ItTakesaThief (12 page)

His entire body clenched, he began to hum
The Stripper
.
Tiffany grinned at him over her shoulder, then vanished into a cloak of steam.
Acknowledging she had paid him back in spades, laughing in admiration, he
called out, “Careful, Tiffany darling. I might consider your behavior a breach
of promise.”

“Warm up a towel for me, will you, Ian, darling? There’s a
love.”

Certain she was up to no good, glad he had made sure there
was nothing in the shower she could fashion into a weapon, Damian turned on the
towel warmer and rested his hips against the sink. Rubbing his chin, he tried
to get inside her head. In spite of everything he knew about her, both from her
dossier and personally, he could not begin to predict her thoughts. Or what she
might do next.

Her hand emerged from behind the glass door.

“I do not think the towel is warm yet.”

“It’ll do.”

“In good conscience, I cannot let you wrap up in a cold
towel.”

Her head appeared, minus the shower cap. Her expression
assessing, she drawled, “When do you think it might be warm enough?”

“Probably by the time you walk from there to here.”

“In that case I’ll stay in the shower.” She slammed the
door. In a few seconds he heard the water running again and a clear, true
contralto singing
Aupres de Ma Blonde
with rollicking enthusiasm. She
sang verses he knew she had not learned in any high school French class.

“I think the towel is warm enough now,” he shouted over the
din. To no avail. Sung in idiomatic Spanish, the next song out of her luscious
mouth was one about Esperanza not knowing how to cha-cha.

Abruptly the singing stopped.

Tired of her games, knowing she was far too stubborn to
admit exhaustion, he grabbed a towel and tromped to the shower. Opening the
door with a vicious jerk, he found Tiffany huddled in the corner, her eyes wide
with terror, her hair matted with blood.

With a feral growl, Damian threw aside the towel and pulled
Tiffany into his arms. Standing under the showerhead, he held her quaking body
in a fiercely protective embrace. When her trembling eased, he soothed her with
nonsense words and gentle hands that stroked through her hair and cleared away
the globs. Globs he realized were not blood at all, but a viscous sludge having
the color and coppery stench of blood.

“Tiffany darling, where did this come from?” he softly asked
when she wrapped her arms around him like ivy clinging to a tree.

“U-up there.” Her head tilted upward, but her eyes remained
resolutely closed.

Damian stared at the tiled ceiling, only now seeing the
additional heads. Those seemed to be where the fake blood had come from.
Cursing under his breath at his own stupidity, he eased Tiffany out of the
enclosure and wrapped her in a warm towel. Drying her with brisk strokes
intended to warm her, he tried to ignore her chattering teeth and his body’s
response to her nearness.

Not now,
he told himself even as a greedy little
voice insisted that making love was what she needed to banish her terror. With
a wry grimace, he conceded it was what he needed to banish his fear for her.
His body poised for flight or fight, he drew a deep breath to calm himself. He
needed to get them out of here, but knew any announcement of that fact would
panic her more. He also needed to stay, to investigate how someone had violated
the security of the Santana compound.

Wrapping his arm around Tiffany’s shoulders, he guided her
into the bedroom. She did not resist when he seated her at the dressing table
and, taking care not to touch her stitches, combed the tangles from her hair.

“Why don’t you get dressed?” he suggested when she finally
opened her eyes. “Then we’ll go downstairs and load up on cholesterol.”

Her eyes haunted emerald pools, she looked up at him. “Where
are you going?”

“To the bathroom.” With a broad wink that brought twin spots
of color to her cheeks, he tweaked her nose. Grateful she had misunderstood his
intent, he strode away.

“You’ll find plastic bags in my makeup case,” she said in a
quivery yet determined voice.

So much for fooling her. He smiled grimly and went to
collect whatever evidence might remain on the shiny, obviously new fixtures in
the shower ceiling.

When he returned a few minutes later, Tiffany was slipping her
slender feet into low-heeled loafers and smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her
black slacks. She glanced at him, then focused on the two empty bags he held
loosely in his right hand. In the brief moment before she turned her attention
to her hair, gathering it into a loose knot at her nape, he saw her
determination to get to the bottom of these attacks.

“I don’t think we should mention this,” she said. He nodded,
then put the plastic bags back in her case. “Not even to Emilio.”

“I cannot do that, Tiffany,” Damian protested. “This is a
serious breach of his security. Emilio not only has the right to know, he must
be told so he can correct the problem.”

“Or do more than terrorize me next time. Next time he might
use acid instead of fake blood.”

“Don’t be so bloody paranoid!”

“Paranoid, am I? With three attempts on your life, wouldn’t
you be a little paranoid?”

“Three attempts?”

“Three. The two here and the one in London. Or is your
memory so bloody selective you’ve forgotten London?” Seeming to throw caution
to the wind, she rounded on him. “Isn’t it strange that in each instance you’ve
been nearby? What’s your role in all this, Ian?” She drawled his name as if she
knew it was not his real name, then whirled away, only to meet his gaze in the
mirror. “Just hanging around to finish me off if the next fall or the next
bullet don’t do the job? If the next bloody shower doesn’t scare me to death?”

He crossed the room in two long strides. Grabbing her arms
in a grip he could see hurt her, he turned her to face him, barely resisting
the impulse to shake her until her teeth rattled.

“I am on your side, Tiffany, whether you believe me or not.”

“I don’t believe you.” Teeth bared, she glared at him.

“Why? You trusted me enough to make love with me.”

“That was a mistake.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It shouldn’t have happened. You were supposed to be—”
Blushing, embarrassment blazing from her eyes, she pulled from his grasp.
Rubbing her arms, she backed away from him.

“I was supposed to be what? A one-night-stand?”

“Y-yes!” she snapped, her stutter betraying the lie. Her
eyes were as vulnerable as those of the little girl he had seen in the grainy
photograph.

“You trusted me until you got that note.”

“What note?” Her voice dripped sarcasm, but her chin, now
tilted to an imperious angle, quivered.

“You are a miserable liar, Tiffany Cartierri. The note you
threw in the wastepaper basket at Hunter Hall. You knew I would find it and
come after you. You wanted me to come after you because you do trust me.”

“I don’t,” she insisted, but her shoulders slumped and her
chin lowered. “I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

He raked his fingers through his hair and glared at her.
“What do you suggest? I cannot be on guard every second.”

“Of course not. Besides, I’m not your responsibility. I can
take care of myself.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“By calling for reinforcements. I intend to call Sir James
and—”

“No!” he shouted, grabbing her shoulders, again resisting
giving her a hard shake. “I do not trust him.”

“And I no longer trust Emilio. So where do we go from here?”

“We could call your father.”

“Absolutely not!”

Pleased by her implacable attitude—he did not want either
man anywhere near her, though he could not explain why—he offered, “I suppose I
could call Nick.”

Wariness shining from her eyes, she said, “Nick who?”

“Nick Troy. He is…sort of…an agent.”

“‘Sort of an agent’? Is that anything like being ‘sort of
pregnant’?”

Her voice challenged him, but mischief danced in her eyes.
And, he noted with pride in her resilience, color had returned to her face.
Maybe he should keep her frightened. If he scared her badly enough, she might
do as he told her.

Straightening the shawl collar on her emerald green sweater,
he grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “Sort of.”

Her sudden smile inverted and she frowned up at him. “Is this
a trick?”

“This?”

She pulled from his light grasp, paced away and then whirled
to face him. “How do I know that the fall in London, the sniper yesterday and
the blood today weren’t your doing? How do I know that this ‘sort of agent’
friend of yours won’t arrest me for past indiscretions?”

“Or for that matter, for stealing Isabella’s Belt and
murdering two men,” he snapped, immediately regretting that her mistrust of him
had loosened his tongue.

Her face even paler than it had been in the shower, she
stuttered, “You do think I murdered those poor people.”

“Damn it, Tiffany, I am sorry for springing that on you.” He
went to her but, sensing she wanted to slug him, he did not touch her.

“In all the years I was in the business… In all the years
I’ve worked for… I never hurt anyone. But I’m sure that’s in my dossier, if you
cared to look for it instead of condemning me out of hand.”

Throwing out concerns for his own safety, Damian crushed her
to him. “Listen, Tiffany, I realize things look pretty suspicious from both our
perspectives. But who can we trust at this point except each other?”

Surprising him by not struggling to free herself, Tiffany
sagged in his arms and buried her face in his neck. “I don’t trust you. I
can’t.”

“You do trust me. You just do not know it yet. Besides, who
else will help you get out of this mess? Sir James? Your father?”

“I especially don’t trust Charles.”

“But you do trust Sir James?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Sighing, she slipped from his arms
and rubbed her temples. “Until the fiasco in Paris, I’d have trusted Sir James
with my life.”

“What happened to change that, Tiffany love?”

Her smile bitter, she raised her haunted gaze to his face.
“Let’s just say I was more monumentally stupid than you think.”

Damian knew he should not touch her. Her eyes had lost their
luster, reminding him again of that girl in the photograph. Having seen her
naked, he knew her bruises had faded, but her face, chest and stomach still
looked as if someone had beaten her without mercy. Her damp bangs drooped over
her forehead, but he could see the stitches poking through the strands José had
lobbed off in order to close the wound. He needed to question her about her
stupidity and the Paris fiasco, but she looked so shell-shocked, Damian’s chest
hurt.

Reminding himself that Yulie had looked this forlorn and
devastated when they told her about Michael’s death, Damian backed away from
Tiffany. She was more than a person of interest in the Paris fiasco. She was
his only suspect. No matter how much he wanted to…fuck her, he thought,
ruthlessly rejecting more tender emotions, he would not.

If he proved her guilty of the theft and murders, he would
not give her the means to destroy him. He would not become the fool for love
that his brother had been. No matter how much he wanted to…make love with her,
he would do his duty.

Chapter Eight

The next morning, after a long talk by telephone with Nick
Troy, Damian again confronted Tiffany in her bedroom. With what he now knew he
could have her arrested, but he wanted to see if she would come with him
willingly.

“I’m not going to Paris,” she said unequivocally, as if she
knew what he had unearthed. Or rather, what had been handed to Interpol on a
sterling silver platter.

Lounging on a chaise, Damian clenched his teeth and strove
for a nonchalant tone of voice to match his sprawl. “Why not? This evidence
sounds like just what you need to clear you.”

Turning from the French doors, she fixed him with a glare of
total disbelief. “I didn’t realize I was under serious suspicion,” she drawled,
her voice dripping sarcasm.

Damian snorted. “Do not play the fool with me, Tiffany
Cartierri. You were in the bank the morning of the theft. The bank where the
Belt was secured pending installation in the Luxemburg museum.”

“So?”

“Nick says you have led a rather colorful life. One that has
brought you to Interpol’s attention on several occasions.”

“Nick says, does he? He, of course, has personal knowledge
of my ‘colorful life’. Knowledge that gives him insight into my motives for
stealing Isabella’s Belt.”

“Of course.” Ticking his fingers, Damian said, “One, greed.
A woman can never be too beautiful or too rich in her own right. Two, lust to
own something no one else in the world owns. Three, revenge for a falling-out
among thieves.”

“Nick has a wild imagination.”

“What Nick has is opportunity and motive.”

“But not the means. How did I do it? Sneak in through the
sewers?” Sneering, she added, “You’ve seen too many movies.”

At her sudden flush, Damian suspected she had revealed
something she had not intended to reveal. Was it possible to get into the bank
through the sewers? he wondered, silently noting to have Nick check. He tried
to decide how an innocent Tiffany could know such a thing, but did not like the
answer. An innocent Tiffany would not know.

Rising from the chaise, he crossed to Tiffany’s side and
captured both her hands in his. “Why will you not come to Paris with me?”

“Aside from the fact that Interpol could arrest me, you
mean?” Shaking her head, she freed her hands and stepped away from him. “The
answers aren’t in Paris, Ian, they’re here.”

“How do you know?” He did not quibble over the fact that
Interpol could not arrest her—that if she went to Paris, only the Paris police
could do so.

“Because you… Nick would have heard something more than this
cockamamie story about evidence to prove me innocent.”

“How do you know Nick has not heard anything?”

Her sudden smile made him grin back. “You’re still here.”
Patting his cheek in a way that caused him to clench his teeth again, she said,
“If you had heard so much as a whisper, you’d be off like a shot.”

Before the woman finished with him he would have worn his
teeth to stubs, he thought, unable to fault her logic. But he could not allow
her to continue intimating he was a cop.

“Why do you persist in thinking I am involved with the law?
I assure you, Tiffany darling, I am nothing more than a simple businessman.”

Tapping the side of her nose, she uttered an expletive he
translated as ‘manure’.

“If it talks like a cop, thinks like a cop and smells like a
cop, it usually is a cop.”

“And you have had vast experience with the police?”

Waggling her eyebrows like a female Tom Selleck, she gave
him a shove that nearly put him on his ass. “Ask Nick. He knows all about my
‘colorful’ past.”

“Damn it, Tiffany,” Damian snarled, catching her arm and
whirling her to face him, “this is not a game.”

“I know that! It’s my life on the line here, Ian. But there
are others whose reputations are at stake, as well. I won’t risk accusing the
wrong person, letting the real criminal, the m-murderer, go free just to
satisfy your curiosity about my supposedly lurid past.” She snuggled against
him and looked up at him with a melting gaze. “And if you ever manhandle me
again,” she murmured, rubbing her leg against his groin, “I’ll make sure you
never have children.”

Damian released her and stepped back with a swiftness he
might have found funny in a movie. He did not find it at all amusing now,
however. It reminded him that this woman was potentially lethal.

“What will it take for you to open up to me?” he asked, a
note of pleading in his voice he despised. Without touching him, the woman was
making a eunuch of him.

“Bribery, Ian? My, my, how low the high-and-mighty have
fallen.”

“An exchange of information. You tell me who you suspect and
I tell you who Nick suspects.”

“No.”

She regarded him with an implacable stare, a look that
conveyed determination to hold her ground and disappointment in him. The
disappointment, he supposed, was justified. His tactics reeked of betrayal. Of
Nick, ergo possibly of her.

“Okay, fine. You stay here and look for monsters under the
bed. I shall go to Paris and return with the evidence to clear you.”

“Just how are you going to do that, Mr. Simple Businessman?
Walk into Interpol and say, ‘My bird’s in a spot of trouble with you blokes. I
want to clear her, so hand over the goods.’ Get real.”

Damian threw up his hands and stalked away. She had done it
again, made him behave like a man whose brain served solely to separate his
ears. Perhaps if he confirmed, in part, what she already suspected, she would
help him. And herself.

“All right, you win. I sometimes do a bit of work for
Interpol.” Indirectly, when on loan from his insurance fraud investigation
company, or when Michael had asked for his assistance.

“Really?” Her face wore an expression of drop-dead shock
that made him want to laugh. “You have identification, of course.”

“Not on me,” he said cautiously, uneasy with the way his
stomach jittered as if he had driven into a deep dip and left his guts on the
crest of the hill. “You might have searched my luggage and found me out.”

“Yes, well, I found you out anyway.” She tapped the side of
her nose once more.

Resettling on the chaise he had vacated earlier, he said,
“How does a cop smell?”

“With his nose?” she suggested in a sugary voice that made
him snigger despite his resolve to impress upon her the gravity of her
situation.

“Seriously.”

“I was having dinner in a cafe in Humboldt County—that’s
California marijuana country and the locals are very protective of their crops.
Anyway, people kept glancing furtively at this one table of rough-looking men.
I figured they were local businessmen,” she said, slanting him a pointed look,
“but my friend set me straight.

“‘Narcs,’ she whispered.

“‘How can you tell?’ I whispered back.

“‘The same way kids can tell an undercover car, despite all
the disguised antennas and hidden microphones,’ she said and tapped the side of
her nose.”

“Have you ever considered an acting career?” Ian asked,
admiring her antics while deploring his reaction. Somehow he had to make her
see reason.

A bleak expression overwhelmed the merriment in her eyes.
“In a way, I’ve been on stage all my life.”

Yes
, Damian thought, recognizing the truth in her
words, yet unable to smother the insistent voice in his head that kept
repeating,
Sucker, she has done it to you again.

Feeling like Prometheus bound in chains and having his liver
eaten by a vulture, Damian ground his teeth. Maldicion del dios! Somehow he had
to force the truth from her. He could have her arrested. When faced with
imprisonment she might—finally—tell the truth. Might. The woman was stubborn
enough to take her secrets to the grave. If intimidation would not work, he
would use another means to win her to his side.

He tilted her chin. Something in his eyes must have given
him away because she looked down at his crotch, then licked her lips. His cock
pulsed. Her pupils dilated and her breath soughed out on a shaky exhalation.
Her hands jerked to his chest as if she intended to push him away.

“Querida,” he murmured, wanting to haul her into his arms.

Her fingers dug into his sweater, then curled around his
neck. Rising on her tiptoes, she brushed his lips with her own. “I don’t want
to fight with you.”

“Then do not fight.”
Mierda
, he wanted in her.
“Shit,” he said against her lips.

He wanted to rush as much as she did. Anger at her refusal
to come with him and guilt over using her passion against her still rampaged in
his veins. Sadness and mistrust filled her eyes. He needed to slow things down.
They had done fast and furious and only succeeded in building the issues
keeping trust at bay higher and higher. Perhaps sweet and slow could punch a
few holes in her stubbornness.

“Querida,” he repeated, sifting stands of ebony silk through
his fingers, massaging her scalp as well.

Pain flared in her eyes as she shoved at his hands. “If you
don’t want me—don’t want to have sex—just say so. I don’t need you—”

“But I do need you.”

Cupping her face, he placed gentle kisses over her forehead
and temples. Her hands stilled. Her fingers curled around his wrists as her
eyelids drifted closed. Pleasure sounds, part sigh, part purr, escaped her open
mouth. Her tongue swept over his lips, an invitation to taste her.

Brushing her lips with his, he returned to sip and nibble as
she pressed her body to his. Her back muscles felt tight under his hands, but
soon softened as he stroked his hands up and down. Their lips continued to meet
as if for the first time, a tender voyage of discovery. In complete accord,
their lips parted and their tongues began an ageless dance. They relearned each
other’s taste and the textures of teeth and cheeks and mating tongues.

She trembled. He drew back to rest his forehead on hers, her
sighs wafting over his face. Her hands covering his, she guided them to her
breasts. The nipples rose in his palms. His cock pulsed against her mons,
making her press her lower body even tighter to his.

“I don’t think I can stand much longer,” she whispered,
easing back her head to look into his eyes.

“You must. At least long enough for me—for us to undress
each other.”

Her lips parted on a soft smile and her hands drifted to his
waist. “You first.” Tugging on his sweater, she pulled it over his head before
running her tongue down his neck to his already hardening nipple. One hand
toyed with his unsucked nipple while her other hand sought his belt.

“You are rushing again,” he said.

Moving her hands to her blouse, she tore it open. Buttons
flew as she yanked it off then followed it with her lacy bra. “
That
’s
rushing,” she murmured, rubbing against him. “And I think you like it.”

She cupped his balls, squeezing gently until he grabbed her
ass, lifted her and then carried her to the bed. Tossing her onto it, he
followed her down and then pinned her hands on either side of her head. Fear
flashed in her eyes, soon replaced by feral need.

“You like knowing I can overpower you, yes?” Her tongue
darting across her lips, she nodded and rubbed her mound against his thigh. “I
like it as well. But I also like this.” Using his knee, he spread her legs open
then cupped her mons. He slid the material of her skirt and panties over her
folds and felt her juices flood the garments.

“Hmm.” Arching into his hand, she found his zipper and freed
his rigid cock. “We’re still wearing too many clothes. Me more than you,” she
added, noticing he had gone without underpants. “That seems really unfair,
Ian.”

“It does.” He tugged off her thong, but resumed stroking her
through her skirt.

“Ian,” she moaned, unable to keep it contained. She had no
control over her body. Where his skin met hers, she burned. Her breasts pressed
to his chest felt so swollen, they ached. The fabric he tormented her with was
soaked with her own juices. Need built to the point of agony only he could
ease.

Even his eyes on hers added to the flames skittering over
her flesh, sparking deep within her pussy. Intent, as if gauging every caress
and its effect on her body. She could almost hate him, he seemed so uninvolved.
She wanted to shove him away, gather the tattered remnants of her pride and
ignore the tears of frustration stinging her eyes.

“Mierda,” he whispered.

In that single word, he revealed a longing equal to her own.
His hands shaking, he yanked down her skirt and helped her kick it aside.

“Open for me,” he demanded from between clenched teeth.

“Lie back.” Shoving at his shoulders, she rolled on top,
glorying in the power he granted her.

“Pillows.” Even his arms trembled as he helped her push
several under his shoulders. “Now,” he said, holding his cock away from his
belly. “Ride me, querida.”

Inch by inch, she took him into her body. Inch by inch, she
celebrated the lust building in his dark eyes. Reveled in every drop of sweat
dotting his forehead and upper lip. Inch by inch, she rode him until he canted
forward, pushed her breasts together to suckle each nipple in rapid succession.
His hips rose and fell, hers a counterpoint of fall and rise, each stroke
rubbing her clit.

Her body tightened with the agony of reaching for release.
Her pussy clenched at his cock as he plunged, clutched to keep him inside when
he withdrew. Every stroke, out or in, tormented her clit. Frenzy building, his
cock pulsing deep inside sent her soaring, her cries of release melding with
his. As the waves subsided, she collapsed over his chest, luxuriating in his
scent and his hands stroking up and down her spine and buttocks.

She was on the verge of falling asleep when his words
crashed down on her like an avalanche of glacial snow.