Thieves In The Night (7 page)

“Yes. Sure,” she said, giving herself a mental shake and reaching behind her. She knew she should leave now, before she made a complete gaping fool of herself. But she didn’t leave.

He soaped up the washcloth, and she watched as the veins rose and receded along his biceps, triceps, and every other muscle he had but she couldn’t name. Then he smeared the cloth over his face and hair, turning the pink cotton into gray. A small price to pay, she admitted when he sluiced the soap off.

Boyishly handsome, despite the crow’s feet feathering the corners of his eyes, his face reflected all the charm his smile had promised. His skin had the same rich tan all over, except for the tip and part of the bridge of his nose, which was peeling to pink in spots. Too many days in the sun, she decided. The dark curve of his cheekbones melded into the darker hair of his eyebrows. His lashes were even darker, thick and spiky with glittering drops of water. In contrast his eyes were shifting shades of gray, like a clear mountain stream. A slight cleft dented his chin, and creases deepened in his lean cheeks when he smiled—as he did now.

“Well, what do you think?” His softly spoken words jolted her out of her perusal.

“I . . . uh . . .” She lowered her eyes and scrambled mentally for something innocuous to say. “I think I’ll let you finish up alone. Are you hungry?”

His smile told her she hadn’t fooled him, not for a minute. All those tender, mushy places were experiencing liquid fusion, and she knew it was written all over her face. She stood to leave, busily drying her hands on a fluffy pink bath towel.

“Yes.”

“What?” she asked, confused. Then her blush shot up two degrees. She had asked him a question and he was answering, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember the question.

“Yes, I’m hungry, but don’t go to any trouble. And, Chantal?”

“Yes?” Her voice was a weak whisper, and she stopped her retreat toward the door, forcing herself to meet his eyes one more time.

“Thank you. You probably saved my life.”

“That makes us even,” she replied uneasily, not at all sure she liked the train of his thoughts.

Jaz shook his head. “No, I still owe you one.” Not even a hint of a smile graced his mouth or lit his eyes.

She definitely didn’t like the train of his thoughts. The last thing she needed was for Jaz Peterson to be in her debt. Debts had a funny way of changing the course of a person’s life, and she didn’t want the responsibility for his life. She’d helped him because she’d had to, and to relieve some of her own debts, not to generate another obligation. Fate wasn’t as easily dismissed, and she prayed her instincts were wrong concerning the unforeseen twists and turns this night had taken.

Or was the prayer something else? Her gaze lingered on a stranger’s face, and she saw a myriad of other possibilities shining in his eyes. But long ago she’d learned her lesson about fate.

“You don’t owe me anything, Jaz. Remember that.” She stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door behind her, adding another note of finality to her statement.

Standing in front of her open refrigerator, she checked out her leftovers: mashed potatoes and gravy, fried chicken, peas, a dab of stuffing. She put a lot of everything on a plate and covered it with a paper towel for a zap in the microwave. On second thought, she lifted the paper towel and added another helping of potatoes. Plenty of carbohydrates to keep him warm all night long. She wished she’d bought an electric blanket the last time she’d been in Denver. They wanted a fortune for them in Aspen, and Elise never gave practical gifts.

She closed the refrigerator door and rested her forehead against the cool metal. What had she done? A hot, very hot, piece of jewelry was stashed in her hope chest, only a small part of her father’s salvation, yet a big part of her love. What was she doing? A practically naked stranger, with a kiss that could melt the snow off the Burn, was soaking in her tub. A sheaf of stolen documents, which she hadn’t even looked at, was concealed with the necklace. She needed some answers.

Rolling her head sideways, she glanced at the cedar chest where she had hidden her pack. None of your business, her conscience told her. You’re already in this thing up to your neck, her curiosity replied.

Picking up her brandy in one hand and tucking a few of the many straying tendrils of hair behind her ear with the other, she crossed to the chest. He had given her the papers, hadn’t he? she thought, kneeling in front of the chest. Under duress, and to deliver, not rummage through, her conscience answered. She stared at the lock, long and hard. Then she reached.

With her eyes closed she worked the combination lock, feeling for tension in the tumblers. It was an easy trick with a cheap lock, but it kept her in practice. She should have stopped playing these childhood games a long time ago. Then the option to steal back the necklace wouldn’t have been open to her.

The lock released and she opened her eyes. Regrets usually came fast on the heels of
should have’s
, and she was still too deep in the middle of this to contemplate regrets. She pulled his documents out of her pack and laid them in her lap. The words
TOP SECRET
stamped in red on the cover page gave her a moment’s pause.

Despite her curiosity, she had no business looking at the papers he had stolen, even if they could supply her with some answers. But then again, maybe some answers were worth the risk. Come what might, a stranger was in her tub and she had promised him refuge for the night. She had a right to check him out, and the only means at her disposal were the papers. It was wonderful how the mind could work, she thought, and flipped the cover page over.

One thing became immediately clear: They were government documents, or, rather, Air Force documents. The names and ranks at the top of the page also told her they must be very important. Chantal was proud of her American citizenship, and she made a point of following the news. She had seen some of those names in the newspapers.

Fighting the temptation to look further, she closed the papers. Sandhurst could only have gotten the documents through illegal means—the same way he’d gotten her father’s necklace. As best she could tell, Jaz Peterson was who he said he was, a sanctioned envoy of the American government. The thought eased her mind about the night still ahead. Then, with a twinge of regret, she realized his apparent legitimacy only widened the gulf between them.

“So what?” she whispered in self-defense, unaware that she’d voiced the words. She didn’t have to live with Jaz Peterson and whatever he might think about her. She only had to live with herself.

“Dammit.” His deep voice jerked her attention to the bathroom.

Chantal jumped up, the documents crunched in her fist. Guilt spread over her face like a red mask, but Jaz wasn’t looking at her—yet. Still, there was no way for her to hide the papers discreetly.

Lean and lanky, he stood in the doorway, masculinity defined in its purest sense. The dusky pink bath towel was knotted around his slim hips, hanging to his knees and showing off his dark tan to perfection. A smear of white antibiotic cream streaked across his cheek. Another trailed across the cut on his shoulder.

“Could you give me a hand with this?” he asked between his teeth, which were clamped down on a length of first-aid tape. The gauze bandage was crumpled in his hand. Then he glanced up and saw her holding the papers. His eyes narrowed as his gaze traveled from the documents to her face. He took a step forward, removing the first-aid tape from his mouth.

Seconds stretched into eternity as their eyes met, guilty blue and questioning gray.

“That’s dangerous information, Chantal,” he said softly. “You’d be better off not knowing.”

“I didn’t read them.” By some miracle she kept her voice steady, despite the heat in her cheeks and the evidence in her hand. Her pride refused to allow her to give him more of an explanation. He’d either believe her or damn her, no matter how fast she talked.

“Checking me out?” he asked, lifting both dark brows.

She nodded, and Jaz thought of how deceiving looks could be. If this were their first meeting he would have thought the lady with the wild blond curls and crystalline blue eyes incapable of subterfuge, but he’d seen her in action. Regardless, he knew beyond doubt that she wasn’t an arms dealer, or a thief, or a liar. General Moore might disagree with his gut instincts, but they’d gotten Jaz through more than one tight spot.

In the bathroom he had said he owed her one, and he was going to give it to her now. “That’s good enough for me.”

Standing in front of him and waiting, Chantal had been ready for a lot of things, but blanket acceptance hadn’t been one of them. That was it? she wondered, astonished. Good enough for him?

“That’s it?” she said aloud, her brow furrowed in disbelief.

“Yep, that’s it. Do you think you could patch me up now?” He turned and ambled toward the fireplace, his fingers dabbing at the antibiotic cream on his shoulder. “I know you’re supposed to let the air get to the wound and all that stuff, but I still think we should put a little gauze on this thing or I’ll be bleeding all over your furniture.”

That’s it? She mouthed the words at his back as she returned the papers to the hope chest. Didn’t he know those were top-secret documents she’d been looking at? Of course he knew—he was the one who’d stolen them. Strangely enough, his cavalier attitude made her mad. America deserved better protection than this. What if she had been a spy, or something?

With caution lightening every step, she followed him to where he’d dropped cross-legged on her Chinese rug. She stared down at him, but he was either oblivious of her watchful gaze or deliberately ignoring her.

“The safety of the free world’s at stake and all you ask is one lousy question?” she blurted out. He nodded, and she shifted her hands lower on her hips. “You sure as hell don’t make much of an interrogator, do you?”

He glanced up from inspecting his shoulder, his face the picture of calm despite her insult. “And you don’t make much of a liar.”

“I’m a thief, for crying out loud!” The words were out before she had time to think. Oh, brother.

“If you are, you’re a damn good one. I was there, remember?”

“Remember? How could I forget?” Her voice rose to a strained pitch. “If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would have happened.”

“Ah-hah! Now we’re getting somewhere.” He scooted around to face her, a gleam of victory lighting his eyes. “I wondered when you’d get to that. But don’t worry. I’ve got a plan to make amends.”

She shot him a suspicious look. “What amends?”

“Amends for the trouble I’ve caused you. Whether you know it or not, we’re in this thing pretty deep now. And while I’ve got a good cover and a great escape plan, your . . . uh, derriere is hanging out over a limb.”

Her gaze narrowed another fraction of an inch. “What plan?”

Jaz had done a lot of thinking in the bathtub—it was a great place for thinking—but the look in her eye told him to keep his thoughts to himself for a while longer. “How about if we talk about it over dinner? I’m starved.”

Chantal’s eyes became two slits of cerulean suspicion. Jaz Peterson warmed up was proving to be as unpredictable as Jaz Peterson freezing to death in her arms. But fate could only be allowed so much rein, and it had fooled around with her long enough.

Four

She’d bandaged his shoulder while he ate. A little poking around, by both of them, had revealed a couple of glass chunks and no shot. He’d been a strangely detached helper, commenting on the injury and eating fried chicken as if he got blasted off cliffs every day. Even beaten, bandaged, and exhausted he radiated health, his body whipcord-lean and strong, his eyes sparkling and clear. He didn’t have the pumped-up look of a weight lifter. Rather, his muscles were well defined without excess bulk, and Chantal was having a hard time keeping her eyes to herself and not wondering how it would feel to have the power of his arms around her in passion.

The fire was dying down and the embers were sending a soft glow over the hearth, wrapping them in a blanket of warmth, keeping out the cold of the night. Both of their brandy snifters were on the polished oak floor, next to the rug where they sat. A very cozy scene for two lovers, Chantal thought, and for a long moment, as she watched the last flames dance a pattern of light over his tawny arms, she wished that they were lovers. That there was more than one night. That he belonged to her, this stranger from fate with the clear gray eyes and easy smile.

Crazy thoughts for a crazy night.

“You really shouldn’t drink anymore,” she said when he reached for the brandy bottle. “Alcohol lowers your body temperature.”

“I’m trying to deaden the pain.” He winked, and grinned that devastating grin she was becoming all too fond of. “Don’t worry, Chantal. I’m plenty warm, but I know a place where we’d be warmer.” He leaned over and filled her glass. The move pulled the pink bath towel tight across his lap and exposed a generous length of one muscular tanned thigh.

Good grief, she thought, afraid for a second that the whole thing was going to fall off. When he shifted around to face her, she was sure of it. Her eyes widened and flashed to his face, but he either missed her concern or chose to ignore it, because he did nothing to secure the knot at his waist.

“Mexico. The beach at Cozumel,” he continued, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his fingers over his lap. She followed every ripple of muscle down his arm. Her gaze detoured at his knee and went back up his thigh.

“I’m sure Mexico is nice and warm,” she replied absently, thoroughly distracted from the conversation. The breathless quality of her voice brought her up sharp, and she forced her eyes back to his face. An equally distracting view, she realized too late. She compensated with a no-nonsense tone, asking, “Do you want to tell me what you’re talking about?”

“Mexico. You, me, blue water, golden sand, a bikini. Ancient ruins, tequila.” His voice softened. “Long days and longer nights.”

“A bikini?” She deliberately avoided the “longer nights,” easily imagining just how long those nights could get.