ItTakesaThief (16 page)

“I am not Charles Cartierri!” he snapped.

“Thank God!” She glared at him, then lowered her lashes and
took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I guess that descent into Muzo frightened me
more than I thought.” Forcing a smile, she added, “William was the daredevil in
the family.”

“I am…sorry for your loss.”

“I’m not. William’s at peace. Finally.” She heard Ian’s deep
sigh and said, “It’s complicated, Ian, and the memories are painful.”

“You must have loved him very much.”

“William was my best friend.” Seeing something akin to pain
flit across Ian’s face, she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “William’s
best friend was named Jerry.”

He curled his fingers around her cheek. She leaned into the
caress and fought her tears. “William and I had a marriage of mutual
protection. But, since William died and I failed again—this time to give
Charles the male heir he wanted—all bets are off.” She shrugged off Ian’s hand,
stood and paced away.

“Meaning Charles set you up as the only viable suspect in
the theft of Isabella’s Belt?”

“Meaning it’s a possibility. Meaning I can’t prove anything.
Meaning my own stupidity got me into this mess. Meaning,” she said, turning to
face Ian squarely, “I’ve said far too much already. I’m going to bed. I hope
the couch isn’t too uncomfortable.”

“I shall manage.” Stopping her at the bedroom door, Ian
added, “I still owe you an explanation for all this.”

Anger surging through her, she whirled to face him again.
“I’ve confessed to stealing the Belt. Why don’t you just arrest me and get this
over with?”

“Are you also confessing to murder?”

“Of course not! I told you before, I’ve never physically
hurt anyone. What more do you want?”

“Whoever murdered those poor people.”

“Well I didn’t!”

“I know.”

Damian watched her eyes widen, lighten until they were the
color of spring grass.

“You believe me?”

“Is that not what you wanted? Is that not why you tried to
seduce me in the car this afternoon?” Crossing his arms over his chest, he
grinned. Too late to recall it when she spun away.

“Go to hell, Ian Soria. And shove your explanation for all
this up your arrogant— Just shove it!”

“If you want to get out of this mess, Tiffany darling, you
have to trust somebody.”

“Well, it sure as hell won’t be you.”

To his surprise she closed the door with a quiet click, but
the lock shot home like a thunderbolt.

He had used anger to drive her away. Anger, when all he
wanted was to carry her into the bedroom, then lose himself in her silken
warmth. Incapable of anger himself, he had poked at her until she had had no
other choice but to lock herself away. If anger was what it took to keep his
cock in check, he would use it. When it came to Tiffany, he would use anything
to keep from wanting her.

Feeling as helpless as a newborn foal, Damian wandered the
living room and finally arrived at the windows. Shoving aside the sheer inner
drape, he looked out over a city filled with pinpoints of light, of hope. He
had brought her here to keep her safe, to make her trust him and, yes, to make
love to her. To make her love him.

With a fatalistic groan he admitted that what Tiffany had
said was true. She would never trust him, but he knew someone she might.

Picking up the phone, he secured an outside line and dialed.
“Nick? No, she did not buy it. Yeah, I think you should come over in the
morning. No, I will not be here. Do not expect it to be easy.” As he hung up he
added under his breath, “Even if she does trust you.”

* * * * *

“Why don’t you go home, hire yourself a good attorney and
get this over with?” Nick Troy asked early the following morning. Lounging on
the couch in her suite, his feet on the low glass table, a cup of steaming
coffee in his hand, Nick looked relaxed and disgustingly well rested.

Having caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror,
TC knew she looked like something not quite human. Her eyes were puffy from
lack of sleep. Her lips sagged at the corners. Even her hair drooped. She felt
like a Sharpei, all sad eyes and sagging skin.

“Well, why don’t you?” Nick prodded.

“Charles Cartierri’s daughter admit to being a thief? Heaven
forbid! The scandal aside, I
was
a thief. More to the point, there’s enough
evidence to make a case against me now.”

“Aren’t you overreacting? As far as I know, except for the
video tape of you at the Luxembourg, there’s no evidence against you.”

Allowing Nick his deception—or was she protecting Ian by not
telling Nick that she knew about Interpol’s false evidence against her—she
said, “What about the murdered men? Wasn’t there any physical evidence on their
bodies? No skin under their fingernails? No hair follicles?”

“You’re assuming they were in close proximity to their killer.”

“Yes. Even in the basement vault, the murderer wouldn’t risk
the noise of a gun. Even with a silencer, he couldn’t chance the men falling
and setting off an alarm. A knife is quieter, but blood—even a little—might get
on the murderer’s hands or shoes, leaving prints. No, they had to be killed
where the murderer could control them and the situation completely.”

“Hey, you’re pretty good at this.” Nick raised his cup as if
making a toast to her.

Eschewing the obvious retort that she’d had a bit of
experience, TC shrugged. “The papers didn’t say how they were killed.”

“And I’m not at liberty to say.” Nick put his feet on the
floor and refilled his cup from the nearby carafe.

“If I had completed security in the museum, I’d have put
infrareds throughout the building. At the very least, I’d have installed them
in the rooms immediately surrounding the exhibit. Obviously, if the thief had
tried to steal the Belt from the Luxembourg and got as far as the exhibit room,
there’s a good chance he would escape even if the alarms went off. Especially—”

“What?”

“If he came in overhead to avoid the sensors altogether.”

“Tiffany—” He stood and began to pace.

“TC,” she automatically corrected.

“TC, could there have been two thieves—one to control each
of the bank employees?”

Feeling a pang of guilt for shamelessly pumping him, she
quieted her conscience. Nick’s guileless answers had raised too many new
questions. Why, for instance, hadn’t Ian told Nick that she had taken
Isabella’s Belt from the bank? Didn’t Ian trust his cohort? Or had Ian not
heard her confession? Damn!
If I have to summon the courage to confess
again…

Through her lashes she peered at her companion and thought
she might have developed an overly suspicious nature. With that open face,
those innocent baby-blue eyes, Nick couldn’t lie any better than she could fly
on her own willpower. Pursing her lips, she silently scoffed at herself. She’d
read enough spy stories and mysteries to know that the person who looked the
most innocent always turned out to be the villain.

Which probably meant that Charles Cartierri was pure as
virgin snow.

“Yeah and pigs can fly.”

“Pardon?”

Seeing Nick’s confused and somewhat injured expression, she
grinned. “Nick, you’re a genius!” she said and launched herself into his arms.

Her impetus propelled them onto the couch. Limbs entangled,
they were laughing like school kids when a soft, deadly voice brought their
merriment to an end.

“I hope I am not intruding at an inopportune moment,” Ian
said as he crossed the room like a schoolyard bully spoiling for a fight.

TC lifted her chin as she stood. “It’s your suite. You’re
free to come and go as you please.”

“Hey, you two,” Nick interrupted, “let’s not have a row.
Tiff, why don’t you tell Ian what we just—”

“Later, Nick. Tiffany and I are going shopping.” Even with
him standing loose-limbed, TC recognized the anger just under his civilized
veneer.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Easy or hard, Tiffany, luv. It is up to you.”

Glaring up at Ian, she pursed her lips and tried to out
stare him. “Oh, all right!” she snarled when he didn’t so much as blink. “Nick,
please join us for dinner. Maybe by then the ogre will feel like celebrating
with us.”

To her delight, Nick ignored Ian’s glare, bowed over her
hand and took his leave with a devil-take-the-hindmost swagger in his stride.

“Lord, you’re a rude man,” she said to her brooding
companion.

“How would you feel if you walked in and found me groping
some blonde bimbo?”

Sensing Ian’s impatience to be off, she sauntered into the
bedroom, freshened her makeup, then plaited her hair into a French braid,
noting the need to cover her bald spot stitches.

“This isn’t worth discussing, but if I were Nick, I’d pick
my friends more carefully,” she shouted as she assessed her looks in the
mirror. Gone was the hangdog expression she had worn earlier. A battle light
shone in her eyes and a smile of anticipation hovered around her lips.

Going to the armoire, she selected a silk suit. Crimson in
color, it accented the not unbecoming flush in her cheeks. Its simple cut
hugged her body in all the right places and reeked of money to burn. So, Ian
wanted to go shopping, did he? Well, she would show him how a
life-in-the-fast-lane, former international jewel thief shopped. And if he
didn’t feel as if he had assumed the national debt, she’d eat her Manolo
Blahniks.

* * * * *

“Come on,” Ian urged several hours later, “it will be fun.
You cannot come to Bogotá and not visit the gold museum.”

“Just don’t try recouping your losses in here,” TC warned,
eyeing the mound of packages on the seat facing them in the long, sleek
limousine. When he looked puzzled, she added, “Don’t steal anything.”

His hand over his heart, he said, “Ah, querida, how you
wound me. I did not spend one peso more than I can afford.”

“Why, I wonder?”

“I am besotted with you, Tiffany, luv, but I am not a fool.
Only a very foolish man spends more than he can afford solely to impress a
woman. Besides, you needed some respite from your stress.”

Quirking an eyebrow at
her stress
, she said, “I
meant, I wonder why you spent anything at all. My wardrobe is more than
adequate. What are you up to, Ian?”

“Here we are. The Museo de Oro.”

He helped her out of the limousine, then gave the driver
instructions to take their purchases to the hotel and return for them in an hour.

Gazing after the car, TC said, “I hope we haven’t seen the
last of him.”

“What a distrusting little minx you are.”

“With good reason,” she muttered, following him into the
museum, narrowing her eyes on his wide back when he sauntered in as if he owned
the place and did not pay a peso to gain admittance.

Gold wasn’t her passion. In her design work, she used it
only as a binding, an element to enhance the stones, the emeralds especially.
Still, she dutifully followed Ian from room to room, pausing when he paused,
muttering—appropriately, she hoped—when he stopped to admire some particular
pieces, notably those depicting the legend of Eldorado and, in the Dorado Hall,
the Quimbaya tribe collection.

“You seem unimpressed,” Ian said, catching her looking for an
exit.

“Oh, I’m impressed. It’s just that—well, it’s a little like
touring all of Hearst Castle in one day. You’re so inundated with beautiful
artifacts that you find yourself thinking, ‘Oh, another jade statue. How
quaint.’”

“And?” he prompted, accurately sensing she had more to say.

“I realize the Colombian tribes were like any other
people—happy, sad, passionate—but I prefer another legend, that of Fura and
Tena over that of Eldorado.”

“I do not believe I know that one.”

She snorted her disbelief, but asked, “Would you like to
hear it?”

“If you would like to tell it.”

“Ever the gentleman,” she muttered sarcastically, then went
on. “In the valley of the Muzo indians, the god Are created the first humans,
Fura and Tena. They did not grow old, but lived in ageless innocence until the
day a stranger entered their valley and seduced Fura. Tena felt so betrayed
that he committed suicide. Even though it was too late to save his life, the
gods took pity on the remorseful and grieving Fura. They gave her a gift and
turned her tears into the most beautiful emeralds in the world.”

“But she still lost Eden.”

“Yes. She still lost Eden.”
And the love of her life, the
other half of herself
.

“Why does that story intrigue you, while you dismiss the
legend of Eldorado like you would a pesky mosquito?”

TC sighed and wondered if she could explain it, even to
herself. “The legend of Eldorado is about greed, while that of Fura and Tena is
about forgiveness.” Knowing she had revealed more than she wanted to, she
shrugged. “We all make mistakes, Ian. At one time or another, we all deserve
forgiveness.”

Looking down at her, Ian placed a brief kiss on her lips.
“We are becoming far too morose.” He took her arm and propelled her along.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere I can have my wicked way with you.” He waggled
his eyebrows.

Moments later, TC heard the vault door close and felt a
sudden chill chase down her spine. Her hands were clammy, perspiration formed
in the valley between her breasts, at her hairline and upper lip. This was how
she would feel if imprisoned. Nauseated. Weak-kneed. Alone.

“What is wrong?” Ian whispered, snaking his arm around her
waist.

“Nothing,” she muttered, closing her eyes against the
brilliance of gold. Row upon row of gold coins, masks, fish and frogs, gods and
daggers. One particular mask—lacking eyeballs and teeth but having a golden
nose and nostrils—grinned menacingly. The glare made her eyes burn and her head
hurt. The press of tourists crowded into the Museo de Oro vault made her feel
claustrophobic, hemmed in, without any hope of escape.