by Nora Roberts
The minute the door closed behind her father, Roxanne rounded on Luke. “I’m not going to be left behind this time.”
“It’s not up to me.”
She marched to the table where he sat, slapped her palms down on the linen cloth hard enough to make the china rattle. “And if it were?”
He looked her square in the eyes. He could have strangled her for becoming so beautiful. And she’d done it slowly, insidiously over the last few years, sneaking up on him like a thief to steal his breath away with a look. “I’d do exactly what Max is doing.”
That hurt. She sucked in her breath on the sharp pain of betrayal. “Why?”
“Because you’re not ready yet.”
“How do you know?” She tossed her head back. The light through the windows shivered over her hair and turned it to flame. Luke was afraid she’d read the passion in his eyes. “How do you know what I’m ready for?”
It was a direct challenge. Much too direct. His palms dampened. “Heisting jewels from the Trimalda villa’s a far cry from scamming tourists with the Cups and Balls, Rox.” Needing a prop, he picked up his coffee. Years of training kept his hand steady. He could make her angry, he knew. It was best. As long as she was angry he could keep his hands off her. He hoped.
“I’m every bit as good as you, Callahan. You didn’t even know how to riffle a deck until I taught you.”
“It must be tough to know you’ve been outreached.”
Her skin went ice-white then flushed deeper than the roses on the table between them. She straightened, and to his misery, Luke saw every curve of her body beneath the robe. “You witless bastard. You couldn’t outreach me if you were standing on stilts.”
He only smiled. “Who got the most press the last gig in New York?”
“An idiot who has himself chained in a trunk and gets tossed in the East River is bound to get press.” How she hated the fact that the escapes he’d gravitated to were spectacular. Every time he’d lock himself into another box, she was torn in two parts—one thrilled by his skill and his daring, the other disgusted by it.
“I got the press for getting out,” he reminded her, and took out one of the French cigars he’d developed a fondness for. “For being the best.” He flicked on his lighter and puffed smoke from the cigar. “You should be content with your pretty illusions, Rox, your pretty boyfriends—” All of which he’d like to murder. “Leave the dangerous work to those of us who can handle it.”
She was quick. He’d always admired that in her. He barely had time to shoot up a hand and catch her fist before it plowed into his nose. Still gripping her curled fingers, he rose. They were face to face now, bodies almost brushing.
She felt a tingle skitter along her spine. A yearning bloomed inside like a flame she’d never been able to stamp out. She wanted to hate him for it.
“Watch your step.” The warning was quiet, telling her she’d managed to fan the fires of his temper if nothing else.
“If you think I’m afraid you’ll hit me back—”
He shocked them both by catching her chin in tensed fingers, holding her face close. Her lips parted as much in surprise as anticipation. Her mind went blessedly blank.
“I could do worse.” He ground the words out. They tasted like glass in his throat. “And we’d both pay for it.”
He shoved her away before he did something he’d never forgive himself for. As he strode to the door, he tossed back a clipped order. “Two o’clock. In costume.” And slammed the door behind him.
When she realized her knees were shaking, Roxanne lowered herself into a chair. After several deep breaths, she rubbed a hand along her throat until she could swallow over the obstruction lodged there. For an instant, just a flashing instant, he’d looked at her as though he realized she was a woman. A woman he could want. A woman he did want.
On another shaky breath, she shook her head. That was ridiculous. He’d never thought of her as anything but a necessary nuisance. And she didn’t care. She’d long ago gotten over that silly childish crush.
She wasn’t interested in men anyway. She had bigger plans.
Damn if she was going to wait through four years of college before she implemented them. Her lips firmed. Damn if she was going to wait another week.
It was time to flesh out the idea that had been brewing in her mind. Past time. Smiling to herself, she brought her long legs up, crossed them and casually reached for the cigar Luke had left burning. She sat back, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. And plotted.
Luke could only thank God he had so much on his mind. Between preparing for the gig at La Palace and the job at Chaumet, he didn’t have time to dwell on Roxanne.
Except at three A.M., when he’d awake in the cold sweat of frustration from dreams of her. Incredibly clear, incredibly provocative dreams of that long, white body wrapped around his. Of that glorious hair spread over a patch of dewy green grass in some secluded glade. Of those witchy eyes, clouded with passion.
If there was a hell, Luke was certain he would burn for those dreams alone. He’d been raised with her, for Christ’s sake, and was the closest thing to a brother she had. The only thing keeping her safe from him was the idea he’d fixed in his head that doing what he wanted to do would be a kind of spiritual incest.
And the certainty that she would laugh at him, that the laugh would rake him clean to the bone, if he let his feelings show.
He had to get out, he realized when he’d paced the length and width of the room a dozen times. A nice long walk before dinner, a stroll in the Parisian twilight. He grabbed his black leather bomber jacket and paused in front of the mirror long enough to run fingers through his hair.
He didn’t notice the changes in himself over the years. So much was the same. His hair was still dark, still thick, still worn dramatically long to curl over his collar, or to be caught in a queue. His eyes were still blue, and the length of his sooty lashes had ceased to embarrass him. He’d learned that his poetically good looks could charm women who put stock in such things. His skin remained smooth, with long bones pressed taut against it. Once in his teens he’d grown a moustache, but it hadn’t suited him. Now his mouth was unadorned.
He’d broken his nose once in an escape, but it had healed straight. That was a slight disappointment.
At twenty-one he’d grown into his full height of six-one, and his body was rangy. The haunted look that had come over him so often during childhood came only rarely now. The years with Max had taught him control, physical, mental, emotional. He was, and always would be, grateful for that.
And given time, given will, he would break clear of the shackles his feelings for Roxanne had clamped on him.
Turning away from the mirror, he went out, started down the long, carpeted hallway toward the elevators. He glanced briefly at the pretty blond maid pushing her cart.
Time for a check for extra towels, mints on the pillow. The child who’d once slept in ditches had become so used to such luxuries he barely noted them.
“Bon soir,” he murmured with a casual smile as he passed her.
“Bon soir, monsieur.” Her smile was shy and swift before she knocked on a door across the hall.
Luke was nearly to the elevators when he stopped dead. That scent. Roxanne’s scent. Damn her, was he so bedazzled he could smell her everywhere? He shook himself loose, took another step and stopped again. His eyes narrowed as he turned around and studied the maid, who was fitting her master key into the lock.
Those legs. His teeth set as he studied the long slim legs beneath the discreet black skirt of the uniform.
Roxanne’s legs.
She was easing the door shut behind her when he slapped a hand against it. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She blinked up at him. “Pardon?”
“Cut the crap, Roxanne. What’s the deal?”
“Shut up.” She hissed the words as she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. She was furious, but that could wait. First she
wanted answers. “How did you know it was me?”
He could hardly tell her he’d have recognized her legs anywhere. So he lied. “Give me a break. Who do you think you’re fooling with that getup?”
The fact was, it was perfect. The short sassy blond wig changed her looks dramatically. Even her eye color was different. Colored contacts, he imagined, that turned emerald into smoky brown. She was skilled enough with makeup to subtly change the tone of her skin, the shape of her face. She’d added a bit of padding to her hips and, Luke was certain, was wearing one of those clever bras that should have been illegal.
They pushed up and padded and made a man’s mouth water for what was essentially a mirage.
“Bull.” Her voice was still an incensed whisper. “I spent ten minutes in Lily’s room and she didn’t recognize me.”
Because she hasn’t been drooling over your legs for the past two years.
“I did,” he said and left it at that. “Now, what the hell are you doing in here?”
“I’m stealing Mrs. Melville’s jewelry.”
“Like hell.”
Her eyes flared. They might have been brown, Luke thought, but they were Roxanne’s. “Leave me alone. I got in here, and I’m not walking out empty-handed. I planned it out down to the last detail, and you’re not spoiling it for me.”
“And what are you going to do when Mrs. Melville screams down the gendarmes?”
“Look shocked and appalled and outraged, of course. Like every other guest in the hotel.” Turning away, she went directly to the dresser. She took a hankie from her pocket, using it to ensure against fingerprints as she opened drawers.
He made a sound in his throat that was equal parts amusement and disgust. “You think you’re going to find her stuff just lying around in a drawer? The Ritz has a safe downstairs for that.”
Roxanne sent him a withering look. “She doesn’t keep it downstairs. I overheard her arguing with her husband the other night. She likes to keep it close so she can pick through it when she’s dressing each evening.”
It was good, Luke mused. Very good. He searched around for another flaw. “What are you going to do if one of them walks in while you’re pawing around?”
“I won’t be pawing around.” Moving quickly, competently, she closed a drawer. “I’m here to turn down the bed. What’s your excuse?”
“Okay, Rox, enough’s enough.” He grabbed her arm. “We’ve planned out the Chaumet job for months. I’m not having one of your two-bit games spoil it.”
“One has nothing to do with the other.” She jerked away from him. “And it’s not two-bit. Have you seen the rocks that woman wears?”
“Could be paste.”
“That’s for me to find out.” With one brow arched, she took a jeweler’s loupe from her pocket. “I’ve been around Max nearly eighteen years,” she said as she slipped it back in place. “I know what I’m doing.”
“What you’re doing is getting the hell out—” He broke off when he heard a key rattle in the lock. “Oh, shit.”
“I could scream,” she said pleasantly. “Claim you’d pushed your way in and attacked me.”
There wasn’t time for rebuttal. He shot her one fulminating look, then took his only option. He dived under the bed.
With her tongue tucked in her cheek, Roxanne began to turn down the bedclothes. She straightened when the door opened, and blushed prettily.
“Oh, Monsieur Melville,” she said in heavily accented English. “I should . . . come back?”
“No need, honey.” He was a big, brawny Texan in his fifties, and the damn French food gave him indigestion. “You just keep on with what you’re doing.”
“Merci.” Roxanne smoothed the spread and fluffed pillows, well aware Melville’s eyes were riveted to her posterior.
“Don’t recall seeing you in here before.”
“This is not . . .” She leaned over the bed a little further. Might as well give the randy old guy his money’s worth, she thought. “My floor usual.” Enjoying her character, she turned, slanting him a look from under her lashes. “You would like more towels, monsieur? I can get you something?”
“Well now.” He leaned down to tickle her chin. There was a whiff of bourbon on his breath, not entirely unpleasant. “What you got in mind, sugar cakes?”
She giggled and fluttered her lashes again. “Oh, monsieur. You tease me, oui?”
He’d sure as hell like to, he thought. Unwrapping a pretty little package like this would be a hell of a lot more fun than the opera his wife was dragging him to. But it would also take time. Indigestion forgotten, he decided he could make time for a little slap and tickle.
“I’ve had this hankering for French pastries.” Melville patted her bottom, and when she tittered, gave her breast a light squeeze. From under the bed, Luke was sure he was growing fangs.
Blushing and breathy, Roxanne stared up at Melville with big, brown eyes. “Oh, monsieur. You Americans.”
“I’m not just American, sweetie. I’m a Texan.”
“Ah.” She let him nibble at her neck while Luke lay helpless, his fists clenched. “Is it true what they say about Texans, monsieur? That everything is . . . bigger.”
Melville let out a hoot and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Damn straight, sugar. Why don’t I let you find out?” He forgot about his wife as well as his stomach and started pushing her down on the bed. Luke braced, ready to pounce.
“But, monsieur, I’m on duty.” Roxanne struggled away, still giggling. “I will be discharged.”
“How about when you’re not on duty?”
Playing the Texan’s image of French tart to the hilt, she flushed again, and caught her bottom lip flirtatiously between her teeth. “Perhaps at midnight we could meet.” Her lashes fluttered. “There is a little café close—Robert’s?”
“Well now, I think I could manage that.” He pulled her close again to give her padded hips a squeeze. “You keep an eye out for me—what’s your name, darling?”
“It’s Monique.” She trailed her fingers over his cheek. “I will wait for midnight.”
He gave her another pinch and a wink before strolling out dreaming of young French sex.
Roxanne plopped onto the bed and howled with laughter.
“Oh yeah, it’s a riot,” Luke muttered as he crawled out. “You let that sleazeball paw all over you, practically crawl on top of you, and it’s a laugh a minute. I should spank you.”
Still holding her sides, she let out a last sighing laugh. “Oh, grow up.” Then she sucked in her breath when Luke snagged her arm and hauled her to her feet. She recognized real fury when she saw it, and bit off any protest.
“You seem to have done enough growing up for both of us. Damn good at that, weren’t you, Rox? How many of those smart college guys you date have you let put their sweaty hands all over you?”
This time her blush was genuine. “That’s none of your business.”
“The hell it’s not. I’m—” Crazy about you. The words nearly tumbled out before he choked them off. “Somebody has to look out for you.”
“I can do that fine for myself.” She elbowed him away, horrified that her spine was tingling. “And for your information, flea brain, he didn’t have his hands on me. I’ve got enough padding where he was groping to stuff a mattress.”
“That’s beside the point.” He grabbed for her hand, but she shoved him away. “Roxanne, we’re getting out of here. Now.”
“You go. I’m getting what I came for.” Prepared to take her stand, she tossed her head back. “I want it more than ever. That cheating bastard is going to buy his wife a whole new basket of jewelry. Serves him right—going off to meet some little French tootsie at a cheap café.”
Despite himself, Luke chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re the French tootsie, Rox.”
“And I’m the one who’s going to make him pay for adultery.” Her gaze sharpened. There was enough deviousness in the look to elicit Luke’s reluctant adm
iration. “And what’s he going to say about me? He’ll talk about walking in on a maid, describe me—but not in too much detail, because he’ll be guilty and scared. It’s better this way than if he’d never seen me at all.” She marched to the closet and, scanning the top shelf, grinned. “Et, voilà.”
She had to stretch to reach the three-tiered jewelry box.
“God, Luke, it must weigh twenty pounds.” Before he could assist her, she set it on the floor and crouched beside it. “Mine,” she said in a warning hiss, slapping his hand away. She took a set of picks from her pocket, chose one and went to work on the lock.
It took her forty-three seconds—Luke timed her. And he was forced to admit that she was better, much better, than he had imagined.
“Oh, my.” Her heart did a quick jig as she opened the top. Sparkles, gleams, shines. She felt like Aladdin exploring his cave. No, no, she thought, like one of the forty thieves. “Aren’t they gorgeous?” Indulging herself, she dipped her hand in.
“If they’re real.” It wasn’t possible to completely staunch the familiar tingle, but he kept his voice brisk. “And a pro doesn’t drool over the goods.”
“I’m not drooling.” Then she laughed again, turned that glowing smile on him. “Maybe a little. Luke, isn’t it fabulous?”
“If . . .” His voice cracked. He had to clear his throat. “If they’re real,” he repeated.
Roxanne only sighed at his lack of vision and pulled out the loupe. After examining a chain of sapphires and diamonds, she sat back on her heels. “They’re real, Callahan.” Moving briskly now, she examined piece after piece before wrapping them in towels. “I wouldn’t say the diamonds are better than second water—probably third, but that’ll do. I make it to be oh, a hundred and sixty, hundred and seventy thousand net?”
He’d figured the same himself, but didn’t want to tell her how closely their thoughts had meshed. Instead, he hauled her to her feet. He wiped the box clean, then using a towel, set it back in place.
“Let’s go.”
“Come on, Luke.” She blocked the door, and her eyes were laughing. “At least you can say I did good.”
