ItTakesaThief (11 page)

“Why the hell did you not tell me you had been shot?”

His roughened fingertips stroked her temple, then slid like
silk to her nape. Sighing her contentment, she relaxed against him. “I didn’t
realize it at first. Then, when I knew we were safe, I didn’t want to scare
Rogelio.” She turned her head and nuzzled Ian’s warm neck, aware on a
subliminal level that his breath caught and held.

“He was so damn brave, Ian. I thought the only things
between us and death were my knees guiding Diablo.” She chuckled, then gasped
as pain, less severe than before, lanced through her scalp. “But Rogelio saved
us. He’d had hold of the reins before I mounted and he kept hold of them even
when Diablo bolted. So brave,” she repeated, savoring the touch of Ian’s lips
on her throat.

“Why did you not want his mother coming to the mine?”

When his lips left hers, she sighed again. When she could
speak she said, “Her hysterics would have frightened him.”

“You have a low opinion of mothers,” Ian teased. “Why would
she have had hysterics?”

TC’s lips curled in a soft smile. “For an experienced man,
you don’t know diddly squat about women.”

“Why, Tiffany?”

“Mothers,” she griped, “always fall apart once the crisis is
over. Goes with the territory.”

“Did yours? Fall apart, I mean?”

“Unum. Never,” she yawned and pressed against his solid
strength, “had a crisis. Charles saw to that. G’night, Ian.”

“G’night, Tiffany. Darling.”

* * * * *

When she next opened her eyes, her vision was filled by
Rogelio’s concerned young face. “
Hola, hombre. ¿Que tal?
”

“Good morning, TC. What’s happening with you?”

“You tell me. How hails the conquering hero? Are you okay?”

“Mi madre,” her young friend began, then shrugged with all
the insouciance of a full-grown Latino male. “My mother behaved in a motherly
manner.”

TC slid back until she could lean against the headboard,
then pulled the covers over her chest. “Ouch,” she complained when her tender
head connected with solid Colombian hardwood.

“You were shot,” Rogelio stated unequivocally as he backed
off her bed and turned away. Moments later he returned with a glass of chilled,
fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“Yes, I was shot.”

“You said nothing.”

“I’ve heard this record before,” she muttered under her
breath and said, “What could I say? ‘Rogelio, m’ijo, I’ve been shot’? What
would you have done then?”

“Exactly what I did, mujer. Take you back to the mine and
call for help.”

“Bravo, señor.”

“Señorita Brava,” Rogelio scoffed, then grinned.

Sensing they were at an impasse, TC raised her glass in a
silent toast. William was the only person she had ever known who could best her
in duel of words.

“Your health,” she said finally. “Sante.”

Rogelio joined in the traditional toast until, reaching the
final words about the importance of love, Ian interrupted.

“The very most important item at this moment is Isabella’s
Belt,” Ian said.

Her gaze jerked to her open doorway but, despite Ian’s
forbidding expression, she said evenly, “In a manner of speaking. Money is
important. Which you might equate to Isabella’s Belt.”

“I? What about you?”

Rogelio, sliding off her bed, beat a hasty retreat out of
the room. Ian stalked to her bedside and perched on it like a carrion waiting
for its victim’s last breath.

“Why would somebody want to kill you, Tiffany?”

“Who put me in my pajamas? You?”

“Dios, no. Esmeralda would not allow such impropriety while
she was awake to prevent it.” He took her hands and gazed intently into her
eyes.

She fought the lure of concern she saw in those dark depths,
the promise of safety if she would only trust him. But she couldn’t trust him,
not when two attempts had been made on her life. Not when, both times, he was
practically the only one who knew where she would be. Esmeralda might have told
Emilio, but neither of them would do anything to endanger Rogelio. That left
Ian and someone to help him give the appearance of innocence. Someone who was
as much a monster as Ian himself and preyed on innocent little boys.

At that thought she averted her gaze from Ian’s ensorcelling
eyes and focused on the picture of her ankle that hung on the wall. That, if
nothing else, convinced her she couldn’t trust him.

Ian followed her gaze, then turned back to regard her with a
satisfied gleam in his eyes. “An incriminating piece of evidence. That picture
was taken when you visited the Musée de Luxembourg. The day Isabella’s Belt was
stolen.”

Recognizing his game, TC grinned and tilted her chin.
“Circumstantial evidence, at best. More like a fortuitous coincidence.”

“Fortuitous?” he repeated, clearly taken aback by her choice
of words.

“Certainly for whoever did steal Isabella’s Belt.”

“An interesting theory. Let us assume, only for the moment,
that you are guilty of nothing more than monumental stupidity.”

Remembering her conversation with Sir James, TC blushed, but
managed to say in an even tone laced with irony, “Thanks for your confidence in
me.”

With catlike grace, Ian waved aside her comment and fixed
her with the intense gaze of a jaguar ready to pounce.

“If you did not steal Isabella’s Belt, why would somebody
want to kill you?”

“I didn’t and I don’t think anybody does.” At his blank
look, she patted his hand in a patronizing manner she knew would irritate the
hell out of him. He glared. She grinned. “Look, if somebody’s a good enough
shot to crease my scalp, he easily could have put a bullet in my brain.”

“Precisely what he intended to do. Only a ‘fortuitous
coincidence’—you happened to be moving instead of sitting still—saved you.”

Feeling the blood leave her brain, TC gasped and clutched
the covers to her chest.

“You are frightened. Good,” he said, smiling grimly. “About
bloody damn time. Now, for the last time, why does somebody want you dead?”

“Couldn’t Rogelio have been the sniper’s target? You know,
some enemy of Emilio’s taking his revenge out on the child?”

Ian reached into his back pocket and pulled out a set of
handcuffs.

TC stared at them, then looked up at his stony expression
and voiced a nervous giggle. “Unless you’re a sworn member of some police
agency, you can’t arrest me.”

He reached for her wrists. She buried her hands and the
sheet under her hips and held on tight. He would have to strip the bed before
she let him get hold of her.

When he continued to stare at her in icy silence, TC huffed
once and gave in. “Oh, all right! I have a reputation among certain less savory
elements for ruthlessness.” His eyebrows twitched as if he agreed with her
detractors. “By that I mean I’m tenacious. I stick with a case until I recover
the goods. Well, aren’t you going to say something?”

“Maybe. If I can translate your crimo-babble.”

TC gaped. Then, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a
protest, she closed her mouth and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Let us see if I understood you correctly.” Ian stood and
paced to the French doors to her balcony. Shoving his hands into his slacks
pockets, he turned to face her, his expression faintly derisive. “Someone wants
to kill you because he or she—let us not be sexist about this—thinks you can
find Isabella’s Belt.”

“And the real thief.”

“So, the attempt on your life was not a falling-out among
thieves.”

So much for the tender man of earlier this morning, TC
thought, narrowing her eyes at the insult he had just given her. “I think you’d
better leave.” Her voice was as cold as the ice blanketing the sentinel
mountains.

“Why should I?”

Huffing her impatience, she flung back the covers and,
holding onto the bedpost for support, eased to her feet. She refused to give
him the pleasure of watching her take a nose-dive into the throw rug. Nor would
she let him see how difficult just standing was. “Because I’m going to take a
shower. Then, after I dress, I’m going downstairs and ask Esmeralda to have her
cook fix me a platter of cholesterol. You know, eggs, bacon, that kind of
thing.”

“A shower, huh?”

“Yep.”

“How are you going to get there?” He sneered.

“About like you would, only on two feet.”

“The lady bites,” he said and laughed. “You can barely
stand, Tiffany darling. You are sweating and I bet you feel dizzy.”

“Shut up, would you? Just…shut up. And women perspire. We
don’t sweat.” Weary beyond belief, she sank to the bed and covered her flushed
face with her hands. “If I could take a shower, I’d feel human again.”

Damian heard the fear in her voice and knew she needed more
than a shower. She needed to feel safe again, if only for a few hours. “All
right. I give up.” He waited until she looked up at him, then started to
unbutton his shirt.

“W-what are you doing?”

“You do not expect me to ruin a perfectly good silk shirt
solely for the sake of your tardy modesty, do you?”

“N-no. Of course not.”

Holding his lips firm against a smile, he watched her gaze
dart to the floor, then back to him.

“Too bad we do not have some music. Something suitable for
stripping.”

When she blushed, he covered his laugh with a cough and
reached for his zipper.

“Silk trousers?” she sniped, her gaze flying from floor to
window, like a tennis ball batted between two baseline sluggers.

He slid his shirt off and watched her blush deepen. Her
lashes fluttered down, twin flags of surrender.

“Silk shorts.”

Her eyes popped open and she swallowed audibly. “I’m not
getting into a shower with you naked.”

“Why not? You will be.”

“Because every time I get naked with you, we end up…”

“Making love?”

“Having sex.”

“That is supposed to be my line.” He had said far cruder
things to the woman in St. Anton and since, but this Tiffany was not that
woman. This Tiffany was more vulnerable. And even though it went against his
conscience, he would seduce her to get the information he needed.

“Then why didn’t you say it?”

That brought him up short. He raked his fingers through his
hair and went to sit beside her on the bed. Realizing he was about to give her
tremendous power over him, knowing he had to say the words despite the risk, he
willed a laconic tone into his voice.

“I did not say it because it is not true. When I hold you,
kiss you, join our bodies, it is more than ‘having sex’, Tiffany darling. You
fill me.”

She laughed. “I think you have that backward. You’re a
rogue, Ian Soria.”

Wounded by the relief in her voice, although it was what he
had wanted, Damian managed a lascivious smile, then assumed the posture and
voice of his father’s valet. “Does my lady wish to disrobe here or in the
bathroom?”

“The lady does not wish to disrobe at all.”

“Then the lady does not wish to shower,” he stated flatly.

From between clenched teeth, she growled, “The lady would
kill for a shower and shampoo.”

“No shampoo. You have stitches. That is why I—why Esmeralda
had your hair washed last night, before the doctor got here.”

She narrowed her eyes and tilted her chin until she looked
down her nose at him. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the impertinent button
at the end, but he got the message. She was madder than hell.

“You lying, yellow-bellied snake. You did undress me. You
took advantage of me while I was unconscious, you…you—”

“I told you before, Tiffany, luv, do not say anything you
will regret.”

“The only thing I regret is making love with you. And my
name’s TC!”

Damian shucked his shoes, socks and slacks, then paced to
the bed.

“Get away from me.” She tucked her chin and held up her
fists like a boxer. Her eyes fastened resolutely on his face.

“We can do this easy or hard, Tiffany darling,” he said and
saw her eyes flare—with passion, he hoped, but more likely with rage.

“If you’re not out of here in two seconds, I’ll scream the
house down.”

“Hard it is then.” Ducking under her guard, he hoisted her
over his shoulder.

She shrieked, pummeled his back, then slumped, dead weight.
Betting himself she was grinning like a hellhound about to feed, he grunted and
staggered into the bathroom.

Depositing her on the closed toilet seat, he turned on the
shower and adjusted the temperature. When he turned back, he found her staring
at the tile enclosure with both longing and trepidation.

“We might try a compromise,” he suggested, tucking her hair
into a shower cap while she sat motionless. Silent. “Okay, then, I guess we
will not.” He reached for her buttons, only to have his hands caught in hers.

“Wh-what sort of compromise?”

“I shall stand guard while you bathe.”

“Stand guard against whom? You’re the only blackguard in
here. Unless, of course, you plan to let the sniper in so he can finish the
job.”

Noting her suddenly pale face, Damian said gently, “Do not
frighten yourself, Tiffany. I shall even turn my back while you undress.”

“And you’ll stay out of the shower?”

“If you promise to shout if you feel faint, yes.”

“All right.” She stood, wobbling slightly, but waved off his
silent offer of support. “Well, turn around.”

“Promise.”

“I promise. Now turn around.”

He did, but he watched her reflection in the steamy bathroom
mirror. She glanced at him every few seconds until, apparently, the lure of hot
water overcame her shyness. Even slowed by her injury, the sight of Tiffany
taking off her pajamas was the most erotic image in his world.

Her left shoulder appeared. Every muscle in his body
tightened. Inch by agonizing inch, she eased the cranberry-colored silk off her
right shoulder and let it slide down her back. Damian briefly closed his eyes,
but opened them in time to see the twin mounds of her delicious derriere wiggle
free of their silk cocoon.