ItTakesaThief (22 page)

She hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t, but after all the other
attempts on her life, could she say the same of him?

And then nothing mattered anymore, because the world was
going black. Her last conscious thought was that Ian Soria had succeeded. She
was dying.

* * * * *

“Ah, there you are,” Prince Nadim Al Bandin said when TC
opened her eyes again. “Back among the living at last. Are you in pain?”

“Thirsty,” she croaked, her voice squeaking like rusty
hinges on a basement door. After she drank, small sips and not nearly enough to
dispel the cottony feeling in her mouth, she discovered the prince staring at
her, an enigmatic expression on his handsome face.

“I must look like hell.” Smoothing her hair with shaking
hands, she discovered another bandage at her hairline.

“Now you have matching scars.”

“All in devotion to symmetry. Interesting.”

“That’s what Colonel Mendez’s doctor said when he examined
you and found the other wound. What the devil have you been up to?”

“Trying to stay alive.” Chagrinned by her caustic tone, she
lowered her gaze, then raised it again to take in her surroundings. Except for
the hospital bed and the three-legged pole that held an I.V. solution, she
might have been in Nadim’s own bedroom in Kratzistan.

“Where are we?”

“Someplace safe.”

“Am I a prisoner?” Her gaze darted around the heavily draped
walls. If he’d delivered her to jail, it was luxurious.

“Do you want to be? I can arrange it, you know. In an hour,
less if you are feeling strong enough, we can be on our way to my home in Rome.
There, I will keep you, a willing prisoner of love.”

“How you wax poetic.”

“Come away with me, my jewel. I promise to keep you safe.”

“For how long? A week? A month? A year or two? Nadim, you
are as inconstant as the moon. And I wouldn’t have you any other way,” she
added, intending to soften the blow to his ego her refusal obviously had
inflicted. She supposed, in his way, he loved her. Just as she loved him. But
she valued his friendship too much to destroy it by becoming his mistress.

Besides, she had taken a lover and look what a mess she had
made of that!

“Is Señor Soria under arrest?”

“No thanks to you, I am not,” her nemesis proclaimed from
the doorway. Limping to her bed, he glared down at her, then said to Nadim,
“Get out.”

She tried to steel her heart against him but failed. The
mere sight of his face, battered with abrasions, scarred with little nicks as
if he’d cut himself shaving, made her want to kiss each wound. In the time it
took him to cross the room, she realized he couldn’t have planned to kill her.
That explosion had been meant for both of them, whether he realized it or not.

“I’m here to mediate,” Nadim said, pulling a chair to her
bed, then strong-arming Ian into it. “I think we should wait until we’ve all
had breakfast, however. Negotiating on an empty stomach often leads to war.” Not
waiting for a response, the prince crossed to the telephone and spoke in a soft
but firm voice.

“How do you know Nadim?” Ian said, drawing her attention
from the prince to his dear, battered face.

“I did some recovery work for him several years ago.” She’d
known him since she was ten, but Nadim’s father had limited their contact. Only
as adults had they become friends. “And you?”

“He saved my butt in Marrakech a lifetime ago.”

“Barroom brawl?” TC teased, rewarded by Ian’s quick grin.

“Board room battle. He knows…knew your husband?”

“Casually, yes. A man like Nadim could never be close
friends with a man like William. At least, not as William was when they first
met. Later, when William had accepted himself, I think they could have
appreciated each other. Fate never gave them that opportunity.”

“Then your husband did not know that Nadim was your—”

“Her what?” Nadim said, his voice soft and darkly dangerous.
“Her friend?”

“I think I shall eat in my room.”

Before Nadim could respond, TC said, “Good idea. And I’d
like you to leave, too, Nadim. I want to clean up before I see either of you
again.”

“I’ll send Yasmin to help you.”

“Thank you.” Despite her heartache at Ian’s attitude toward
her, she almost felt like smiling. The two men were acting like little boys
fighting over the last cookie. Nadim’s behavior, she suspected, was reflex, his
usual overbearing arrogance toward any female in his care. Ian’s actions
shouted his jealousy, an emotion she wasn’t sure she liked. It turned him
nasty.

“We’ll see you in an hour,” Nadim said, herding Ian out the
door. He went without protest, but TC had the feeling she would see him much
sooner.

* * * * *

“How do you feel?” Ensconced in the chair he had occupied
earlier, his bare feet on her bed, Ian was munching on a piece of toast and
looking adorably rumpled.

Toweling her wet hair, she said, “Like I was run over by the
proverbial Sherman tank. You?”

“About the same. At least we can both hear.”

Not knowing what to say, she said nothing.

“I am sorry.”

Cupping her ear, she said, “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not sure I did.” Sitting at the dressing table, she
removed the towel from her head, then began brushing the tangles from her
singed hair.

“Move over.” He took the brush from her, sat on the narrow
bench and gently stroked through one curl.

“I stink.”

“You smell wonderful,” he contradicted. “You inhaled a lot
of smoke and your nose is fooling you, making you think the stench still clings
to you. Will you forgive me?”

“For what?”

Meeting her eyes in the mirror, one brow arched a warning
not to push him. “For my rudeness to you earlier. For doubting you last night.”

“Will you apologize to Nadim?”

Looking as if he’d rather eat porcupine quills, he said, “I
already have.”

“Thank you.” Turning her head, she brushed a kiss across his
lips, then touched his face with trembling fingers. “Do the cuts hurt?”

He shrugged. “About as much as a bee sting. Will you forgive
me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

His humbleness touched her deeply, as if he valued her good
opinion of him above anything else in the world.

“Ian, we need to talk.”

“I know,” he murmured, then touched her neck with the tip of
his tongue.

As if he had branded her with a cattle prod, need skittered
through her veins. Breathless, she snuggled into his arms and lifted her head
to receive his kisses. A benediction, a promise, his lips captured hers,
driving all words, all thoughts, from her mind, leaving only need and fire.

“
Cuidado
,” he murmured.

“Did I hurt you?” She gently touched his face.

“No. But I must be careful with you. Your back… Are you
burned?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you get me out of this robe and
see?”

He growled as he kissed each of her ears. “
Amo tus oidos
.”
He kissed her neck. “
Amo tu cuello. Amo tus labios y tu boca
.” He
nibbled her lips, then eased his tongue into her mouth.

She pressed against him, wanting to feel his naked chest.
Her nipples craved his touch. “Touch me.
Ponga tus manos on mis chiches
.”

He laughed, then moaned into her mouth. “Do you know what
you are saying?”

“I know I want your hands on my breasts.” She untied her
robe, let it slide off her shoulders to pool around her hips. “I want your
hands all over my body.
Deseo tu pito en mi
. I want your cock in me.”

Standing, he pulled her to her feet, then led her to the
bed. “I wish Nadim had provided a wider perch.”

TC shoved him onto the bed. “I think we can manage. Remember
that chair in Sir James’ conference room?”

Grinning, he raised the head of the hospital bed, then
leaned against it. “Oh yes, I remember that chair very well. This, however, may
prove even better. You have room for your knees.”

She straddled him. “So I do. And I can rub my breasts all
over your chest.”

“I have a better idea.” He urged her to raise her hips, then
eased his
pito
—his rigid cock—into her. Pressing her breasts together,
he lapped her nipples in quick succession.

“Oh God! You feel so good!” She rode his cock while he
lapped and sucked her nipples. “Harder. Suck me harder. Oh God, ohgod, oh…God!
Yes. Yes. Yesss!” Her back arched, her head fell back, her fingers raked his
chest as he pumped harder, faster, deeper. Feeling him explode in her pulsing
core, she cried his name, then collapsed against his chest.

Seconds later, she nuzzled his neck and murmured sleepily,
“You do have chest hair. One hair that just tickled my nose.”

I think I love you
. Dios, had he really said that?
Had he meant it? Was he destined, like his brother, to die at the hands of a
beautiful, deceitful, deadly woman?

But no. He could not blame Tiffany for what happened at the
airport. That explosion had been meant for both of them. Or perhaps he had been
infected with Tiffany’s paranoia. Perhaps the explosion had been an accident.

Perhaps. Or maybe the body count had just risen. Again.

* * * * *

An hour later, still flushed from lovemaking, they met with
Nadim and Colonel Mendez in the prince’s salon.

“Any word on the explosion?” TC asked immediately.

“That investigation will take some time. The theft of
Isabella’s Belt, which you admit you stole, is still on-going.” Colonel Mendez
said, managing to mix sternness with parental disappointment.

“I stole a fake,” TC corrected.

“Which you secreted away. Where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Won’t tell me, which leaves me no choice. Señorita
Cartierri, I am placing you under—”

Damian interrupted. “I think you better tell him, Tiffany
darling.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Someone else is involved and I
don’t want to get him in trouble.”

“Unless he was involved in the murders, I think something
can be arranged,” Colonel Mendez said after a brief glance at Ian.

“Tiffany, my jewel, the police must first verify that what
you took is not the real Belt.”

Glaring at the prince, she folded her arms across her chest.
“I’m a certified gemologist and I say it’s a fake. If Charles Cartierri told
you it was a fake, you’d believe him.”

“In this instance I believe a second opinion would be
required,” Ian said, laughter in his voice. Then, entwining his fingers with
hers, he raised her hand to his lips and smiled.

“Oh, all right! I sent the bloody Belt to Sir James Foster
along with the Luxembourg security plans.”

Damian met the colonel’s questioning gaze and shook his
head. Real or fake, the Belt was not among the items delivered anonymously to
Interpol in Lyons. Another mystery in this already tangled tale.

“Perhaps we should call Sir James,” Nadim suggested.

“Good idea,” Damian said, squeezing Tiffany’s hand, knowing
she felt Sir James had sold her out and had himself sent the evidence against
her to Interpol. So where had those security plans come from? And where was the
Belt Tiffany claimed she’d taken? Still with Sir James or… How many godforsaken
belts were there?

“Not a good idea,” she said, just as Damian had predicted to
himself.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Colonel Mendez said as he
strode to the telephone.

Disengaging her hand from Damian’s, Tiffany stood and paced
away, her normally sinuous gait oddly graceless. That hurt him almost as much
as her stopping to exchange a few low words with Nadim. But why would she not
talk to Nadim? Not only was the prince their host, he was Tiffany’s friend,
someone she trusted.

Looking away from the handsome couple, Damian focused on the
Colombian officer who obligingly raised his voice. “Yes, that would be most
helpful. I’ll wait for your call.” He gave the number and hung up.

“Sir James sounded most upset. As far as he knows the items
are still in his home safe. He’s checking and will call back.”

“Poor Jenson,” Tiffany said into the lengthening silence.
“It must be four in the morning in London. With all this to-do, I hope he
doesn’t have a heart attack. He’s almost eighty, you know.”

Assuming Jenson was Sir James’ butler and would have
answered the call to Sir James, Damian tried to distract them all from the
seemingly interminable wait. “Tiffany darling, while we are waiting, tell us how
you managed to walk out of the bank with Isabella’s Belt.”

Shaking her head, she licked her lips. But at last she said,
“After Emilio authenticated the Belt in Bogotá. I believe Emilio himself took
it to the Banque de Medellin in Paris where he put it in a safe deposit box.
Emilio, of course, kept his key and the manager, according to previous
instructions, sent another to Sir James.”

“Who, I assume, gave his key to you,” Damian said when it
seemed she would say nothing more.

“Yes.” She sighed. “Emilio demanded the transfer be done
secretly—the Belt’s presence in Paris to be revealed only the opening day of
the exhibit. If no one knew the Belt was there, no one could steal it.” She
snorted, a self-deprecating sound. “The fact that the exhibit was well-publicized
didn’t matter. Charles would deliver it to the museum the day of the opening.”

“Go on,” Colonel Mendez prompted, his voice soft.

“I don’t know if Sir James suspected some sort of chicanery
or only wanted to ensure the Belt had arrived safely and was adequately
protected. He wanted me to check out the bank and the Musée de Luxembourg. I
went to the bank first and then to the museum.”

“Why? You’d already taken the Belt,” Nadim said. “Hadn’t
you?”

“Yes. But the curator expected me, so I went.”

Damian cleared his throat. “On the day you went to the
museum, there was no record of your visiting the bank.”