ItTakesaThief (23 page)

Tilting her chin, she blushed. “There should be—under TC
Carter. I went on Thursday afternoon. Once I was in the vault—”

“The manager would only open your—Ms. Carter’s safe deposit
box.”

“True. Except I was passed off to him. His clerk muttered
the number, but Monsieur de la Croix seemed distracted.”

“I’m sure he was,” Nadim said, waggling his eyebrows
suggestively, reviving Tiffany’s blush. Damian ground his teeth.

“When he left me alone, I opened Emilio’s box, discovered
the fake Belt and took it with me when I left. The rest you know.”

Damian went to Colonel Mendez’s side and the two men
conferred quietly.

“Who discovered the bodies?” the colonel asked.

“Charles Cartierri and the bank president. On Saturday
morning,” Damian replied, wondering who else might have opened the box and
when.

The phone rang. Colonel Mendez answered, listened intently
and then murmured his thanks. Rubbing his hands like a man about to sit down to
a feast, the swarthy policeman grinned at them.

“Everything is still in the safe, although someone tried to
break in a few nights ago. It seems Jenson’s prudence in having the combination
changed has saved the day.”

Damian quickly realized he was the only one who saw the
significance of the information. Someone, mostly likely Tiffany’s own father,
had tried to frame her for murder. He strode to Tiffany, reaching her just as
she burst into tears.

“Hush, darling,” he murmured into her hair. Her silence, her
tears all the more devastating to him. “I shall keep you safe, I promise. Hush,
darling. Please, will you try to stop? For me?” Dios, he sounded like his own
mother when he was a boy and hurt himself.

But the object of his concern only cried harder, silently
and tightened her arms around his waist. Then she went rigid in his arms and
said in a little girl voice, full of shame and expected retribution, “I have to
go to the bathroom.”

“I don’t want to, Daddy.”

“We’ve been over this before, girl. I want you to call me
Charles.”

Hanging her head, a knot in her tummy, TC felt tears
sting her eyes. She didn’t know why Charles was mad at her, but she knew what
would make him happy, make him love her again.

For a little while.

“What if they come back?” she asked in a shaky, teary
voice. Daddy—Charles—hated her when she cried, but she couldn’t help it. She
was scared, so scared she had to pee. He’d really hate her then. Swiping at her
eyes with the backs of her hands, she tightened her legs and tried to meet his
disapproving stare.

“Has anyone ever come back before you were done?”

“N-no.”

“Do you remember what to say if they do?” he asked, his
tone making her feel small and stupid.

She nodded.

“Say it.”

“I…I’m playing dress up,” she said, then ran from the
room before she wet her pants.

Chapter Fifteen

“Tell me about William Foster,” Damian said before sipping
his coffee and studying Nadim Al Bandin over the gold rim of his cup. With a
satisfied smack of his lips, he settled against the divan and inhaled the rich,
sweet aroma.

“That cocksucker!”

The epithet was so foul Damian’s eyebrows shot nearly to his
hairline. The prince, Damian knew, had been raised to respect the strengths and
foibles of his fellow man—the operative word being man. Male Kratzistanis
retained enough of their barbaric ancestry to relegate women to the roles of
helpmeet or, in Nadim’s case, playmate. To hear Nadim denigrate a man shocked
Damian into momentary silence.

“I take it you did not like him,” he said when he had
regained his equanimity.

“His sexual preferences aside, he used Tiffany.”

Pondering aloud, Damian said, “How does a husband use his
wife? Aside from the usual way?”

“In the usual way William Foster did not use his wife.”

Damian’s cup rattled in its saucer. “I have had it with
riddles. First Tiffany, now you. Does anybody around here speak plain English?”

“I did speak plainly, but your Spanish blood rejects the
idea that any man within ten miles of Tiffany wouldn’t want to bed her. William
Foster was homosexual. He didn’t look it and, in most circles, he didn’t act
it. He had women swooning over him left, right and center. Justifiably, if the
aesthetic type appeals to you and you need the perfect little trinket for this
ball or that country weekend. He was invaluable to Charles Cartierri’s London
shop.”

Damian fought the urge to grin at the description of
CCartierri. He had been in Cartierri’s London “shop” and had enjoyed its
understated elegance. Now, he had a fleeting memory of a tall, slender blond
bowing over the hand of a plump matron. The minute the woman had gone, the man
looked as if he wanted to wipe his mouth.

“What makes you think William Foster was homosexual?”

“Beyond the fact that he propositioned me, you mean?” After
a pointed pause, the prince obviously struggling to bring his temper under
control, Nadim continued. “I did not look kindly on this betrayal of my
friendship. I threatened to expose William to the tabloids, an action ruinous
not only to William personally, but to Charles Cartierri, as well. But who
would believe it of a married man? Especially if he married a woman as
obviously heterosexual as Tiffany. The second week of their honeymoon, William
Foster’s paramour moved in and stayed until six months before William’s death.”

“Dios,” Damian muttered. “Did Tiffany know?” Before Nadim
could answer, he said, “She must have known. Whatever else she may be, Tiffany
is not a fool. But, knowing what he was, why would she marry him?”

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

“I intend to. Where is she?”

Yasmin stole into the room and held out her hand. “TC asked
me to give you the car keys. She has gone back to the hotel.” Turning to Nadim,
she said in an apologetic voice, “Hassan drove her, Nadim.”

The relieved look on Nadim’s face did nothing to dispel Damian’s
qualms. Damn it, was Tiffany going to run again?

* * * * *

By the time she arrived at the hotel, all TC had on her mind
was getting out before Ian returned. She would prefer that he thought her a
thief, a murderer, a coward, rather than an incontinent child. If she never saw
Ian Soria again, it would be too soon.

So her head insisted, but her heart ached at the prospect of
never seeing him again.

Sighing, she let herself into their hotel suite, closed the
door and savored the darkness that hid her shame from even her.

A moment later, standing at attention, the fine hairs on her
arms and the nape of her neck warned of danger. The unmistakable double click
of a gun hammer being cocked had her diving to the carpet.

A soft, throaty laugh accompanied a brief flare of light.
Preceded by an exotic whiff of Opium, pungent smoke wafted in TC’s direction.

“For heaven’s sake, Tiffany, turn on the wretched light.”

“Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, St. Paul!” TC swore
instead of swearing in earnest. Instead of fainting. Her hands shaking, she
inched to her feet and turned on the lights. “What the devil are you doing
here, Esmé?” Her stepmother was the last person TC expected to see, especially
here in her hotel suite.

“Charles always has underestimated you, Tiffany,” the petite
redhead with the showgirl body said. “Especially your taste in men. Not for you
the cherubic likes of Nick Troy or William Foster.”

“I loved William,” slipped out before TC could dam the
words. Condemning her further, her voice sounded defensive and at the same time
wistful.

“Of course you did, darling. The same way you loved your
Pooh-bear when you were a child. William was—”

“What do you want, Esmé?” With a strength of will she had
only recently discovered in herself, TC paced to the couch, then sank onto its
cushions. Guileless sherry-colored eyes narrowed at her, but TC couldn’t tell
if Esmé Cartierri’s expression reflected anger or speculation.

Sighing, Esmé crushed out her cigarette, then regarded TC
over steepled fingertips. “You may find this difficult to believe, Tiffany, but
not so long ago Charles was as excitingly dangerous as your Damian.”

Again, TC sensed an expectancy in her stepmother, an
alertness completely at odds with the languid pose Esmé now struck. Fighting a
puzzled frown over the unfamiliar name, TC murmured, “Ah yes, Damian. You find
him exciting?”

“Tiffany, darling—”

“Don’t call me that!” Struggling to draw a breath of air
past the huge lump in her throat—only Ian called her Tiffany darling—TC blinked
back stinging tears. She tilted her chin and said, “My name is TC.”

“And Ian Soria’s real name is Damian Hunter,” Esmé said
softly, kindly. She crossed the room to sit beside TC, then drew her into her
warm arms.

“No!” The name was painfully familiar, but TC felt too numb to
think about it now. Instead, for long, silent moments, she burrowed her head
against Esmé’s shoulder and wept as she had not since the day she learned her
mother had abandoned her.

“He’s a good man, darling, just as Charles used to be.
Before…”

“Before my mother deserted us.”

“Before I forced Charles to choose between your mother and
me.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Esmé.” Not now. Not ever,
truth be told, TC thought. She pushed out of her stepmother’s arms and fought
the memory of all the times Esmé had held her while she cried.

“Of course you don’t, darling.” Esmé’s voice was dulcet, but
her body was rigid in TC’s loosening embrace.

Esmé’s pat on TC’s shoulder felt both comforting and
uncomfortable, TC realized. She missed Esmé’s compassion, yet welcomed the
emotional distance the older woman’s physical withdrawal created.

“Why did you come here, Esmé?”

A small yet smug grin lifted the corners of Esmé’s
cupie-doll mouth. “To show Charles he’s not nearly as clever as he thinks he
is, of course. He is looking for you at Nick Troy’s—William’s new surrogate.
For all the good it’ll do him.”

Inexplicable anger coursed through TC. She surged to her
feet, strode to the windows, then whirled toward her stepmother.
“Nobody—nobody—could ever be William’s surrogate. Damn it, Esmé, I loved my
husband.”

Rising slowly, reaching back to draw a silvery fox fur
around her shoulders, Esmé beamed a challenge in TC’s direction. “William
Foster never was your husband, darling. Any more than Charles Cartierri is your
father.” Crossing to the door, she added, “Sleep well.”

Too stunned to think, TC could only echo Esmé’s words.
Numbness drowning under a wave of adrenaline, TC raced to catch her
stepmother’s arm. “Wait. You can’t make a statement like that, then just walk
away. You have to explain.”

“Do I?” Esmé said, her sherry-colored eyes glittering with
such malice that TC snatched back her hand and retreated half a step.

“Isn’t that why you came here?”

The older woman remained silent so long, TC feared Esmé
wouldn’t answer at all. At last, as if awakening from a dream, the petite
redhead smiled grimly and said, “You can’t stay here. Get your things and come
with me.”

“Where?” TC asked, gathering her tote bag and the
overnighter she had retrieved from Nick’s, then following in Esmé’s wake.

“All in good time, Tiffany. All in good time.”

* * * * *

Certain Tiffany’s embarrassment over the incident at Nadim’s
would make her run, Damian chafed at having to see Nick Troy before returning
to the hotel. Duty, a word Damian had begun to hate, called. He forced Tiffany
from his mind and considered what he had learned from his interviews two nights
earlier.

Once again pacing the length of Nick’s small living room,
Damian permitted himself a grim smile. He had more pieces of the puzzle now,
but was no closer to fitting them together. His interviews with Cartierri,
Santana and Foster had led only to more questions, not answers. All three men
were withholding vital information. Something bound the three of them together,
something more obscure, less innocent, than the obvious one of fine gems. But
what?

Emilio Santana was a frightened man, perhaps the weak link
in the unholy conglomerate. He also had a legitimate reason for his fear.
Damian could only imagine the kind of terror that caused a man to live behind
prison walls of his own making, sumptuous though those walls were. Santana’s
statement that Tiffany had robbed him seemed more the reaction of a man
terrified by his impotency to protect his family than a serious accusation.
Either that or the man hoped to create a smoke screen, to point the needle of
guilt irrevocably at Tiffany. Why would he do that when he so obviously liked
her? Even stranger, his padrino had not mentioned Isabella’s Belt at all.

As for Charles Cartierri… Despite his offer to hire a lawyer
for Tiffany, he seemed to want to distance himself from her. Not once had he
said her name, referring to her only as the child or the girl. And his tale of
Tiffany’s stealing seemed to point all suspicion directly at her. Had Tiffany’s
kleptomania worsened to the point she would kill to protect herself from
prosecution? Had Damian excused her actions because, like his brother Michael,
he had fallen in love with a murderess?

Sighing, Damian went on puzzling about Charles Cartierri.
His pointed stare in the direction of the kitchen implied Damian’s questions
might be better asked of Sir James or of Foster’s deceased stepson. According
to Cartierri, even before they married, William and Tiffany had been thick as
thieves.

As for Sir James, the man virtually doted on his
daughter-in-law, far more the loving father than Charles Cartierri. Yet under
the firm avowal of Tiffany’s innocence in the theft of Isabella’s Belt, Damian
sensed a deeply buried fear.

For Tiffany? Or for himself?

Finding himself at the windows, Damian looked out at the
cloud-filled skies and wondered for the hundredth time in as many minutes where
Tiffany was. For all he knew she could be out “recovering” one of Sir James’
fraudulently “stolen” pieces of jewelry and getting herself arrested. Which,
upon further reflection, was not a bad idea. If she were behind bars, nobody
could shoot at her lovely, stubborn head or plant stolen gems among her
clothes.

He turned, prepared to have Nick call Colonel Mendez and
have Tiffany arrested for stealing Emilio Santana’s emeralds. The command died
when he saw Nick’s deep frown.

“What?” he demanded of Nick.

“I was trying to remember what Charles Cartierri said about
Mrs. Cartierri,” Nick said, his gaze shifting between the floor and Damian’s
battered face.

“Tiffany’s mother?”

“Stepmother,” Nick corrected, still obviously distracted by
his own thoughts. “They’re very close.”

Startled by the fact that he had forgotten something so
important, Damian heard himself say, “Tiffany has a stepmother.” When Nick
nodded, Damian asked, “Where is she?”

“That’s what I’m trying to remember. Whether she’s here in
Bogotá or…wherever they live.”

“New York,” Damian said, filled with a simmering anger that
he still had not questioned Tiffany about her life. Her dossier said that she
lived in San Francisco, where she designed for a small but exclusive jewelry
shop—when she was not gallivanting all over the world on Sir James’ behalf,
risking her life in who knew what sort of harebrained schemes and consorting with
the world’s lowest life forms.

And he knew that Charles Cartierri had resisted expanding
his own exclusive shops beyond those already established in New York, London,
Paris and Rome. Now, however, Cartierri was considering expansion. Was that his
real reason for coming to Bogotá? Tiffany’s problems seemed no more than an
inconvenience.

“Call Colonel Mendez and find out if Mrs. Cartierri
accompanied her husband. If so, ask where they are staying. Request that the
colonel put out an all-points bulletin to detain Tiffany.”

“What?” Nick came off the couch with uncharacteristic
alacrity. “We don’t have enough evidence to have her arrested, Damian.”

“I know that. And I said ‘detain’ not ‘arrest’.”

While Nick made the call from the phone in the hallway,
Damian resumed his pacing, this time taking note of his surroundings. Though
small, the room was furnished with comfort in mind. Plump throw pillows adorned
the cushioned love seat, which faced the small fireplace and created a romantic
haven. Far too easily, Damian could imagine Tiffany sitting there, her dark
hair spilling over her shoulders and… Nick’s chest, he thought, whirling with
his fists clenched lest he strike his young friend, who had just re-entered the
room.

When he felt he had his voice under control, Damian risked
saying, “What went on here the other night?” Seeing Nick’s face redden, Damian
reined in a sudden need to punch Nick’s lights out. He forced a smile,
apologetic he hoped and sat in a chair to the left of the fireplace. It gave
him full view of the love seat and sent his imagination racing hell-bent toward
perdition. The images of Tiffany and Nick entwined on the small couch made his
stomach churn.