No, it wasn’t totally dark. A tiny red light hung a hundred feet overhead, slowly descending. After a moment, its soft whirring buzz reached her, and half a moment after that, the machine stopped in midair in front of her.
“Smile for the camera, sweetie.”
Lisette bared her teeth. Technology was Padma’s passion. She never missed an opportunity to buy a new toy, and the drone was her latest and favest. Since it was proving to be of use on the job tonight, she was happy to call it her favest, too.
Cautiously she reached out to disconnect the bag hanging beneath the camera. She took out a grappling hook and line, the metal clanking softly on the stone, then grabbed a pair of climbing gloves. The Shepherdess, with the fancy red in her tube, went into the bag, the zipper rasping as it closed. Once it was secure, she backed to the wall again and gave a thumbs-up, envisioning Padma’s beaming face.
“Okay, sweetie, I’ll get this baby safely out of here, and you do the same with yourself. See you at home.”
I hope. If her dress didn’t get in the way. Her heels. Her fears. A security guard. A nosy guest. But she had a talent for managing risks.
“FYI,” Padma added, “countdown to fireworks, four minutes. People should be gathering outside the ballroom. Be careful.”
Lisette watched the drone disappear into the sky, making no more noise than an annoying cicada. Once she lost sight of it, she turned her attention to the grappling hook and the 9.5-millimeter line attached to it. What goes up must come down. Of course, going up a flight of stairs was so much safer than sliding down a piece of rope.
Heart pounding, she knelt even though her entire body agreed that edging closer to the balustrade was a really bad idea. She pushed those voices to the back of her head and concentrated on securing the hook and the rope with clammy hands. She wasn’t as expert with her climbing gear as she should be, since she tried to avoid self-induced terror as often as possible. Everything else about her job—the ingress and egress, the intel, the plans, the backup plans, the disguises—all that was dangerous but fun. Climbing, whether up or down, was just plain scary.
“What’re you doing?”
Lisette jerked, spinning around like a turtle hunkered on the ground to face the man who’d spoken, her feet sliding between two squat columns, dangling in air. One shoe slipped, then slid off her foot in slow motion, landing somewhere below without a sound.
For an instant, she wanted to strangle Jack Sinclair, but that would mean prying her hands loose from the stone, and that wasn’t happening until it was do-or-die time.
She’d had two choices for this role in her drama: Jack or his friend Simon Toussaint. It had been no choice, even without her mother’s lifelong insistence that the Toussaint family was evil. If Simon had appeared on the balcony, she would have lost her grip and fallen backward to her death. He scared her that much.
Jack, on the other hand, was Prince Charming. She’d never met him, but she’d seen him, mostly on the internet, a few times in person. He was tall, blond, tanned and, even in this light, outrageously handsome.
Her gaze was traveling the fine leather of his shoes up to the incredible weave of his trousers when abruptly he crouched in front of her. His brows were quirked, and so was his mouth as their gazes connected. His expression was tinged with curiosity, but underneath that was tautly controlled intensity. Interest. Even amusement.
She didn’t take comfort in that assessment.
“Well?” he prompted.
She swallowed hard. “I’m taking a shortcut downstairs for the fireworks.”
He looked at the grappling hook and the line, then freed her right hand from its grip on the rope. “Not with these gloves. They’re great for not leaving prints, but you’d better have a heavier pair somewhere, or your bloody hands will give you away.”
Those same reactions from seeing the painting—goose bumps, muscles tightening, breath catching—returned, provoking a curious emotion, not as awestruck as the painting but not as, say, nauseating as the height of the balcony.
She was in the process of reclaiming her hand when he stiffened, turning his head slightly toward the room. She would like to think it was just a gesture, listening out of habit, but she’d heard the sounds, too, the opening and closing of heavy doors. The rumble of male voices, barely audible outside.
“You got gloves?” he asked again as he withdrew a pair of his own from inside his jacket. The man carried climbing gloves in his tuxedo? Before she could finish being surprised by that, she accepted it. Tools of the trade. Getting caught without them could cost his life.
She ripped off the thin gloves and replaced them with her climbing ones as more voices sounded in the room. Was it staff sneaking in to watch the fireworks from the best seats in the house? Guards making rounds? Or maybe Candalaria himself had come in to show off a wonder, talk business or get busy with the latest woman on his arm. It didn’t matter, though. Getting caught on the balcony didn’t bode well for Lisette.
She wasn’t sure how it boded for Sinclair.
“Come on, Cinderella, get moving, or I’m hijacking your coach for myself.”
Giving herself a mental shake, Lisette tucked the thin gloves into the bodice of her dress, hiked up her dress and slid her bare foot over the knee wall, curling her toes into the stone as if they might find a lifesaving grip there. Her palms were sweaty, her heart was pounding, and she wasn’t sure she could do it. Swing the other leg over. Step into thin air. Have a good fall while avoiding one hell of a bad landing. But she had no choice. She very much wanted to avoid prison, even more to avoid death.
Jack’s hand brushed her arm. “Let me go first. If anything goes wrong, I’ll break your fall.”
Gentlemanly? Or seeing to his own safety first? Either way, she couldn’t protest over the knot in her throat. All she could do was watch as he slipped over the wall, then gracefully disappeared from sight without making a sound...and listen as the lock on the French doors clicked. The reflections on the glass panes shifted as the door slowly pushed outward. A gold-and-silver ball exploded in the sky high above the grounds, and a raspy voice said, “We’re right on time.”
Grasping the rope, driven purely by adrenaline, she swung her entire body over the wall to dangle in the air, nothing more than a thin line and her own ten fingers stopping her from splatting to the ground. Instantly she closed her eyes, unable to look at the sky, the tops of trees, the people made so small by distance they didn’t look real.
As she clung to the rope, the swaying caused by the inelegant start of her descent stopped. Time to start moving, to press her knees to the line, to balance her weight on her arms, to slide hand over hand down to the ground... Nothing happened.
Time, she told herself more forcefully. She couldn’t freeze now. She was strong, lifting weights just for this purpose, but she couldn’t hold herself forever. Even the thought sent fine tremors through her hands, up her arms and across her shoulders to meet in the middle.
Another starburst appeared in the sky with a muffled boom, so bright it would take only one guest glancing about to spot her dangling there. Sadly, there was no contingency for that in plans A, B, C or D.
Panic danced up her back, but before it got close enough to make the short leap into her brain, warm fingers closed around her ankle. Jack tugged on it, not enough to startle her into letting go, too much to ignore. Had he already reached the ground and come back up for her, or had he been waiting all this time?
Either way, the touch of his hand made her feel safer, braver. Focusing on that bravery, she pried up her left fingers one at a time, let her body slide, then grasped the rope again and repeated the action with her right hand. Let go, slide, grab tight, over and over, and the entire time Jack Sinclair’s fingers remained around her ankle.
At last, even with her eyes closed, she knew she was only feet above the ground.
She could tell it from the overwhelming mix of perfumes that assaulted the air, from the voices, the clinking of glasses, the aura created by too many people jammed into too small a space.
“You can open your eyes.”
She didn’t want to, not until her feet were on the ground—hell, not until her butt was on the ground. But she forced them open and saw that they’d wound up exactly where she’d planned: in the corner where the east wing jutted out from the main building, in the shadows created by a feathery tree growing in a giant pot. Before she could undo her grip on the rope, Jack laid his hands at her waist and lifted her away.
He set her on her feet in the corner, stone at her back, earth under her feet, and stood close, his gaze crinkled as he studied her. His eyes were the rich, startling blue that she kept in her stock of tinted contact lenses, except his were natural. She studied them, looking for something—suspicion, awareness, too many questions or too many answers. She wondered why he had helped her, if he would now turn her over to Candalaria or figure she owed him a favor for not jamming her up. She wondered if she could escape him.
A very small part of her wondered if she had to escape him right this very moment.
Considering that last thought, she paid little attention to his movements—stripping off his gloves, stuffing them into his pockets, straightening his jacket, smoothing a wrinkle from her dress.
“Stay here.” He ducked behind the tree before disappearing around the corner of the building.
This would be the perfect time for her to run, and she even took a few stumbling steps before leaning against the wall again. She’d known better than to wear four-inch heels on a job, especially ones that could fall off so easily, but she’d been swayed by the fact that they made her legs look damn good. But slipping out of the party like this would raise the question of how she’d managed to lose a shoe, and the last thing she wanted was questions.
Especially given that, before long, both the grappling hook’s presence and the Shepherdess’s disappearance would be discovered.
With the faintest of rustles, Jack returned, her shoe seeming delicate and small in his hand. Prince Charming, she thought again, at exactly the instant he whispered, “Your slipper, Cinderella.”
“Thank you.” She took the shoe, wiggled her foot into it, straightened, and...
* * *
...leaned to the side and puked.
Jack took a hasty step back even as his hand went automatically to the handkerchief in his pocket. Bella Donna, the most famous thief in his rather elite circle, was throwing up after a relatively simple job. It didn’t fit the cool, mysterious persona.
She really was beautiful, even as she dabbed her mouth with the handkerchief. The skin exposed by her dress was a lovely bronze; her body was long, lean and muscular; her breasts were nicely rounded; and her hair was thick with curls. Her eyes were brown—at least for tonight—and her facial structure was classical: smooth forehead, high cheekbones, the kind of nose plastic surgeons offered their less fortunate patients, the kind of mouth made for kissing.
That face momentarily wore a chagrined look.
“You have a place to put those gloves? Because it’s time for us to say our goodbyes.”
She pulled off the climbing gloves, tugged her dress high enough that a slit exposed a length of long thigh and some kind of black rig vaguely reminiscent of a thigh holster, where she stuffed the gloves. He regretted watching the fabric slide back into place. He wouldn’t have thought that second skin of a dress could conceal anything, but when she stepped away from the wall, his scrutiny gave no hint that she was hiding anything more than a breath beneath the gown.
So what had she stolen? he wondered as he followed her, easing out of the darkness between starbursts, murmuring excuse me as they wove their way to the doors. Something small enough to conceal, maybe even brazenly wear. Maybe he could persuade her to go to his hotel with him, to let him take down her hair and run his fingers through the curls. To undo the zipper of her dress and slide the fabric down her body, to discover what, besides gloves, was underneath it. Maybe...
Once inside the ballroom, where guests bored by fireworks chatted in small groups, she faced him, all calm and composed. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Sinclair.”
He wasn’t surprised she knew his name. He’d stopped being modest about his reputation—both of them—years ago. He was sure she realized that his assistance had been unnecessary. She might have balked at taking that first step off the balcony, but she would have found the courage.
“I appreciate your not throwing up on my favorite tux.”
The corners of her mouth twitched to avoid a smile. His gaze skimmed from that lovely sight to her ears—bare—then her throat, wrists, fingers, also bare. If she’d stolen one of David’s countless jewels, she wasn’t bold enough to walk out with it on.
“What were you doing up there?”
“Following you. They chose well when they named you Bella Donna. Most of us shorten it to just Bella.”
Nothing passed through her eyes—no recognition, surprise, admission. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
He leaned closer, realizing she wore no perfume, either. Scents lingered, created memories, caused downfalls. “There aren’t so many of us that we aren’t familiar with one another. The stories about you, Bella...”
An older woman, notoriously passionate for gossip, gave them a curious look as she approached. The diamond studs twinkling in her ears were worth easily twenty grand, and he’d received three requests to relieve her of the gaudy ruby bracelet around her wrist so the stones could be put into a setting that did them justice.
“Are those—”
“Real? Yes. Burmese. Ten stones of ten carats each. Worth somewhere around eight million dollars.”
“Where are her bodyguards?”
“Around.” When the woman stopped in front of them, he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Aunt Gloria, I didn’t realize you were here.”
He caught the widening of Bella’s eyes, along with the gleam in Gloria’s expression.
“I imagine you were otherwise preoccupied. I saw you two disappearing from the ballroom. Our host didn’t, though. David was regaling a small group of us with stories of his adventures. Do you know how it feels to have every bit of air slowly sucked out of your body to the point you can’t think, can’t move, can’t even try to escape?”
She directed the question to Bella, who mutely nodded her head. Gloria smiled. “That’s our David. He has millions of millions, and in spite of that, he is undoubtedly the dullest and most boring man on earth.” Then she turned her smile to include Jack. “Of course, we only love him for his money, don’t we?”
Jack murmured a noncommittal response, then silence fell. His aunt was waiting for an introduction. Apparently, Bella figured it out and began to take tiny steps like a drunken crab, sideways and backward at the same time. When she put enough distance between them, her intent, no doubt, was to ditch him. His intent was to not let that happen.
He took hold of her arm, her skin warm and silken, her muscles tightening at his touch. “Aunt Gloria, this is my friend—”
“Lisette Malone. Of course,” Gloria said. “Someone pointed you out earlier. The gentleman you work with at the museum, I believe. The one with the damp palms.”
Lisette Malone. Most likely not her real name, but one these people would be much more comfortable with than Bella Donna.
Once more the corners of Bella’s—Lisette’s mouth twitched. “Mr. Chen.”
“Yes, that’s the one. I’m Gloria Mantegna. Even though I’m his great-aunt, Jack calls me aunt to my face and old bat behind my back.”
“Aunt Gloria,” he protested, but she patted his hand.
“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Mantegna,” Lisette said dutifully.<
br />
“My friends call me Gloria. My men friends call me Glory. Most of ’em are standin’ at attention when they say it.” Bawdy humor brought out traces of the Alabama accent she’d tried very hard to lose, and her bright, lascivious smile took ten years off her face. Considering that she was well-aged and astonishingly rich, Jack had no problem imagining long lines of men friends wherever she found herself.
He just didn’t want that image in his head.
Abruptly she made a shooing motion. “David’s heading this way. You two go. I’ll brave the boredom for you.”
Jack flashed a smile at his aunt, turned Lisette in a 180 and began strolling toward the main entrance.
“He won’t think it rude, your leaving without saying good-night?”
“It won’t be the first time.”
“That you’ve been rude?”
“That I’ve left without saying good-night.” He smiled as a few instances flashed through his mind: Viviana, Siobhan, Celene. Good memories.
Their steps echoed as they entered the cavernous hallway running through the middle of the castle. Servants crossed at various intersections, scurrying to salons, private meetings, up the grand staircase. None of them glanced at Jack and Lisette. The guards stationed every thirty feet did, though. There wasn’t a man in the ranks shorter than six foot five, or tipping the scales at less than 250 pounds.
As they passed under the scrutiny of the last guard, Lisette moved a step closer to Jack. “They’re a bit scary, aren’t they?”
“Just a bit? They terrify me.”
When they reached the entrance, staff opened doors tall enough to accommodate a double-decker bus. They walked through, met with cool air and a light breeze and, for Jack, a sense of relief. Not that they were free yet. That wouldn’t happen until they drove the four miles to the gate, where more guards awaited.
While valets went to retrieve their vehicles, Lisette tugged her arm from his grasp. “As I said before, thank you for the assistance.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets and studied her. “What did you take?”
Nights with a Thief Page 2
