by Anne Stuart
To be sure, only Blackheart had known her real name. He was beyond anger when they’d arrested him three short days ago. Would he have hit upon Olivia as the perfect revenge? But for all her doubts, Ferris had never suspected Blackheart of being vengeful. No, Olivia must have found out some other way.
Nothing would keep that mouth of hers quiet. But why did Olivia care, one way or the other? Who and what Ferris Byrd was and what she’d done seemed of little importance right now, compared to the burning question that had left her with little sleep and no appetite. If it hadn’t been Blackheart, who had taken the emeralds?
She got only that damned recorded message when she called Blackheart, Inc. And when she called the only K. Christiansen in the phone book, she got no answer. That left her one place to check.
Blackheart’s apartment was within walking distance, a pretty classy neighborhood for a retired cat burglar. If she called him, he might very well hang up; if she showed up, he could only slam the door in her face. But she couldn’t wait any longer. More and more pieces of the puzzle were falling together. The only other person who knew about Francesca Berdahofski was Kate Christiansen. And Ferris needed to talk with Blackheart, to find out if her sudden, overwhelming suspicion was only wishful thinking.
It was a small narrow building on one of the cross streets. The disreputable Volvo, complete with a new passenger side window, was parked way down the street, and Ferris felt a sudden tightening in the pit of her stomach. Not an hour had passed in the last seventy-two without her remembering, her body feeling once again the silken slide of flesh within flesh, and her skin began to tingle.
Damn it, she wasn’t going there to get tumbled into bed again, she reminded herself angrily. They were past that now—too much distrust had shattered what had always been too fragile a relationship. But she had to know whether she was manufacturing a scapegoat because she couldn’t stand the thought of being used by him, or whether there was any chance that what she had begun to suspect was true.
The elevator was small and silent as it carried her up to the fifth floor, and it moved much too swiftly. She hadn’t had time to get her composure in order before it spilled her out in the miniscule hallway. She stood there in front of 5B, hesitating, wondering if she shouldn’t turn around and leave, when the damned door opened and Blackheart came out.
He didn’t see her at first. When he did, his reaction wasn’t promising. His eyes were shadowed, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days and his mouth was grim. He was wearing faded jeans, and she wondered briefly if they were the same pair that had resided by her bed so recently. The look he gave her was wary, unwelcoming, and she couldn’t blame him.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded roughly. He hadn’t closed the apartment door behind him yet, and Ferris thought she could see movement behind him. It looked like a woman.
Pain sliced through her like a knife. “Absolutely nothing,” she mumbled, turning back and punching the elevator button. But the hall was too small for her to escape, the elevator had already stopped on the second floor and Blackheart just stood there looking at her.
“You must have had some reason for coming,” he said coldly. “Did you want to see what hideous mark five hours of American prison left on my recalcitrant soul?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” she muttered, pushing the button again.
His hand closed over hers, pulling it away from the wall, and it was all she could do to control the little rush that went through her skin at his touch, no matter how impersonal it was. “Leave it alone,” he said. “The elevator will come when it’s ready. Have you come to apologize? Because if you have, you’d better save it. I’m not ready to accept it, so it would just be a waste of time.”
“I didn’t come to apologize,” she shot back.
“All right, then what did you come for?”
She hesitated, trying to peer past him into the apartment. It couldn’t be Olivia—not that fast. “Nothing important. Forget it.”
“Don’t be a pain, Francesca,” he grumbled. “I’m going out for beer and sandwiches. Go on in and hold Kate’s hand for me till I get back. She needs someone to talk to.”
Kate, Ferris thought, relief washing over her, followed swiftly by determination. “All right.”
“And when I get back, you can tell me what made a saintly character like you enter this den of thieves.”
“I may not be here when you get back,” she temporized, not liking the command in his hostile voice.
“You’d better be. Or I’ll find you. And in case you don’t remember, locked doors don’t keep me out.” The elevator finally chose that moment to arrive, and Ferris considered shoving him out of the way and bolting for it. But he was stronger than she was, and probably faster, and it would be an embarrassing waste of time. “I’ll be here,” she muttered gracelessly. And with a short nod he left her.
“Oh, no, just what I needed!” Kate greeted her from her curled-up position on the sofa. “What made Patrick think you could be of any help?”
Ferris paused just inside the doorway, surveying the room and its inhabitant with real curiosity. If she’d had to imagine how Blackheart lived, she never would have guessed with any degree of acumen. It was uncomfortably like her own apartment, from the haphazard piles of books and magazines to the rich, deep colors of the Oriental rugs on the hardwood floors. His furniture was bigger, and seemed a great deal more comfortable, and the paintings on his walls were modem and original, not copies of old French masters. But the room was surprisingly welcoming, warm and comfortable and aesthetically pleasing. Despite the lump of angry female flesh smack dab in the middle of it.
Kate had commandeered the blue sofa. She had a thousand used tissues scattered around her, a half full box in her lap, a cup of coffee with a cigarette floating in it on the table beside her and red swollen eyes above her belligerent pout. The look she gave Ferris was more than baleful, it was positively filled with hate. It was such an overreaction, as a matter of fact, that Ferris wondered if that was fear beneath the petulance. Or was she still just looking for what she wanted to see?
Kate’s unprepossessing greeting didn’t augur well for the time Blackheart was gone, but then, Ferris didn’t particularly care about Kate’s comfort, or her own for that matter. What she cared for was the truth.
Closing the door behind her, she advanced into the room. “I don’t imagine he thought I’d be much good at all. He doesn’t have much use for me right now.”
Kate laughed—a coarse, humiliating laugh—as she dabbed at her reddened nose. “Oh, he has a use for you, all right. But I don’t think it’s what you have in mind, Miss Prissy Pants. Women like you make me sick. All your gold jewelry and your designer suits and you think that makes you better than the rest of us.”
Yes, it was definitely fear lurking in the back of those red-rimmed eyes. Ferris sat down in the rocking chair opposite Kate, crossing her slender ankles and leaning back. “You know as well as I do that I wasn’t born to gold jewelry and designer suits. You needn’t have such a chip on your shoulder.”
“What do you mean?” Kate was definitely edgy now, and the tissues lay forgotten in her lap.
“Blackheart had you check me out before he took the case. You must have been the one to tell Olivia Summers about my background,” Ferris said easily, wishing she smoked—it would help her nervous edginess if she could toy with a cigarette. “I don’t understand why you told her where Blackheart spent the night, though.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know Olivia Summers,” she said staunchly.
“Certainly you do. You were watching her wrap her skinny little body around Trace Walker just three nights ago.”
“What?” Kate looked ghastly, her face papery white around her red-rimmed eyes.
“You didn’t notice that I was there, too. You
weren’t surprised at the little scene you interrupted, but you weren’t unmoved, either. I saw your expression, Kate. You were mad as hell.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Kate’s voice was hoarse with pain and fear.
“What I don’t understand is why, if you hate her so much, did you help her steal the emeralds?” Ferris said. A movement beyond the sofa drew her attention, and she saw that Blackheart, with his customary silence, had returned.
Kate must have felt his presence, for she swiveled around on the sofa, tears falling afresh.
Here it comes, Ferris thought. Now he’s going to kick me out for sure.
Blackheart moved forward, taking Kate’s plump hand in his, and his tawny eyes were dark with sadness. “Yes, Kate. Why did you help her?”
She fought it for a moment. “You can’t believe what that stupid lying woman says. She’s the one who turned you in to the police, remember? She’s just jealous, trying to distract you so you won’t think—”
“Why, Kate?” he repeated calmly, and her last bit of self-control vanished. She burst into loud, ugly sobs, her face crumpled in pain and shame. Ferris sat very still, wishing she were any place but right there as Blackheart moved around the sofa to take Kate in his arms. She was embarrassed, and she was stupidly, painfully jealous. Ferris wanted Blackheart’s arms around her, she wanted to weep against the white cotton shirt and feel his soothing hands sweep down her back. Maybe he had some cigarettes lying around.
For a moment, Blackheart’s eyes met hers over the weeping figure. She couldn’t read their expression: She could only tell that it wasn’t condemnation or dismissal. He seemed to want her there, though she couldn’t imagine why. So she stayed.
“I was going to tell you,” Kate snuffled noisily. “I never thought Trace would be blamed, or you either. She told me no one was even going to catch on. The copies were so good that it was impossible for anyone to tell.”
“They were good,” Blackheart said. “Too good. They’re much prettier than the real Von Emmerlings—I know from experience.” He was capable of a wry smile in the midst of all this drama.
“If only she hadn’t come . . .”
“I knew, Kate. I always knew. I just didn’t know how you managed it, and I still don’t know why. Was she blackmailing you?”
Kate shook her head miserably. “There were a hundred reasons. One was the money. She was offering a lot, and I needed it. Another was blackmail. I—I did something I shouldn’t have . . . a few years back. She was going to make sure certain people found out about it.”
“How did she know?”
Kate’s flush turned her already red face an ugly mottled shade. “She was involved, too. She helped me out at the time—lent me some money when I needed it. When she first asked me to help her, she said it was for old times’ sake.”
“And when that didn’t work she threatened you,” he murmured. “And by that time you were so mad at Trace you didn’t care who you hurt.”
“I cared. But that big moose can’t see two feet in front of his nose. I would have died for him.”
“You don’t have to die for him. You just have to come down to the police station and tell them the truth. How Olivia got in touch with you, how it was planned, exactly what you did.”
Kate was shaking her head. “It won’t do any good. She’s got an airtight alibi. And no one’s going to believe me anyway. The moment I start making accusations, some very nasty photographs get sent to the newspapers. You see, I was in some—home movies, you might call them. With a few influential businessmen and politicians, and we weren’t exactly fully dressed, if you know what I mean. And you can take that look off your face, lady,” she snarled at Ferris. “Senator Merriam wasn’t one of them.”
“I’m sorry,” Ferris stammered. “I didn’t mean to be disapproving.”
“Hell, you can disapprove all you want,” Kate said wearily. “I was young, just dropped out of college, and I was into some things that I should have been smart enough to leave alone. And now it’s too late. The Chronicle wouldn’t print the pictures, but plenty of others would sure the hell jump on it. And anything I said to implicate a blue blood like Olivia would be laughed at. I don’t even know how she was involved. I just know that she seemed to know everything that went on.”
“So you won’t testify?” Blackheart asked, no surprise or shock clouding his expression.
“If it will help you and Trace, I will. But Olivia covered her tracks too well. The only way for her to be caught is with the stuff right on her.”
“And is it? Does she have the stuff in her apartment?”
Kate shook her head. “I don’t know, Patrick. She didn’t tell me or Dale a thing.”
“Dale was in on it with her?” Ferris couldn’t keep still a moment longer. “But why?”
Kate cast her a withering glance. “Gambling debts. And he does everything Olivia tells him.”
“How did you do it, Kate?” Blackheart questioned, handing her a tissue as she snuffled noisily.
“It was easy enough. You trusted me.” She dissolved into fresh wails. “Olivia got the copies made, and I carried them in a little bag sewed inside my dress. Olivia had the dress made for me. I looked like a stuffed cabbage in it.”
Blackheart’s mouth twisted up in a reluctant grin. “It wasn’t the most flattering dress.”
“I hated it. Olivia must have gotten it on purpose. That’s the kind of person she is.”
“So you were the courier? When was the switch made?”
“Just after the last raffle winner.”
“But what did Trace have to do with it?” Ferris couldn’t help but ask. “Why did she throw herself at him like that? He didn’t need to be distracted—he trusted you to look after the jewels.”
Kate flinched at the memory of that betrayed trust. “That was just the icing on the cake. I told you Olivia was that kind of person. She knew that I—I cared about him, and she decided to amuse herself by showing me just how out of reach he really was. Well, she showed me.” She blew her nose heartily into the tissue.
Blackheart leaned back wearily against the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him and shutting his eyes. “That answers most of my questions,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t answer the most important one. What has she done with them?”
“Does it matter that much?” Ferris ventured.
The look he gave her held withering disdain, and she realized with despair that now she had proof that he’d done nothing, that her accusations had been groundless. And he despised her all the more. “Of course it matters,” he said patiently. “They can’t arrest Olivia without some proof. At this point it’s only Kate’s word against hers, and Olivia McKinley Summers’s word holds a great deal more clout. We need proof. And it’s a waste of time to go to the police without it. They’ll just assume I’m trying to foist the blame on someone else. They dropped the charges against me very reluctantly.”
“But what can you do?” Ferris questioned anxiously.
His smile was mocking. “Not what can I do, Francesca, my trusting one. What can we do? And the answer is absurdly obvious and quite, quite simple.”
Ferris knew a sudden sinking sensation. “All right, I’ll bite. What are we going to do?”
He smiled seraphically. “We’re going to break into Olivia Summers’s apartment.”
Chapter Seventeen
“YOU HAVE TO be out of your mind,” Ferris snapped.
“Not in the slightest.” Blackheart was placidly grinding coffee beans in the warmly lit kitchen of his apartment. It was much larger than her kitchen—there was even room for a butcher-block table and several stools in the middle of it. She had been hard put to control the sigh of covetousness that had filled her when she first saw it. The gleaming copper pots and pans had just enough di
scoloration to prove they were there for hard use, not decoration. The butcher-block countertop was scarred and pitted from a thousand knife strokes, the food processor was artistically battered, and the electric coffee grinder was buzzing its overworked heart out. If she had a kitchen like this, she just might give up her allegiance to frozen dinners.
“You can’t seriously expect me to help you rob Olivia Summers’s apartment. For heaven’s sake, it’s a twentieth-floor penthouse!”
“The very best kind,” he said sagely, dropping the pulverized coffee into a filter. “High enough to be out of sight, not too high. We’ve gone over this already, Ferris. And you’re coming with me.”
He was still very angry with her, she could tell. Despite his calm tone of voice, his use of that hated name tipped her off. And if he weren’t mad, he wouldn’t be trying to punish her by dragging her into life of crime. “But why?” she wailed.
Blackheart sighed. “Reason number one—it’s your reputation and future that’s on the line as well as mine. Number two—if I do it alone, what’s to stop me from running off with the emeralds and never being seen again? Number three—with my bad knee I don’t know if I can do it without help. And number four—you’re the one who accused me of it. You can damn well find out for yourself whether your charming lack of trust was justified.” He poured the hot water over the grounds, his face bland, his voice easy.
“What did you expect from me, Blackheart?” she said, suppressing her justifiable guilt. “The circumstances were pretty damning.”
“Sure they were. I don’t know why I would have thought the night we’d spent together might have earned some vague sort of loyalty, not to mention commitment. But what I really don’t understand is why you’ve suddenly chosen to believe that I’m innocent. Kate could be wrong, you know.” Together they watched the water level descend in the coffee filter. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you suddenly decided that I was in on it with Olivia, the mastermind behind it all. You could ignore the fact that if I were interested there were a lot bigger scores available in the last two years. Not that the Von Emmerling emeralds aren’t worth a substantial amount, but I could have done better.” He poured her a cup of coffee, black and dark and rich, and she looked at it distrustfully.
