by Jenna Ryan
“Sounds complicated,” Victoria said.
“Extremely.” With a final check of her face, Zoe started for the door. “I’m off to search for a loon with a butcher’s knife.” She stabbed a finger at her employer’s chest. “I want an illicit affair next time, Torbel. No more kooks bearing weapons. I was a cat burglar not a cutthroat. Oh, by the way.” She paused, her gloved hand on the door frame. “Ratz has been looking for you. The phone’s out, so if you happen to be heading that way, you might want to pop in to the pub. See you later, Vickie.”
Rain drummed monotonously against the roof and walls. A man with a ponytail had boarded up the broken window. The cat, Smudge, settled into a contented black ball atop the tallest cupboard, her stare unblinking on Victoria.
She considered asking Torbel to regale her with the sordid details of the night Robbie had died, but thought better of it when she realized that she was shivering. In fact, it was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering.
“You look all in,” Torbel noted.
“Thanks,” she murmured. “A gentleman might have noticed, but he wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
A smile played on the corners of his sensual mouth. “I never claimed to be a gentleman. Come on.” He pushed off from the counter. “I have to go pubside. I’ll walk you to Zoe’s and buy you a muffin on the way.”
Although Torbel’s thoughtfulness surprised her, Victoria didn’t jeopardize it by saying so. She simply strapped on her leather hipsack and joined him at the door.
They walked in silence for a time. The rain stopped as they neared the end of the lane. Not that it made much difference. Few people prowled the streets at this time of night; fewer still seemed willing to leave the relative anonymity of the shadows.
“Raisins?” Torbel asked out of the blue.
“What—? Oh, muffins.” Victoria smiled at the fat vendor who’d parked his cart across from Gooseberries. “Yes, please.”
“Two,” Torbel told the man.
Victoria studied his face in the misty streetlight. His eyes fascinated her. In constant motion, they searched alleys and doorways, street corners and stairwells. She wondered how he’d lived before he went to work for Scotland Yard. However, “Why do you have a cat burglar working for you?” was as direct a question as she dared put to him right then.
“Zoe’s a friend.” His eyes continued to move while he handed her a hot buttered muffin. “Oswyn was the son of a friend, and Tristan just showed up one day.”
“You have three cat burglars on your staff?” Some inner instinct told her she shouldn’t be shocked. “What about the others? Are they criminals, too? Keiran? Ron? The guy who boarded up the window?”
“Every one.”
“And you trust them?”
“They wouldn’t be around if I didn’t.”
She broke off a piece of soft bun but didn’t eat. “You’re taking a big chance, aren’t you, Torbel? I know some criminals can be reformed, but others aren’t open to it. What if one of them crosses you?”
Again that enigmatic half smile. “What you really want to know is, do I think one of them is behind all of this? The answer is no.”
“You’re too trusting, Torbel.”
“I know my people, Victoria.”
Her nerves were beginning to settle, but only, she suspected, because her mind was otherwise occupied. For a rough-edged man, he was too attractive by half. To offset that, she’d been prodding him deliberately. It was not a smart thing to do. She was in no rush to see an open display of his temper. Perhaps wisely, she backed off.
“Maybe,” she allowed. “But I still wouldn’t—”
She broke off as someone rushed past in a hurry. Victoria spied thin, wiry limbs and felt a tiny bump against her arm. The man muttered something unintelligible and veered off.
Her fingers went automatically to her hipsack—rather, to where it should have been. Alarm coursed through her. “He took my pouch!” she exclaimed.
Give him his due, Torbel was off before she could think of an outraged expletive. He caught the smaller man in three strides, grasping his arm so hard he nearly yanked the would-be purse snatcher off his feet.
A layer of smoke from the pub momentarily obscured Victoria’s vision. “Not so fast, Tito,” she heard Torbel snarl.
“What?” The little man’s startled expression turned to one of relief. “Oh, bloody nightmare, I thought you was a cop, Torbel. I mean, I know you was a cop once and all, but…who’s the lady then?”
“Pouch, Tito.”
“Yeah, sure, no harm done. Sorry, miss.” He gave an uncomfortable laugh. “I didn’t know you was with Torbel. Don’t worry, it’s all there.”
Cockney down to his scruffy-sneakered toes. Victoria would have been amused if she hadn’t been busy counting credit cards and pound notes. She heard sloshy footsteps, then a deep bass voice boomed out, “Problem, Torbel?”
She looked up—and up and up. The stranger with a bald, shiny head and tattoos on his forearms was the largest human being she’d ever encountered.
“Nothing I can’t handle, Ratz.” Torbel released his small, sticky-fingered quarry. The situation brought to mind a picture of The Lion King’s odd couple, Puumba and Timon.
The purse snatcher stayed cockily close, flashing her a yellow smile before turning his attention to Torbel. “What’s that, then?” He flapped a hand at the envelope Ratz was handing over. Two gold rings gleamed in the lamplight. “You on the take, Torbel?”
“Shut up,” Ratz growled. “Bad news?” he asked Torbel.
“It’s from Street.”
Immediately interested, Victoria fixed her hipsack in place and poked her head over his shoulder. “What does he want?”
“A meeting—ten-thirty, on the dock.”
A feeling of unease sidled in. “Which dock?”
His mouth was inches from hers when he turned to answer. “The one where Robbie Hollyburn was killed.”
THE WATER MADE a rude sloshing sound against the pier. It wasn’t the only sound Torbel’s alert ears picked out.
Victoria’s fingers dug into his forearm. “I heard a footstep,” she whispered.
“I know.” He made no move to pry her hand free. In truth, while the bite was painful, it also had the effect of warming his blood. God help him, this woman had trouble written all over her beautiful face.
Strands of her dark hair, lifted by the wind, blew into his eyes. He tucked them absently behind her ear and continued to listen.
It came again, the same stealthy squish as before, thirty feet behind them and slightly to the right.
His sharp eyes noted the outline of several large crates. Rice, flour and tea shipped from the Orient. Someone vanished into the shelter of the tallest stack.
“Street wouldn’t hide,” he reflected more to himself than to Victoria.
“Would he stick a knife in our backs?” she countered softly.
“Mine maybe, not yours. He has no quarrel with you. The crown attorney’s office helped get the charge against him reduced, remember?”
She loosened her grip with difficulty, more out of pride, he suspected, than a lessening of fear. “What should we do?”
He shot her a steady look. “You stay here in the open where both he and I can see you. I’ll circle around and grab him.”
The expression on her face told him precisely what she thought of that idea. She swallowed the retort, however, and nodded. “Just hurry, will you? I feel like an arcade duck.”
He summoned a cryptic smile. “You don’t look like one. Walk around a bit, like you’re waiting for someone.”
Without waiting for a reply, Torbel ducked into the shadow of a large shipping barrel. With a speed born of experience, he surveyed the area. When nothing stirred, he stretched his muscles and ran for the crates. If Victoria was doing her part, his approach should go unnoticed.
Ten feet ahead, not quite concealed in a patch of sooty darkness, he spied a shape, huddled near the front of t
he stack. From a crouch, Torbel launched himself at the figure’s back, catching it easily and wrapping a sinewy arm about its throat.
It was a man, and he gurgled helplessly in Torbel’s grasp. “Don’t—” He clawed at the forearm that held him. “It’s—Torbel, it’s…me.”
More gurgles followed, but Torbel was too incensed to heed them. He spun the young man around, grabbing him by the sides of his rough-cut vest and yanking him up. “You bloody idiot. I could have broken your neck. What are you doing down here?”
“W-watching out for you and—and her.” Shamefaced, Oswyn pointed at Victoria.
Swearing again, Torbel released him. “It’s all right,” he called out. “It’s Oswyn.”
“Thank God.” Victoria approached, peering at the youth more closely. “What on earth are you doing out here?”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “Watching your backs.”
Torbel thought it prudent to change the subject. “Have you seen Lenny Street?”
“Haven’t seen anyone eyt.”
“Yet,” Torbel corrected. “What time is it?”
“Ten forty-five,” Victoria said.
“Go back to the agency,” Torbel told Oswyn.
Oswyn’s eyes challenged him, but only for a moment. “Yeah, all right.” He swiped the hair from his thick brow. “I just thought maybe you’d need help is all.”
“It was very nice of you,” Victoria said from Torbel’s side. He slid her a narrowed look but didn’t comment.
“Go” was all he said to Oswyn.
The boy turned, shoulders slumped, and started off. He hadn’t taken more than twenty steps, however, when one of the large crates above him began to wobble.
“Torbel!” Victoria spotted it the same time.
“Oswyn, move!”
Torbel shouted the warning, but he knew Oswyn wouldn’t react fast enough. He’d been an awkward burglar. In five attempts, he’d been caught three times.
“Yea…ahh…!” Releasing a fierce cry, he lunged, tackling Oswyn from behind and rolling them out of harm’s way.
When it toppled, the crate missed his leg by less than six inches. It crashed to the ground and splintered, spilling out several hundred pounds of brown rice.
Panting, Torbel lay back and fought to regain his breath.
Victoria reached them before he had a chance to remonstrate with Oswyn. “That would have killed you if it had hit,” she declared, going to her knees beside him. Torbel felt her hand on his leg and had to force himself not to jerk away.
“I’m fine,” he said brusquely. “Help Oswyn.”
Annoyed, she retorted, “I forgot, leaders like to think they’re invincible. You Bonapartes are all alike.”
She was throwing his own words back at him. Torbel felt his temper rising—and with it something else, a feeling that he knew better than to acknowledge.
“It was my fault…” Oswyn began. He stopped, his dark eyes widening in astonishment. “Torbel, look!”
He didn’t have to; the forklift was making enough racket to wake every rummy on the docks. “Go!” He shoved Oswyn aside. In the same motion, he grabbed Victoria by the waist and yanked her in the opposite direction. A split second later, the forklift plowed over the very spot where they’d stood.
From behind the rice pile, Torbel surveyed the machine’s amorphous operator. “Bloody—Wait here,” he told Victoria. “I’m going to—”
“No.” She clamped a surprisingly strong hand on his arm. “Don’t you see, Torbel, it’s what he wants. He’ll get you, then he’ll get me and that’ll be it. Mission accomplished. Unless he decides to kill Oswyn for good measure. The police would never catch him. How could they with no witnesses?” Her tone grew more imperative. “We’ll be dead, and he’ll be free—and I’m not ready to die, Torbel. Not for a long time yet.”
“Torbel!” Oswyn hailed him hoarsely from beside a sturdy pylon. “He’s turning.”
Of course he was. He’d had enough time during Victoria’s diatribe to turn the forklift twice. She had a point, though, and while he’d been accused of many things in his life, stupidity was not one of them.
“Come on, then.” Taking Victoria by the arm, he pressed her firmly sideways. “Oswyn,” he barked.
The boy darted across the wet pavement. “We won’t make it,” he panted.
“We need a diversion,” Victoria said.
“We could push a crate onto the forklift,” Oswyn suggested.
Torbel sent him an acerbic look. “Or we could just hide behind them. He isn’t terribly maneuverable.”
“We can’t hide all night,” Victoria argued reasonably. “Why couldn’t we push over a crate? They can’t be very stable, or he couldn’t have done it earlier.”
“He probably had it rigged, Victoria.”
“Fine, then what do you suggest? Playing musical stacks until morning?”
Torbel ground his teeth. He disliked stubborn people, especially when that stubbornness came with a brain and a beautiful face.
“Shut up and move,” he snapped.
He focused his gaze on the forklift. The operator appeared to be having trouble with the controls. The machine shot forward, jerked, then turned abruptly left. Out of the pool of dockside light, Torbel noted shrewdly. He’d been right in his earlier assessment. This person was no fool.
“What’s he doing?” Victoria whispered in his ear.
“Doesn’t matter.” Torbel located a sanctuary. “Run for the dockman’s cottage, and keep out of the light.”
Their attacker caught sight of them, as Torbel had anticipated. He veered the vehicle away from the crates and pointed it at the stone-and-timber cottage.
“Go around,” Torbel instructed Victoria and Oswyn from behind. “He won’t be able to maneuver in there.”
He tried, though, and came a good deal closer than Torbel had thought possible. The prongs actually stripped off a layer of timber on the wall.
Oswyn tripped and would have sprawled headfirst into a sodden pylon, but Torbel caught him by the waistband to steady him.
For a West Ender, Victoria seemed quite at home, hopping over seaman’s rigging and rubble. For all his disdain of the upstairs life, Torbel had to admire her grit. And if there were numerous other things to admire about her, well, they would just have to wait for a more appropriate time.
The machine crunched to a halt. Over his shoulder, Torbel saw the operator leap out, as nimbly as any acrobat. He also saw a hand dip into the baggy black jacket.
“Duck,” he shouted, and shoved the pair in front of him toward the next level of docks.
Three shots rang out in succession. Two embedded themselves in the creaking wood; the third grazed his left shoulder. He stifled a hiss of pain, holding Victoria down when she would have raised her head.
“Stay down,” he snarled. “Oswyn.” With his head, he motioned upward. Oswyn nodded and began climbing the ladderwork frame.
Three more shots rang out, none of them aimed at Oswyn. But their attacker must have seen him climbing, because he ran back several paces. Releasing a final shot, he dropped his hands and, turning, vanished into the darkness.
Torbel felt Victoria’s fingers probing his bloodied shoulder. “He hit you,” she exclaimed in dismay.
He gritted his teeth, more to combat her touch than the fiery pain. “It’s just a scratch. Oswyn!” He ensnared Victoria’s wrist when she would have shifted his jersey. “Don’t.”
“But you’re bleeding.”
“I’ve bled before. Let’s get the hell out of here before that prat of a note writer comes back.”
He wouldn’t, of course, but she couldn’t know that.
Damn her, he thought irritably. Why did she have to be the one woman in all of London whose touch had the power to drive him mad? The silky feel of her skin, the flowery scent of her hair, the flashes of fire in her blue eyes—she was a Gypsy, all right, with American pluck and a cool British stare. He should have ordered Keiran to boot her out the store
house door the moment Fox had called to say she was on her way. Unfortunately, seeing her, it had been too late. He’d been trapped. And if only he knew that, it wouldn’t be long before Keiran figured it out, as well.
“Torbel?”
He glanced up to find Oswyn peering at him.
“You coming?”
Aware of Victoria’s accusing stare, he relegated the pain in his shoulder to the back of his mind and nudged her firmly forward. “I’ll watch your back,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument.
She raised her head. “Who’ll watch yours, Torbel? Or do you have a lucky aura that bullets can’t penetrate?”
“Meaning?” he countered evenly.
Barely four inches separated them. He saw the glimmer of anger—and perhaps a trace of some other emotion—in her eyes. “I don’t need you to die for me,” she told him.
“No, you don’t,” he agreed. “What you need is this.” And hauling her hard against him, he covered her mouth with his.
Chapter Five
Victoria groped for a mental foothold, any leverage she could use to fight his powerful hold on her. He held her physically; she could feel the iron band of his arms around her waist and shoulders, but she was not a prisoner in that sense. It was her own thoughts and feelings that prevented her from struggling as logic dictated she should.
The stubble on his unshaved jaw felt like sandpaper against her face. He moved his mouth over hers with a pressure that was at once insistent and punishing. He blamed her for this kiss.
Since she couldn’t seem to fight him, she made no further attempt to do so. She simply allowed her senses to absorb the taste of him, the feel and the heady masculine scent.
His tongue delved past her lips, exploring her teeth and more. Victoria’s head swam. His mouth was hot and wet, demanding, a little rough but not bruising. Through a haze of awareness, she realized that he was punishing himself more than her.
She ran her fingers lightly over his back, amazed and vaguely unsettled by the wiry muscles lurking beneath the smooth expanse of skin. His leanness was entirely deceptive. Torbel’s sleek build would undoubtedly give him the strength, speed and agility of a jaguar.
