The Catspaw Collection

by Anne Stuart

  “A thief,” Ferris supplied sleepily.

  “That’s a little crass, but I suppose it’s accurate enough. I became a thief because it was the obvious thing to do. I was merely following the family tradition. My father was one of the most famous . . . thieves in the history of society burgling.”

  “I didn’t know there was a history of society burgling. I can’t even say it.”

  “My father was a member of polite society in London in the thirties and forties and even into the fifties. He was known everywhere, accepted everywhere, liked by everyone. By day he’d play cards and gamble and ride with his friends, at night he’d rob their wives of their jewelry.”

  “A charming friend,” Ferris grumbled against his shoulder. He smelled positively delicious. Of warm flesh, and Scotch, and something else. She realized belatedly it was the dregs of Dixie Dinner. Blackie must have enticed him into feeding him. With a sigh, she burrowed closer.

  “Oh, he wasn’t too bad. No one was seriously injured by his pilfering. He knew his victims well enough to know who could afford to lose a diamond or two. I think he did it more for the excitement than the money. He made as much gambling, I think.”

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “My mother died when I was twelve. Some complications after gall-bladder surgery. My father died four years later.” His voice was even, his eyes trained on the television, but that strong, beautiful hand of his was stroking her thick dark hair with a steady, soothing beat.

  “How did he die?” Ferris asked quietly.

  “Occupational hazard. He fell one night. His partner was counting on him, and I took his place. He’d shown me a few things, but I mostly learned on the job.” His calm, matter-of-fact voice allowed for no pity, and Ferris swallowed the sudden surge of sympathy. It wouldn’t have been welcome.

  “And what made you quit? You must have been at it a long time—ten years?”

  “Closer to fifteen. And I didn’t retire—it retired me. Same thing as my father. I fell.”

  She felt suddenly sick. “What are you guys, the Flying Wallendas? How many other members of your family died that way?”

  “Just an uncle.”

  “Damn.”

  “And I didn’t die. I just had a smashed leg. Unfortunately, my fall attracted a bit of attention. It was . . . several days before I managed to get help. By that time infection had set in, and . . .” he shrugged, the gesture bringing her body temporarily closer.

  “Is that when you went to prison?”

  “Yes.” The short syllable was neutral, neither inviting nor discouraging further confidences, but Ferris persevered with brandy-tinged tenacity.

  “And you can’t rob places anymore?” she asked.

  “It’s difficult. I’ve had enough operations to make my knee comparable to that of a retired professional quarterback. Good enough, as long as I don’t ask anything exceptional of it. No skiing, no ballet dancing and no cat burglary.”

  “Do you miss it?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Sometimes. Not often. Not right now. There’s no place I’d rather be than lying in bed with the virginal Francesca Berdahofski,” he said lightly.

  “Don’t tease me,” she said sleepily. He was still stroking her head, gentle, soothing strokes, and if he stopped she would die.

  “I can’t help it. You’re so teasable.” His other hand reached up to touch her face gently. “So now I’ve told you my deep, dark secrets. Your turn.”

  “I’ve already told you more than you need to know,” she grumbled.

  “You haven’t told me how you managed to be the only twenty-eight—twenty-nine?—year-old virgin left in captivity.”

  “Twenty-nine. And maybe no one’s captured me.”

  “Not for want of trying. What about Tommy Stanopoulos, for starters? Why didn’t you go to bed with him?”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Ferris sighed. It was much more comfortable to put her hand on his shoulder, to snuggle closer against his warmth, to tell him what he seemed determined to know. “We were all set to,” she said. “We’d been going steady a year, been necking and petting and getting pretty passionate. He was going away to the university and I was going to follow him the next year, and we decided to ‘go all the way.’ We waited till his parents were out of town for the weekend, we lied to my parents and I thought we were all prepared. But he wasn’t.”

  “He wasn’t?” Blackheart sounded perplexed, and his attention had shifted from the television screen with the low murmur of voices to her sleepy, troubled face.

  “He didn’t have any protection. He said we didn’t need it, that I wasn’t going to get pregnant the first time. I told him I didn’t want to take chances, not with my family’s track record, and he said, ‘What’s the big deal? We’ll be married as soon as you graduate from high school, you’ll be pregnant and have to drop out of college before the first year is over. I’ll make more than enough to support you—you don’t have to go to college.’”

  “And did you then proceed to emasculate him as he deserved?” Blackheart questioned lightly.

  “I should have. I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him if he didn’t use protection. He told me I didn’t love him enough to trust him. I told him I guess I didn’t. And that was that.”

  “So what’s happened in the intervening years? You must know that there are ways for a woman to stop conception even more effectively than a man.”

  “Believe it or not, things just never came together at the right time. Whenever I felt like going to bed with a man it was a spur-of-the moment thing, and neither of us was prepared. By the time I had a chance to do something about it, the notion had passed. Until Phillip.”

  “And you haven’t even slept with Phillip?” The hand had left her hair, was now gently stroking her shoulders, and she curled into him like a contented cat.

  “Nope. I was all set to, but when he found out I was still a virgin, he decided we should wait till we were married. He figured if I’d waited that long I could wait a little bit longer and do it right. Phillip’s very traditional at heart.”

  “Phillip’s an idiot,” Blackheart mumbled against her forehead. “So you’re going to be married in white lace.”

  “You can come to the wedding,” she murmured sleepily.

  “I think I’ll pass on that one. We’re getting to the good part of the movie, Francesca. Don’t you want to see them lower the mute down through the window?”

  “Nope. I’ve seen enough caper movies in the past week to last me a long time. I’m going to sleep. Wake me when you leave.” She shut her eyes, nestling closer still, and one slender hand closed around his shoulder. A moment later she was sound asleep.

  Blackheart looked down at the woman lying in his arms, the wonders of Topkapi forgotten. He’d kept away from her as long as he could, far longer than he wanted to. And now he really didn’t know why.

  Someday he’d tell her about Patience Hornsworth and the rat-infested cellar. Sometime he might even tell her what he had never told another living soul—that he’d begun to hate what he’d been doing and who and what he was.

  But not now, not yet. For now she was going to have to go by her seldom-used instincts and trust him. And despite all evidence to the contrary, despite that wary, mutinous look that came over her usually serene face, he knew that she would trust him. She couldn’t help herself.

  He didn’t bother to think about why it should matter. He didn’t even bother to think about where this was leading. Silently, carefully he pulled her sleeping body closer against his, flicking off the remote control for the TV before putting his other arm around her. It was a moonlit night again, and he’d long ago given up fighting his regrets. He was trusting a woman who wasn’t what she said she was,
and he had the uneasy feeling that his distant crimes were once again going to catch up with him. His father must be spinning in his grave.

  Patrick hadn’t been sleeping well these last three days, but the comfort of the bed beneath him and the soft body in his arms were producing an erotic sort of lassitude. A wry grin lit his face. He’d promised her he wouldn’t make a pass at her tonight.

  The sooner he fell asleep the sooner tomorrow would come, and he’d made no promises about tomorrow. Shutting his eyes, he willed himself to sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  FERRIS WAS AWARE of several things, all shifting and drifting in and out of her consciousness. It was another gray day—the early morning light filtered through the glass door and tried to pry her eyelids open. There was a heavy weight on her feet—Blackie, most likely. And another heavy weight across her breasts, which definitely couldn’t be Blackie. And the mouth and tongue nibbling at her earlobe, nuzzling through her tangled hair had nothing to do with a cat. Or did it?

  She opened her eyes, whipping her head around to stare at the man in bed with her. He just barely managed to miss getting knocked in the jaw by her forehead. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a shocked whisper. There was no need to raise her voice—he was more than close enough to hear her. She was lying curled up in his arms, her long bare ankles tangled with his, her breasts just touching his chest through the thin silk chemise. He was still wearing his shirt, and she felt his warm skin, his heart beating with surprising rapidity against hers as he stared quietly into her eyes.

  “Waiting for you to wake up,” he whispered back. He had just a fine covering of hair on his chest—not too much, not too little—and it aroused her sensitive skin. She found her own heart had started beating more rapidly, in time with his.

  “Did you want to say good-bye?” she questioned breathlessly. It was such a big bed, why was she entwined so closely with him? Why didn’t she want to move?

  He shook his head. “I wanted to say hello,” he said, his mouth so near that the soft breath tickled her skin. His lips reached hers before she could protest. Then protest was the last thing on her mind as his mouth caught hers, gently forcing her lips apart. Slowly, thoroughly, he began to kiss her, his tongue teasing past her teeth, exploring the soft, trembling contours of her willing mouth.

  She made a quiet little surrendering sound back in her throat as his rough, dexterous hand slid up one smooth thigh, under the silky chemise, across her flat stomach and up to gently catch one full breast. It seemed to swell in his touch, and Ferris whimpered slightly against his mouth, trying to edge closer.

  His mouth left hers, pausing long enough to nibble lightly on her lower lip before moving back to her earlobe, as his other hand caught her shoulder and turned her closer against his body. Her hands were trapped between their bodies, there was nothing she could do but spread them against the warm, enticing skin of his chest, threading her restless fingers through the fine, crinkly hair. He felt so good to her hands, so strong and warm and alive, and she wanted to feel all of him, wanted no barrier of faded jeans or silk chemises. His hand slid its relentless way underneath the light material, and then it was his strong, long fingers on her skin, the texture rough and arousing.

  With a low moan she sought out his mouth herself, losing herself once more in the heady delicious thrust and parry of their tongues. Her hands slid lower, encountering the frustrating barrier of his jeans, and she had just reached for the zipper when his hand caught hers, holding her still against his arousal, his thumb and fingers like steel around her wrist, keeping her captive. His mouth moved away from hers, reluctantly, and his eyes were black as midnight as they looked down into her love-dazed ones.

  “Are you sure you want this, Francesca?” he asked quietly, his voice slightly hoarse with controlled passion.

  She looked up at him, at the passion-dark eyes, the tangled brown hair that was rumpled endearingly around his face, the mouth that was still damp from her kiss. He felt hard and strong against her captive hand, and she knew how much he wanted her. As much as she wanted him. Slowly she shook her head.

  “I don’t want this,” she said coolly, calmly, a part of her shrieking in disbelief.

  His hands released her, and she rolled away, pulling the skimpy chemise around her exposed body. Unfortunately the oversize bed wasn’t made for dignified exits. She had no choice but to scramble across it, trampling on an outraged Blackie, who remained directly in her path, finally ending up at the doorway, rumpled, tousled, breathless and embarrassed.

  Blackheart hadn’t moved from the bed. He lay back, crossing his arms behind his head, and surveyed her with a calm she knew was completely false. She could see his chest rise and fall with the effort at controlling his breathing, and the state of his jeans hadn’t changed appreciably since her escape.

  “You’re blushing,” he drawled.

  “You told me you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Wouldn’t do what?”

  “Wouldn’t try to make love to me,” she said in a strangled voice.

  “I said I wouldn’t last night. I never made any promises about the morning.”

  “I trusted you.”

  “No, you didn’t,” he corrected her mildly. “You didn’t trust me one bit. You were just tired and a little drunk and willing to play with fire. And I just proved to you how trustworthy I could be. I let you go.”

  “You didn’t . . . you . . .” Her outrage suddenly deflated. “Yes, you did. Thank you, Blackheart.”

  His self-deprecating smile was only slightly mocking. “I could say my pleasure, but that wouldn’t be entirely correct. I can’t say I was happy to do it, either. I guess we’ll have to settle for ‘you’re welcome.’ ” He continued to eye her from his position on the bed. “In return you might do me a small favor.”

  Ferris looked at him warily. “What?”

  “Put some more clothes on. I could always change my mind,” he murmured.

  Ferris fled.

  AND HE’D CALLED Merriam an idiot. What did that make him, calling a halt when she was lying in his arms, trembling, responsive, ready to be loved as she needed to be loved? If Merriam was an idiot, John Patrick Blackheart was the king of fools.

  It didn’t look as if he’d won any points for that magnificent bit of self-sacrifice. She’d looked at him out of those wonderful green eyes of hers like he was the devil incarnate, she wouldn’t even stay in the same room with him, and her hands trembled when she handed him the worst cup of coffee he’d had in months. He›d used every ounce of his willpower not to tease her, when what he’d really wanted to do was say to hell with it and drag her back into the bedroom.

  She would have gone with him. He knew from that slightly dazed expression on her face that she hadn’t quite recovered from her near escape and wasn’t sure if she wanted to. There’d been no questions about protection—for the first time in her life she’d forgotten all about it.

  Well, he could wait. And that was what he was intending to do. But sooner or later he was going to have Miss Francesca Berdahofski exactly where he wanted her. In his arms, in his bed, in his life. And for now he was going to ignore the fear that he’d never want her to leave.

  In the meantime, he had things to do. The San Francisco morning was cool and damp, and his leg ached slightly. Not enough to bring the almost forgotten limp back, but enough to slow him as he climbed the steep hill toward California Street. Francesca could wait until after the Puffin Ball. Could and should wait, until he could give her his undivided attention. She needed to be handled very carefully indeed. But he had no intention of waiting any longer than that.

  There were things he had to check out. Something didn’t feel right about this job, something was in the wind. He’d relied on his instincts during the past fifteen years, and they’d seldom failed him. Trace often scoffed at him, but Blackheart had
seen the secret look of awe in his eyes. He’d laughed when Blackheart told him there was something funny about the Puffin Ball.

  “You’re getting spooked in your old age, man,” Trace had said, clapping a heavy hand on Blackheart’s shoulder. “This job is a piece of cake. Just a bunch of sex-starved ladies and their fancy party. There are no professionals in the city—we would have heard of them. And it would take a seasoned professional to handle something like the Von Emmerling emeralds. We have nothing to fear from amateurs. Not with your magic.”

  “Something smells funny about this,” Blackheart had insisted. “I want you to be doubly observant.”

  Trace had looked hurt. “Don’t you trust me to keep my eyes open?”

  “Yeah, but I also know that pretty ladies have a habit of getting in your line of vision. I just want us to be extra careful.”

  Trace hadn’t looked mollified. “You don’t have to act so high and mighty. I’ve noticed you’ve been more than a little distracted on this job yourself. You should know better than to mess with Senator Merriam’s lady. She’s out of your league, old man.”

  “You were trying to mess with her pretty hard yourself, old man,” Blackheart had replied mockingly.

  “It’s expected of me,” Trace had said righteously, and Blackheart had let out a hoot of laughter.

  “Well, for once, don’t live up to people’s expectations. Trust in my instincts. There’s something going on.”

  “I always trust your instincts, Patrick. Even though they give me the creeps. I won’t even blink Friday night.”

  “I knew I could count on you. Listen, don’t mention this to Kate, okay? You know how she worries.”

  Trace had given him a funny look at that one, but agreed without question. Blackheart still wondered why he’d said it. Kate never worried; Kate was stern and unflappable. But she’d been more uneven in the past few months, and he didn’t want to take any chances. He wouldn’t even allow his mind to speculate how trusting someone who was as close to him as Kate would be taking chances. He felt enough like a traitor.