The Catspaw Collection

by Anne Stuart

  Someone else would be working in Stephen’s place when he didn’t show up. Someone else would be to blame when the Faberge eggs turned up missing from the museum. And while Stephen would be filled with anger and regret, his life wouldn’t be destroyed. It was the least she could do for him; it was the best she could do for him.

  The keys suddenly glinted in the sunlight. She pounced on them, then sprinted for the Bronco, terrified that Stephen might curtail his shower and come in search of her. But her luck held. Five minutes later she was several miles down the road. And Stephen was still singing in the shower.

  In three hours she was back at Regina Merriam’s sprawling estate, darkness closing around her. She’d abandoned Stephen’s Bronco on the other side of town, taken a taxi back and was making her solitary way across the grounds, when she thought she heard someone moving behind her.

  A frisson of fear raced down her backbone. She couldn’t forget Tarzan’s evil, colorless eyes as he’d stalked Ferris. Someone, the same someone who’d loosed him on Blackheart’s ex-fiancée, could have set him free again.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told herself. “Marco doesn’t even know you’re back.”

  She’d been certain she was safe from him. Even though she’d disappeared for days, he’d be too relieved to have her back in time for the job to even touch her. He wouldn’t dare jeopardize the steal of a lifetime out of rage for someone he didn’t even want.

  So why was someone watching her, when she couldn’t see anyone at all on the deserted grounds? Why could she hear the muffled sound of footsteps every time she walked? Why—?

  Darkness descended as a blanket came down over her, smelling of something sharp and acrid and very dangerous. She struggled, but a pair of strong arms had encircled her, holding the enveloping material over her, forcing her to breathe in the fumes that were making her lightheaded and dizzy. The body holding her was short, squat and unfamiliar. And the voice in her ears was unknown.

  “That’s right, me girl. Take a little snooze,” the cockney voice murmured into her ear. And then the blackness closed in.

  HE DIDN’T LIKE creeping around in his socks, but he couldn’t rely on his tread being as light as Blackheart’s. The last thing he needed was for the old woman sound asleep downstairs to wake up and hear an intruder wandering around her third-floor hallway. Around her precious Van Gogh.

  He didn’t need to be there. He was tempting fate by coming back for one last look, one last gloating appraisal before they set their plan in motion tomorrow night. He was risking everything, but then, he suspected that was half the fun. This was his first dip into a life of crime, and he was finding it strangely exhilarating. No wonder Blackheart had so much trouble giving it up.

  He could have had a thousand plausible excuses for being there, but he’d used not a one of them. He had a key to the house, but he hadn’t used it either, sneaking in through an unlocked window in the downstairs pantry.

  He’d left his shoes just inside and had crept through the house, up the flights of curving stairs to the third-floor landing, his heart pounding, his palms sweaty, the adrenaline rushing through him.

  The Hyacinths glowed in the moonlight, and he stared at the painting, knowing that in the future this was one flower he’d pay attention to. He’d have dozens of them planted around his house as a private joke, a silent toast to his one, extremely lucrative venture into crime.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispered to the painting, a promise from an impatient lover. And turning, State Senator Phillip Merriam silently made his way back down his mother’s stairs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Frenzy

  (Pinewood 1972)

  FERRIS SLAMMED herself back against the cage, hoping there wasn’t an inquisitive white tiger behind her. She’d come in the back way, over the unguarded museum wall, to see if she could find Danielle Blackheart Porcini without running into her accomplice. She had every intention of confronting her future sister-in-law, though she wasn’t quite sure what that would accomplish. Perhaps if Danielle knew her secret was public knowledge, she might give up her current plans. If she proved stubborn, Ferris had no qualms about decking the little wretch. She was a good four inches taller and probably twenty pounds heavier, and even if Danielle was an accomplished aerialist, she still would be at a disadvantage. Maybe all those cookies would come in handy, after all.

  The one person she didn’t want to run into was Marco Porcini. She didn’t know which would be worse, being the recipient of his nondismissable attentions or being fed to a tiger. She might prefer the tiger, but she’d prefer to avoid both. Dinnertime seemed as good a time as any. She was counting on Marco being in the dinner tent, counting on Danielle keeping a low profile, as she had during the past three days. According to Regina, the lovely Madame Porcini hadn’t left the Winnebago since Tuesday. Ferris had every intention of bearding the lioness in her den, to use an unpleasant figure of speech, and pointing out a few home truths to her.

  But the Winnebago was empty. Ferris had hidden back in the shadows, uncomfortably close to the animal cages, and waited, jumping every time she heard a big cat growl, her palms sweaty, her heart racing. Damn the Porcinis, and damn Blackheart. She’d much rather be home and in bed, watching To Catch a Thief for the umpteenth time. But if she didn’t do something now, she might as well spend the rest of her life looking at that movie. And she had every intention of catching her own particular thief, for life.

  She heard Danielle approach, and breathed a silent sigh of relief, edging around the corner of the Winnebago with a stealth that would have done Blackheart proud. So quiet was she, in fact, that the dark figure behind Danielle didn’t even notice he had a witness. Ferris watched in horror as a small, wiry figure dropped some sort of heavy cloth over Danielle’s head. There was a brief struggle, then the woman’s body went limp.

  Her assailant hoisted the dead weight to his shoulder with some difficulty and headed toward the back boundary of the estate. There was something familiar about the way he moved, the way he held his head, the tuneless whistle that came to her ears as she followed him. But it wasn’t until she saw the Bentley that she was able to place him.

  He dumped Dany’s body into the back seat, breathing a sigh of relief that was audible even to Ferris’s distant ears. “You just stay sleeping, me girl,” said Alf Simmons, Blackheart’s old friend and occasional chauffeur. “And everything will be just fine.”

  Thank heavens, he’d parked only a short distance away from Ferris’s Mercedes. The moment the Bentley began its stately journey from the parking lot, Ferris raced for her own car, yanking open the unlocked door and diving for the ignition.

  It didn’t start. She shrieked, a short, colorful imprecation that compressed all her despair and determination into a few four-letter words. She turned the key again, her hands shaking, and this time it caught. The lights of the Bentley were already fading in the distance, and she pulled out of the museum parking lot with a screech of tires and a silent condemnation of her upscale vehicle.

  “Tomorrow,” she muttered, “I’m trading you in for a Corvette.”

  In response the Mercedes sputtered, but Ferris was having none of that. Jamming her foot down hard on the accelerator, she took off after the Bentley, driving with her customary disregard for the rules of road safety.

  Either Alf was unused to this sort of work and didn’t notice that he had a very determined driver tailing him, or he knew and didn’t care. When she finally lost him, they were within three city blocks of his final destination, and Ferris knew the area well enough to make it the rest of the way on her own, ending up behind the Bentley, slamming to a stop and jumping out just as Alf Simmons opened the back door of the limousine.

  He looked up, startled, ready to shield his unwilling passenger, when he recognized Ferris’s pale face in the lamplight. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “‘Is
nibs isn’t going to like this, not one tiny bit.”

  “Is she all right?” Danielle’s well-being wasn’t of prime concern to Ferris at that point, but she hoped the girl was at least still breathing.

  “Fine. Just gave her whiff of stuff to put her out while I brought her here. She’ll have a hell of a headache, but then, that’s not me problem.”

  “No,” said Ferris, looking up at Blackheart’s windows. “That’s her brother’s.”

  “You’ve got a head on your shoulders, I’ve always said so,” Alf Simmons said admiringly. “Patrick didn’t think anyone knew.”

  “Patrick’s problem is that he thinks he’s smarter than everyone,” she said. “But he’s not smarter than I am. What are you supposed to do with her?”

  “Bring her upstairs and keep her out of harm’s reach until Patrick can get her safely out of the country.” Alf glanced in at the unconscious girl. “I think he was going to lock her in the bathroom.”

  Ferris’s brain was working double time. “I’ll tell you what. You take her to my place, and I’ll go up and talk to Blackheart.”

  “Are you nuts? He’s paid me to do a job, and when a Blackheart hires you to do something, you do it.”

  “You’re not scared of him, Mr. Simmons?”

  “The boy’s got a nasty temper when he’s crossed.”

  “But I’ll be the one dealing with the boy,” Ferris reminded him, pushing past and kneeling on the leather seat. For a moment she remembered a ride in that very car, with the scent of white roses and the bubbles of her favorite champagne tickling her nostrils. Ruthlessly she shoved away that sudden weakening, and reaching down, took Danielle’s thin shoulder and shook her.

  The drugged woman batted at her, murmuring something. “Wake up, Danielle,” Ferris said ruthlessly, hauling her into a sitting position. “Wake up.”

  Danielle’s blue eyes opened, slowly focusing on Ferris’s determined face. “Go away,” she said, and fell back against the seat.

  Ferris was having none of that. “Come on, lady. Wake up.” She yanked her upright again, giving her an enthusiastic whack across the cheek.

  That did the trick, a little more effectively than Ferris could have wished. Danielle’s eyes shot open as she winced, and in the artificial light overhead Ferris could see the fading bruises adorning her pale face.

  “Sorry,” Ferris muttered.

  “Where am I?” Danielle asked groggily. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re going to my place for a while. If you promise to go quietly and stay put, Alf won’t drug you again.”

  Danielle shuddered. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  The beautiful Bentley probably had never seen such rude behavior, but it served Alf right, Ferris thought. “There’s a silver ice bucket you can use,” she suggested.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Not a damned thing. I just want to keep your brother from getting into any more trouble.”

  “My brother?” Even half-drugged and very nauseous, Danielle managed a creditable confusion, Ferris thought to herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. Now are you going to go quietly or is Alf going to have to drug you again?”

  “No more drugs,” she said, shuddering. “I’ll go peacefully.”

  “Word of a Blackheart?” Ferris knew she was pushing it.

  There was something akin to fury glittering in Danielle’s eyes. “Word of a Bunce,” she snapped.

  Simmons pushed Ferris out of the way. “That’s me girl,” he said cheerfully, putting a cashmere lap rug over Danielle’s legs. “You come along peacefully and we can talk about old times.”

  “Old times?” Danielle echoed.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your second cousin Alfred? For shame, girl.” Straightening up, he closed the heavy door of the Bentley, taking long enough to favor Ferris with a broad wink. “Better go deal with his lordship up there. The two of us will be fine.”

  “Are you really their cousin?”

  “I am.”

  “And you aren’t a cat burglar?” Maybe there was hope for her offspring, after all.

  “No, ma’am. In my spare time I’m a bookie.” And with a tip of his hat he climbed into the driver’s seat and took off into the night.

  BLACKHEART DRAINED his glass of whiskey, looking longingly at the bottle that was more than half-full. He wanted another drink, needed it, but wasn’t about to give in to temptation. He needed his wits about him right now. Everything was coming together, all the tiny little bits and pieces, and he couldn’t afford to let even a tiny part of his brain be marginally impaired.

  Where the hell were they? He’d sent Alf out hours ago. It should have been a simple enough matter. According to reliable reports, Danielle had been hiding out in the Winnebago for the last few days—Alf wouldn’t have had to search around for her. If his sister had any Blackheart blood at all in her veins, she’d put up a hell of a fight, but Alf was experienced in these matters. He should have been back here at least half an hour ago. Where were they?

  He wasn’t really looking forward to confronting his long-lost sister with the gloves off. He wasn’t thinking very fond thoughts of her at that moment. She’d cost him his fiancée, his peace of mind, and was well on her way to costing him his freedom. McNab had been watching him, sitting there and waiting like a hungry blue spider, waiting for him to slip up. The irony of it was that now Blackheart was in more trouble than he’d ever been, at a time in his life when he was most guiltless.

  Much as he’d like to wring his sister’s pretty little neck, he wasn’t going to do that. But he was going to find out exactly what she and that thick-brained accomplice of hers had planned. It seemed embarrassingly obvious to Blackheart, so obvious, in fact, that he couldn’t believe they were planning it. But no one else seemed to have noticed, so perhaps it was only his professional expertise that made their target so glaringly conspicuous.

  But he needed verification. He needed to know when, he needed to know how, if he was going to foil Marco Porcini effectively and not end behind bars himself.

  As if that weren’t enough, he also had Phillip Merriam’s convoluted stratagems to take into account. While Blackheart couldn’t believe the bland and noble senator was really going to try to lift his dear mama’s priceless Van Gogh, everything, including the usually infallible word on the street, pointed to the fact that that was exactly what he intended to do. And he expected Blackheart to take the fall for it.

  Apparently destined to star as scapegoat in not one but two robberies, Blackheart was getting just a little bit irritated—not to mention missing his Francesca. Celibacy didn’t sit well with him, but he had no interest in any of the other available females around. He wanted his woman, and no one else.

  In the meantime, though, he was going to have to content himself with persuading his little baby sister to keep out of the way, and then he’d work from there. It was all coming together—it couldn’t last much longer. Still, there were moments like these when he would have given anything to find Francesca waiting at his door.

  He heard the pounding on his door with a grimace of irritated relief. Back at last. Alf probably couldn’t manage the key with an unconscious female over his shoulder. Setting down his empty glass, Blackheart crossed his lonely, dimly-lighted living room and flung open the door.

  “What kept you . . . ?” The words trailed off. Francesca stood there, an answer to an unconscious prayer.

  She was dressed the way he liked her best, in faded jeans and an old cotton sweater, her upscale clothes packed away with her discreet gold jewelry, her perfect makeup and her alligator shoes. Her black hair was loose around her face, her green eyes glittered with apprehension and vulnerability and the traces of anger, and her mouth was pale and tremulous. O
n her left hand was the canary diamond.

  He just stood there, momentarily blocking the door, too bemused to even think of an excuse. Any moment Alf would return, Danielle’s comatose body over one shoulder, and then there’d be no way he could get rid of Francesca.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice was surprisingly rough. He wondered if she could hear the longing in it. Longing for her.

  She met his gaze with a semblance of calm, but her voice was huskier than usual, and he could see she was nervous. He wanted to put his hands on her, to calm her nerves, to make her think of something else entirely, when her words stopped him. “I had Alf take your sister to my place. She promised to wait until she heard from me.”

  He’d been a fool to underestimate her. He’d been a fool to ever let her go, even for a few weeks, just to protect her if things turned out badly. “How long do you think she’ll wait?” he asked abruptly.

  “Till tomorrow, at least.”

  It wasn’t a conscious decision. It was inevitable, overwhelming and right. “Good,” he said. “Then we’ve got all night.” And he pulled her into his arms, shutting the door behind them.

  If he was expecting a fight, she wasn’t the one to give it to him. She went willingly, gladly, flowing into his arms like a hummingbird to a flower, without a word of protest. Her mouth was warm and sweet beneath his, tasting of surrender and delight, and she leaned against the door, kissing him back, sliding her hands up under his turtleneck, running them along his back, her fingers touching, caressing, exciting him beyond belief.

  He yanked her sweater over her head with more haste than deftness, unfastened her jeans and shoved them down her long legs. The dim light in the hallway cast strange shadows around them, and as his mouth trailed along the slender column of her throat, he could hear a muffled laugh beneath his lips.