ItTakesaThief (20 page)

Emilio Santana staggered to his feet. Reaching the front
door of the tiny cottage, he turned and said in a cold voice, “You are no
longer welcome in my home. You are dead to me and all my family.”

Damn, he should have seen that coming, Damian thought as he
paced to the kitchen, dismissing Nick with a jerk of his head. Santana was a
proud man and dedicated to his family’s safety. Damian should not have let
Tiffany convince him to keep silent about the ambush. Perfect vision, after the
fact. But Emilio’s reaction, though justified, did seem over-the-top. Damn it
to hell, had he been had again? Damian had the feeling his godfather had seized
the news of Rogelio’s presence at the mine as an excuse to escape without
having to explain what, besides emeralds, Charles Cartierri had wanted. It was
as though the vultures were gathering for the final feast, with Tiffany for
their entrée.

Squaring his shoulders, determined that Sir James Foster
would not get the better of him, Damian sat at the kitchen table and fixed
Tiffany’s mentor with his sternest look. “When did you first meet Tiffany?”

“Meet her or first see her?”

Damian waved dismissively. “Whichever.” Michael had taught
him that patience, letting the person proceed at his own pace often brought
better results than insisting on a certain order.

“I first saw her when she was six. Charles had brought her
to England to meet Esmé’s family before they married. I was invited to an
engagement party in Esmé and Charles’ honor. I shall always remember that
afternoon, how Tiffany looked when she bounded across the lawn, her pigtails
coming undone, her feet bare and mud-caked, her hands and pinafore filthy. In
her grasp she held the biggest, ugliest, slimiest frog I’d ever seen. And on
her face was the most joyous smile in Christendom.”

James Foster’s reminiscent smile faded. “Just when she
neared her father, her prize clearly intended for him, she tripped. The frog
flew from her hands, landed in Charles’ plate, then hopped across his white
linen suit, into a crowd of screaming women and laughing men.

“If there is one thing Charles Cartierri despises, it’s
being made to look the fool. Although in this instance, he himself played the
part. Esmé saved him. Just when he was about to strike the child, Esmé scooped
Tiffany into her arms and carried her off. I believed I had never seen such
sadness in anyone’s eyes, let alone those of a child. I was wrong.” He glanced
at his hands as if they held answers he needed, then continued. “Seven years
later, when we were formally introduced, there was no joy at all in her eyes.
Only sadness.”

“Dios,” Damian muttered, too able to recall the shadows in
Tiffany’s eyes. Almost as easily he could imagine the pure, unrestrained joy of
that six-year-old little girl. He wished he had known her then, wished he could
restore that joy. “What do you think happened during those seven years?”

Foster’s shrug looked stiff and almost painful. “I don’t
believe he beat her, if that’s what you’re implying. There are worse kinds of
abuse.”

When the lengthening silence threatened to become
uncomfortable, Damian prodded, “Such as?”

“Always falling short, never quite living up to your loved
one’s expectations, failing in some unexplained manner. Tiffany’s school grades
were mailed to Charles and Esmé at their summer residence in England. I recall
Tiffany telling Charles how difficult she’d found calculus, how many extra
hours she’d spent studying, how glad she was to have achieved a B. ‘All well
and good,’ Charles told her with a wide smile, one mirrored by her own. ‘But
had you truly applied yourself, you’d have gotten an A.’”

Remembering his father’s resounding “Bravo” when he had
managed a barely passing grade in English history, Damian felt an inconsolable
sadness descend upon him. Before he could sink into moroseness, he caught
himself. James Foster, if Damian believed Charles Cartierri, had a vested
interest in proving Tiffany’s innocence.

“Cartierri intimated that there had been some…aberrant
behavior on Tiffany’s part,” he said in an indifferent voice. And apparently
hit a nerve, for the unflappable James Foster flinched and his gray eyes
darkened.

“As to that, you’ll have to ask Charles.”

“He implied that your son was the cause for this change.”

“My stepson. William was my stepson, although I did adopt
him.” His earnest gaze slid to a point beyond Damian’s right shoulder.

“As did Charles Cartierri. Or so he led me to believe.”

“Not officially. Not legally. Charles promised to make
William his heir if Tiffany bore a son within a year of their marriage.”

“Which, I assume, she did not.”

“William was…very ill.”

“Unable to perform?” Damian drawled, unable and unwilling to
keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Yet Tiffany married him anyway.” Odd, that.
Why would a woman as lusty as Tiffany Cartierri marry a man who was virtually
at death’s door?

“They admired and respected each other. They made a handsome
couple.”

“And would have produced beautiful babies,” Damian sniped
while a wave of jealousy threatened to drown him. What did it matter if Tiffany
had lied about William’s homosexuality, had had a completely satisfying sex
life with her husband? The man was dead. But was he forgotten or did he haunt
her dreams? When Damian kissed her, caressed her, made love to her, did she
feel William’s lips, his hands, his body?

“Why does Tiffany hate her name?”

James Foster laughed, a rumble of genuine merriment.
“Wouldn’t you, were you in her place? The daughter of a renowned gemologist who
bears the name of another famous jeweler? I imagine she finds her name a
constant reminder…”

“Of her failure to live up to Charles Cartierri’s
expectations?”

“You should ask Tiffany.” Foster looked forthright, at least
enough that Damian believed him. Sir James was not trying to avoid the
question.

“Yes, I should.” If he could find her. “What brings you to
Bogotá, Sir James?”

“The same thing that brought you. Isabella’s Belt.”

“Ah, yes. You insured it.”

“Bijoux did, yes. For three-hundred-million pounds.” Damian
whistled. “Precisely. Tiffany believes that…”

“Believes what?”

“Again, you should ask her.”

“Yes, I believe I should.”
When I find her.

* * * * *

Wearier than he could remember ever feeling in his life,
Damian unlocked the door to his hotel suite, then reached for the light. Some instinct,
probably the most basic one of self-preservation, made him lower his hand and
quickly shut the door behind him.

Neon and starlight filtered into the room through the
windowpanes. Odd, he could have sworn he had closed the drapes. He crossed to
the window, closed the drapes with an impatient tug, then turned and ducked
behind the couch just as a flare of light came at him from the total darkness.

“I won’t bite,” a husky female voice promised, her laugh
luring him from his hiding place. “Unless, of course, you want me to.”

“Dios, Tiffany, you scared the life out of me,” he
complained, watching her extend a match to the candle. She blew out the match.

Her lips were the color of wild strawberries he could almost
taste. Her hair framed her face with teasing tendrils and cascaded over her
shoulders and breasts in artful disarray. He wanted to bury his hands in that
ebony silk, use it to bind his body to hers, before he stripped away every
skimpy piece of sheer black lace from her body and nothing but skin against
skin lay between them.

As she neared him, her pace languorous, he wanted to shout
at her to hurry. His weariness vanished as if it had never been. When at last
she stood before him, her breasts mere inches from his chest, he reached out
for her.

“You may look, but you can’t touch,” she warned, retreating
just beyond his reach.

He groaned, but managed to ask, “Is it all right if I take
off this ridiculous costume?”

Her fingers tapping the top of her gartered stockings, she
gazed at him with a considering look. He had no idea what she had in mind, but,
given her scanty attire and the fact that she was here at all, he had hope. As
did his thickening cock.

“You may remove the doublet.”

“Thank you.” Holding her gaze, he slowly undid each button.
Imitating the striptease she’d done for him at the Santanas’, he eased the
heavy fabric off his shoulders, then dangled it from his fingers in front of
his burgeoning arousal. His codpiece twitched.

“Nice,” she murmured as she ran her fingertips over his
naked shoulders, his collarbone, his nipples. “Very, very nice.” With feathery
caresses, she touched his sides, then took one nipple into her mouth, sucking
gently, raking it with her teeth.

He held his breath, clenched his hands into fists to keep
from hauling her into his arms and claiming that luscious, wicked mouth.

“And now,” she said, her voice husky and reedy, “remove the
codpiece.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” Hoping he had predicted her
expectations accurately, he held out his shaking hands. His doublet fell at his
feet. “I fear I cannot manage the knots.”

“Mmm. Perhaps we should cut it off.” Her eyes glowed a
feline green. The tip of her pale pink tongue darted out to moisten those
ripe-strawberry lips, lips that were driving him crazy with longing to possess
them, to part them and suck that tantalizing little tongue into his mouth.

“Cutting it off could disappoint us both.” Even his voice
shook.

“Or please me mightily.” Tease or threat? Her voice held no
hint of what was in her mind.

“Yes, lady, I see the merit in your suggestion. But it might
heighten the anticipation were you to…”

“Were I to what?”

“Remove the codpiece yourself,” he challenged, a whisper she
leaned forward to hear.

Her breath caught. Then she exhaled, a soft moaning sound
that swept through him like wildfire through dry grass. He reached for her, but
she backed away.

“Turn around.”

He did so reluctantly. He was not afraid of what she might
do to him. He simply wanted to watch her, to capture in his memory for all time
the way her supple body moved, the play of candlelight over her satiny skin,
the changing color of her eyes when this delicious torment of her own making
caught her in its spell and turned curiosity to need, need to madness.

Hot and moist, her breath whispered across the nape of his neck.
He shivered. Every muscle in his body tightened. Like dandelion fluff floating
on a zephyr, her fingers feathered down his spine. Then only her scent
enveloped him.

Groaning, he closed his eyes and waited for her to touch him
again.

“Would a blindfold heighten your pleasure?”

Her voice came from in front of him. Opening his eyes, he
noted the change in her outfit and gulped. She’d shed the push-up bra and now
wore only brief bikini panties, a garter belt, sheer black stockings and black
stiletto heels.

“No. I would rather look at you.”

“Only look?” She moved closer, brushing her breasts against
his chest. “Don’t you want to touch me?”

“More than I want my next breath.”

“Then do it. Touch me, Ian.”

Tiffany had never dreamed she could feel so brazen or behave
so wantonly. She’d intended to drive Ian to the brink of madness, but had
gotten caught in the sensuous web she’d created. Now, as his hands roamed over
her, duplicating the sweet torment she’d used on him, she felt his power
flowing through her. The power she’d thought to use against him turned on her.

“No,” she protested, but she lifted her head to receive his
kisses and pressed her body to his. Seeming to have a will of their own, her
hands snaked around his waist, fumbled with the tabs that held the codpiece in
place, freed his cock from his tights to pulse against her belly. Shaking with
need, she kissed her way down his body and took his surging warmth into her
mouth.

“Dios, Tiffany, how many fantasies do you intend to
fulfill?” he asked before he pulled her to her feet, lifted her and then
carried her to the bed.

“As many as I can. As many as you’ll allow.”

“It may take a lifetime,” he warned, his lips gently
marauding over her breasts, down her belly to the apex of her thighs. “Open
your legs for me, love. Let me worship you.”

Anticipation invaded her limbs, making them weak. Mewing
like a newborn kitten, she strove to obey him, but her thighs felt too heavy to
move.

He kissed his way up her body, stroked her breasts until her
nipples hardened into rigid pebbles that begged for his lips, his tongue, his
teeth. When his hand drifted lower and her trembling thighs obeyed the command
of her needy senses, he shifted, then probed her with his tongue.

Every slide of his tongue sent her higher. Every caress near
her ring drove thought into the realm of impossibility. Her entire body merged
into one place—her pussy. Into one goal—release. He kept her on the sharp edge
of fulfillment. His tongue alternately swiped her clit or probed her sopping,
quivering folds. His fingers rotated in her channel, pressing lightly or hard
on her G-spot and brought her ever closer to climax before retreating to being
once more his tender assault upon her senses.

At last, when she moaned for mercy, he rolled her onto her
stomach. “Hands and knees,” he demanded. “Now.”

Knowing her hands alone could not support her weight, she
braced on her forearms with her ass in the air and ignored the blush scorching
her skin. He fumbled, groaned in frustration that matched her own, but finally
filled her with his cock. His fingers worked their magic on her aching nipples,
stroking, pinching with his every thrust and withdrawal. She missed the rub of
his cock over her clit. He seemed to read what little remained of her mind as
he parted her curls and then glided his fingers over her needy, rigid bud.