by Kay Hooper
“Not tumbling down. It just needs a few blocks knocked out of it to let the fresh air in.”
Dallas strove with himself. “What about your wall?”
“Don’t have one. Just lots of wide open spaces.” She smiled easily. “It’s called being broad-minded.”
“It’s called being a thief,” he snapped.
Troy shrugged. “Call a spade a spade. Doesn’t bother me.”
Dallas reached desperately for an argument to combat her calm certainty. “You’re paid money to steal. You gain from theft. Don’t you see how wrong that is?”
After a moment Troy said neutrally, “And if I didn’t gain? Would that make it more acceptable?”
“Hell—I—maybe. I don’t know. It’s a moot point anyway. You were hired to steal that painting from John. What he did by hiring someone else to steal it for him doesn’t excuse what you did. Two wrongs don’t make a right, dammit.”
Troy would have laughed at the cliché, except that she could hear the struggle in his deep voice. She kept her own voice level. “In this case, at least, two wrongs do make a right. John was punished by the loss of his money as well as the painting, and Interpol will keep an eye on him from now on; not a thing could be proved against him in court—”
“It could have if you hadn’t stolen the evidence.”
“There were no grounds for a search warrant,” she said flatly. “Remember the law? The police couldn’t get inside his house to find the evidence. Suspicion isn’t enough.”
Balked, Dallas tried again. “What about the thief John hired? He gets off.”
“Only for the moment.” Troy smiled slightly.
“I had to track him down in order to find out who’d hired him; Interpol now has a nice little eight-by-ten glossy of him. And since I’m reasonably sure he pulled off that jewel heist in London last week, I’m sure they’ll get him.”
Dallas stared at her silently.
“All out of arguments?” she asked dryly.
“No. It’s wrong to steal. It’s wrong to gain by stealing.”
Troy sighed. “Look, never mind. You go your way and I’ll go mine, okay, pal? Life’s too short for this kind of a debate.”
“I can’t walk away,” he said, his voice grating softly.
Troy fought to ignore the leap of her heart. “It’s the novelty, don’t you see that? You’ve never met a cat burglar before—much less a woman cat burglar.”
“So?”
“So it’ll pass. And you’ll be glad you didn’t try to reform a hardened criminal.”
Dallas made a slight, almost unconscious gesture, as if to sweep her last word into oblivion. “It won’t pass. And I’m not through trying.” His blue eyes bored into hers. “I want to know who you are, where you live, whether you like animals. I want to know your favorite colors and your favorite foods, and if you play tennis or bridge. I want to know where you were born and grew up, where you went to school, and who cleans your teeth.
“I can find that out, Troy. No life leaves no traces. If I don’t learn you from you, then I’ll hire detectives—every detective in the damn city if that’s what it takes—and I’ll find out everything I want to know about you.”
Troy’s face was very still, the smile in her eyes briefly extinguished. But then it surfaced again. “You know,” she said slowly, “I’m…almost…tempted to call you on that.”
“It’s not a bluff,” he warned evenly.
“Why?” she asked. “Why so determined?”
“You know. You’re woman enough to know.”
She tamed the leap of her heart again. “You’re asking for trouble,” she warned in turn. “I honestly don’t believe that two people as different as you and I could ever find common ground. And I’m past the age of believing that chemistry can form the basis of anything except experiments in a laboratory.”
Dallas ignored that. “It’s your choice. Either you let me find out about you in the…acceptable way, or else you force me to employ other methods.”
“What do you expect to find out?” she asked, suddenly curious. “That I was twisted by heredity and environment and turned into a criminal? That I lead a life of shadows, a life filled with shady meetings and surreptitious phone calls? That I live in a house filled with stolen loot and cringe whenever a police officer passes?”
“I want to find out what’s there,” Dallas said flatly.
Troy looked at him for a long moment. Then she shrugged. “All right. If you’re so damn determined to look into the nooks and crannies of my life, feel free. Believe it or not, I’ve nothing to hide.”
Dallas almost relaxed. “Fine. Where do I pick you up for dinner tonight?”
She bit back a laugh. “Arrogant, aren’t you? Give you an inch and you run away with it.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Was that a question? It sounded like a command. If I must have a sparring partner, you’d better know the rules. And rule number one is that I won’t be ordered around. Period.”
“Pardon me. Would you please have dinner with me tonight?”
“No.”
“Dammit!”
Dryly Troy said, “Look, last night was a long one, and it didn’t end for me after I left you. In fact, I haven’t been to bed. I intend to go home and have a nice nap, after which I’ll call the collector in Paris. Then I plan to fall back into bed and sleep all night.”
Dallas controlled himself. “Tomorrow night then?” He only just remembered to make it a question.
“I’m giving a party. You’re welcome to come: the address is Three-oh-nine Oak Street. It starts at eight or thereabouts. Formal.” When Dallas looked at her suspiciously, she shook her head slightly. “I’m not giving a phony address: I don’t lie. Funny little quirk of mine.”
He finally nodded. “All right.”
“Don’t expect to meet the cream of thieving society,” she warned lightly. “You’re more likely to see diplomats, politicians. Army and arty types, maybe a few senators or congressmen…judges. I’m a democratic hostess.”
When he recovered from that, Dallas said wryly, “Maybe I’d better ask something before I come to your party.”
“Ask away.”
“Among the distinguished types mentioned, there isn’t a husband, is there?”
“Scores of them. But none belonging to me.”
“You’re not married?”
“Someone’s going to have to get me pregnant first,” she said sweetly.
“I’ll remember that,” he shot back calmly.
Troy remained seated while he rose to his feet, thinking that she was going to regret this. As a sparring partner, he lacked nothing; but sparring partners didn’t exactly make for comfortable relationships—and Troy found all the excitement she needed in her work.
“Eight,” he said, looking down at her.
“Or thereabouts,” she responded easily.
He kept looking down at her. “You haven’t called me by my name yet,” he noted neutrally.
“Is that a prerequisite to being investigated?” she asked dryly.
“Troy.”
She was never able afterward to explain to herself what it was about his voice that got to her. It might have been the yearning note that, she was certain, echoed only in her imagination. It might have been that no one else had ever said her name in quite that way. Whatever it was, it got to her.
“Okay. I’ll see you around eight—Dallas.”
A smile curved his mouth, something warm kindling in his dark blue eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Troy.” Then he turned and made his way down the steps.
As Troy watched his lean figure disappear into the distance the big man who’d been waiting, silent and watchful, among the Doric columns at the top of the steps came down to join her. He sat beside her, joining her in looking after the man who’d just left.
“You walked past us very pointedly,” she observed absently.
“You were smiling your dang
erous smile,” the big man explained in a voice that sounded like an angry bear at the bottom of a deep well. “I thought I’d better pass by to remind you not to light into Cameron.”
“I nearly did, Jamie,” she said ruefully. “He was needling me about stealing being wrong.”
Jamie looked at her curiously. “Even after you explained that you don’t gain by it?”
Troy slid a look at her big companion. “Yes, well—I didn’t exactly tell him about that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Yes—I do know. He was so damn complacent about his belief and so utterly unwilling to listen to mine. To hear mine. I think he wants to reform me, if you please. And I have a terrible suspicion that he’s going to try and blame my unlawful ways on heredity and/or environment. He probably thinks my father was a Skid Row bum and my mother a hooker.”
Jamie hid a smile at her disgusted tone. “You’ve met others who wanted to place your delicate feet on the straight and narrow,” he said mildly.
“I know. But dammit, he makes me mad.”
“Then tell him the truth.”
“That he makes me mad? He knows that.”
“No, mon enfant—tell him about yourself.”
“He wouldn’t believe me.”
“Show him.”
“That’s his idea.” Troy sighed, then muttered abruptly. “I think I own stock in his company.”
Jamie burst out laughing at the sudden astonishment in her voice, his own tone even more of a bear-rumble in amusement. “Well, he left calmly enough, at any rate. You must have said something to placate him.”
“I invited him to my party,” Troy said woefully.
Remembering the kiss he’d seen, Jamie said rather carefully, “Was that wise, chérie?”
“No.” She sighed. “It wasn’t a bit wise. But he said that either he’d find out about me from me, or else he’d hire detectives. And I don’t think he was bluffing, Jamie.”
“May I ask why he’s so determined?”
Troy looked at him with a comical mixture of caution and amusement. “Well, don’t go all stuffy and protective, but I’m reasonably sure he has designs on my virtue.”
Jamie, the memory of that kiss strong, was more than reasonably sure. He was certain. “I promised your father I’d look after you, mon enfant.”
“You’ve taught me to look after myself,” she reminded.
“True. And you’re over twenty-one. But be careful. Cameron strikes me as being an honest man, but he’s not known for his fidelity.”
Troy got to her feet, holding the almost-forgotten painting securely. “Fidelity doesn’t interest me, Jamie. I’m not ready to settle down.”
Jamie rose more slowly, his face concerned as he looked down at her. “You’ve never been in love, chérie. But when you fall, you’ll fall hard. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
The talents of a genuinely great actress must have been passed down to Troy; her laugh sounded sure and heart-whole even to herself. “Love? Jamie, Dallas Cameron thinks I’m a thief, and nothing’s going to change his opinion. And I could never fall in love with a man who thought me immoral. It just isn’t possible.” She started down the steps confidently.
“Besides, as soon as the novelty wears off, he’ll be gone.”
Moving after her, Jamie muttered, “Uh-huh. When pigs grow wings and hell freezes over.”
If Troy heard him, she gave no sign.
The house on Oak Street was nestled in among the towering trees that had given the street its name. It was a tall and stately house, a generation older than Troy, and it boasted some thirty rooms. The mansion—a well-cared-for Colonial—was beautiful.
When Troy briskly entered the house through the front door, Bryce was there to take her jacket, as always just a moment too late to open the door for her as he thought proper. Troy hid a grin at the slight crack in his butlerly composure, silently admonishing herself, as always, that she really should stop bolting into the house and upsetting the poor man.
“Three messages, Miss Troy,” he announced in his clipped British accent, holding the much used and despised (by him) sheepskin jacket as though it were a mink coat. “The French gentleman called again and asked that you return his call at your convenience.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Elliot called to inform you that he is bringing the ingredients for his—punch—to the gathering tomorrow night.”
Bryce said punch as if it were a blow from a fist rather than a drink, Troy thought in amusement. She smothered a yawn behind one hand, the exhaustion of too many hours without sleep beginning to catch up with her. “Fine. And the third message?”
“A gentleman,” Bryce said, his emphasis proclaiming that he had his doubts about the noun,
“called and asked if Troy lived here. Then he demanded to know your last name.”
“You hung up on him, of course?” Troy murmured, thinking that Dallas had worked fast to get her unlisted number. How on earth had he managed?
“Of course.” The butler unbent enough to say somewhat sternly, “Mrs. Miller is preparing something light for your dinner, Miss Troy. I would suggest that you lie down for a few hours before the meal.”
Amused, Troy said, “I’m way ahead of you, Bryce.”
Ten minutes later Troy had stripped and slid between cool sheets in her French Provincial bedroom. Just as she was relaxing into sleep, a sudden thought made her sit up and reach for the phone on her nightstand. She placed a call, asked one brief question, listened to the answer, then expressed her thanks and hung up.
Lying back on the pillows, she thought with drowsy irritation, Damn, I do own stock in his company!
THREE
THE ALCOVE AT the top of the stairs was a perfect place from which to observe comings and goings, and Troy used it for just that. None of her guests would expect her until they saw her: it was neither lack of punctuality nor any desire for theatrics that made her invariably late for even her own parties, but merely a life filled to overflowing with things to be done. As it was, she’d only finished getting ready five minutes before, and the party had been in full swing for almost an hour.
So she paused in the alcove, shielded by shadows from the eyes of her guests below as she took a moment to catch her breath and gaze down on the cream of several different crops of Washington society. The military was represented in all of its branches and most of its ranks; the occasional wafting upward of foreign words and phrases indicated the presence of members of the diplomatic corps: strident “discussions” of the economy hinted at government representatives; glittering jewels and evening dresses announced fashionable society.
It was a sight to gladden the heart of any hostess, but Troy merely noted the guests with cursory interest. Familiar faces all, and though she was always glad to see friends, she was looking for a particular face at the moment.
And there he was.
Troy felt her heart leap, and fiercely steadied it. Of course, he’d come; the man was determined if nothing else. Shatteringly handsome in a black dinner jacket, he strode through the huge sitting room, clearly visible to her through the archway across from the stairs.
He moved like a cat, she thought vaguely, like a slightly aloof and innately arrogant Siamese. And the crowd that was filled with important people, with world movers and shakers, seemed automatically to give way before him in an unconscious acceptance of superiority.
Troy frowned at that. Not even her dearest friends would have ventured to call her pliant or self-effacing, and when two arrogant and stubborn personalities met head-on…
Now she was frowning at herself. Idiot, she thought. Dallas Cameron would very shortly lose interest in a thief met in the night, so there was really no need for this unsatisfactory comparison of personalities. Besides, what they didn’t have in common would fill volumes, and she’d probably never see him again after tonight.
Unconsciously biting her lower lip, Troy continued to watch as he progressed throug
h the crowded sitting room and into the vast entrance hall below her. She’d always thought that no man was ever as handsome as he could be unless in uniform, but Dallas Cameron, she acknowledged silently, didn’t need the gilding. He overpowered and overshadowed every other man here tonight, even the silver-haired judge commonly considered the sexiest man in the city.
Troy smoothed unexpectedly nervous hands down her thighs, studying his cat-footed, Indian-file walk and noting, even at this distance, that his blue eyes were restlessly searching the crowd of faces. She knew who he was looking for, and a sudden tugging in the pit of her stomach weakened her composure momentarily.
But then Troy squared her shoulders and stepped determinedly out of the alcove. He was just a man, dammit, no more and no less. Just a man, and no threat to her peace. Just a flesh-and-blood man.
With a face that had haunted her dreams…
In spite of Troy’s light warning, Dallas hadn’t expected the definitely democratic mix of types at her party. In the hour he’d been here, he had already spoken to a general, two colonels, a judge, a senator, two congressmen, a society deb, three business moguls he knew well, a pro quarterback, three artists, and a very famous popular singer.
He also hadn’t expected this house, although he’d driven past it twice the day before, feeling a strong sense of disbelief. And his disbelief had grown with every brief conversation held here tonight; he had smoothly and subtly questioned everyone he met about his hostess.
In a city where scandal and gossip ran rampant, and backstabbing—verbal or otherwise—was commonplace, Troy’s reputation appeared to be inviolate.
She had apparently collected a variety of nicknames: Kat, Red, Honey, T.B., Tiny, and—inexplicably to Dallas—Blaze. And Tom Elliot, the popular singer and heartthrob whose function at the party seemed to be guarding a punchbowl, referred cheerfully to her as Blondie. After the comic strip? he wondered.
Dallas tried and failed to reconcile these new versions of the woman with his own ideas. Who was she? What was she, for heaven’s sake?
Wandering out into the entrance hall, he continued to wonder where she was. He searched unfamiliar faces, looking for gold-green/green-gold eyes and flaming hair. (Blaze! Of course! he thought.) And then he saw her descending the stairs, and rational thought fled.
