by Dee Brice
And, much as Damian hated to admit it even to himself, it was possible that Cartierri was guilty of nothing more than—what did the Americans call it?—tough love? But why wait to get tough until she had committed murder?
His stomach clenched. Was he letting his feelings for Tiffany cloud his judgment? Having made love to her, was his testosterone getting in the way of clear thinking? Should he take himself off the case, his objectivity compromised by a pair of limpid emerald eyes and a sinuous body that could make Satan pray?
Dios! Had Tiffany known all along who he was? Had she seduced him, knowing she intended to rob and murder?
“Damian.” His godfather’s voice brought a merciful end to his silent self-interrogation.
“Padrino, please sit down.”
When Emilio had complied, choosing the sofa rather than a chair, Damian sat beside him and willed himself to patience.
“Have you reported the theft of your emeralds?” he asked when Emilio said nothing, seeming intent on the toes of his polished black shoes.
“No, I have not.” He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his tie, then sighed again.
“Why not?”
“I have no desire to see TC imprisoned. All I want is for her to return the stones and never…”
“Darken your door again?” Damian provided, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Emilio quit fidgeting and angled his body toward Damian. “I liked the girl. I took her into my home, introduced her to my family, trusted her as I trust you. She betrayed me. Worse, she betrayed Rogelio, who admires her immensely.”
“Is it possible someone else stole the emeralds?”
“It is always possible. Even with my security, some stones go missing. Dios! The very guards I hire to protect them often cannot resist their beauty. But in this case, Damian, only the finest gems were taken. My guards may be greedy, but they do not know a chip from a cabochon.” His gaze slid from Damian’s and he shot his cuffs.
“When did you discover the theft?”
“The morning after she left with your friend Nick. Charles called—”
“Cartierri?” Perhaps the interruption technique would also work on his godfather.
“Yes, that Charles. He called, wanting to see what gems I had available. Off the record, Damian, Charles is thinking about expanding into Bogotá. It makes sense, if you think about it. No shipping costs or thefts en route to his shops here. Security costs become nil and you rake in all those lovely tourist dollars. Many foreigners come to Colombia solely for our emeralds, so why not take advantage? And Charles has an international reputation for selling only the finest, which gives him a leg up on unknown local merchants.”
“Do you know who shot at Rogelio?”
“Dios, no! When did that happen? Where?” His swarthy skin pale, Emilio gripped Damian’s forearms with vise-like fingers.
“The morning Tiffany visited the mines. The morning she was wounded.” Freeing himself from his godfather’s grasp, Damian paced to the fireplace, toyed with a knick-knack on the mantel and then said casually, “Rogelio was with her.”
Damian expected another outburst. What he got was a man who had aged twenty years in the blink of an eye. More pale than only a moment ago, Emilio Santana shook as though an earthquake rumbled through him.
“I don’t believe it,” the old man said, shaking his head. “She must have faked her wound somehow.”
“I was there when it happened. As was your grandson.” Hating himself for applying this kind of pressure on a man already palsied by fear, Damian continued. “Rogelio made the better target, mounted as he was while Tiffany was just coming up behind him. A lucky piece of shooting, that. Creased her scalp, but never touched the boy, even with a barrage of bullets flying about.”
“Why wasn’t I told? Damn you, why didn’t you tell me about Rogelio?”
“Tiff—” Dios! Had Tiffany asked Damian not to tell Emilio because she was truly afraid for her own safety? Or was Emilio right? What if Tiffany had set up the entire incident? Damian had not actually seen her shot. When she and Rogelio rode off on Diablo, Tiffany could have… What? Shot herself in the head while Rogelio watched? Shot herself so that the bullet only grazed her scalp, but left no powder burns or any residual odor? Did she go off somewhere, shoot herself and then wash her hands and face to remove the evidence of a self-inflicted wound? No, that whole scenario would not play, even in his wildest imagination. And José Santana, Emilio’s son, had treated her. If he suspected anything, surely he would have mention it. Still…
Feigning a nonchalance he did not feel, Damian shrugged. “No serious harm done.”
Emilio Santana staggered to his feet. Reaching the front door of the tiny cottage, he turned and said in a cold voice, “You are no longer welcome in my home. You are dead to me and all my family.”
Damn, he should have seen that coming, Damian thought as he paced to the kitchen, dismissing Nick with a jerk of his head. Santana was a proud man and dedicated to his family’s safety. Damian should not have let Tiffany convince him to keep silent about the ambush. Perfect vision, after the fact. But Emilio’s reaction, though justified, did seem over-the-top. Damn it to hell, had he been had again? Damian had the feeling his godfather had seized the news of Rogelio’s presence at the mine as an excuse to escape without having to explain what, besides emeralds, Charles Cartierri had wanted. It was as though the vultures were gathering for the final feast, with Tiffany for their entrée.
Squaring his shoulders, determined that Sir James Foster would not get the better of him, Damian sat at the kitchen table and fixed Tiffany’s mentor with his sternest look. “When did you first meet Tiffany?”
“Meet her or first see her?”
Damian waved dismissively. “Whichever.” Michael had taught him that patience, letting the person proceed at his own pace often brought better results than insisting on a certain order.
“I first saw her when she was six. Charles had brought her to England to meet Esmé’s family before they married. I was invited to an engagement party in Esmé and Charles’ honor. I shall always remember that afternoon, how Tiffany looked when she bounded across the lawn, her pigtails coming undone, her feet bare and mud-caked, her hands and pinafore filthy. In her grasp she held the biggest, ugliest, slimiest frog I’d ever seen. And on her face was the most joyous smile in Christendom.”
James Foster’s reminiscent smile faded. “Just when she neared her father, her prize clearly intended for him, she tripped. The frog flew from her hands, landed in Charles’ plate, then hopped across his white linen suit, into a crowd of screaming women and laughing men.
“If there is one thing Charles Cartierri despises, it’s being made to look the fool. Although in this instance, he himself played the part. Esmé saved him. Just when he was about to strike the child, Esmé scooped Tiffany into her arms and carried her off. I believed I had never seen such sadness in anyone’s eyes, let alone those of a child. I was wrong.” He glanced at his hands as if they held answers he needed, then continued. “Seven years later, when we were formally introduced, there was no joy at all in her eyes. Only sadness.”
“Dios,” Damian muttered, too able to recall the shadows in Tiffany’s eyes. Almost as easily he could imagine the pure, unrestrained joy of that six-year-old little girl. He wished he had known her then, wished he could restore that joy. “What do you think happened during those seven years?”
Foster’s shrug looked stiff and almost painful. “I don’t believe he beat her, if that’s what you’re implying. There are worse kinds of abuse.”
When the lengthening silence threatened to become uncomfortable, Damian prodded, “Such as?”
“Always falling short, never quite living up to your loved one’s expectations, failing in some unexplained manner. Tiffany’s school grades were mailed to Charles and Esmé at their summer residence in England. I recall Tiffany telling Charles how difficult she’d
found calculus, how many extra hours she’d spent studying, how glad she was to have achieved a B. ‘All well and good,’ Charles told her with a wide smile, one mirrored by her own. ‘But had you truly applied yourself, you’d have gotten an A.’”
Remembering his father’s resounding “Bravo” when he had managed a barely passing grade in English history, Damian felt an inconsolable sadness descend upon him. Before he could sink into moroseness, he caught himself. James Foster, if Damian believed Charles Cartierri, had a vested interest in proving Tiffany’s innocence.
“Cartierri intimated that there had been some…aberrant behavior on Tiffany’s part,” he said in an indifferent voice. And apparently hit a nerve, for the unflappable James Foster flinched and his gray eyes darkened.
“As to that, you’ll have to ask Charles.”
“He implied that your son was the cause for this change.”
“My stepson. William was my stepson, although I did adopt him.” His earnest gaze slid to a point beyond Damian’s right shoulder.
“As did Charles Cartierri. Or so he led me to believe.”
“Not officially. Not legally. Charles promised to make William his heir if Tiffany bore a son within a year of their marriage.”
“Which, I assume, she did not.”
“William was…very ill.”
“Unable to perform?” Damian drawled, unable and unwilling to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Yet Tiffany married him anyway.” Odd, that. Why would a woman as lusty as Tiffany Cartierri marry a man who was virtually at death’s door?
“They admired and respected each other. They made a handsome couple.”
“And would have produced beautiful babies,” Damian sniped while a wave of jealousy threatened to drown him. What did it matter if Tiffany had lied about William’s homosexuality, had had a completely satisfying sex life with her husband? The man was dead. But was he forgotten or did he haunt her dreams? When Damian kissed her, caressed her, made love to her, did she feel William’s lips, his hands, his body?
“Why does Tiffany hate her name?”
James Foster laughed, a rumble of genuine merriment. “Wouldn’t you, were you in her place? The daughter of a renowned gemologist who bears the name of another famous jeweler? I imagine she finds her name a constant reminder…”
“Of her failure to live up to Charles Cartierri’s expectations?”
“You should ask Tiffany.” Foster looked forthright, at least enough that Damian believed him. Sir James was not trying to avoid the question.
“Yes, I should.” If he could find her. “What brings you to Bogotá, Sir James?”
“The same thing that brought you. Isabella’s Belt.”
“Ah, yes. You insured it.”
“Bijoux did, yes. For three-hundred-million pounds.” Damian whistled. “Precisely. Tiffany believes that…”
“Believes what?”
“Again, you should ask her.”
“Yes, I believe I should.” When I find her.
* * * * *
Wearier than he could remember ever feeling in his life, Damian unlocked the door to his hotel suite, then reached for the light. Some instinct, probably the most basic one of self-preservation, made him lower his hand and quickly shut the door behind him.
Neon and starlight filtered into the room through the windowpanes. Odd, he could have sworn he had closed the drapes. He crossed to the window, closed the drapes with an impatient tug, then turned and ducked behind the couch just as a flare of light came at him from the total darkness.
“I won’t bite,” a husky female voice promised, her laugh luring him from his hiding place. “Unless, of course, you want me to.”
“Dios, Tiffany, you scared the life out of me,” he complained, watching her extend a match to the candle. She blew out the match.
Her lips were the color of wild strawberries he could almost taste. Her hair framed her face with teasing tendrils and cascaded over her shoulders and breasts in artful disarray. He wanted to bury his hands in that ebony silk, use it to bind his body to hers, before he stripped away every skimpy piece of sheer black lace from her body and nothing but skin against skin lay between them.
As she neared him, her pace languorous, he wanted to shout at her to hurry. His weariness vanished as if it had never been. When at last she stood before him, her breasts mere inches from his chest, he reached out for her.
“You may look, but you can’t touch,” she warned, retreating just beyond his reach.
He groaned, but managed to ask, “Is it all right if I take off this ridiculous costume?”
Her fingers tapping the top of her gartered stockings, she gazed at him with a considering look. He had no idea what she had in mind, but, given her scanty attire and the fact that she was here at all, he had hope. As did his thickening cock.
“You may remove the doublet.”
“Thank you.” Holding her gaze, he slowly undid each button. Imitating the striptease she’d done for him at the Santanas’, he eased the heavy fabric off his shoulders, then dangled it from his fingers in front of his burgeoning arousal. His codpiece twitched.
“Nice,” she murmured as she ran her fingertips over his naked shoulders, his collarbone, his nipples. “Very, very nice.” With feathery caresses, she touched his sides, then took one nipple into her mouth, sucking gently, raking it with her teeth.
He held his breath, clenched his hands into fists to keep from hauling her into his arms and claiming that luscious, wicked mouth.
“And now,” she said, her voice husky and reedy, “remove the codpiece.”
“Forgive me, my lady.” Hoping he had predicted her expectations accurately, he held out his shaking hands. His doublet fell at his feet. “I fear I cannot manage the knots.”
“Mmm. Perhaps we should cut it off.” Her eyes glowed a feline green. The tip of her pale pink tongue darted out to moisten those ripe-strawberry lips, lips that were driving him crazy with longing to possess them, to part them and suck that tantalizing little tongue into his mouth.
“Cutting it off could disappoint us both.” Even his voice shook.
“Or please me mightily.” Tease or threat? Her voice held no hint of what was in her mind.
“Yes, lady, I see the merit in your suggestion. But it might heighten the anticipation were you to…”
“Were I to what?”
“Remove the codpiece yourself,” he challenged, a whisper she leaned forward to hear.
Her breath caught. Then she exhaled, a soft moaning sound that swept through him like wildfire through dry grass. He reached for her, but she backed away.
“Turn around.”
He did so reluctantly. He was not afraid of what she might do to him. He simply wanted to watch her, to capture in his memory for all time the way her supple body moved, the play of candlelight over her satiny skin, the changing color of her eyes when this delicious torment of her own making caught her in its spell and turned curiosity to need, need to madness.
Hot and moist, her breath whispered across the nape of his neck. He shivered. Every muscle in his body tightened. Like dandelion fluff floating on a zephyr, her fingers feathered down his spine. Then only her scent enveloped him.
Groaning, he closed his eyes and waited for her to touch him again.
“Would a blindfold heighten your pleasure?”
Her voice came from in front of him. Opening his eyes, he noted the change in her outfit and gulped. She’d shed the push-up bra and now wore only brief bikini panties, a garter belt, sheer black stockings and black stiletto heels.
“No. I would rather look at you.”
“Only look?” She moved closer, brushing her breasts against his chest. “Don’t you want to touch me?”
“More than I want my next breath.”
“Then do it. Touch me, Ian.”
Tiffany had never dreamed she could feel so brazen or behave so wantonly. She’d intended to drive Ian to the brink of madness, but had gotten caught in the sensuou
s web she’d created. Now, as his hands roamed over her, duplicating the sweet torment she’d used on him, she felt his power flowing through her. The power she’d thought to use against him turned on her.
“No,” she protested, but she lifted her head to receive his kisses and pressed her body to his. Seeming to have a will of their own, her hands snaked around his waist, fumbled with the tabs that held the codpiece in place, freed his cock from his tights to pulse against her belly. Shaking with need, she kissed her way down his body and took his surging warmth into her mouth.
“Dios, Tiffany, how many fantasies do you intend to fulfill?” he asked before he pulled her to her feet, lifted her and then carried her to the bed.
“As many as I can. As many as you’ll allow.”
“It may take a lifetime,” he warned, his lips gently marauding over her breasts, down her belly to the apex of her thighs. “Open your legs for me, love. Let me worship you.”
Anticipation invaded her limbs, making them weak. Mewing like a newborn kitten, she strove to obey him, but her thighs felt too heavy to move.
He kissed his way up her body, stroked her breasts until her nipples hardened into rigid pebbles that begged for his lips, his tongue, his teeth. When his hand drifted lower and her trembling thighs obeyed the command of her needy senses, he shifted, then probed her with his tongue.
Every slide of his tongue sent her higher. Every caress near her ring drove thought into the realm of impossibility. Her entire body merged into one place—her pussy. Into one goal—release. He kept her on the sharp edge of fulfillment. His tongue alternately swiped her clit or probed her sopping, quivering folds. His fingers rotated in her channel, pressing lightly or hard on her G-spot and brought her ever closer to climax before retreating to being once more his tender assault upon her senses.
At last, when she moaned for mercy, he rolled her onto her stomach. “Hands and knees,” he demanded. “Now.”
