ItTakesaThief (10 page)

“Here you are, at last,” Emilio greeted, his voice booming
in the suddenly quiet room.

Over Emilio’s shoulder, TC saw the women scatter like
brilliant butterflies on a spring breeze. Esmeralda Santana stood and TC fought
a nearly hysterical compulsion to shout, “Please, stay where you are! I need to
get away from him.”

Instead, held by pride, determined not to let Ian see that
her legs were quivering like jellyfishes, TC watched the older woman’s coal
black eyes sweep over her. While their expression remained neutral, TC thought
she caught a glimmer of approval, as if Señora Santana knew what it cost TC to
withstand the curious stares of a score of strangers, the stare of one who was
not a stranger at all, but her enemy.

“
Con mucho gusto
,” TC heard herself say to the regal
woman at Emilio’s side. She was pleased to meet Emilio’s diminutive wife. To
her surprise, her voice sounded steady, merely a whisper throatier than usual.

“El gusto es mio. The pleasure is mine,” Señora Santana
said, her accent as quaint as Ian’s.

“I believe you already know my godson, Ian Soria,” Emilio
said, his heartiness sounding forced.

So, TC thought, her gaze irresistibly drawn to the tall,
black-suited figure behind her hostess, Ian’s account of his history was true.
As far as it went.

“We’ve met,” TC allowed and bit the inside of her cheek to
quell the blush she felt seeping up from her toes. Any second now it would
sweep over her face and reveal just how well she did know Ian Soria, albeit
only in the biblical sense.

“Señorita Cartierri,” Ian said, making a sketchy bow. His
grin announced he knew why she did not offer her hand for him to shake, that he
knew her palms were hot and damp while her fingers felt like icicles forming in
a sharp, cold wind.

Nor did she miss the fact that he now knew her real last
name.

“Where is Rogelio?” TC asked for want of anything better to
say.

“My grandson, the little scamp, begged to stay up, but
exhaustion finally claimed him,” Esmeralda explained. She took TC’s arm, led
her around the room and made introductions.

Held in the circle of their husbands’ arms, the wives
sparkled like gemstones on black satin. To TC, they all looked alike and their
names were also similar: Maria Consuela, Constanza Maria and Maria Elena. They
all wore identical expressions of regret that TC trailed a tall, handsome,
silent man in her wake.

The husbands on the other hand, looked smug and content at
the pairing of the two gringos, a situation TC found disgusting. Ian’s attitude
proclaimed a proprietary interest she intended to squash at the first opportunity.

Tonight, if she didn’t fall asleep in her soup.

The nap she had taken in the car had only made her realize
how tired she was. Until the moment Ian appeared, TC had looked forward to a
good night’s sleep. Now, she suspected she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

Feeling a warm hand at the small of her back, TC looked up
and glared at the man at her side.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her lips curled in
a false smile.

“I could ask the same of you,” Ian muttered. Then, showing a
familiarity with the Santanas’ home that rang warning bells in TC’s head, he
continued. “What would you like to drink?”

He must spend a lot of time here
, she thought.
He’s
comfortable playing host
. “A very dry double vodka martini. Shaken not
stirred.”

“Ah, Ms. Bond. I had you pegged as Mata Hari.”

With that cryptic remark, he strolled away, only to return a
few minutes later, her drink and a fresh one of his own in hand.

“What was that supposed to mean?” TC demanded, her voice too
loud, too belligerent for polite company. With an apologetic smile to the room
at large, she repeated her question in a whisper.

“Meaning I thought you the power behind the throne. The
manipulator, as it were.”

“Manipulator!” TC squeaked, her upraised face heating with
indignation.

“Perhaps we should discuss this after dinner. I would hate
to ruin your appetite, Tiffany darling.”

“Nothing,” TC avowed in a huffy voice, “can ruin my
appetite. Not even you.” With that she stepped away, then turned back. “And my
name is TC!” Barely restraining her desire to flounce, she left him.

Two hours later, after pushing bite after bite of aromatic
food around her plate, TC stomped upstairs to her room. Damn the man! He’d
ruined her appetite completely.

* * * * *

Smiling grimly, Damian shoved his pocketknife into his slacks
and opened the balcony door to Tiffany’s bedroom. A little surprised by the
ease with which he had gained entry, he supposed Emilio’s perimeter defenses
eliminated the need for sturdy locks elsewhere.

Hearing the sound of water running in the shower, Damian
closed the drapes, turned on the bedside light and settled on the wide bed.
Crossing his bare feet at the ankles, he leaned against plump goose down
pillows, then tucked his hands behind his head.

“What the hell…?” he heard just as his eyelids closed and he
found himself drifting to sleep. “Get out of here, you…you lowdown—”

“Now, now, Tiffany darling, do not say anything you will
regret later,” he cajoled while he stretched and studied her from beneath his
lashes.

He had figured her for a satin-and-silk kind of woman. She
did not disappoint him, except that in place of a slinky negligee she wore
cranberry-colored silk pajamas piped with hot pink satin. One slender hand
bunched the lapels to her throat, the other lay at her thigh, the fingers
tightened into a fist. He preferred her as she had been in St. Anton—Eve naked.

“For the last time, you arrogant ass, my name is—”

“Tiffany darling.”

Seeing him stand, she inched away. She wasn’t physically
afraid of him—surely he wouldn’t risk killing her in his godparents’ home.
Emotionally, he terrified her. Her traitorous body ached for his touch. Her
lips longed for his taste. Her flaring nostrils inhaled his scent—fresh air and
fine cigar smoke mixed with his own unique smell. His rumbling, throaty growl
made her ears tingle, reminding her of how his breath felt so hot when he
nibbled them. His eyes flashed heat as he strode to her, then captured her
hands.

She opened her mouth to curse him or scream for help. His
tongue sliding between her teeth smothered the words. He tasted like hunger and
suddenly she was starving. Backed against the door, she fumbled with his belt
and zipper, yanked down his jeans and briefs, then took his cock in her hand.
Hard flesh, velvet smooth, seeped moisture on her fingers. She wanted that
rigid flesh inside her. Now!

“Hurry,” she whispered as he jerked her pajama bottoms over
her hips and buttocks. She wiggled free seconds before he tugged one leg over
his hip and slid his cock into her pussy. Filled with him, she moaned.

His harsh grunt of satisfaction made her sigh into his mouth
as he kissed her deeply, his tongue matching his thrusting hips. His first
plunge rattled the door. Grinning, he shifted her to the wall.

“I hate this,” she said, wishing she had the strength to
resist him. But every time he touched her, she melted.

He pumped deeper, making her moan again. “Liar. I can feel
how hot you are. How wet you are. How greedy your tight cunt is. Shall we make
a deal, Tiffany? Shall we agree to fuck each other’s brains out until we grow
tired of each other?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He pulled her pajama top over her head, then ravished her
aching nipples.

“Merde,” she groaned, wrapping both legs around his waist
and using his wide shoulders for balance.

“Say it, Tiffany. Say what your juicy cunt wants.”

She shook her head and strained to writhe up and down his
glorious cock. His hands wrapped around her ass, holding her immobile.

“Say it.” He sucked her nipple into his mouth, drawing fire
between it and her pussy.

“Fuck it. Fuck me.”

The words had barely left her mouth when he plunged deeper.
It was like the first time he kissed her. Raw. Wild. Rough and untamed
and…glorious.

“Harder,” she begged, grinding her pussy against his pelvis,
rubbing her breasts against his wide chest. “Oh God. Oh! Oh!” She plunged her
fingers into his hair, her tongue into his mouth and rode his cock as if her
life depended on reaching climax.

Release slammed into her like a wrecking ball. A hundred, a
thousand wrecking balls, destroying her utterly. When she felt her heartbeat
approaching normal, she looked into Ian’s eyes.

“I like you hot and ready,” he said, easing her legs from
his waist. “I shall look forward to tomorrow night.”

“Get out!” she growled, her voice barely raised above a
whisper. “I don’t know much about your relationship with our host, but I doubt
Emilio will appreciate having you thrown out at one in the morning.”

“And I doubt he will appreciate harboring an international
jewel thief under his roof. Or did you neglect to inform him of that little
tidbit?”

Having dropped that bombshell, Damian chucked her under her
chin, closing her mouth, and left her. Would she run again? Or would she make a
deal with the devil she believed him to be?

Chapter Six

The woman was a fool! An attempt on her life and still she
hadn’t run. Damn her! He wanted her in Paris where she would be arrested, left
to rot for years before she came to trial, the burden on her to gain her
freedom. The French had such a lovely judicial system—guilty until proven
innocent. With two murders attributed to her, the bitch would rot forever. Or
lose her arrogant head.

Yes, he could picture that quite clearly. Such a lovely
picture it made. Her being led up the steps to the guillotine… No, carried up
them, all that calm composure shattered when she realized what awaited her. If
only France still believed in the death penalty.

If he could, he would make her dream of her beheading, live
it over and over until the terror of it frightened her to death. Influencing
her dreams an impossibility, he could only try to lure her back to Paris.
There, the French police would put an end to all her dreams. Permanently.

How could he make her run? She wouldn’t go haring off to
Paris without good reason, so he would have to give her one. One so strong it
would compel her to the ends of the earth if he deemed it necessary. All he
wanted at the moment was to get her out of Colombia. He couldn’t let her keep
sniffing around here.

So, a carrot and a stick.

The stick? Another attempt on her life. The carrot? Ah, yes,
the carrot. What better lure than evidence to prove her innocence?

He toyed with the idea of calling her himself, but discarded
it. Savoring the delicious irony of his plan, he picked up the telephone and
dialed, routing his call through Lyons so Interpol would have a recording of
it.

Chapter Seven

“What do you mean, Madrina, she’s gone?” Last night, hoping
fear might make Tiffany open up to him, he had intended to frighten her. He
certainly had not wanted to make her run away. Again.

Her patrician features composed, her black eyes alight with
an unholy gleam, his godmother, Esmeralda Santana, motioned Damian to a chair
and poured him a cup of coffee—rich, dark coffee from beans grown for
generations on Santana lands in the Cauca valley.

Morning sunlight flooded the breakfast room. Suspecting she
had deliberately made him sit where he had to squint against the bright sun, he
scowled at his godmother, but resisted the urge to cross-question her. Years of
experience had taught him that the harder he pushed, the longer it took to get
information from her. Instead, he buttered a galleta, a crisp, sweet breakfast
cracker, and slathered it with marmalade.

“Well, Damian, are you going to arrest our lovely
houseguest?” Esmeralda said as if asking if he took cream in his coffee.

“Not yet, Madrina,” Damian said smoothly, mentally cursing
himself for coming here. Even off by themselves in the guest wing, there was no
true privacy anywhere within the Santana compound. “Is that why she has run
away, Madrina? You made her think I am about to clap her in irons and extradite
her to France?” He did not correct Esmeralda’s assumption that he could arrest
Tiffany. Nor could Michael, were he still alive. Only local authorities could
arrest and hold her for extradition to France. Interpol, no doubt, would
provide escort for her.

Esmeralda Santana had a raucous laugh, one completely at
odds with her ladylike appearance and demeanor. The laugh was also infectious
and Damian found himself fighting a chuckle of his own. The fact that his
godmother was laughing at him filled him with relief, for it meant his quarry
was still at hand.

“No, m’ijo, I did not threaten her in any way.” She took a
dainty bite of her own galleta, chewed it thoroughly, then washed it down with
coffee. “Ah,” she sighed with obvious satisfaction.

Fiddling with the grapefruit spoon at his place setting,
Damian ground his teeth and wondered fleetingly if it would do any good to
threaten her with its serrated edges. Probably not, he conceded when she
flashed him a knowing smile, then refilled his coffee cup.

“Señorita TC,” she pronounced it Tey Cey, “was curious about
our insignificant mining operation.”

Damian snorted at her phrasing. The Santanas prided
themselves on never doing things by halves. Next to Muzo, their emeralds were
the finest in Colombia. The hairs on his nape stood on end, his instincts
shouting that any interest Tiffany Cartierri had in emeralds was not idle
curiosity. The vixen would likely fill her pockets with the finest Santana
gems, then flee the country.

He started to rise, but found his wrist caught in an
implacable grip. “She would not steal from friends,” Esmeralda insisted in a
quiet voice.

“How do you know? I thought you just met her last night.”

“Emilio has known her for many years. And I trust my own
judgment. She is filled with grief, that one.”

“For her husband?” Damian felt an uncharacteristic surge of
jealousy that he smothered with characteristic cynicism. Given her passionate
response to him, he doubted Tiffany’s grief went very deep.

“For many things, I suppose, including William. I know he
was a very selfish man, her husband. Weak. More concerned with appearances than
with making her happy. Do not judge her too hastily, Damian. You know nothing
about her, only what is written on the pages of her dossier. Pages have no
soul, no grasp of human passions. Or frailty.”

“Why would her father condone such a marriage?”

Esmeralda’s delicately arched eyebrows rose briefly.
“Charles Cartierri plays his own games. And as for William’s father, Sir James,
too, has his own agenda.” With that cryptic remark, his godmother stood. Damian
also rose.

“Your lady has gone riding with Rogelio.” She sighed, her
expression fond yet long-suffering. “Like his grandfather, my grandson is
overly proud of our emeralds and is anxious to show off his knowledge to a
lovely young woman. If you take the Land Rover you should catch up with them at
the mine.”

“I hope Security is alert,” Damian muttered, then flushed
under his godmother’s disapproving stare.

With a cool nod she left him standing in a ray of sunshine
while a smile curved his lips. On second thought, he hoped Security was very
lax. He would not mind doing a strip search of Tiffany Cartierri. Indeed, he
would not mind that at all.

* * * * *

Shading her eyes with one hand, TC held up the emerald to
the sun with her other hand. Green fire flared deep within the gem and
refracted that glow over Rogelio’s eager, young face.

“What do you think, m’ijo? Is it worth the price?”

Fixing his jeweler’s loupe over one judicious eye, the
ten-year-old took the stone and examined it carefully. “You might do better at
Muzo,” he said after several minutes. “See, here, TC. The gem might crack later
along this inclusion. Or here.”

“Oiling won’t help?”

For a moment her young companion looked uncertain, but shook
his head. “I do not think so. I recommend you wait.” Turning to a hovering
guard, Rogelio asked that the gem be polished and put in the vault for TC’s
inspection later.

Though his request was scrupulously polite, TC had to
smother a laugh at his unconscious arrogance. Another Santana scion in the
making, she thought while she and Rogelio strolled the length of the workshop
and studied photographs along the wall.

“Isabella’s Belt,” she murmured when they stopped in front
of the picture that held place of pride.

“Si. Mi abuelo…my grandfather—¿como se dice? How do you say
‘verified’ it before it shipped to France?”

“Authenticated,” TC provided.

“Si, authenticated.”

“Was that done here?”

“No, at the Museo Arqueologico in Bogotá. Abuelo was allowed
to photograph it so that I could see it later. Is a fine picture, ¿si?”

“A very fine picture,” she agreed, suspecting Rogelio’s
unhappy expression was due more to the insult to his pride than out of
peevishness. How difficult he must have found it, not to be allowed to view the
authentication process firsthand. “Perhaps when I—when it is recovered, you can
watch then.”

“Is necessary to do again?” A puzzled frown furled his
handsome brow.

TC nodded. “To make sure it isn’t a fake.”

“Ah.” His frown cleared for a moment, then reappeared. “Why
would someone return a fake?”

“Well, I suppose, to make people stop looking for the real
one.”

“People like Damian?”

“Damian?” TC echoed with a frown of her own.

“There you are,” a deep voice greeted.

The fine hairs on her arms and nape lifting as if
electrified, TC turned to see a tall figure in the open doorway. Light cast him
in silhouette—sleek and powerful like a jaguar lazing in the sun. Only his
voice, like the languid twitching of the cat’s tail, announced that he stalked.

“Miss me?” Ian asked, then pulled her to him for a thorough
kiss that left her giddy. And wet. And wanting.

“Stop that!” she demanded when he released her but continued
to run his hands over her hips and bottom. He tasted of marmalade and coffee, a
taste she craved like a greedy child deprived of sweets. “What are you doing?”
she whispered in his ear, wary of his motives, mistrusting her own emotions.
Her traitorous body had no misgivings and quickened under his skillful caress.

“Searching for booty,” he whispered back, his hands now
gliding over her rib cage, then settling intimately beneath her swelling
breasts.

Convinced he had just accused her of stealing, TC protested.
“Ian!” She almost had forgotten his parting salvo last night. His comment now,
no matter how playful, reminded her what he truly thought of her. In his mind
she was a thief at best. And possibly a murder. For Rogelio’s sake, however,
she could not make a scene.

“That’s my name,” Ian said, grinning at Rogelio while
ruffling the youngster’s thick, dark hair.

Rogelio blushed, a reaction TC found disquieting until she
remembered how, at Rogelio’s age, she had hated being treated like a child.
Besides, last night, between hours of sleeplessness, she had dreamed. She’d
dreamed the dream that, before her “accident” in London, had always forewarned
her of danger. She was on guard now, her nerves sounding alarms like a klaxon
on an English police car.

“Señorita TC?”

Rogelio’s pull on her sleeve interrupted her narrow-eyed
contemplation of Ian’s rugged and far-too-innocent-looking face. “What is it,
Rogelio?”

“Señor Ian has brought a picnic. Can we go, TC? Can we?”

Grinning at Rogelio as he hopped from foot to foot, TC
nodded. “But only if we can watch the mining from up there.” She pointed out
the window, at a location about halfway up the side of a steep hill.

“You won’t see anything from there,” Rogelio said wisely.

“Come on, guys,” she insisted, stepping around Ian and
striding through the open door into sunlight. “Ian, you take Serendipity and
Rogelio can ride double with me on Diablo. We’ll still beat you there,” she
flung over her shoulder at Ian. She boosted her small companion onto the
stallion’s back, then swung up behind him.

The sight of Tiffany’s rounded bottom rising nearly to eye
level as she mounted distracted Damian momentarily. In the next second, he
caught a flash of sunlight from the ridge, swatted Tiffany’s mount on its rump
and shouted for her to ride like hell.

Her right foot scrabbling for her stirrup, she seemed to
stand on her left and curl her body around the small figure in front of her.
Shots rang out, scattering dirt and gravel. Miraculously, Diablo galloped on,
apparently unhurt. Shouting for the guards he knew were always on duty around
the workshop and the mine, Damian prayed there was only one sniper, that no one
lay in wait along the trail Diablo was sure to follow in his wild race toward
home.

Cursing at his own lack of a weapon, Damian took cover in
the workshop and waited impatiently while the guards returned fire, then spread
out to reconnoiter the area. When silence reigned once more, Damian sped toward
the Land Rover, hampered by his crouched position and zigzag pattern.

A string of venomous expletives muffled everything but the
sound of his own voice and the groan he could not hold back after kicking a
flat rear tire on the Land Rover. The damn sniper had not hit anything except
his transportation, Damian thought, disgusted. But maybe that had been the
intent. To strand him so he could not protect Tiffany or Rogelio.

“I suppose this means our picnic’s off,” a cool voice said
from somewhere above his head.

Standing, he yelled, “What the hell are you doing back
here?” He pulled Tiffany and Rogelio off Diablo’s back and herded them inside,
using his body to shield them as best he could.

When, in his opinion, they were safe, he seized Tiffany’s
shoulders and shook her. To his consternation, he discovered her regarding him
from pain-filled green eyes while he rocked back and forth.

“That’s okay, Ian,” she said before he could voice his
sudden, seemingly unwarranted concern, “I was scared, too. Rogelio, however,
was cool as glass. He suggested we hang out until things quieted down, then
come back here and call Emilio. No sense risking Diablo’s stepping in a
foxhole, right, hombre?” she asked, dropping her hand to the shoulder of her
silent and very pale companion.

“Good thinking, amigo,” Damian said, obeying the warning in
Tiffany’s eyes not to make the incident worse than it was. “Why don’t I call
your grandfather while you get Tiffany a glass of water? She looks as if she
might pass out.”

Although her eyes flared with indignation, Tiffany swayed
slightly. “I think I need to sit down,” she admitted, a tremor in her husky
voice that made Damian look at her sharply and wonder if she was going into
shock for real.

“Do they keep any brandy around here?”

“Si…Ian. I will get it.” Rogelio swaggered away, his narrow
shoulders held as proudly as a matador fearlessly facing a dozen bulls.

“Well, you certainly made him feel like a hero,” Damian said
to Tiffany.

“He was one.”

“Are you all right?” Damian hunkered down and tipped her
averted face to his.

“Don’t let Rogelio’s mother come here,” she whispered, her
face blanched, her lips even whiter. “Help me to the Land Rover and keep
Rogelio away… Tell him I’m…puking.” With that, she fainted in his arms.

“Damn,” Damian swore as he eased Tiffany across his thighs.
Holding her, willing her to open her eyes and make some sarcastic remark about
fooling him, he stroked her thick damp hair away from her pale face.

Murder in his heart, he swore again. It was not sweat that
stained his hand but Tiffany’s blood.

* * * * *

When TC opened her eyes and finally got them to focus, the
first thing she saw was a blown-up picture of her left ankle encircled by a
slave bracelet. The second thing she saw was Ian’s face.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his gentle voice at odds with
the banked fury she saw in his eyes.

“Fine. In fact, I feel just dandy.” She struggled to sit up,
but a stab of pain behind her eyes felled her. With a groan, she sank back
against the pillows.

“Liar.”

“Okay, fine. I feel like hell. Now, go away and let me die
in peace.”

He strode out of her line of vision, but returned before she
even blinked.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered. Before she thought to argue
she did as he demanded and nearly gagged as the bitter aspirin tablet dissolved
on her tongue.

His hands incredibly gentle, Ian lifted her, then slid
behind her. Cradling her against his chest, he held a glass to her dry lips and
tipped water down her parched throat.