by Dee Brice
“How do you know Nadim?” Ian said, drawing her attention from the prince to his dear, battered face.
“I did some recovery work for him several years ago.” She’d known him since she was ten, but Nadim’s father had limited their contact. Only as adults had they become friends. “And you?”
“He saved my butt in Marrakech a lifetime ago.”
“Barroom brawl?” TC teased, rewarded by Ian’s quick grin.
“Board room battle. He knows…knew your husband?”
“Casually, yes. A man like Nadim could never be close friends with a man like William. At least, not as William was when they first met. Later, when William had accepted himself, I think they could have appreciated each other. Fate never gave them that opportunity.”
“Then your husband did not know that Nadim was your—”
“Her what?” Nadim said, his voice soft and darkly dangerous. “Her friend?”
“I think I shall eat in my room.”
Before Nadim could respond, TC said, “Good idea. And I’d like you to leave, too, Nadim. I want to clean up before I see either of you again.”
“I’ll send Yasmin to help you.”
“Thank you.” Despite her heartache at Ian’s attitude toward her, she almost felt like smiling. The two men were acting like little boys fighting over the last cookie. Nadim’s behavior, she suspected, was reflex, his usual overbearing arrogance toward any female in his care. Ian’s actions shouted his jealousy, an emotion she wasn’t sure she liked. It turned him nasty.
“We’ll see you in an hour,” Nadim said, herding Ian out the door. He went without protest, but TC had the feeling she would see him much sooner.
* * * * *
“How do you feel?” Ensconced in the chair he had occupied earlier, his bare feet on her bed, Ian was munching on a piece of toast and looking adorably rumpled.
Toweling her wet hair, she said, “Like I was run over by the proverbial Sherman tank. You?”
“About the same. At least we can both hear.”
Not knowing what to say, she said nothing.
“I am sorry.”
Cupping her ear, she said, “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not sure I did.” Sitting at the dressing table, she removed the towel from her head, then began brushing the tangles from her singed hair.
“Move over.” He took the brush from her, sat on the narrow bench and gently stroked through one curl.
“I stink.”
“You smell wonderful,” he contradicted. “You inhaled a lot of smoke and your nose is fooling you, making you think the stench still clings to you. Will you forgive me?”
“For what?”
Meeting her eyes in the mirror, one brow arched a warning not to push him. “For my rudeness to you earlier. For doubting you last night.”
“Will you apologize to Nadim?”
Looking as if he’d rather eat porcupine quills, he said, “I already have.”
“Thank you.” Turning her head, she brushed a kiss across his lips, then touched his face with trembling fingers. “Do the cuts hurt?”
He shrugged. “About as much as a bee sting. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
His humbleness touched her deeply, as if he valued her good opinion of him above anything else in the world.
“Ian, we need to talk.”
“I know,” he murmured, then touched her neck with the tip of his tongue.
As if he had branded her with a cattle prod, need skittered through her veins. Breathless, she snuggled into his arms and lifted her head to receive his kisses. A benediction, a promise, his lips captured hers, driving all words, all thoughts, from her mind, leaving only need and fire.
“Cuidado,” he murmured.
“Did I hurt you?” She gently touched his face.
“No. But I must be careful with you. Your back… Are you burned?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you get me out of this robe and see?”
He growled as he kissed each of her ears. “Amo tus oidos.” He kissed her neck. “Amo tu cuello. Amo tus labios y tu boca.” He nibbled her lips, then eased his tongue into her mouth.
She pressed against him, wanting to feel his naked chest. Her nipples craved his touch. “Touch me. Ponga tus manos on mis chiches.”
He laughed, then moaned into her mouth. “Do you know what you are saying?”
“I know I want your hands on my breasts.” She untied her robe, let it slide off her shoulders to pool around her hips. “I want your hands all over my body. Deseo tu pito en mi. I want your cock in me.”
Standing, he pulled her to her feet, then led her to the bed. “I wish Nadim had provided a wider perch.”
TC shoved him onto the bed. “I think we can manage. Remember that chair in Sir James’ conference room?”
Grinning, he raised the head of the hospital bed, then leaned against it. “Oh yes, I remember that chair very well. This, however, may prove even better. You have room for your knees.”
She straddled him. “So I do. And I can rub my breasts all over your chest.”
“I have a better idea.” He urged her to raise her hips, then eased his pito—his rigid cock—into her. Pressing her breasts together, he lapped her nipples in quick succession.
“Oh God! You feel so good!” She rode his cock while he lapped and sucked her nipples. “Harder. Suck me harder. Oh God, ohgod, oh…God! Yes. Yes. Yesss!” Her back arched, her head fell back, her fingers raked his chest as he pumped harder, faster, deeper. Feeling him explode in her pulsing core, she cried his name, then collapsed against his chest.
Seconds later, she nuzzled his neck and murmured sleepily, “You do have chest hair. One hair that just tickled my nose.”
I think I love you. Dios, had he really said that? Had he meant it? Was he destined, like his brother, to die at the hands of a beautiful, deceitful, deadly woman?
But no. He could not blame Tiffany for what happened at the airport. That explosion had been meant for both of them. Or perhaps he had been infected with Tiffany’s paranoia. Perhaps the explosion had been an accident.
Perhaps. Or maybe the body count had just risen. Again.
* * * * *
An hour later, still flushed from lovemaking, they met with Nadim and Colonel Mendez in the prince’s salon.
“Any word on the explosion?” TC asked immediately.
“That investigation will take some time. The theft of Isabella’s Belt, which you admit you stole, is still on-going.” Colonel Mendez said, managing to mix sternness with parental disappointment.
“I stole a fake,” TC corrected.
“Which you secreted away. Where?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Won’t tell me, which leaves me no choice. Señorita Cartierri, I am placing you under—”
Damian interrupted. “I think you better tell him, Tiffany darling.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Someone else is involved and I don’t want to get him in trouble.”
“Unless he was involved in the murders, I think something can be arranged,” Colonel Mendez said after a brief glance at Ian.
“Tiffany, my jewel, the police must first verify that what you took is not the real Belt.”
Glaring at the prince, she folded her arms across her chest. “I’m a certified gemologist and I say it’s a fake. If Charles Cartierri told you it was a fake, you’d believe him.”
“In this instance I believe a second opinion would be required,” Ian said, laughter in his voice. Then, entwining his fingers with hers, he raised her hand to his lips and smiled.
“Oh, all right! I sent the bloody Belt to Sir James Foster along with the Luxembourg security plans.”
Damian met the colonel’s questioning gaze and shook his head. Real or fake, the Belt was not among the items delivered anonymously to Interpol in Lyons. Another mystery in this already tangled tale.
> “Perhaps we should call Sir James,” Nadim suggested.
“Good idea,” Damian said, squeezing Tiffany’s hand, knowing she felt Sir James had sold her out and had himself sent the evidence against her to Interpol. So where had those security plans come from? And where was the Belt Tiffany claimed she’d taken? Still with Sir James or… How many godforsaken belts were there?
“Not a good idea,” she said, just as Damian had predicted to himself.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” Colonel Mendez said as he strode to the telephone.
Disengaging her hand from Damian’s, Tiffany stood and paced away, her normally sinuous gait oddly graceless. That hurt him almost as much as her stopping to exchange a few low words with Nadim. But why would she not talk to Nadim? Not only was the prince their host, he was Tiffany’s friend, someone she trusted.
Looking away from the handsome couple, Damian focused on the Colombian officer who obligingly raised his voice. “Yes, that would be most helpful. I’ll wait for your call.” He gave the number and hung up.
“Sir James sounded most upset. As far as he knows the items are still in his home safe. He’s checking and will call back.”
“Poor Jenson,” Tiffany said into the lengthening silence. “It must be four in the morning in London. With all this to-do, I hope he doesn’t have a heart attack. He’s almost eighty, you know.”
Assuming Jenson was Sir James’ butler and would have answered the call to Sir James, Damian tried to distract them all from the seemingly interminable wait. “Tiffany darling, while we are waiting, tell us how you managed to walk out of the bank with Isabella’s Belt.”
Shaking her head, she licked her lips. But at last she said, “After Emilio authenticated the Belt in Bogotá. I believe Emilio himself took it to the Banque de Medellin in Paris where he put it in a safe deposit box. Emilio, of course, kept his key and the manager, according to previous instructions, sent another to Sir James.”
“Who, I assume, gave his key to you,” Damian said when it seemed she would say nothing more.
“Yes.” She sighed. “Emilio demanded the transfer be done secretly—the Belt’s presence in Paris to be revealed only the opening day of the exhibit. If no one knew the Belt was there, no one could steal it.” She snorted, a self-deprecating sound. “The fact that the exhibit was well-publicized didn’t matter. Charles would deliver it to the museum the day of the opening.”
“Go on,” Colonel Mendez prompted, his voice soft.
“I don’t know if Sir James suspected some sort of chicanery or only wanted to ensure the Belt had arrived safely and was adequately protected. He wanted me to check out the bank and the Musée de Luxembourg. I went to the bank first and then to the museum.”
“Why? You’d already taken the Belt,” Nadim said. “Hadn’t you?”
“Yes. But the curator expected me, so I went.”
Damian cleared his throat. “On the day you went to the museum, there was no record of your visiting the bank.”
Tilting her chin, she blushed. “There should be—under TC Carter. I went on Thursday afternoon. Once I was in the vault—”
“The manager would only open your—Ms. Carter’s safe deposit box.”
“True. Except I was passed off to him. His clerk muttered the number, but Monsieur de la Croix seemed distracted.”
“I’m sure he was,” Nadim said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, reviving Tiffany’s blush. Damian ground his teeth.
“When he left me alone, I opened Emilio’s box, discovered the fake Belt and took it with me when I left. The rest you know.”
Damian went to Colonel Mendez’s side and the two men conferred quietly.
“Who discovered the bodies?” the colonel asked.
“Charles Cartierri and the bank president. On Saturday morning,” Damian replied, wondering who else might have opened the box and when.
The phone rang. Colonel Mendez answered, listened intently and then murmured his thanks. Rubbing his hands like a man about to sit down to a feast, the swarthy policeman grinned at them.
“Everything is still in the safe, although someone tried to break in a few nights ago. It seems Jenson’s prudence in having the combination changed has saved the day.”
Damian quickly realized he was the only one who saw the significance of the information. Someone, mostly likely Tiffany’s own father, had tried to frame her for murder. He strode to Tiffany, reaching her just as she burst into tears.
“Hush, darling,” he murmured into her hair. Her silence, her tears all the more devastating to him. “I shall keep you safe, I promise. Hush, darling. Please, will you try to stop? For me?” Dios, he sounded like his own mother when he was a boy and hurt himself.
But the object of his concern only cried harder, silently and tightened her arms around his waist. Then she went rigid in his arms and said in a little girl voice, full of shame and expected retribution, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“I don’t want to, Daddy.”
“We’ve been over this before, girl. I want you to call me Charles.”
Hanging her head, a knot in her tummy, TC felt tears sting her eyes. She didn’t know why Charles was mad at her, but she knew what would make him happy, make him love her again.
For a little while.
“What if they come back?” she asked in a shaky, teary voice. Daddy—Charles—hated her when she cried, but she couldn’t help it. She was scared, so scared she had to pee. He’d really hate her then. Swiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands, she tightened her legs and tried to meet his disapproving stare.
“Has anyone ever come back before you were done?”
“N-no.”
“Do you remember what to say if they do?” he asked, his tone making her feel small and stupid.
She nodded.
“Say it.”
“I…I’m playing dress up,” she said, then ran from the room before she wet her pants.
Chapter Fifteen
“Tell me about William Foster,” Damian said before sipping his coffee and studying Nadim Al Bandin over the gold rim of his cup. With a satisfied smack of his lips, he settled against the divan and inhaled the rich, sweet aroma.
“That cocksucker!”
The epithet was so foul Damian’s eyebrows shot nearly to his hairline. The prince, Damian knew, had been raised to respect the strengths and foibles of his fellow man—the operative word being man. Male Kratzistanis retained enough of their barbaric ancestry to relegate women to the roles of helpmeet or, in Nadim’s case, playmate. To hear Nadim denigrate a man shocked Damian into momentary silence.
“I take it you did not like him,” he said when he had regained his equanimity.
“His sexual preferences aside, he used Tiffany.”
Pondering aloud, Damian said, “How does a husband use his wife? Aside from the usual way?”
“In the usual way William Foster did not use his wife.”
Damian’s cup rattled in its saucer. “I have had it with riddles. First Tiffany, now you. Does anybody around here speak plain English?”
“I did speak plainly, but your Spanish blood rejects the idea that any man within ten miles of Tiffany wouldn’t want to bed her. William Foster was homosexual. He didn’t look it and, in most circles, he didn’t act it. He had women swooning over him left, right and center. Justifiably, if the aesthetic type appeals to you and you need the perfect little trinket for this ball or that country weekend. He was invaluable to Charles Cartierri’s London shop.”
Damian fought the urge to grin at the description of CCartierri. He had been in Cartierri’s London “shop” and had enjoyed its understated elegance. Now, he had a fleeting memory of a tall, slender blond bowing over the hand of a plump matron. The minute the woman had gone, the man looked as if he wanted to wipe his mouth.
“What makes you think William Foster was homosexual?”
“Beyond the fact that he propositioned me, you mean?” After a pointed pause, the pri
nce obviously struggling to bring his temper under control, Nadim continued. “I did not look kindly on this betrayal of my friendship. I threatened to expose William to the tabloids, an action ruinous not only to William personally, but to Charles Cartierri, as well. But who would believe it of a married man? Especially if he married a woman as obviously heterosexual as Tiffany. The second week of their honeymoon, William Foster’s paramour moved in and stayed until six months before William’s death.”
“Dios,” Damian muttered. “Did Tiffany know?” Before Nadim could answer, he said, “She must have known. Whatever else she may be, Tiffany is not a fool. But, knowing what he was, why would she marry him?”
“As to that, you’ll have to ask Tiffany.”
“I intend to. Where is she?”
Yasmin stole into the room and held out her hand. “TC asked me to give you the car keys. She has gone back to the hotel.” Turning to Nadim, she said in an apologetic voice, “Hassan drove her, Nadim.”
The relieved look on Nadim’s face did nothing to dispel Damian’s qualms. Damn it, was Tiffany going to run again?
* * * * *
By the time she arrived at the hotel, all TC had on her mind was getting out before Ian returned. She would prefer that he thought her a thief, a murderer, a coward, rather than an incontinent child. If she never saw Ian Soria again, it would be too soon.
So her head insisted, but her heart ached at the prospect of never seeing him again.
Sighing, she let herself into their hotel suite, closed the door and savored the darkness that hid her shame from even her.
A moment later, standing at attention, the fine hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck warned of danger. The unmistakable double click of a gun hammer being cocked had her diving to the carpet.
A soft, throaty laugh accompanied a brief flare of light. Preceded by an exotic whiff of Opium, pungent smoke wafted in TC’s direction.
“For heaven’s sake, Tiffany, turn on the wretched light.”
“Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, St. Paul!” TC swore instead of swearing in earnest. Instead of fainting. Her hands shaking, she inched to her feet and turned on the lights. “What the devil are you doing here, Esmé?” Her stepmother was the last person TC expected to see, especially here in her hotel suite.
