ItTakesaThief

by Dee Brice

  At any moment he might telephone Interpol or Scotland Yard or whoever else was responsible in cases like these. Her mind leaped ahead to her trial and conviction, to her imprisonment. She felt the walls closing in on her and searched for an escape.

  It was a futile effort, as well as senseless. If she ran, she would proclaim her guilt to the world. If she faced it now there would be doubt, wouldn’t there? Did English law provide for reasonable doubt? Wishing she knew, confession on the tip of her tongue, she said nothing.

  Before she could bare her soul, she noticed a cab gliding to a stop in front of Sir James’ offices. A familiar, dapper figure exited, the man obviously in a hurry.

  Moments later the doors to Sir James’ office crashed open, then slammed shut with the ominous clang of a jail cell door closing in its prisoner. TC’s knees almost buckled as she turned and met the intruder’s blazing blue eyes.

  The man stalked to her, his gloved hands clenched around a newspaper that proclaimed Priceless Artifact Stolen. His looming posture told how much it cost him not to strike her.

  “Just when,” he demanded on rising fury, “did you decide to come out of retirement, Emerald?”

  From the depths of her churning stomach she mustered a smile and held Charles Cartierri’s furious gaze. “Hello, Father. How…nice to see you.”

  Chapter Two

  Ensconced in his London town house, Damian Hunter y Soria heard Reynard’s “Nice legs” echo in his mind and sneered at the obvious understatement.

  They were not just “nice”, they were great legs. He rewound the videotape Reynard had had couriered from Interpol, Lyons to Sir James’ office in hopes the older man might recognize someone. Damian started the tape again, noting the sensuous walk that turned sophisticated Frenchmen in their tracks and made Parisiennes glare. If that distinctive walk had not caught his attention, he might have missed her.

  Despite her nonchalance, Tiffany Carter-Foster obviously was more interested in the security cameras than she was in the objets d’art. And she had gone to some effort to disguise herself. The raincoat she wore loosely belted made her waist seem thicker. Her broad-brimmed fedora, pulled low on her forehead, nearly obscured her tip-tilt nose and completely shadowed her remarkable green eyes. Unlike the stiletto heels she had worn today and that memorable night in St. Anton, her shoes were low-heeled, sensible—ugly—but they could not alter the provocative, sinuous walk that even on grainy tape fired his blood. He froze the tape and turned to his companion.

  “Well, Reynard, is this the same girl we saw in Sir James’ offices?” Damian glanced at the Interpol agent whose clothing and appearance enhanced his name. Rust-colored hair and eyes, rust-colored tie and suit that, somehow, always looked rumpled.

  “No doubt about it,” George Fox, the redoubtable Reynard, pronounced as he refilled his brandy snifter on his way to the television set. “See this?” He pointed at a chain surrounding one slender ankle. “Slave bracelets, I think they’re called. Big in the sixties and making a modest comeback in the States.”

  Damian grinned. “Pretty flimsy evidence for bringing Mrs. Foster in for questioning.”

  Reynard cleared his throat. “Indeed, the shapeliness of an ankle, slave bracelet notwithstanding, is insufficient reason to bring her in. Still, we cannot dismiss the possibility she is involved somehow. After all, we’re talking about murder.”

  “I know, Reynard.” Again Damian rewound the tape, but this time he turned off the television set. “I want you to go back to Lyons. I want a complete dossier, including all overseas travel. I want to know everything about Mrs. Carter-Foster, from her favorite perfume to her bra size. I want to know about everyone—and I do mean everyone, Reynard—she’s ever known.” Pushing his authority as a “friend of the family”, but Reynard’s superior had given him carte blanche for Interpol’s resources. His godparents, owners of the stolen artifact, had named him their representative in Europe.

  Reynard groaned. “Your brother would never—”

  “My brother’s talents lie—lay—in other areas. If you want to remain a member of this investigation, Reynard, you will do as you are told.” Another level of “friend of the family”—his dead brother’s agent status gave Damian control of field agents—for the moment.

  “I’ll leave for Lyons right away,” Reynard muttered, donning his raincoat. “Shall I deliver what I find in person or have it couriered to you?”

  “By all means, deliver it in person. The fewer people involved at this juncture the better chance we have of recovering the Belt.” And catching the murderer, although that was beyond Interpol’s jurisdiction.

  Damian watched Reynard stalk to the door, his anger obvious in his jerky movements.

  “Reynard.” Damian’s voice halted Fox’s departure and he turned. “How tall were the murdered staff?”

  “Five-foot-ten and five-eleven respectively.”

  “And how tall is Mrs. Foster?”

  “In her stocking feet, I’d say five-eleven. Is it important?”

  “Perhaps. Would you say she is tall enough, strong enough to have garroted those men?”

  Reynard’s face flushed, heightening his resemblance to his namesake. “In person, I only saw her sitting down, but I’d say fear or anger could make her strong enough. And the element of surprise would work in her favor.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would. They were found together?”

  Reynard nodded. “Admitting someone into the safe deposit vault apparently. Anything else?”

  “I am having difficulty envisioning how one person, one woman, could overpower two men without one of them setting off an alarm or shouting for help.”

  “So, we either have two suspects or… Or what?”

  “Or they were subdued somehow before they were murdered.”

  “I’ll get you their autopsy reports.” Once again, Reynard turned to leave.

  “Thanks. Find out who they took to the vault.”

  His hand on the doorknob, Reynard turned back. “I never told you how sorry I am about your brother. It must be especially hard, you being twins and all.”

  “Thank you,” Damian said, then with a sigh and in a stronger voice added, “The sooner you get the information, the sooner we can catch our thief.”

  With a nod, Reynard left.

  Damian pushed aside thoughts of his murdered brother and retrieved his raincoat. He had a date. He also wanted to know who the man was who had rushed into Sir James’ office. He had looked furious enough to kill someone. Damian could not help wondering if his dinner companion tonight was an angel or yet another scheming, ruthless bitch.

  * * * * *

  TC stared at the open suitcase on her bed, thinking it resembled nothing so much as the ragged-toothed mouth of a hungry shark. On a resigned sigh, she removed the few articles of underwear she had thrown in it and returned them to a drawer. Damn it, lover or no lover, theft or no theft, she wouldn’t run! She stowed the suitcase atop the armoire, then sat in a Queen Anne chair to wait. For what, she hadn’t a clue. But she knew that whatever came her way was bound to be disastrous.

  Stupid, she thought. How could she have been so stupid? She wasn’t worried about pregnancy, but how could she have had unprotected sex with a stranger and expect never to see him again? Hadn’t she learned anything over the years? Hadn’t she learned that the gods—or Fate—had a way of paying her back for each and every misstep she made? But, dear God, when Ian Soria shook her hand in Sir James’ office she’d wanted him to grab her like he had in St. Anton. She’d wanted him to make her hot and wet and achy again.

  That night she’d seen danger in his eyes and recognized he wanted to hurt her, to punish her for something she hadn’t even done. Part of her wanted that, even welcomed the threat that he could hurt her. But part of her knew that whatever lay beneath the veneer of anger was—just barely—civilized enough to keep her safe. Seeing him again today brought it all back.

  How tender, how gentle he’d been with her. It wa
s as if he’d known she’d never done it before, not with a man with hard muscles covered with firm, tanned flesh.

  William, she thought, her heart aching for her dead husband. Ian Soria was so very different from her late husband. Dark where William was fair. Muscular where William was slender. Tender and passionate where William saved those emotions for others. Had she chosen Ian Soria because he was the complete opposite of William?

  God, she wanted him here with her now! But she had more important things to think about than mind-blowing sex with Ian Soria.

  She should have told Sir James the truth about Paris the minute she entered his office, but he’d frightened her so. She was afraid he would throw her to the wolves before she could explain what she had done and why. Charles Cartierri’s arrival had put an end to her opportunity to confess her sins. Seeing Ian Soria, his fathomless black eyes consuming her from across Sir James’ office, she’d felt her body ready for his penetration.

  But how could she seek safety in a stranger’s arms with Sir James gaping at her as if she’d grown a second head?

  “Oh God,” she groaned, burying her heated face in her hands. That night in St. Anton she’d heard words, said words she’d never expected to hear let alone say. Words that even now made her wet and weak and wanting.

  A knock sounded on her door.

  “Go away.”

  Another knock, more insistent.

  “Oh, all right. Keep your shirt on,” she yelled, closing the bedroom door and opening the living room door to the hotel corridor. She came nose to chin with Ian Soria, the man she’d been fantasizing about.

  “If you insist,” he said, easily stepping by her and closing the door.

  Her spacious suite seemed to shrink. She stepped back, slowly expelling her breath when he leaned against the door as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “How did you find me? I mean, the Savoy doesn’t give out guests’ room numbers,” TC said, barely suppressing the need to tear off his clothes and… Oh, hell, screw his brains out.

  “They sometimes do,” he said, laughter lurking in his deep voice, metaphorically dousing her with ice water. “To other guests. With sufficient incentive.”

  “What was so urgent you had to bribe a desk clerk to find me?”

  “Actually, I bribed the manager.”

  “At least you didn’t put some menial’s important job in jeopardy.”

  “Come here, Tiffany,” he murmured, one arm opening to enfold her when she unwittingly obeyed.

  She snuggled against his wide chest, feeling as if she had come to safe harbor after months on a stormy sea. His sweater was damp, as if he’d walked through the fog from Sir James’ office to the Savoy. He smelled like winter, cold and woodsy, but she knew what lay beneath the civilized mask, knew his scent, his taste, the feel of him deep, deep, deep inside her.

  “I hate the name Tiffany,” she said, grateful her voice sounded as frosty as she wished she felt.

  He tipped her chin to gaze into her eyes with a tender look that made her reconsider her position. In truth, she’d rather be flat on her back with him buried in her.

  “I think it’s a beautiful name.”

  “TC,” she insisted. “My name’s TC.”

  “And mine, as you know, is Ian Soria.”

  Soria. Spanish then. Which accounts for the accent and makes sense of the barrage of sweet words he breathed into my ears while making love—no, while fucking me. Her mind made the connection she hadn’t made in Sir James’ office or in St. Anton, while her body urged her to snuggle into Ian Soria’s arms and stay there. But some instinct deep within her questioned his truthfulness, his real reason for insisting they dine together.

  “Look,” she said, pushing out of his arms, “if you have to call me anything I prefer TC.” She stalked away and then whirled to face him. “What the devil are you doing here anyway?”

  “We have a date,” he taunted, his voice brimming with a triumph that set her teeth on edge. His grin faded, replaced by a look of pure determination.

  Uncertain of his mood, or her own, she retreated a step. Her instincts were at war. Her mind buzzed with warnings, but her body ached for his nearness—a longing she had never known before, except in his arms.

  “And London? Nobody in his right mind comes to London in March.” His quirked eyebrows made her aware of the anger in her voice, in her stance, of the stupidity of her claim. She was here, wasn’t she?

  “Well, they don’t,” she insisted, stepping around him to escape a sudden closed-in feeling. And, if she were completely truthful, the need between her thighs. God! He’d barely touched her and she was already eager for him.

  “My family lives here. Near here.”

  “Is something wrong? Is someone ill?”

  He stalked her, but she wasn’t so terribly afraid of him anymore. His fingers were gentle when he stroked her cheek and his dark eyes gleamed with tender bemusement.

  “What an odd little sprite you are,” he murmured, his quaintly accented voice tinged with something strangely close to tenderness. “I simply felt a need to come home.”

  “Home,” she echoed, turning her back so he could not read the envy she suspected filled her eyes. “Then everyone’s all right? No one’s sick or…?”

  “Dying? Everyone is fine. Fit as the proverbial Stradivarius.”

  Finding Ian eyeing her with a quizzical look of his own, she said querulously, “Are you still here?” Maybe rudeness would make him leave. “If you’re here for a post-coital evaluation, forget it.”

  He splayed her hand over his wide chest. “Is my heart still beating? Then obviously I am still here,” he replied, holding her hand captive despite her feeble attempts to free it. “And I do not require any kind of evaluation. Your body told me everything I need to know. In St. Anton and here.”

  “I don’t see any point in your being here. Except you wanting to torture me.”

  “What is it that frightens you, Tiffany? Is your husband waiting in the wings? Or was that man you were with earlier your lover?”

  “Sir James?” she gasped, covering her mouth to hold in a very unfeminine guffaw.

  “No, the other one, the one who rushed into Sir James’ office right after I left. The one with the overbearing attitude.”

  Like yours? she silently sniped before saying, “Oh, you mean Charles.” Angry that he had spied on her yet relieved she could tell him the truth, she smiled up at him. “No, Ian, I have no lover. Charles Cartierri is an old friend of Sir James’.” A circuitous truth, but not a bald-faced lie.

  Summoning every ounce of resolve she could muster, she said, “Get out. If you come to this door again, I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Would an apology help?”

  “Help what? Help get me into your bed again?”

  “I would like to take you to dinner. You know, a date. Besides, we need to talk—about the theft if nothing else.”

  “Yes,” she heard herself agreeing. His real reasons for being in London were linked to Isabella’s Belt and had little to do with her. Closing the distance between them, she hesitated and then touched his chest. Absorbed, like lightning seeking ground during a summer storm, the heat of him. It arced through her, igniting need and longing. “But this isn’t a date.”

  “It is not?”

  “No. Were it a date—a real date—I would change clothes. And so, I expect, would you.”

  “All right then. It is not a date. We are simply going out to dinner because we both have to eat. We may as well eat together. Unless you intend to invite your husband.”

  “My husband is…indisposed.”

  Damian opened the door and gestured for her to precede him out. She gathered her raincoat and the same rather charming fedora he had seen her wear on the security tapes from the Luxembourg. He could grow to like that silly red feather stuck at a jaunty angle in the grosgrain ribbon around the crown.

  She checked her raincoat pocket, he assumed for her room key, then turned t
o him with a faint smile. “Are we dining in the hotel? If we are, I’ll leave my hat and coat.”

  “I thought we would go just next door. If, that is, you are not opposed to eating the finest prime rib in England. And if you can walk in those shoes.” The highest heels he had ever seen did justice to her legs, although he knew her legs and all the rest of her looked wondrous in nothing at all.

  “I’ve been known to cover every inch of every floor in Harrods in shoes like these,” she said, a hint of humor flashing in her eyes, matching a lopsided dimple in her right cheek.

  “Then a short walk should not bother you.”

  “How short is short?”

  He frowned. “I do not understand the question.”

  “Londoners—maybe all Brits—give distances in terms of time. But the distance depends on how fast a person walks, doesn’t it? So how fast shall we walk?” She had that teasing glint in her eyes again.

  “A leisurely two or three minute stroll,” he said, once more amused by her.

  “I think I can manage.”

  He helped her into her raincoat. Dodging his hands, she set her hat on head, the jaunty angle at odds with her somber expression. To his surprise, she linked her arm through his and urged him toward the lift. He missed seeing her walk away, but decided pacing at her side was worth not having to shorten his long stride to match hers. What else had he missed, all these years dating women who were so much shorter than he?

  More an excuse to touch her, he took her hand in his and slid both into his raincoat pocket. He was unsure but thought he heard her sigh like a besotted schoolgirl.

  Surely not, he thought, glancing at her and finding her expression stoic.

  * * * * *

  The restaurant was done in Tudor style, all white walls and dark woods. It was also crowded, but the maitre d’ led them to a secluded corner and pulled out a tapestry-covered chair for Tiffany.