ItTakesaThief (21 page)

He whispered praises to her body, the words felt in every
fiber of her being more than heard by her feverish mind. She’d wanted to do
this to him, bring him to this mindless madness, to this fierce fire only she
could quench. Instead, he had done it to her.

No, she realized with that small part of her mind still
capable of rational thought, they had done it together. “Together,” she
whispered as her body shattered into a thousand shards of pleasure. Still
caught in the ecstasy he’d given her, she bucked faster and faster and brought
him home. His last spasms had her pussy milking him until he collapsed on her
and warmed her even more with his full weight.

Later, while he slept with his head pillowed on her breasts
and she ran her fingers through the heavy strands of his dark hair, she
realized they couldn’t go on like this. Mortal enemies one minute, passionate
lovers the next. For most of her life she’d taken calculated risks, but this
was one she couldn’t take without knowing more about Ian Soria.

This time more than her freedom was at stake. This time her
life and her heart were in danger. She could lose them both to the man in her
arms.

Chapter Fourteen

“You are trying to frighten me to death,” Damian shouted
over the wind as Tiffany gunned the cream-colored Mercedes convertible and tore
out from under the hotel entrance portico.

“Not yet,” she shouted cryptically.

In her dark sunglasses, her luxurious hair covered by a
black scarf of some gauzy material, she resembled Jacqueline Kennedy during her
first widowhood. Damian disliked the comparison his subconscious had conjured
and found himself wondering what her black outfit signified.

Widow’s weeds
, he thought for perhaps the twentieth
time since they had left the hotel. Was she still mourning William or was she
trying to convince Damian that they had no future together? Last night they had
not talked. This morning she had disappeared. When she returned all she would
say was that she had a surprise for him.

Now, studying her classic profile, he considered what he
would do if she kissed him off. He grinned. If she tried to leave him he would
call in every marker, use any trick at his disposal to convince her that such
an action was imprudent. He was not above abducting her, taking her to
Kratzistan, holding her prisoner in his friend Nadim’s harem.

The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to
him. He would have her dressed in veils, or better yet, nothing at all, until
she admitted they belonged to each other.

“Ian,” the object of his fantasy said, a hint of impatience
in her throaty voice.

As if she had pricked him with a pin, he started, then took
stock of his surroundings. The narrow street they now stood in, having vacated
the car, was cloaked in shadows. Not even the setting sun touched the rooftops
that loomed over them like malevolent giants. The hairs on the nape of his neck
bristled. He reached instinctively for the weapon he usually carried when
traveling in dangerous territory. He swore under his breath. Remembering that
Tiffany had convinced him to leave the gun in their hotel room, he scowled at
her and wondered if she was trying to do more than frighten him to death.

He did not know where she had brought him, but he recognized
the potential danger. They had to get out of here. Fast.

“Get back in the car,” he ordered.

Instead of obeying, she flashed him a brilliant smile and
reached through the open car window to tap the horn three times.

Although no light heralded him, a figure appeared from the
deep shadows of the preternaturally silent street. Tiffany rounded the
Mercedes’ bonnet. Taking Damian’s arm, she brushed against him, letting him
feel the unmistakable press of a gun to his ribs.

“We need to get off the street,” she murmured in a
reasonable tone that fueled his rising anger.

“We need to get out of here,” he countered, muscles tensing,
prepared to take the gun away from her, then run like hell.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” she drawled. “We’re
surrounded.” With a slight angling of her head, the gesture camouflaged by the
removal of her scarf, she drew his attention to the additional figures that had
emerged silently from the enveloping darkness, cutting off any avenue of
escape.

“I hope you know what you are doing.”

With a wry smile she handed his own weapon to the first man
and said, “So do I, darling. So do I.”

Stepping over garbage, expecting to be stabbed in the back
or shot, Damian followed Tiffany into the pitch-black, sour-smelling alley.
Just when he thought he would rather risk dying than endure another second of
the stench—the torment all the greater due to his temporary blindness—a door
opened and light spilled out.

Determined not to be light-blinded even momentarily, he
quickly lowered his gaze to his feet. Before their escort could discern what
was happening, Damian whirled and planted his fist in the man’s rock-hard
stomach. His adversary swayed, but showed no signs of suffering. On the other
hand, Damian felt as if he had broken all his knuckles.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Tiffany scolded while he
alternately shook his hand and sucked his fingers.

“Yeah, well, I am not going one step farther until I know
what the hell is going on here.”

“If you will come in, Señor Soria, I shall explain
everything,” said the man standing in the open doorway.

Grateful for the shadows falling over his own face and
hiding his shock, Damian stared into the deeper darkness. Dios, he must be
dreaming. His fantasies about harems and Tiffany must have drawn the memory of
that deep voice from the depths of his subconscious.

Forcing an indifference he did not feel, Damian shrugged and
stepped through the open door. Quick, impersonal hands moved over his body
while Tiffany gazed about her as if fascinated by the tiled foyer in which they
stood.

“If your friend does not kill us both, I shall throttle
you,” Damian promised, with his betrayer following after their host.

“Such vitriol,” the man said while removing his striped
caftan to reveal white pantaloons and an embroidered vest that exposed a hairy,
barrel-like chest and powerfully muscled arms. He looked like a throwback, the
kind of barbarian who rode Middle Eastern deserts and stole women and riches at
will. “Please sit.”

Seeming perfectly at home, Tiffany sank onto a divan that was
littered with pillows in virtually every color of the rainbow. Damian perched
on the edge of a straight-backed leather chair and watched the interplay
between his lover and the man he knew to be a collector of the rare and
valuable, a man who reputedly did not care how he acquired the items in his
collections.

Despite her somber garb, Tiffany looked as if she belonged
there amidst the glowing jewel-like colors of the pillows and drapes, among the
gilded vases and jade figurines. Not only that, she was staring at her friend
as if he were the epitome of virility and masculinity.

“Your home is lovely,” she said, her throaty voice lower,
sexier, than Damian could recall hearing it—except when they made love.

“Have tent, will travel.” The man smiled, revealing even
white teeth in his deeply tanned face. His eyes, the gift of some abducted
ancestress, flashed a green nearly as dark as Tiffany’s.

Tiffany laughed. Damian swallowed a feral growl and thought
he had never hated anyone as much as he hated Prince Bandin of Kratzistan. His
good friend, Nadim.

“Have you heard anything?” TC asked, pulling her attention
to the reason she had contacted this man and away from his almost mesmerizing
magnetism. Nadim Al Bandin was far too sophisticated for her taste. She preferred
a man who had a few rough edges. Like Ian, she thought, her gaze straying to
her lover.

At his belligerent expression, her eyebrows took on a life
of their own and arched upward. Okay, she’d kidnapped him in a way. But she had
to know if the prince, well known in certain circles for his private and
questionably acquired art collection, knew or
knew of
Ian Soria. And if
he did, in what capacity? Simple businessman, Interpol agent, or her would-be
murderer?

Just then, however, the silent combat between the two men
captured her attention. The prince, looking splendidly, outrageously barbaric,
appeared relaxed and deeply amused. Ian looked as if he wanted nothing more
than to clasp the prince’s powerful neck and wring it as he would a chicken’s.

Why? Was Ian afraid Nadim would tell her something about
himself that he didn’t want her to know? A shiver skittered up her spine. Or
was Ian’s stormy expression attributable to jealousy? If so, he knew nothing
about the oil-rich prince and his modern, worldwide harem. One woman would
never be enough for Nadim and TC had never liked to share.

“Not a whisper,” the prince said, his green eyes never
leaving Ian’s face. “But don’t despair, my jewel. My sources have uncovered a
curious anomaly and are pursuing it.”

“What is it? Nadim, I have a right—”

At last he looked at her. “I am remiss in my duties. We must
have refreshments before we talk. Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” the prince
added, refocusing his mocking gaze on Ian’s face.

“Scotch, thanks.”

“And you, my jewel? Your usual Turkish coffee?”

Sighing, resigned to the delay, TC nodded, but refused to
look at Ian. She didn’t want to see his anger or his jealousy.

While they waited, Nadim said into the silence, “I was
saddened to hear of William’s passing. I can only imagine how devastated you
must feel.”

TC just gaped. On more than one occasion, Nadim had offered
to ease her loneliness, to make her feel like a woman, to cherish her…for as
long as he could. He had merely tolerated William and had made no secret of his
true feelings. He thought her a fool for wasting even a minute of her life on
her husband. Sighing again, silently adding the words, “Especially when you
could have me,” she bowed her head.

“I’m grateful William’s at peace.”

“You would not be in this predicament had William been a
real man.”

“Please, Your Highness, it pains me to talk about him.”

A finger tucked under her chin forced her to look up at him.
“Your clothes are an abomination, an artifice I find insulting.”

“I would have insulted you, Highness, had I dishonored
William’s memory.”

“Insulted me or encouraged my hope, my jewel?” Waving
dismissively with one hand, with the other he grasped her elbow and helped her
to stand. Raising her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm, he winked, then shook
his head imperceptibly.

From the corner of her eye, TC saw Ian approaching and
quickly withdrew her hand from the prince’s warm grasp.

“I hope we shall meet again,” the Kratzistani prince said
silkily, failing to offer his hand for Ian to shake, a rudeness TC could not
help but notice. And why was Nadim suddenly so anxious to get rid of them? He
had enough self-control, surely, not to get into a fight with Ian over a woman.

A primitive, possessive look in his eyes, Ian flashed a
wolfish grin. Slipping an iron arm around Tiffany’s waist, he drew her against
him, his grip so firm she could scarcely breathe. “Count on it, your
high-ness.”

Nadim bared his teeth, a parody of a smile. “Hassan will
show you out. The front door this time,” he added to his butler, who had appeared
as if summoned by magic when the prince said his name.

Knowing the man was a deaf mute, TC usually commented on
Nadim’s Rasputin-like abilities. But tonight, as she and Ian followed the
wizened little gnome through his master’s Colombian house, her mind buzzed with
unwanted thoughts.

She’d learned what she had set out to discover. She just
couldn’t comprehend why Nadim had lied to her. Nadim Al Bandin knew Ian Soria.
She’d bet her life on it.

* * * * *

Afraid she would shriek in frustration if she so much as
opened her mouth, TC drove to the El Dorado airport in silence. Ian also seemed
disinclined to talk. He occupied himself with changing stations on the radio
until, growling, he snapped it off. Staring through the windshield, arms folded
over his chest, his silence condemned her.

She pulled the sleek two-seater into Santana, Incorporated’s
private hangar, shut off the engine and waited for Ian to pounce. Before seeing
Nadim, she and Ian had agreed to return Emilio’s emeralds in person and try to
reconcile with the older man, but she doubted Ian would go anywhere with her
now.

In the distance she could see planes gliding over the runway
like giant swans until their ponderous weight brought them to a shuddering halt
and they lumbered toward their nests. Nearer, other planes jittered toward
their takeoff points like standard-transmission cars driven by inexperienced
teenagers. Adjacent to the hangar, Emilio Santana’s VIP Huey rested on its
runners, a fuel tanker hooked by an invisible umbilical cord to its tanks.
Emilio had made the copter available to his godson, a gesture towards
reconciliation, she supposed. Although how Emilio would react when he saw her
with Ian…

TC’s vision blurred. Flashing lights of red, green and white
blended like traffic signals and cars’ headlights on a misty, rain-streaked
night in San Francisco. Choking on sudden tears of loneliness, she got out of
the car and strode toward the waiting helicopter, the pilot an alien silhouette
in the eerie greenish glow of his flight panel lights.

“Tiffany.”

Like a puppy feeling an unwelcome pull on its leash, she
stopped her headlong flight toward the helicopter and freedom from the man
whose footsteps echoed in her ears like the beating of her own heart. Turning
slowly, as if her limbs were encased in congealing concrete, she met Ian’s
compelling black eyes. When it came to captivating women, Rasputin and Prince
Nadim Al Bandin had nothing over Ian Soria. She couldn’t trust him one iota,
but she had readily given him her heart.

Seeing the stubbornness in his dark gaze, knowing he would
come no closer, aching for the haven she could find only in his arms, she ran
to him.

“I think I love you,” he murmured as he caught her to him.

“You can’t love me,” she protested between bestowing kisses
over his beguiling face. “You don’t trust me. You think I took you to Nadim to
have him kill you!”

“I want you.”

Weak with need, she barely registered the movement of his
arm. Locked in his embrace she felt rather than saw him signal the helicopter
pilot to take off, to leave without them. Lost in a haze of longing, she
thought the blast at her back simply a manifestation of her lust. But when she
catapulted forward, propelled by the explosion behind her, she knew better.

Sirens wailing in the distance, acrid smoke threatening to
smother her, she lay sprawled atop Ian in a parody of lovemaking. Looking down
at him, she saw her own emotions flung back at her.

He might as well have shouted, “Bitch, you tried to kill
me.”