To Love a Thief

by Merline Lovelace

  Particularly the well-kept mistress of someone as rich and generous as Nick Jensen, her tone implied.

  "I will," Mackenzie murmured, accepting the futility of any attempt to set the record straight at this point. Excited about the possibility that she might have a lead on the butterfly-shaped bag Nick stole all those years ago, she went in search of him.

  But when she circulated the salon, intending to inform him they had a shopping date, she discov­ered the man had disappeared on her.

  Again.

  This time, apparently, with the countess d'Arian­court.

  Common sense told Mackenzie to mingle and wait for Nick's return. Irritation that he would slip away without so much as a word had her reaching into her bag.

  A flick of a switch activated the small, palm-size unit that received signals from the homing device she'd planted inside Nick's watch. Another flick set the receiver to silent, vibration-only mode. Closing her palm around the tracker, she slipped her hand inside the pocket of her wide, flaring palazzo pants and made another discreet circuit of the salon. The vibrations slowed at the far end of the cavernous room, where floor-to-ceiling widows opened onto the balmy night. They picked up again as Macken­zie approached a set of doors set midway along the west wall. Once through the doors, the device hummed steadily against her palm.

  She meandered down a black-and-white tiled cor­ridor hung with massive oils framed in ornate gilt. The vibrations remained constant until she reached a curved set of stairs. Sliding a hand along the milk-smooth marble balustrade, she started up the steps. The buzz increased in tempo.

  One turn of the steps brought her level with a wide window embrasure. Mackenzie stopped short, her fist going tight on the tracker as she spotted a male figure leaning casually against the casement.

  He was younger than most of the countess's guests, not more than twenty-four or -five. He was also, Mackenzie noted with a gulp, an Adonis. The stairwell's recessed lighting softened his chiseled cheekbones and firm jaw, but nothing could dim the impact of curly black hair, liquid brown eyes, and the most sensual mouth she'd ever seen on a male. Add a lean, muscled body that showed off his tux to perfection and he was enough to give any and all persons of the female persuasion heart palpita­tions. Mackenzie's certainly skipped a few beats.

  He returned her scrutiny, smiling a little at what she suspected was the standard reaction to his mas­culine beauty. "Recherchez-vous Dianthe?"

  She shook her head. "Sorry, I don't speak French."

  "Ahhh. You are the American. Nick's...friend."

  The delicate hesitation had her swallowing a sigh. She might as well have worn a flashing neon sign.

  "And you are?"

  "I am Alexander Danton." His beautiful mouth tipped up. "Dianthe's...friend."

  "Oh. Oh, I see."

  Good grief! The countess had to have at least two decades on this gorgeous creature.

  Mackenzie gave herself a mental shake. If older men could amuse themselves with pretty young things, the same rules applied to older women. Which didn't explain why the countess kept her boy-toy hidden away, out of sight. Mackenzie was sure she hadn't met him downstairs. She would have remembered.

  "Why didn't you come down and join the party?" she asked, curious.

  His smile took a cynical twist. "Sooner or later, the party comes to me."

  Yes, she supposed it did.

  "Are you looking for Dianthe?" he asked. "She and Nick are upstairs, in the petite salon. Come, I'll show you."

  The tracker vibrated wildly against Mackenzie's palm as he escorted her to the third floor. A long hallway ran the length of the house, with rooms opening off either side. A narrow carpet in lush jewel tones muted their footsteps as they made their way down the hall. It didn't, however, mute the low, throaty laughter that rippled from the second room on the right.

  The door was partially open, showing a slice of another richly patterned carpet and walls hung with turquoise watered silk. Alexander pushed the door farther back. The same cynical smile that had twisted his mouth a few moments ago returned as he took in the sight of his mistress snuggled up against another man.

  "Do we intrude, Dianthe?"

  At his sardonic drawl, the countess glanced over her shoulder. She showed not the least discompo­sure at being found in a clinch.

  Neither, damn him, did Nick!

  His hands rested lightly on the countess's slim hips. His expression bland, he made no move to disengage.

  Fury stabbed into Mackenzie—the same hot, searing wrath that had knifed through her when she'd discovered her ex in bed with their neighbor. Her hands curled into fists so tight the tracker's edges cut into her palm.

  With the sharp stab of pain came an even sharper realization. Nick was not her husband. Not even the lover everyone here assumed he was. Mackenzie had no claim on him. None. Zero. Nada. A point she herself had reinforced several times, the latest being this very morning at the flower market.

  So where the heck did this fury come from? This primitive urge to yank the countess's hair out by its salon-perfect roots? Thoroughly shaken by its in­tensity, Mackenzie realized she'd have to seriously reassess her feelings where Nick Jensen was con­cern.

  The realization did not make the countess's trill of laughter any easier to swallow.

  "Alexander, my pet. You've come to join us. And you've brought Mademoiselle Blair. How de­licious! A menage a trois is always so delightful, but four..."

  She gave a little purr that set Mackenzie's teeth and won a grin from Nick.

  "Behave yourself, Dianthe." Putting some dis­tance between them, he raked a hand through his hair. "Now where is the painting you wanted to show me?"

  With a careless hand, she gestured to a seascape hung above an escritoire. It depicted the Bay of Angels in colors that captured the very essence of the south of France. Golden yellow sunshine. Achingly blue water. Clean, white light contrasted with sharp shadows.

  "The artist is little known," the countess com­mented, "but good, I think."

  "Very good," Nick agreed, drawn to the paint­ing. ‘‘His general opposition of light and dark areas to the exclusion of any halftones is very similar to Manet's later works. Astonishingly so."

  "Perhaps that's why he's now in prison," his hostess said with another gurgle of laughter. "He claimed to have nothing to do with the fake Manet discovered in the Louvre's west gallery last year, but..."

  Shaking her head in mock despair, she let her glance drift with seeming idleness to Mackenzie's glittering collar.

  "Insurance company investigators have such un­forgiving natures," she murmured. "They're worse than the police. My poor, struggling artist said they positively hounded him into a confession."

  "Did they?"

  Nick's reply was coolly unconcerned, but Mac­kenzie barely managed to refrain from slapping a palm over the emeralds. The nasty suspicion wormed into her mind that she and Alexander had interrupted more than a tryst. The countess's lan­guid tale of the imprisoned artist and bloodthirsty insurance company inspectors sure sounded to her like a thinly veiled threat.

  If it was, Nick didn't buy into it. Relaxed and amused, he strolled across the room.

  ‘‘How like you to be on such intimate terms with an art forger, Dianthe. Shall we go back downstairs and rejoin the other guests?"

  She waved a languid hand. "You go. You and your so delightful Mademoiselle Blair. Alexander and I shall follow in a while."

  Or not, Mackenzie thought, taking in her com­panion's sardonic expression. Smothering a sensa­tion of distaste along with the anger that still feath­ered just below the surface, she waited until she and Nick were on the stairs to voice her thoughts.

  ‘‘That bit about the insurance companies sounded a whole lot like a threat to me."

  His mouth curved. "It sounded very much like Dianthe to me."

  "What are you saying? That Countess d'Ariancourt isn't above a touch of blackmail to keep her mouth shut about a certain stolen neck­lace?"r />
  "I'd say there's very little Countess d'Ariancourt is above."

  "Well, you should know."

  She hadn't meant to let the acid seep into her voice...or let Nick know how much that little scene upstairs had gotten to her. She needed time to an­alyze the intensity of her reaction, needed space to understand why her head kept warning her away from Nick Jensen and her body kept ignoring the warnings.

  The blasted man didn't give her either time or space to analyze anything. He halted a step down from her, eye level, blocking her way.

  "You don't have to worry about Dianthe, Mac­kenzie. Or anyone else. I'm hanging loose until you decide whether you want to fan the sparks."

  Her breath stuck in her throat. This morning, in the square, she'd been more than a little suspicious of the power he'd handed her with his casual prom­ise to let her make the next move. Tonight, there was nothing casual in the way his blue eyes searched hers.

  "One," she got out on a somewhat shaky laugh, "I'm not worried. Two, what I saw upstairs doesn't exactly fit my definition of hanging loose."

  "What you saw upstairs was a game, one Dian­the is particularly adept at playing."

  "No kidding. Just out of curiosity, what would you have done if Alexander or I had agreed to her suggestion of a frolicking free-for-all?"

  "The same thing I did do. Hustle you right out of there." The glint in his blue eyes deepened. "I may move in what some people consider sophisti­cated circles, but there's more of the street tough left in me than I like to admit at times. I don't share, Mackenzie. My secrets or my woman."

  Good grief! And here she'd berated herself for the surge of primitive fury she'd experienced just moments ago at seeing another woman in Nick's arms. He was talking possession at its most ele­mental level, a man prepared to stake his claim and defend it against all comers.

  The small corner of her heart still bruised from the bust-up of her marriage thrilled at the unequiv­ocal statement. The rest of her pretty well got goose bumps, too. When Nick gave his word, he'd keep it. When he exchanged vows, he'd stick to them.

  Except...

  They weren't to the vow stage yet. They hadn't even jumped the first hurdle, namely moving this constant, irritating attraction out of the realm of the possible and into bed. She had to remember why they were here in Nice, she told herself, trying to suppress the shivery pleasure raised by the touch of his hand on her elbow. Had to remember, too, all the complications that would come when—if!— they crossed that invisible line between boss and subordinate.

  Her heart pounding, she accompanied Nick down the stairs. Her pulse kicked up another few notches some time later when he suggested they leave. She nodded, her mind racing ahead to the hotel suite with its two monstrous beds.

  They walked outside into the sea-scented night, Nick's hand at the small of Mackenzie's back. A warm breeze ruffled over her bare shoulders and back. Across the courtyard a short, stumpy figure detached himself from the cluster of chauffeurs blowing clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke.

  ‘‘Back to the Negresco, sir?'' Jean-Claude asked cheerfully.

  "Yes."

  Mackenzie slid onto the soft leather, wondering how in the heck she was going to make polite con­versation with Nick during the long drive to the hotel when her skin still tingled from his touch and her imagination was working overtime. She couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if she struck that match Nick had talked about. Not even the sight of Nice strung out far below like a sparkling diamond necklace distracted her.

  As it turned out, she didn't have time to make any conversation, polite or otherwise. The limo glided out of the courtyard and had barely begun the steep, winding descent when it suddenly picked up speed.

  Through the thick Plexiglas separating the front seat from the rear, Mackenzie saw their driver's shoulders hunch. His arms jerked, fighting the wheel, while the back end of the limo fishtailed wildly around a sharp curve. The violent movement threw her against the door. She had a glimpse of a chasm of dark emptiness under her before the limo's rear end whipped back onto the tarmac.

  Nick leaned forward, rapping out a query in French. The driver gave a strangled reply that es­calated to a hoarse shout as he wrenched the wheel again.

  His frantic action proved useless. The limo shot through a curve and sailed right off the road.

  Chapter 9

  "Omigod!"

  Mackenzie got out only that one startled yelp be­fore the limo went perpendicular. It tilted, hung in midair for an endless second or two, then slammed nose-first into the steep hillside.

  Nick, leaning at an angle toward the Plexiglas divider, went crashing into it. Mackenzie grabbed at the handle above her door with one frantic hand and his pants leg with the other, hanging on to both for dear life as the limo's rear end hit with a teeth-jarring thud. She had time for one relieved breath, only one, before the vehicle began a plunging downward roll.

  Tall slender poplars snapped off under its grill. Branches slashed at the darkened windows. Rocks tore at the undercarriage and crunched the sides, but nothing could stop the limo's lurching, uneven mo­mentum. It just kept bouncing and rolling. Straight down. With the speed and force of a runaway freight train.

  In those gut-clenching moments while tires flat­tened and trees whipped the windshield a sharp, stinging regret laced Mackenzie's panic. She'd had her chance with Nick. He'd laid the choice squarely in her hands as late as this morning. What a fool she was to listen to her head instead of her heart! What a blind, stubborn fool! They were going to die in a mangled mass of metal and chrome without once tasting the passion that simmered between them.

  She was swallowing gulps of roiling fear and bit­ter regret when the limo collided with what Mac­kenzie sincerely hoped was an immovable object. The force of the impact sent Nick flying back. He slammed into her, nailing her against the leather seat. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, until he climbed off her and wrenched open the door.

  ‘‘This thing could flip or start rolling again at any second. We've got to get out."

  She didn't need a second invitation. Panting, she scrambled out. Nick tried to help, but lost his foot­ing on the steep slope and went down, taking her with him. Rocks scraped her bare arms and shred­ded her chiffon pants before Nick managed to halt his slide. His face a pale blur in the darkness, he grabbed at Mackenzie as she slid past and anchored her against the hillside. She lay under him, panting, her heart jack hammering against her ribs. "Are you all right?"

  "I think so." She made a few cautious moves. "No broken bones, anyway. How about you?"

  "I'm okay."

  Her heart still thudding, she twisted onto her back and craned upward for a glimpse of the limo. Its crumpled front end protruded out from the hillside like the prow of a ship. The boulder that had stopped its downward plunge groaned under its weight.

  "Oh, God! Nick, we've got to get Jean-Claude out."

  He was already clawing his way back up the slope. Mackenzie scrabbled behind him on all fours, unmindful of the sharp edges that sliced into her hands and knees. Cursing the wide-legged palazzo pants that caught the heels of her flimsy sandals, she fought to get her feet under her and aid Nick as he wrestled with the driver's door.

  ‘‘Damn... thing's.. .jammed!''

  The chauffeur lay slumped over the slowly de­flating air bag. Mackenzie pounded on the window with the heel of her hand.

  "Jean-Claude! Jean-Claude, can you hear me?"

  He didn't move. Nick gave the mangled door an­other wrench. There was a hideous groan as metal scraped against metal, but gave only a few inches.

  Suddenly, the limo shuddered. The boulder em­bedded in its grill tipped a few horrifying inches.

  "We'll have to get him out the other side."

  Terrified that the rock would give and the limo would plunge down to the sea with the unconscious driver still pinned against the wheel, Mackenzie scrambled around to the passenger side. She reached it before Nick and yanked at the door. Mi�
�raculously, it opened.

  Not so miraculously, the violent movement af­fected the precarious balance between man and na­ture. The limo rocked again. The boulder groaned.

  Realizing both were about to go, Mackenzie lunged across the front seat. Her frantic fingers closed around the driver's right arm at the same time Nick's fists wrapped around her ankle. With a ferocious yank, he dragged both her and Jean-Claude back across the leather seat.

  They got him out mere seconds before the rock succumbed to the limo's weight. With a sudden crack, the boulder broke loose and tumbled down the hillside. The vehicle went with it. This time, though, the angle proved too steep and the limo flipped end over end.

  Glass shattered. Metal shrieked. The sickening sounds ripped into the night until the darkness erupted. With a whooshing roar, flames leaped into the black sky. A blazing fireball, the limo continued its plunging descent until, finally, it came to rest. Hanging on to both Jean-Claude and their precari­ous perches on the slope, Mackenzie and Nick watched as the fire consumed what might well have been their coffin.

  With the wreck still snapping and crackling, Nick carefully rolled the driver onto his back and felt for a pulse.

  "He's alive. Barely. We need to get him imme­diate medical attention."

  He fumbled in his pocket for the cigarette case that held a miniaturized, two-way transmitter. Even in the darkness, Mackenzie could see the silver case had been mangled by Nick's slide down the rocky slope. He tried to raise a signal a couple of times before tossing it aside. His mouth tight, he skimmed a glance down her bare shoulders and torn chiffon pants.

  "You don't have your transmitter on you?"

  "It was in my purse, and that went down with the limo." She hesitated for only a fraction of a second. "We have a backup system," she informed him tersely. "Give me your watch."

  "My watch?"

  "Hurry."

  Frowning, Nick slipped the wafer thin timepiece from his wrist. Mackenzie used her fingernail to pry off the back. Chewing on her lower lip, she held the case up and tried to catch the faint glow of the moon. The damned device was so small and almost transparent, but she managed to find the pressure point that altered the signal. One squeeze, and it went from a random pulse to a continuous beat that the communications tech manning OMEGA's con­trol center would recognize instantly.