ItTakesaThief

by Dee Brice

  “Charles always has underestimated you, Tiffany,” the petite redhead with the showgirl body said. “Especially your taste in men. Not for you the cherubic likes of Nick Troy or William Foster.”

  “I loved William,” slipped out before TC could dam the words. Condemning her further, her voice sounded defensive and at the same time wistful.

  “Of course you did, darling. The same way you loved your Pooh-bear when you were a child. William was—”

  “What do you want, Esmé?” With a strength of will she had only recently discovered in herself, TC paced to the couch, then sank onto its cushions. Guileless sherry-colored eyes narrowed at her, but TC couldn’t tell if Esmé Cartierri’s expression reflected anger or speculation.

  Sighing, Esmé crushed out her cigarette, then regarded TC over steepled fingertips. “You may find this difficult to believe, Tiffany, but not so long ago Charles was as excitingly dangerous as your Damian.”

  Again, TC sensed an expectancy in her stepmother, an alertness completely at odds with the languid pose Esmé now struck. Fighting a puzzled frown over the unfamiliar name, TC murmured, “Ah yes, Damian. You find him exciting?”

  “Tiffany, darling—”

  “Don’t call me that!” Struggling to draw a breath of air past the huge lump in her throat—only Ian called her Tiffany darling—TC blinked back stinging tears. She tilted her chin and said, “My name is TC.”

  “And Ian Soria’s real name is Damian Hunter,” Esmé said softly, kindly. She crossed the room to sit beside TC, then drew her into her warm arms.

  “No!” The name was painfully familiar, but TC felt too numb to think about it now. Instead, for long, silent moments, she burrowed her head against Esmé’s shoulder and wept as she had not since the day she learned her mother had abandoned her.

  “He’s a good man, darling, just as Charles used to be. Before…”

  “Before my mother deserted us.”

  “Before I forced Charles to choose between your mother and me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this, Esmé.” Not now. Not ever, truth be told, TC thought. She pushed out of her stepmother’s arms and fought the memory of all the times Esmé had held her while she cried.

  “Of course you don’t, darling.” Esmé’s voice was dulcet, but her body was rigid in TC’s loosening embrace.

  Esmé’s pat on TC’s shoulder felt both comforting and uncomfortable, TC realized. She missed Esmé’s compassion, yet welcomed the emotional distance the older woman’s physical withdrawal created.

  “Why did you come here, Esmé?”

  A small yet smug grin lifted the corners of Esmé’s cupie-doll mouth. “To show Charles he’s not nearly as clever as he thinks he is, of course. He is looking for you at Nick Troy’s—William’s new surrogate. For all the good it’ll do him.”

  Inexplicable anger coursed through TC. She surged to her feet, strode to the windows, then whirled toward her stepmother. “Nobody—nobody—could ever be William’s surrogate. Damn it, Esmé, I loved my husband.”

  Rising slowly, reaching back to draw a silvery fox fur around her shoulders, Esmé beamed a challenge in TC’s direction. “William Foster never was your husband, darling. Any more than Charles Cartierri is your father.” Crossing to the door, she added, “Sleep well.”

  Too stunned to think, TC could only echo Esmé’s words. Numbness drowning under a wave of adrenaline, TC raced to catch her stepmother’s arm. “Wait. You can’t make a statement like that, then just walk away. You have to explain.”

  “Do I?” Esmé said, her sherry-colored eyes glittering with such malice that TC snatched back her hand and retreated half a step.

  “Isn’t that why you came here?”

  The older woman remained silent so long, TC feared Esmé wouldn’t answer at all. At last, as if awakening from a dream, the petite redhead smiled grimly and said, “You can’t stay here. Get your things and come with me.”

  “Where?” TC asked, gathering her tote bag and the overnighter she had retrieved from Nick’s, then following in Esmé’s wake.

  “All in good time, Tiffany. All in good time.”

  * * * * *

  Certain Tiffany’s embarrassment over the incident at Nadim’s would make her run, Damian chafed at having to see Nick Troy before returning to the hotel. Duty, a word Damian had begun to hate, called. He forced Tiffany from his mind and considered what he had learned from his interviews two nights earlier.

  Once again pacing the length of Nick’s small living room, Damian permitted himself a grim smile. He had more pieces of the puzzle now, but was no closer to fitting them together. His interviews with Cartierri, Santana and Foster had led only to more questions, not answers. All three men were withholding vital information. Something bound the three of them together, something more obscure, less innocent, than the obvious one of fine gems. But what?

  Emilio Santana was a frightened man, perhaps the weak link in the unholy conglomerate. He also had a legitimate reason for his fear. Damian could only imagine the kind of terror that caused a man to live behind prison walls of his own making, sumptuous though those walls were. Santana’s statement that Tiffany had robbed him seemed more the reaction of a man terrified by his impotency to protect his family than a serious accusation. Either that or the man hoped to create a smoke screen, to point the needle of guilt irrevocably at Tiffany. Why would he do that when he so obviously liked her? Even stranger, his padrino had not mentioned Isabella’s Belt at all.

  As for Charles Cartierri… Despite his offer to hire a lawyer for Tiffany, he seemed to want to distance himself from her. Not once had he said her name, referring to her only as the child or the girl. And his tale of Tiffany’s stealing seemed to point all suspicion directly at her. Had Tiffany’s kleptomania worsened to the point she would kill to protect herself from prosecution? Had Damian excused her actions because, like his brother Michael, he had fallen in love with a murderess?

  Sighing, Damian went on puzzling about Charles Cartierri. His pointed stare in the direction of the kitchen implied Damian’s questions might be better asked of Sir James or of Foster’s deceased stepson. According to Cartierri, even before they married, William and Tiffany had been thick as thieves.

  As for Sir James, the man virtually doted on his daughter-in-law, far more the loving father than Charles Cartierri. Yet under the firm avowal of Tiffany’s innocence in the theft of Isabella’s Belt, Damian sensed a deeply buried fear.

  For Tiffany? Or for himself?

  Finding himself at the windows, Damian looked out at the cloud-filled skies and wondered for the hundredth time in as many minutes where Tiffany was. For all he knew she could be out “recovering” one of Sir James’ fraudulently “stolen” pieces of jewelry and getting herself arrested. Which, upon further reflection, was not a bad idea. If she were behind bars, nobody could shoot at her lovely, stubborn head or plant stolen gems among her clothes.

  He turned, prepared to have Nick call Colonel Mendez and have Tiffany arrested for stealing Emilio Santana’s emeralds. The command died when he saw Nick’s deep frown.

  “What?” he demanded of Nick.

  “I was trying to remember what Charles Cartierri said about Mrs. Cartierri,” Nick said, his gaze shifting between the floor and Damian’s battered face.

  “Tiffany’s mother?”

  “Stepmother,” Nick corrected, still obviously distracted by his own thoughts. “They’re very close.”

  Startled by the fact that he had forgotten something so important, Damian heard himself say, “Tiffany has a stepmother.” When Nick nodded, Damian asked, “Where is she?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to remember. Whether she’s here in Bogotá or…wherever they live.”

  “New York,” Damian said, filled with a simmering anger that he still had not questioned Tiffany about her life. Her dossier said that she lived in San Francisco, where she designed for a small but exclusive jewelry shop—when she was not gallivanting all over the world on
Sir James’ behalf, risking her life in who knew what sort of harebrained schemes and consorting with the world’s lowest life forms.

  And he knew that Charles Cartierri had resisted expanding his own exclusive shops beyond those already established in New York, London, Paris and Rome. Now, however, Cartierri was considering expansion. Was that his real reason for coming to Bogotá? Tiffany’s problems seemed no more than an inconvenience.

  “Call Colonel Mendez and find out if Mrs. Cartierri accompanied her husband. If so, ask where they are staying. Request that the colonel put out an all-points bulletin to detain Tiffany.”

  “What?” Nick came off the couch with uncharacteristic alacrity. “We don’t have enough evidence to have her arrested, Damian.”

  “I know that. And I said ‘detain’ not ‘arrest’.”

  While Nick made the call from the phone in the hallway, Damian resumed his pacing, this time taking note of his surroundings. Though small, the room was furnished with comfort in mind. Plump throw pillows adorned the cushioned love seat, which faced the small fireplace and created a romantic haven. Far too easily, Damian could imagine Tiffany sitting there, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and… Nick’s chest, he thought, whirling with his fists clenched lest he strike his young friend, who had just re-entered the room.

  When he felt he had his voice under control, Damian risked saying, “What went on here the other night?” Seeing Nick’s face redden, Damian reined in a sudden need to punch Nick’s lights out. He forced a smile, apologetic he hoped and sat in a chair to the left of the fireplace. It gave him full view of the love seat and sent his imagination racing hell-bent toward perdition. The images of Tiffany and Nick entwined on the small couch made his stomach churn.

  “Nothing happened,” Nick said, his voice calm, normal color returning to his face. “I offered her the bedroom, she insisted on taking the couch. I got the feeling she wanted to be near two escape routes,” he added with a brief nod at the swinging door into the kitchen and another toward the front door. “My girlfriend Anna apologized for not having a guest room, then Tiffany apologized for making her hostess uncomfortable in her own home. It got a little stilted after that, so we said good night. Anna went to bed and I went back to free you from the bedpost.” He grinned. Damian scowled.

  “I don’t think Tiffany slept at all,” Nick continued. “I found her the next morning. Still sitting on the couch. Still staring into the fire.”

  Damian could all too easily see her forlorn expression, could feel her despair. She must have felt betrayed, not only by her father and Sir James, but by Damian himself. The ache in his head expanded and squeezed his chest. Now he knew the meaning of heartache.

  “Had she been crying?” he asked, the image of her tear-ravaged face twisting his heart even tighter.

  “TC cry?” Nick laughed.

  “Tiffany has been known to. On occasion. Under duress.”

  “Yes, well…” The telephone rang and Nick went to answer it.

  Damian sensed Nick was grateful for the interruption, as was Damian himself. Coupled with his fear for Tiffany’s safety, his conscience was flaying him. Somehow he had to make Tiffany believe she was not alone, that they were in this together—for better or worse.

  For better or worse, for richer or poorer.

  Nick’s return effectively blocked the trail Damian’s mind had wandered down. Seeing Nick’s again pale face brought Damian to his feet. He felt the blood leave his brain and settle in his stomach, where it whirled like an out-of-control carousel. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would break his ribs.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “Has Tiffany been hurt? Is she dead? Damn it, say something!”

  Nick grabbed the hands fisted in his sweater and pulled them away. Looking into Damian’s eyes as if willing away the madness he saw there, he said evenly, “As far as I know, Tiffany’s fine.”

  “Then what is wrong?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  Blowing out a harsh sound, Nick said, “Colonel Mendez doesn’t know yet. He’s checking the airport.”

  “Damn her. Damn her idiotic, stubborn pride. Damn her—”

  “I don’t think swearing at her will help anything, Damian.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Damian snarled, then dragged a deep breath into his oxygen-deprived lungs.

  “Yes. Let’s go back to your hotel and start calling limousine services.”

  Damian closed his mouth, then silently headed for the door. Nick’s idea made no sense to him, but, try as he might, he could not come up with a better one. He never had been any good at predicting what his Emerald might do.

  But this time, his failure might cost Tiffany her life.

  * * * * *

  “Isn’t this cozy?” Esmé Cartierri asked as she swept into TC’s bedroom.

  TC responded with an unladylike snort. “Cozy” was not the word she would use to describe the penthouse suite she and Esmé occupied in Cartagena’s ritziest seaside hotel. “Posh” came to mind, immediately followed by “uncomfortable”. The whole setup recalled the days when she traveled with Charles and took little “trinkets” from the suites of wealthy compatriots Charles called friends.

  “I give them back, girl,” he had said the first time her conscience got the better of her, the first time she realized what they were doing was wrong. “I always give them back.”

  “Yes,” she had said with biting sarcasm. “Once your friends have replaced them with some expensive bauble from your own shops.”

  Shrugging, he had said, “It doesn’t cost them anything. The insurance companies are the ones who pay.” He’d laughed, a coarse sound that had sent shivers down her spine. He had looked pleased at some delicious irony known only to him. “And, honest citizens that they are, the owners never report that the stolen item has been returned.”

  “Aren’t you afraid they might find out? I mean, knowing how they gossip, aren’t they bound to discover that you conveniently ‘recovered’ every single item? Isn’t that too much of a coincidence to swallow without question?”

  “And be tried for insurance fraud? Think of the scandal.”

  She would have argued with him more, but he had put her in her place with a sharp reminder that she was disloyal. As disloyal as the mother who had deserted him on TC’s fifth birthday.

  Shrugging off the unpleasant memories, TC opened the sliding glass door and stepped out on the wide veranda. Hot, moist air wrapped around her like a blanket. For the first time in what seemed like years, she felt warm.

  “Do come inside,” Esmé ordered. “It’s too sweltering to sit out there.”

  “It’s only in the eighties. Besides, you picked the place,” TC said over her shoulder, then turned her gaze toward the endless Caribbean. She could almost feel the gentle waves tickling her toes and calves, lapping at her thighs and breasts when she sank deeper into their warm embrace. She could float there forever, just as she longed to float forever in Ian’s—Damian’s arms. She’d gotten no explanation from Esmé how she knew Ian Soria’s real name was Damian Hunter. But Hunter was also the name George Fox had called him at the Museo de Oro. Hunter was also his stepfather’s name. The whole muddled mess was giving her a headache and she still had to face her stepmother.

  Disgusted with herself, she pushed away from the high railing and all thoughts of Ian. She had read about women who loved men despite their abuse—mental, physical and sexual. She wouldn’t allow herself to become one of them. Was she so big a fool that the memory of his scent, his taste, the sound of his voice, made her insides squish like baby food? Was she such a slave to lust that she would risk her heart for Ian’s touch? She loved him, loved making love with him, but she refused to become his slave in any fashion.

  Hell if I will! she thought while she marched through her bedroom into the spacious living room that separated her quarters from Esmé’s. Besides, she had more important things to mull over, things Esmé
had refused to talk about during the limousine trip from Bogotá to Cartagena.

  Her determined stride faltered. She nearly tripped over her own feet on her way to the couch where Esmé lounged with cool, calm elegance, her sherry-colored eyes both assessing and smug.

  Do I want to know? TC thought, suddenly fearful. Weak-kneed, she collapsed on the couch and willed her body to stop shaking.

  “Well?” she demanded when Esmé continued to stare at her.

  “Why don’t you take a shower to relax you? We can talk later.”

  Goose bumps dotting her flesh, TC shook her head and forced renewed fear to the back of her mind. It couldn’t happen again, she told herself. No one could have tampered with the shower here. No one knew where she was, therefore, nobody could have booby-trapped her bathroom. No one knew. Except Esmé and she won’t hurt me. She won’t. Will she?

  “I don’t want a shower or a bath or a drink,” TC said, hating the petulance in her voice, but powerless to stop it. “I want the truth.”

  “And you want it now,” Esmé observed in a wry tone that made TC blush at her childish behavior.

  “Yes. Please,” she added like a schoolgirl reprimanded for her lack of manners.

  Her stepmother smiled, reminding TC of all the scraped knees Esmé had kissed and made well. Beautiful though the smile was, its warmth lay dormant in the older woman’s eyes. TC shivered, then curled her knees to her chest as if protecting her very soul. It occurred to her that Esmé had an agenda of her own, one that might destroy TC’s sanity.

  “You hate him, don’t you?” TC said, as certain of this sudden insight as she was of her own heartbeat.

  “Yes. I love Charles so much, I hate him.”

  “Why?”

  Esmé lit a gold-tipped cigarette, then seemed to focus her gaze on the wafting smoke. “Your mother was a very beautiful woman. Did you know that? Of course you did,” Esmé said before TC could even nod. “Charles used to make you stand in front of her portrait while he ranted at you about how she had deserted him, how she had betrayed him. Always him, never you. Never your pain, only his.”