by Dee Brice
Damian caught the young dynamo around his waist. “Whoa. Who needs a doctor? Is Tiffany ill?”
Rogelio shrugged. “Abuela did not say it was an emergency, only that the señorita wanted a doctor.”
Damian felt hope surge through him. Perhaps fate had intervened on his behalf. If Tiffany was pregnant, she would have to let him back in her life. He would offer marriage, of course, but, given the way she had looked at him in Cartagena, so stunned, so betrayed, he doubted she would accept. Not now, at any rate, but later. Maybe.
“Perhaps we should check with Tiffany before we disturb your father. How ‘bout it, m’ijo?”
The boy did not hesitate. He sped toward the Land Rover and looked back to ensure that Damian followed.
Climbing into the vehicle, Damian smiled grimly. He was about to pump a child, a boy he liked, whose friendship and respect he valued. But Tiffany’s life and that of their unborn child could be at stake. He deliberately smothered his blatant disregard of Tiffany’s desires, flashed Rogelio his most charming smile and said, “Your grandfather was very lucky. An inch in either direction and he might have lost his hand.”
In seconds Rogelio was chattering like a magpie. His love of medicine was second only to his love of gems, his knowledge of both more than Damian wanted to know.
“Si. The pick merely grazed Abuelo’s hand, but he bled like a bull.”
When they reached the house, Damian sent his young friend to find Esmeralda Santana. Moments later she appeared in her kitchen, her frown daunting to a man less desperate than he.
“Is Tiffany sick?” he demanded.
“No, she is not sick. Except, perhaps, in her heart. For which you are responsible.”
“I know, Madrina.” Knowing any attempt at charm would put his godmother dead-set against him, he did not smile. “And as soon as this matter is resolved, I intend to make it up to her.”
“Buena suerte,” Esmeralda said, but her scowl lifted. Pure deviltry sparkled in her eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I shall need a great deal of good luck. In the meantime, please tell me why Tiffany needs a doctor.”
“She says Sir James needs one, but I suspect… Well, I think they are both more interested in Emilio’s health than their own.” Her frown returning, she pinned Damian with a glare and said, “You may stay in the guest wing if,” she wagged an imperious finger under his nose, “you promise to stay out of sight. Tiffany has suffered enough without having to endure your presence now.”
Sweeping her a courtly bow, Damian acquiesced. “Will you feed me, Godmother?”
“Bread and water,” she muttered. But before she left, her gaze shifted to the massive refrigerator and the well-stocked pantry.
He took comfort in knowing that, while he laid his trap, he would not starve.
* * * * *
Late that night, a small sound startled TC from a light doze. Barely daring to breathe, she sat in the blackness of Emilio Santana’s study, waiting, but she heard nothing more. Huddled behind a chair near the light switch, she carefully extended her legs until she could flex the tension from her cramping muscles. She half expected her bones to creak. Knowing even that small noise would sound like a gunshot in the absolute stillness, she sent a prayer heavenward and wondered what insanity had brought her here.
Isabella’s Belt, if in fact Emilio Santana had stolen it, could be anywhere on his vast estate. But her gut instinct told her Santana would keep it near him. Even if he could not see it, wouldn’t risk someone walking in on him while he savored its beauty, she sensed he would want it where he could get to it quickly. And she suspected he had another hidey-hole nearby, where he could secret the artifact if he needed to.
Yawning, she kept herself awake by listing all the questions she could not answer. How had Emilio gotten the Belt out of the Museo Arqueologico after he had authenticated it? Was Charles Cartierri in on the theft or was someone else involved at the Paris end? How had Damian Hunter known she’d gone to Cartagena?
Her heavy eyelids drooped. Her head lolled against the wall. She slept.
Across the room, Damian shifted his cramping body to a more comfortable position and ground his teeth. If he were not afraid of revealing his own presence, he would drag Tiffany out of here by her hair. What the hell did she think she was doing? Did she imagine she could single-handedly overpower a man who had killed the bank’s employees, two men in prime condition? He grimaced into the surrounding blackness. Recalling how she nearly had unmanned him, he admitted she was good. But was she good enough, quick enough, to dodge a bullet?
Damn, he should have taken her into his confidence, should have told her everything he had learned from Colonel Mendez, should have locked her in her room to keep her safe.
Chuckling silently, he admitted the futility of such an action. Since she had gone to work for James Foster, the woman had become a master at defeating the most sophisticated locks in the world. Tying her to her bed might have slowed her down, but he doubted anything short of unconsciousness could have kept her in her room.
What made him so sure the figure huddled in the corner was Tiffany? She wore no perfume, and yet, like a wolf scenting his life-mate, Damian recognized the combination of soap and skin that was uniquely hers. He could only hope the killer would not recognize her scent, or Damian’s either.
He smothered his resentment that Tiffany seemed oblivious to his presence. She had been through so much these last few weeks, he could only admire her fortitude. More like sheer stubbornness, he thought, willing his muscles to relax. Picturing a sleek panther poised to pounce, he drifted into a light doze.
A “putt” followed by a thud brought him to his feet. In the darkness he heard the sounds of strained breathing and almost silent grunts. Pulling his gun from the holster at the small of his back, he turned on the lights and blinked in the sudden brightness.
Two figures, each clothed completely in black, struggled for control of a gun. He chanced a quick glance at the corner where Tiffany had huddled and swore. One of those engaged in mortal battle was Tiffany. But which one?
“Cherub, Reynard, get in here,” Damian shouted.
Circling the two combatants, he pulled the knit cap from one head, then brought the butt of his gun down sharply. A grunt brought a satisfied smile to his lips, but it soon vanished. Staring down the barrel of a Walther held by a woman with mayhem in her emerald eyes was not his favorite pastime.
“Come to finish me off, Ian?” Tiffany asked, her voice dripping sarcasm.
“Come to save your lovely backside,” Damian said. Moving slowly, carefully, he placed his own weapon on the desk, then stepped back. His foot bumped something and he looked down. “You better get José up here. Emilio’s been shot.”
“Don’t pull that crap on me. Hey, stand up so I can see you! Damian!” Huffing her exasperation, Tiffany rounded the desk, then gave a little shriek. “My Lord, you’ve killed him.”
“He isn’t dead yet, but he may be if you don’t call José.”
Tiffany dropped the Walther as if it was a white-hot poker, then picked up the phone with hands that shook so hard she barely could hold the receiver. Surprising her, her voice sounded steady when she told José what had happened. She hung up and retrieved her gun.
Hearing her attacker stir, she moved so she could cover all three men.
“Don’t shoot her, Nick,” her nemesis said, standing, then ripping off his shirt with bloody hands.
“Would you knock it off? That’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“No trick, Tiffany,” Nick Troy said. His hand closed over hers just as Charles Cartierri surged to his feet and charged them.
Nick forced the Walther to killing height, but Tiffany pulled it down, then squeezed the trigger. With a howl of agony, Cartierri collapsed, his kneecap shattered.
Taking the gun from Tiffany’s suddenly limp hand, Nick muttered, “Jesu, I’m glad she’s on our side.”
“She isn’t,” George Fox said from the doorway
. “Cuff her, Cherub.”
“Stow it, Reynard,” Damian ordered just as a white-faced but otherwise composed José Santana rushed into the room. “Here, José.”
Coming to her side, Damian said, “Close your mouth, Tiffany darling.” Her eyes huge in her chalk-white face, Tiffany cringed away, but he held her fast. “Nobody is going to arrest you, love.”
“The hell I’m not,” Reynard growled.
“The hell you are. If Tiffany were guilty, she would have killed that miserable bastard.”
“So there’s honor among thieves. So what? There’s still the matter of your friend on the floor there.” Reynard brandished his weapon, first at Tiffany and then at Damian.
“José?” Damian said gently. “How is your father?”
“Lucky,” came the grim reply. “I’ll need help getting him to the car.”
“Nick.”
“Sure. Banish me just when things are getting interesting. What about him?” Nick asked with a jerk of his head at Charles Cartierri.
“Let him wait. Colonel Mendez should be here soon. He can clean up that mess.”
Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, Tiffany went to the portrait of a young and very beautiful Esmeralda Santana. It took her only a few seconds to find the release mechanism and to reveal the safe behind the life-size painting.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Reynard demanded, advancing toward her, his weapon still in his hand.
“Saving your bacon, Agent Fox. Unless I’m very much mistaken, which I assure you I’m not, this safe is booby-trapped. Try to force it open and it’ll blow off your face.” Having dropped that little bombshell, Tiffany skirted around Charles Cartierri and flopped into a chair as far away from him as she could get.
Tired beyond belief, all she wanted was to sleep for a year. She suspected, however, that hours would pass before she would find her bed. No doubt Colonel Mendez would want to question her. And when he finished, despite Damian’s surprising defense of her, she still might find herself on a hard cot in a cold cell.
“I believe I can help,” Esmeralda Santana said into the tense silence.
“Madrina, what do you know about this?” Damian crossed to her, capturing her hand and taking her weight as she sagged against him.
“Everything. Unfortunately, I know everything.”
* * * * *
In the hour just before dawn, Tiffany kissed her papa goodnight, then, still fully clothed, collapsed across her comfortable bed in Esmeralda Santana’s guestroom. A yawn died aborning as she catapulted into exhausted slumber.
Damian, carrying the quilt from his own bed, stood at the side of hers and simply savored the sight of her. The next few days might prove as difficult as the last three, but he was certain his lady would not spend time in jail.
Not that Charles Cartierri would go down quietly, Damian mused as he spread the quilt over Tiffany’s still form, easing into bed beside her. He knew Cartierri would do anything to implicate Tiffany in both the Paris murders and Esmé Cartierri’s. With Esmeralda’s testimony and Tiffany’s alibis, Cartierri didn’t have a prayer. His hatred of his supposed daughter had driven him to carelessness. While he had been garroting the Banque de Medellin’s staff, Tiffany had been with the Musée de Luxembourg’s curator.
Tiffany stirred, then snuggled closer like a heat-seeking missile homing in on its target. Damian smiled into the lightening shadows and whispered a vow into the fragrant cloud of her hair.
“You shall never sleep alone again, Tiffany darling. Even if I have to have Mendez parole you into my custody, I am not letting you out of my sight.”
The heartfelt vow was strained by his slumbering partner’s delicate snore.
* * * * *
When Damian wakened at one in the afternoon, he found himself alone.
A quick search of the armoire assured him Tiffany had not run away. He took a shower, dressed and went in search of his ladylove and food. He found both, along with James Foster and Esmeralda Santana, in the breakfast room.
“At last,” his godmother said, her cheery voice belying the suffering in her suddenly old eyes. “I feared you would sleep the day away.”
“How is Emilio?” Damian asked. After giving James Foster a brief nod, he focused his attention on Tiffany. She looked pale, but relatively well rested.
“Fortunately, Charles Cartierri was a poor shot. Emilio was only wounded in the arm,” Esmeralda said. “Sit down and I shall tell you what happened while you were out of the room with that odious rat, George Fox.”
To Damian’s great satisfaction, his godmother obviously took Reynard’s attempt to have Tiffany arrested as a personal affront. He filled his plate with scrambled eggs and ham, then sat in the chair next to Tiffany’s. Kissing her cheek, he grinned and said, “Morning, love.”
Blushing like a bride after a memorable wedding night, she shoved a piece of toast into his mouth, then ignored him.
“As you know, Colonel Mendez questioned me alone. Rest easy, querido,” Esmeralda said to Damian, “Emilio already has confirmed every sad detail.”
“Will he go to jail?” Tiffany asked.
“Although he richly deserves it, I doubt it. My husband is a powerful man. Aside from that, failure of the Santana empire—and even in the capable hands of our sons, the empire would falter—the economic impact would devastate this country. No, Emilio will not go to jail. Colonel Mendez will put it about that Emilio is a hero. Fearing the Belt would be stolen, he fashioned a forgery, thus protecting our great national treasure.”
“Justice truly is blind,” Damian muttered.
“Well, I’m glad,” Tiffany said.
“Why?”
“Because…I just am. I’ve always liked Emilio. And I’m sure he’s suffered enough.”
“So am I,” James Foster interjected. “I understand Emilio has made a very large contribution to the Museo Arqueologico.”
“What happened with Colonel Mendez?” Damian asked, refocusing their attention on the subject they all seemed determined to avoid.
Esmeralda Santana drew a deep breath, then told the tale in an emotionless voice. “While it is far too easy to lay the blame at Charles Cartierri’s feet, he did prey upon Emilio’s fear that the Belt would be stolen. And he preyed upon Emilio’s greed, convincing my husband that he could keep the Belt forever and never have to share it with anyone. Although I doubt Charles will ever admit it, I believe he always intended to steal the Belt from us.”
“Which he tried to do last night,” Tiffany said. “Did he know the safe was rigged?”
“Probably. He might have blown himself up anyway, working in the dark, fearing discovery at any moment,” James said. “In a way, I’m sorry he didn’t.”
“So am I,” Damian said. “Do not defend him, Tiffany. He murdered three people—possibly four if you count Emilio’s pilot—and tried to frame you for all of them.”
“What I don’t understand is why. I know he hated me—he’s always hated me—but why kill Esmé?”
Damian exchanged a concerned look with Sir James, then took Tiffany’s hand. “She knew too much and was about to tell you everything. She helped him. Posing as a maid, she planted the fake emeralds and the second fake Belt in our hotel room. Later, claiming to be you, she put Emilio’s real emeralds in the hotel safe deposit box under your name.”
“So even Esmé hated me.”
“I do not believe that, Tiffany. She loved you, but she loved Charles more. Until he made her try to hurt you.”
“And the bank manager and assistant? Why did Charles kill them?”
“I’m afraid I’m to blame for that,” James Foster said. “You aren’t the only one he hated. Charles knew he was sterile and—”
“How do you know he knew?” Damian demanded.
“His military service records. Not realizing his condition, but knowing of his wealth and family connections, a young woman brought a paternity suit against him. She lost.”
“So you ca
n prove Charles knew of his sterility,” Esmeralda said. “How does that relate to the deaths in Paris?”
James’ face reddened, but he answered. “Knowing he was sterile, Charles must have known Tiffany was not his child. I can only assume Marlene and I were not as discreet as we had thought. There is something quite irresistible about the eyes of the woman you love. I suppose we betrayed ourselves somehow. Lord, the years his hatred had to fester!”
“All my life,” Tiffany said under her breath, but her papa heard.
“My dear, dear Tiffany, I am so very sorry.”
“The bank staff,” Damian reminded them, anxious to have Tiffany confront her pain and put it behind her.
“Charles murdered them in order to wreak revenge on me.” Tapping his temple, James said, “Insanely brilliant, don’t you see? Two deaths. The revelation that not only is Tiffany my daughter, but an international jewel thief allegedly under my control. A thief who would commit murder if I asked it of her. Add to that the innuendo of incest with her stepbrother, stir all the ugliness through the tabloids—et voila!—a scandal nearly as sordid as Camilla and Prince Charles—before they married, of course.”
Feeling as if her tongue-tied state might turn into a permanent affliction, Tiffany said nothing. She wanted to cover her ears, run away, anything but listen to more of these sordid lies.
Denying her wish, Damian said, “Tell her the rest, James.” His voice sounded so cold it sent shivers down her spine. “She will figure it out sooner or later and if you allow that, she will despise you for not telling her. Tell her about the ultimate betrayal.”
“Please,” James pleaded, obviously wanting to spare his daughter more pain.
“She has to hear it and she must hear it from you. Tell her about William.” Taking her hand, Damian entwined their fingers, but kept his grip loose. The tightening of her fingers would tell him the depth of her pain. He suspected it would cut deep.
“Charles knew William had AIDS. I believe Charles hoped William was bisexual, that he would succumb to you just as I had succumbed to Marlene.”
