion, perhaps we should skip it and get down to why you wanted to see
me specifically.” It took all her willpower not to laugh at the frown that
chased away his waggle. This man was far too used to getting what he wanted
when he wanted.

 
   
“As you wish.
I am
working on tracing a series of stolen artifacts, some of which may be moved
through museum back channels.”

 
   
“And you know they are stolen how?” Her
playfulness dried up at the sober words.

 
   
“Their provenance will be tainted, but they
are unlikely to be passing through the museum collections for display, but only
for authentication or appraisel.”

 
   
“If the provenance is tainted or they are
stolen, we will have been alerted by your friends at Interpol.”

 
   
Pietr’s nose wrinkled at the mention of
Interpol and he seemed to take it as more of a slight than a compliment to be
compared to the international police force. The noise level in the pub climbed
and Pietr shifted his chair, pulling it closer,
his
voice pitching lower as though he didn’t want to be overhead.