by JoAnn Ross
“Now that I’ve heard about your childhood, with your mother’s drinking problem and the difficulties at school, I suspect Raggedy Ann meant a lot more to you than a mere doll and I’m glad I was able to get her back for you.”
“She was a good listener.” Bliss stroked the curly red yarn hair that had soaked up so many salty tears over the years. “But I’m grown up now, and it was such a tight month, trying to pay the bills before the things from the Paris trip earned back their investment, I thought I might as well pick up enough to pay the phone bill.” Her teary smile tore at something elemental deep inside Shayne. “I missed her the minute I watched her leave the shop.”
“I know.” He forced a smile he was a very long way from feeling. “A bit of advice, darlin’. If you ever decide to pay a visit to any of the casinos, don’t play poker. Because every thought you have gets written across your face in neon letters a mile high.”
She managed a shaky laugh. “Zelda always said the same thing when I was trying to avoid getting punished when I was a little girl. Good thing I didn’t decide to grow up and become a con artist. Or a spy.”
Both those descriptions hit a little too close to home for comfort “Good thing,” Shayne agreed.
She put the doll down onto the closed trunk, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek against his chest. “Thank you, Shayne,” she murmured into his shirt. “You couldn’t have given me a more wonderful gift. Diamonds, emeralds, Tiffany’s entire stock, couldn’t equal what this means to me. I’ll remember it always.”
Shayne suspected that was unfortunately true. And that when the unpalatable truth came out, she’d never forget—or forgive—him.
Unaccustomed to experiencing such wrenching emotions, and not knowing how to extricate himself from this sticky web of deception and intrigue he’d spun, Shayne found himself suddenly engulfed in a tidal wave of fear, frustration and fury.
Acting solely on instinct, he tangled his hands in the fiery silk of her hair, lifted her head and crushed his mouth to hers.
Bliss tried not to be uncomfortable by the way Shayne hardly said two words to her during the drive back to New Orleans. The part of her that remained an unrelenting optimist was sure his silence was only his way of dealing with the changes in their relationship. She suspected he’d felt things he hadn’t expected to feel.
And so had she. Heavens, what she’d felt, she mused, arching her back and stretching her legs in an attempt to work out kinks and faint aches earned during a night of vigorous exercise. Just the memory of all the things they’d done made her blush. And smile.
Bliss wasn’t as disturbed as she might have been that Shayne still hadn’t shared any real details of his past life with her. After all, she’d been the one who’d placed that moratorium on talking during their stolen interlude. Besides, even without words, he’d opened himself up to her, revealing a tender, sensitive side that was a marked contrast to his usual suave masculine confidence.
It would be all right, Bliss assured herself. Shayne Broussard might not realize it himself yet, but she knew, without a single doubt, that he was falling in love with her. As she had with him.
She held the idea close to her heart, where it warmed and comforted her.
Dammit, Shayne thought grumpily, didn’t she know what she was doing to him? The woman flat out didn’t fight fair. Here he was, trying to figure out ways to get out of this mess with as few hurt feelings as possible, and she had to start moving around that way.
Did she know that when she arched her back, like some sleek Siamese cat, that it made her breasts stick out in a way that made him ache to take them in his mouth? Did she realize that when she stretched her long firm legs out, it reminded him in vivid detail exactly how they’d felt wrapped around his hips as he’d driven her deeper and deeper into the Spanish moss-stuffed mattress?
Did she know she was driving him out of his freaking mind?
Of course she did, Shayne decided.
“You keep wiggling around like that, sugar,” he warned, “and I’m going to pull over and take you right here alongside the road in the bright morning sunlight.”
The smile she flashed him was hot, sultry and sexy as hell. “Promises, promises,” she all but purred.
Hell. Shayne curled his fingers more tightly around the steering wheel as he realized somehow, when he wasn’t looking during the long love-filled night, he’d lost all control of the situation.
“IF YOU DINT MIND,” Bliss said later, as they crossed the bridge into the city, “I’d like to stop by the shop before dinner.”
“Sure.”
His voice was rough and curt, almost annoyed. Bliss wished that this wasn’t so difficult for him. That he could feel even a portion of what she was feeling.
He had in the cabin. She’d sensed him relaxing that strange vigilance she’d noticed about him from the beginning, watched him open himself up to the emotions—and the love—they’d shared. The memory had her wondering about her chances of keeping Shayne in bed twenty-four hours a day, which led to another idle fantasy of chaining him to the lovely wrought iron headboard she’d bought at an estate sale in Savannah, until he saw the light.
“You know, if you don’t want to come to dinner, Zelda will understand—”
“I told you I would.”
She shrugged. “Fine.”
Terrific. Now he’d gone and hurt her feelings. As he turned onto Magazine Street, Shayne despised himself.
“What in the world?”
Bliss stared in wonder at the phalanx of black-and-white squad cars parked in front of The Treasure Trove. The bubble lights on the tops of a few of the cars were still flashing red and blue. Spectators lined the sidewalk on either side of the bright yellow police tape.
Shayne cursed. Obviously Cunningham had gotten tired of waiting for him to unearth the jewels and taken matters into his own clumsy hands.
“You must have had a break-in.” He hoped that was all it was, but was afraid it was a great deal more than that.
“A break-in in broad daylight?” she questioned, as if reading his mind. “Oh, my God.” Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widened with fear. “They wouldn’t send this many police for a break-in. If Lilah was hurt, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Shayne said, trying to calm her down. But she was out of the car, running across the street before he could finish. He cursed again, hotly, parked the car and took off after her.
11
SHAYNE HAD NEVER been so happy to see his brother as he was when he saw Michael grab hold of Bliss, stopping her from going into the shop. As Shayne dodged a taxi, barely missing ending up on the hood, he watched the two of them struggling. Despite her obvious determination, given Mike’s size, it wasn’t any contest.
“What happened?” Shayne asked his brother.
Before Michael could answer, a man wearing a rain-rumpled suit came up to them. “Ms. Fortune?” He held up a badge in a small leather shield. “I’m Detective Mark Roberts, from the homicide squad, and—”
“Homicide? Is my assistant...” She swallowed. “Is Lilah...” She couldn’t say the word.
“Ms. Middleton is going to be fine,” the detective assured her. “She was checked out by a doctor on the scene, then sent home.”
“Then it was a robbery?”
Relieved that Lilah had survived without harm, Bliss tried to remember the deductible on her insurance and realized that her mind had gone totally blank. She knew that New Orleans’s police force, like that of so many other cities, was suffering a shortage, but surely it wasn’t standard practice to assign homicide detectives to a common robbery?
“The inside’s been ransacked pretty badly, so we’re having a little trouble deciding about that, which is where you can help us. But I’m afraid we’re also dealing with a murder here, Ms. Fortune.”
“A murder?” She didn’t understand. If Lilah was all right, and Michael was standing here on the sidewal
k with her, who could have been in her store?
“It was Alan, Bliss,” Michael said quietly.
“Alan?” She stared up at him. “Alan killed someone?” She couldn’t imagine such a thing. He might be a rat and a scoundrel, but his weapon of choice had always been charm.
“Alan’s the one who was killed,” Michael revealed.
“Alan’s dead?” That was more impossible to accept than the idea of her former husband killing someone.
“He was shot in the head at close range,” Detective Roberts said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you, Ms. Fortune, where you were between midnight and when Ms. Middleton opened the shop at ten o’clock this morning.”
“She was with me,” Shayne said. “We spent the night away from the city.”
“And you are?”
Knowing that the ruse was up, Shayne exchanged a brief look with Michael. “My name’s Shayne,” he said slowly. “Shayne O’Malley.”
Even as he said the fateful words, Shayne knew that if he was unfortunate enough to live to be a hundred, he’d never forget the sound of Bliss’s pained gasp. Or the bleak betrayal in her soft innocent eyes.
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Bliss said two hours later, after the police had finished questioning her and they’d taken Alan’s body away. She knew that the horrifying image of her lifeless ex-husband would remain with her for a very long time. “I don’t want to talk to you, Shayne.
We’ve nothing to say to one another.“ She held tightly to Hercules. Bliss had been relieved to discover the cat hiding behind a cabinet.
“That’s not true,” he argued. “You know you want to call me every name in the book, and believe me, sweet-heart—”
“Don’t call me sweetheart!”
“All right.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Folding her arms over her chest in an unconsious gesture of self-protection, she turned away from the man who’d betrayed her so horribly, the man she’d been foolish enough to fall in love with. When her gaze settled on that dark spot on the floor where Alan’s head had lain, little white dots began to swim in front of her eyes.
Seeing the color fade from her face, Shayne caught her by the shoulders. “Sit down.” He literally pushed her and the cat into a nearby Windsor rocking chair. “Put your head between your knees.”
“Don’t touch me!” She tried for hauteur and outrage, but the vertigo was winning.
“It’ll help, Bliss,” Michael, who’d vouched for Shayne, then stayed after the police had left, advised quietly. “You need to get the blood back into your head or you’ll faint.”
“I don’t want to talk to you, either,” she insisted. Nevertheless she did as both brothers instructed. Bliss didn’t know whether to be relieved or more angry when their advice worked. “You’re as bad as Shayne. Worse,” she told him, “since I thought we were friends.”
“We were. Are,” Michael corrected.
“But blood’s thicker than water, right?” When he didn’t answer, she risked raising her head, relieved that the blizzard of spots had dwindled to a flurry. “Given a choice between your friend or your brother, you had no choice but to side with your brother, right? Even if the brother in question is a liar.”
“It was more complicated than that, dammit.”
Bliss was about to answer when the door to The Treasure Trove suddenly opened and Hercules hissed at the newcomer.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Fortune,” Cunningham greeted her politely. “I believe it’s time we met.”
Bliss’s gaze was wary. Her fingers tightened on the orange fur. “Who are you?”
“I’m Agent Cunningham.” He wisked a folder out of the pocket of his suit jacket, and revealed a badge a lot like the one the detective had shown her, but with an insignia Bliss didn’t recognize. “I’m Shayne O’Malley’s superior. And the man who assigned him to make the initial contact with you in Paris.”
“Assigned?” Her head whipped from Cunningham to Shayne. “I was nothing but an assignment all along?”
She’d believed, after surviving the damage that Alan had done to her heart, that she’d emerged so strong that no one would ever be able to hurt her again. Obviously, Bliss thought now, she’d been wrong. Dead wrong.
“I told you,” Shayne insisted, “we need to talk.”
If her mind hadn’t been whirling, if she hadn’t been so shattered, Bliss would have heard the stress and pain in his voice. But at the moment, all she could concentrate on was the depth of his betrayal.
“And I told you, we have nothing to talk about.”
“I’m afraid that’s where you’re mistaken.” Cunningham’s tone was as smooth and deadly as a stiletto. “We have a great deal to discuss with you, Ms. Fortune.”
He settled down in a Queen Anne chair facing the rocker. “Now, we can do this one of two ways. We can have a nice, friendly discussion here in your lovely little shop. Or I can have you taken downtown to the police station, where I’m afraid the atmosphere is far less appealing.”
Personally, Bliss found nothing appealing about that ugly blood stain darkening the plank floor. Or the lingering aura of death she could feel hovering over the room. On the other hand, the alternative was also not at all attractive.
“Michael?” Conveniently forgetting she’d vowed never speak to him again, she turned toward the man who she could at least trust to tell her the truth about her rights. “Can he do that?”
“I’m afraid so, honey. But you’ve the right to an attorney—”
“An attorney? Why would I need a lawyer? Detective Roberts said I wasn’t a suspect—”
“Not in the murder,” Shayne interrupted. He’d always meant to tell her. Just not this way. “All personal problems aside, one of the reasons I needed to talk with you—hopefully before Cunningham showed up—is because the government believes you’re somehow involved with an international jewel smuggling ring.”
“What?” The blizzard was back, blinding in its intensity. Refusing to surrender to it in front of Shayne and his superior, Bliss blinked furiously, willing her head to clear.
“Actually,” Cunningham revealed, “you were considered, for a time, the ringleader.”
“A jewel thief?” Bliss stared at Shayne. There couldn’t possibly be any more. “You thought I was a jewel thief?”
He raked his fingers through his dark hair and shot Cunningham a killing look. He’d never seen an interview handled with less finesse.
“In the beginning, perhaps, but—”
“And you, Michael?” Cutting Shayne off, she turned to his brother. “Did you believe I was a thief?”
“Not for a minute,” Michael answered without hestitation. “And, I know I’m standing on thin ice here when it comes to credibility, but Shayne eventually realized that the government was barking up the wrong tree, too.”
“Oh?” Her tone was more glacial than either man had ever heard it. As Shayne watched, she encased herself in enough ice to cover Jupiter several times over. “Was this before or after you slept with me?”
“Dammit, Bliss, if you’d just listen—”
“Perhaps you two can settle whatever personal problems you have later,” Cunningham suggested silkily. “Right now, I’d like to get this case wrapped up. Which it seems we’re going to be able to do, now that it’s obvious that Fortune was the guilty one all along.”
Alan a jewel thief. That wasn’t an impossible stretch, Bliss realized. After all, she’d been the one who’d sarcastically accused him of having probably stolen a Fabergé egg.
“I still don’t understand what all this has to do with me,” she complained.
“It would be my guess that he’s been using your antique shop as a drop-off point for stolen merchandise for some time.”
“That’s impossible!” Bliss jumped to her feet. Hercules meowed a complaint, then deftly jumped to his perch in the sun-filled window. “Until we ran into each other in Paris, I haven’t seen him since our divorce.”
Even as she opened her mouth to say that was an outlandish scenario, Bliss remembered Alan’s insistence that she must give back the necklace. At the time she’d been too distracted by his behavior to pay enough attention, but it seemed he’d mentioned something about a recent shipment.
“I suppose you’ll want the list of things I bought in Paris. And where I bought them,” she murmured, rubbing her temple where a killer headache was pounding.
“O’Malley already took care of that,” Cunningham informed her.
Bliss shot a killing glare at Shayne, whose face had returned to its characteristically inscrutable expression. The least he could do was squirm a little, she thought with a burst of irritation.
“Agent O’Malley appears quite efficient.”
“He’s one of our best,” Cunningham agreed. “Although his methods tend to be unconventional, he usually achieves results.”
“How nice to know my tax dollars aren’t being wasted.” Icicles dripped from every word as Bliss wondered how many suspects he’d taken to bed over the years. Something suddenly occured to her.
“Whose house was I supposed to be decorating?”
“The government’s,” Cunningham said. “It’s a safe house. We’ve used it for debriefing former spies, drug dealers, federal informants.”
“How did you do that without any furniture?” she asked. Then comprehension dawned. “Agent O’Malley had it all moved out.”
“I told you his methods are often unconventional. And expensive.” It was Cunningham’s turn to glare at Shayne. “I just received the bill for yesterday’s little shopping spree.”
