by Kylie Brant
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Contents:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
Epilogue
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For Jared—
who gets to be first, because being the oldest has its privileges! I love you, honey.
Mum
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Chapter 1
^ »
Sam Tremaine watched the woman waltzing around the large ballroom, passing laughingly from one man's arms to another. Even among the glitz and glitter of the Parisian consulate party, she stood out in a way guaranteed to draw the men's eyes and the women's envy.
He stroked his index finger absently along the stem of the crystal flute in his hand, the expensive champagne forgotten for the moment. He wasn't surprised to find her at ease in the elegant social circle. He imagined she'd accepted the invitation he'd arranged on her behalf as her due. Beautiful, unattached women were sought after by hostesses looking to attract wealthy, powerful men to their parties. There would be no reason for any of the guests to see beyond her glamorous laughing surface. No reason to suspect that her beautiful, passionate face hid a soul as black as sin.
Her pictures hadn't done her justice. The errant thought occurred, and he considered it objectively. He had a file bulging with photos of her, taken by tele-photo lens when she was unaware. The flat two-dimensional likenesses hadn't captured the energy that crackled around her, the incredible vivacity. In contrast to the heap of pictures was pitifully little background information. Juliette Morrow was shrouded in mystery. Most created identities were.
Sam set his half-full glass on a tray carried by a white-jacketed server and declined a replacement. He preferred to keep all his wits about him for the next step in this game. For it was a game; a contest in wits, bravado and cunning. And as in all games, it was one he intended to win.
He'd been watching her since she'd entered the room and he'd made certain she knew it. But far from the welcoming smile with which she graced her dance partners, she made a point of not looking in his direction too often. Perhaps she sensed a threat from him. If so, she had excellent instincts.
Purposefully, he began cutting through the dancing couples with deliberate strides. He noted the exact instant she saw him coining for her. That polite mask slipped a little, giving him a glimpse of … not fear. Wariness, maybe. And then her glance flicked away as if making note of the nearest exits.
"Excusez-moi. Est-ce que je puis emprunter cette belle dame?"
The portly balding man dancing with Juliette shrugged good-naturedly at his request and stepped back. Sam barely missed a beat before taking her in his arms and whirling her away. Because he was watching her so closely, he could see the struggle taking place in her expression, before she smoothed it with almost imperceptible effort.
"Monsieur Tremaine, the American lawyer. What brings you to our city?"
The flirtatious tone couldn't disguise the very real interest behind the question. He'd shaken her by his unswerving regard this evening, just as he'd intended. The quiet sense of satisfaction that filled him at the realization was derived as much from the personal as the professional. "You know my name. Should I be flattered?"
"I doubt it. You don't look like a man susceptible to flattery."
Sam almost smiled. Her observation was right on the mark. Instincts hummed to life as adrenaline spiked through him. Without a worthy opponent, even the most noble games lacked challenge.
"With you, I may make an exception." There was a painful twinge in his thigh, reminding him that the damaged muscle there hadn't completely healed. To take some of the strain off his leg, he adjusted his movements until they were barely swaying to the music. She followed him effortlessly, but he could feel the rigidity in her spine beneath his palm.
"I know your name, too. Juliette Morrow." He waited a beat before adding, "Or do you prefer the nickname the French press has for you? Le petit voleur. The little thief."
He watched her reaction to his words with interest. There was a flicker of something in her wide dark eyes, there and gone too quickly to be identified.
Then she tipped her head back and gurgled out an infectious laugh that had heads turning toward them.
"Do all Americans have such an offbeat sense of humor?" she inquired, once she'd recovered. There was real amusement in her voice. If he hadn't been so certain he was right, he might have doubted the conclusions he'd drawn. But he didn't doubt them. Which made her a liar, as well as a thief.
"I've been told I have a dry sense of humor, but I'm not joking now. And I think you know it. That's why your pulse is racing." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her pulse, felt it gallop beneath his touch.
"It isn't often I find myself in the arms of such an attractive man. What a pity to find that you're demented, as well." Her voice was cool, her gaze direct. "They say that mental illness is on the rise in your country. Perhaps in your line of work you find that quality an asset."
Despite himself, Sam grinned. Her English was flawless, as was her aim. "Lawyer jokes … the bond that unites cultures. I'm too used to them to take exception." Deliberately, he brushed his hand along the silky line of her back, left bare by her gown. He was gratified to feel her shiver in response, then used her reaction as an excuse to pull her closer.
She pressed both her hands against his chest, maintaining a small distance between them. "I've heard that Americans often romanticize criminals. Is your joke supposed to serve as some sort of compliment? A word of warning—few women find it flattering to be called thieves. If that's your idea of flirtation, you really need to get out more."
Sam didn't try to keep the smile from his lips. God help him, but he was enjoying this. He didn't want to consider what that said about him. "You prefer flirtation of another sort, don't you? Flirting with danger, with the police." He lowered his head to the side of her throat, distracted for a moment by the scent that lingered there. "What do you enjoy most, I wonder?" He breathed the words in her ear, even as he filled his lungs with her perfume. "The research, the planning … or the actual theft? Does the prize ever really measure up to the anticipation? Does the risk-taking get in your blood, driving you to dare even more? A good psychiatrist would have a field day with those questions."
"A good psychiatrist is exactly what you need. I'll leave you to make an appointment." She pressed harder on his chest, attempting to free herself, but his arms only tightened.
"You'll find I'm a little more difficult to escape than the German police were last month." She didn't gasp at his words; she didn't seem to breathe at all. "The Riemenschneider was an exquisite pick, by the way. Intricate but balanced style, without the emotionalism of the period. But then I assume you had a buyer lined up before the job. A private collector?"
Juliette had given up the pretense of dancing, so Sam followed suit. His thigh screamed its appreciation.
Her voice, when it came, dripped disdain. "You'll have to excuse me. I have a low tolerance for boredom, and this conversation is growing tedious."
"Then let's go out to the balcony to continue our discussion. I'll take great care not to bore you, I promise." He exerted the slightest pressure with the palm of his hand against her back. She didn't move.
Looking around, she caught the eye of their host, Jean-Paul Rossiere. "I've tried civility, now I'll be blunt. Either you leave me alone, now, or I'll summon our host to have you removed." Rossiere was already making his way toward him, drawn, no doubt, by the manufactured look of entreaty in Juliette's big dark eyes.
"Good idea," Sam murmured imperturbably. He waved to the approaching Frenchman. "Jean-Paul might find this conversation interesting. His cousin is married to the CEO of International Safety Mutual, did you know that? Their insurance company has taken a beating at the hands o
f le petit voleur in recent years. I'm sure he'd be fascinated by what I have to say to you." He straightened as the Frenchman reached them, his watchful expression giving lie to the smile on his lips.
"Mademoiselle Morrow, are you enjoying yourself this evening?"
"As a matter of fact, Jean-Paul…" Sam started.
"Mr. Tremaine and I were just about to step outside for some fresh air." Juliette smiled brilliantly at Rossiere as she placed her hand on Sam's arm. "The party is lovely, but I'm afraid I'm in need of a rest before I begin another round of dancing."
The slight crease of worry eased from the other man's face. "Of course. It is becoming a bit stuffy in here, n'est-il pas? The balcony is just beyond those doors."
They moved in the direction he pointed, but Sam wasn't fooled by Juliette's seeming about-face. Her capitulation didn't signal defeat, but merely a change of venue for the next leg of the battle. He could appreciate her strategy even as he recognized its futility.
Drifting through the double French doors, Sam steered her past the couples lingering on the balcony toward a secluded area in the opposite corner. The night air was clear, fresh and keen as a blade. Shrugging out of his dinner jacket, he draped it around Juliette's bare shoulders, the chivalry of the action too ingrained to be considered.
She glanced up at him, still wary, her fingers clutching the jacket's lapels to keep it from sliding away. Turning to face her, he propped his hips against the ornate wrought-iron railing. Slipping an arm around her waist, he brought her close enough to stand between his spread legs, and left his arms looped loosely around her middle.
"If this was an elaborate scheme to get me outside alone, you get marks for creativity, at least."
He deliberately dashed the hint of relief in her statement with his next words. "We'll be assured privacy if people think we're infatuated with each other."
She strained away, as far as his grasp would allow. "And if you attempt to convince them of that, you'll be assured of an ambulance."
He was concentrating more on her voice than its content. "Where'd you grow up? I'm betting New York … Philadelphia. There's a slightly clipped quality to your speech that you haven't quite lost, despite the lovely French accent you've acquired."
She tipped her face up, gazed at him boldly. "Ah, now it becomes clearer. You've mistaken me for someone else. I'm almost disappointed." She reached out then, startling him, and cupped his jaw with slender fingers. The brisk air couldn't dissipate the warmth trailing in the touch. "Whoever she is, I'm not sure whether to envy or pity her."
When she would have taken her hand away, he raised his hand to cover hers. "Envy?"
"Unfortunately, it's not every day that a woman meets such a virile man. She could be forgiven for overlooking some of your less attractive qualities."
Their gazes clashed. The star-studded night sky turned her eyes into fathomless dark pools that invited a man to wade in and sink helplessly in their depths. She'd been beautiful inside, illuminated by the softened lights. In the moonlight she was stunning. Her dark hair was pulled on top of her head, leaving only the occasional errant curl free. It tempted a man to release it, to plunge his hands into the dark silky mass as it tumbled to her shoulders. Her dress was black, a glittery tube of material that showcased her curves and hinted at seductive promises.
She swayed closer. Again Sam caught the delicate scent she wore, something sexy and elusive. The pale porcelain of her skin shimmered in the darkness, inviting a caress, one long heated stroke. Hormones, operating on a different level from that of his brain, stood at alert.
Juliette raised her free hand, and his jacket clung to her shoulders for a moment, before sliding to the ground. She dipped her index finger in the shallow indentation in his chin that made shaving such a pain. "I have to admit wishing we'd met under different circumstances." When she went up on her tiptoes to press her lips against his, Sam recognized that the game had shifted. He was male enough to welcome the change.
He pulled her closer and sank into the taste of her. Her flavor imploded on his senses. Exotic. Forbidden. Exquisitely sensual. Her lips opened beneath his and his tongue swept in, found the darkly seductive taste stronger there. It went to his head faster than his favorite Scotch and was twice as lethal.
She gave a little gasp and went boneless, her body melding to his. For an instant he had a vision of what it would be like to have her naked, her body twisting beneath him. She'd be lightning in a man's arms, strobing heat and emotion. Making love to her would be like plunging into a chasm of wicked flames. Damned if he wasn't beginning to believe it'd be worth the fall.
Dragging his mouth from hers, he found himself distracted by the pulse beating wildly beneath her jaw. "Try the front one." He breathed the words into her ear before taking the lobe between his teeth.
"What?"
It pleased him that her voice wasn't quite steady. "Try my front pocket. My wallet's not in there either, but you might find something else of interest nearby."
He was prepared for her reaction, so he caught her fists in his hand before she could use them on him. Her struggles brought her hip into sharp contact with his injured thigh. He grunted, the now familiar pain lancing through him. He solved the problem by simply wrapping his arms around her and bringing her too tightly against him to wreak anymore damage. He hoped.
"Vous êtes fils d'une chienne!"
"Insulting my parentage isn't going to solve anything. What were you looking for, anyway? Not money, since I doubt you need it. ID?" Her sharply hissed breath was its own answer. "As much as I was enjoying the search, I don't carry ID with me. You never know when a gorgeous woman will use her clever fingers to pick your pockets."
Juliette glared at him, and he took a moment to appreciate the storm in her eyes. So he had only himself to blame when she stomped her stiletto heel sharply into his foot.
"Dammit!" The resulting throb served as a vivid reminder of the seriousness of this encounter. He gave her a little shake. "Settle down. We're attracting attention."
She obeyed, but her voice when it came was a dangerous purr. "You dare to call me a pickpocket? I could go to those gallery doors and have a dozen men rush to defend my honor for that insult alone."
"Funny how the term pickpocket offends you more than 'thief.' I'll keep that in mind. But we both know that you aren't going to summon any of your admirers from in there."
She tipped her head back defiantly. "Do we? And why is that?"
"Because I'm about to tell you everything I've found out about Juliette Morrow. It isn't much, all things considered. Given enough time, I'm sure I could discover more." And he wished, more than was comfortable, that he had that kind of time. Wished for answers to questions better not asked. Better not considered.
She yanked at her hands, and, because he thought her temper had passed, he released her. "If you had done near the research you claim, you would have learned that le petit voleur is a man, hence the name." Her shoulders straightened, as if daring him to disagree. "I think you'll agree that I am very much a female."
His mouth quirked. "I can certainly attest to the last statement, but the press's nickname is merely a reflection of perception, isn't it? Who would expect the most notorious thief on the continent to be a young woman?"
She gave him a pitying glance. "I am not sure what kind of women you are used to in America. In France, we understand that females are far different from males. We lack the strength, the daring necessary for the feats you accuse me of." Her hand went to her chest, one finger absently traced the bodice where material met bare skin. It was a maneuver meant to underscore her words, to draw attention to her femininity. "In my country, we accept those differences. We … embrace them." Her voice trailed off suggestively.
He was hard-pressed to know whether to kiss her or applaud. In the end, he did neither. "Bet those words were hard to say. But then, acting is part of your role, isn't it?" He knew by the heat in her gaze that he'd scored a direct hit. "It doesn't matt
er. We both know you don't mean them. You've been thumbing your nose at the rest of the world for so long I doubt you remember where the pretense ends and you really begin." There was a flash of expression on her face, there and gone too quickly to be identified. But he had the feeling that fleeting as it was, it was the first true response she'd shown him all evening.
"You know nothing about me."
Raising his brows, he said, "No? How about if I just run through my information and you can see for yourself?" He leaned back a little and let the railing behind him take some of the weight off his leg. "It's a convoluted little past you've concocted, and I have to hand it to you, damn hard to check out. Born at home outside Savigny … taken to live in Sweden when you were an infant … of course, before your birth could be recorded."
She reached up, smoothed a tendril of hair back from her face. "There wasn't time. My mother was very much in love with my father, and he wanted to take her back to his home country."
"So much in love with her that he didn't bother to marry her, but hey, I guess that would have left a paper trail, too, so you were wise to avoid that convention."
Her gaze narrowed. "Are you insulting my parents now?"
"You mean the way you did mine earlier? No. Just remarking on the convenience of the past you've spun for yourself. By the way, having your mother be an American living abroad was sheer brilliance. Allows you to establish dual citizenship, and that must come in handy."
"Well, I'm glad my life's story has provided you with such entertainment." Her words were glacial. "Perhaps you could get to the part where I need to steal for a living."
Sam folded his arms across his chest. Not even to himself would he admit it was to keep from reaching for her again. "You mean because you're an heiress, living off a modest trust you inherited upon your parents' early deaths? Again, a nice touch. And it does thwart those pesky questions of how you live without visible means of support."
