ItTakesaThief (26 page)

“Now, tell me about Charles. When did you—er—pull your first…
Could you help me out here?”

“Heist? Caper? Robbery?” she suggested, her voice cracking,
but he could not tell whether from laughter or from tears. After a long moment,
during which he rubbed the new knots of tension from her back, she pressed her
face into her knees and muttered, “Six. Before then Charles thought I was too
young to be trusted, too young and too stupid to follow his instructions.”

“Dios,” he whispered, wishing Charles Cartierri was there
now so that Damian could wring his miserable neck. “How…how long did you work
for him?”

“Ten years.”

“What happened to make you quit?”

TC heard Charles’ voice in her head and flashed back to the
night William had discovered her with her hands in his mother’s jewelry case.

“What happened?” Charles asked, eyeing the two men
flanking her.

“She got caught in the act,” William Foster said,
slinging a protective arm around her shoulders.

“In the act of what?”

“The game’s over, Charles,” Sir James Foster said in a
voice that chilled TC to her soul. Quiet and calm, it hinted at barely leashed
violence.

“If the girl has broken the law, take her to the police.”

“TC says you—” William began.

“The girl has a history of petty theft,” Charles
interrupted, “and emotional instability. Just like her mother,” he added with a
look at Sir James that TC didn’t understand. But she could feel the hatred
flowing between the two men.

“William, help Tiffany pack a few things, then take her
and wait in the car.”

“If you leave, girl, you’re no better than your mother.”

“Leave Marlene out of this!” Sir James snapped, motioning
William to take TC out.

At the door, TC hesitated. Turning back, hoping for some
sign of love, or at least forgiveness, she met Charles Cartierri’s implacable
glare.

“Why do you hate me?”

“Just like your mother, you got caught.”

“Dios,” Damian said again when she had finished her toneless
recital. Then, deciding she was vulnerable enough to tell him the rest, he
prodded. “How did you manage to pull those heists without getting caught?
Without leaving so much as a trace of forced entry?”

Still hiding her face, she laughed, a bitter sound. “It was
easy. Don’t you see, Ian? I didn’t have to force my way in. I was a guest in
the victims’ homes or hotel suites. An invited guest.”

“What brought you to St. Anton?” he asked, now feeling he
knew too much. At least he finally understood what it was in the reports that
had troubled Michael and him all those years ago. No forced entry.

“Skiing, of course.”

“Tiffany,” he warned. They had come too far for her to
retreat behind that flippant gaiety she used to mask her real emotions.

“I needed a vacation.”

“And an innocent-seeming excuse for being in Europe at the
same time as Isabella’s Belt.”

“Gosh, you’re smart.”

“Do not act like a smartass. It does not require a rocket
scientist to figure out that much. And now I know why you chose a total
stranger to give your virginity to. You were a virgin, weren’t you, Tiffany
darling?”

He turned her in his arms. She ducked her head, but not
before he had seen her scarlet face. He gently shook her. “Weren’t you?”

“Technically, yes… Oh Lord, was I that inept?”

He tried to stop it, but laughter burst from him in waves.

Insulted, TC fought for freedom, but found herself sprawled
across his rock-hard chest, her legs captured between his muscled thighs, her
pelvis pressed against the warmth of his erection. Ensorcelled by his jet-black
eyes, she forgot her anger, forgot everything but how it felt to join with him
and experience the power surging through their bodies.

“Does this feel like ineptitude?” he said in a voice so low
she had to bow her head to hear him. He nipped her earlobe, then traced the
shell with his tongue.

“Dangling for compliments, Ian?”

Muscles rippling, he rolled until he held her captive
between the couch back and his body. “I thought that is what you were doing.
Inept, my ass. You were—are—my dream of what a lover should be. You gave me
laughter. You gave me passion. You gave me the precious gift of yourself.”

“If you say I got nothing in return I’ll… Well, I’ll think
of something dreadful.” She resorted to humor to hide how deeply his words
touched her.

“I am sure you will.” His smile fading, he asked, “Is there
something else I can give you?”

She snuggled closer, then nodded. “Yes. I…I would like to
know your real name.”

“My name is Ian Soria.”

She pulled away, dread in her soul.
I should let this go.
Let his lies go unchallenged
. But those were the patterns of her childhood.
She owed herself a clean slate—one without lies. Especially between her and the
man she loved.

“One thing that has always bothered me—beside the lack of
forced entry,” he said as if discussing the weather.

Fear flooded her. That lifelong terror of being abandoned,
of being unloved and unlovable invaded her. She knew she should bury it once
and forever, but she couldn’t find the courage. Instead, she nodded, giving him
permission to continue.

“Why steal only emeralds,” he asked, his fathomless dark
eyes empty of all emotion.

“I told you.”

“Tell me again.”

“Charles specializes in emeralds. Why steal anything else
and have the victims go to any reputable jeweler to replace the stolen pieces?”

“Ah,” he said, as if the last tumbler on an intricate lock
had fallen into place and the contents of the safe were now his for the taking.
“Did you ever want to get caught?”

“Once.” She sighed. “I left an earring. I don’t know what I
thought would come of it, but… I hoped they’d do DNA tests or something. Do you
know what happened to it?”

“Why would I?”

“You can’t stop lying, can you? Ian Soria isn’t your real
name. Fox calls you Hunter. Esmé said your real name is Damian Hunter. Why
would she say that? How could she know unless she’d met you or heard of you
somehow, somewhere? Who are you?” she whispered, her fear of him like a fist in
her throat threatening to choke her from the inside.

He sighed, then said, “Damian Hunter y Soria. You understand
the Spanish convention of using the mother’s maiden name to distinguish between
various families of the same last name?”

Nodding, she said, “Mark Hunter is your father. Your mother
and sisters were kind to me to help you catch a thief.”

“No! They—we all care about you, Tiffany.”

“Damian Hunter y Soria,” she repeated. “Of Scotland Yard? Of
the Paris Police? No, of course not—jurisdictional problems in this country for
either one of those agencies, eh?” She snapped her fingers and smiled, a rictus
kind of smile she supposed.

“Tiffany, do not do this.”

“Damian Hunter of Interpol. Right?” Her hoarse voice
revealed every nuance of her pain at his betrayal. “Then you knew who I was all
along. You knew I was…Emerald.” She had suspected, of course, that he was an
agent of the law but, like a fool, she’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. This
betrayal of everything they had shared.

“Of International Investigations,” he corrected as he stood.
“And I suspected. Not that it matters, but I am sorry for deceiving you.” On
silent footsteps he left her, closing the door behind him.

* * * * *

Nick Troy watched Damian pace the length of their new hotel
suite—Sir James and Tiffany now residing in their old rooms. Damian had a
tumbler of scotch in his hand. Not that he had drunk any of it. To Nick, the
glass, the scotch itself, seemed more like an anchor than anything else.

“Should I make reservations?” Nick asked when Damian paused
at the balcony doors.

“Reservations?”

“Airline reservations. Shouldn’t we wrap this up and go
home?”

“We have not finished, Nick. We still have to find the
murderer—the Paris murderer.”

“Okay. I’ll book us to Paris.” He headed for the telephone
on a nearby desk.

Turning, Damian glared. “We are not done here, Nick.”

“Colonel Mendez and the local police will handle the
investigation into Mrs. Cartierri’s death.”

“Murder,” Damian corrected, his voice as dead as Nick had
heard it since Michael was slain.

“Which means we have no reason to stay. Unless… Do you think
Ms. Cartierri killed her stepmother?”

“No, but… My guts tell me the murders in Paris and Mrs.
Cartierri’s death are connected. Somehow.”

“Or are you simply making excuses to stay? To see Tiffany
through this difficult time?” Returning to his chair, he watched Damian resume
his pacing.

“Ms. Cartierri has Sir James to support her now. She wants
nothing more to do with me. I…I told her who I am. What I am. She believes I
used her—in ways far worse than Charles Cartierri ever did.”

“Did you?” Damian’s silence spoke volumes. “Yulie Cardoza’s
dead, Damian, but you still think every woman is just like her. Don’t you?”

“I think I am more like my dead brother when he was alive. I
too have fallen in love—under lust’s spell. I should resign from the case, but
I cannot. There are too many questions left unanswered.” He met Nick’s intense
gaze. “You, however, should go home. No sense in us both facing dismissal.”

Nick put his laptop on the table, then turned it on. “In for
a penny, in for a pound,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll backtrack a bit. Check into
Mr. Cartierri’s whereabouts at the time of the Paris murders. Sir James’ as
well. It’s a short flight between London and Paris.”

“And Emilio’s too.” When Nick frowned, Damian said,
“Tiff—Ms. Cartierri believes my godfather delivered the Belt himself. Which
means he could have been in Paris at the time of the murders.” He waved off
Nick’s objections, saying, “I know. It makes no sense. Why deliver the
artifact, then murder to get it back? But, unless some complete stranger
committed the crimes, our suspect list is shrinking.”

“In the interest of thoroughness, I’ll also check on Ms.
Cartierri’s movements.”

“By all means, check out Tiffany. God knows she has every
reason to want Charles Cartierri in hell.”

And he her, Nick thought. “Didn’t Reynard already do all
this alibi checking?”

“No harm in checking again.”

Well, hell. If Reynard’s involved… Nick could imagine the
headlines. Sex, lies, and…MURDER. The tabloids would love it.

* * * * *

“I expect,” Sir James said when he finished chewing his
breakfast toast and wiped the crumbs from his lips, “you’ll want DNA tests done
as soon as possible.”

“Pardon?” TC said, pulling her gaze from the scrambled eggs
she’d been pushing around her plate. With a determined effort, she focused on
his face and felt a smile twitch the corners of her lips. Sir James—her father,
she reminded herself—looked remarkably like a cherubic guardian angel. His hair
formed a silvery halo around his face, his cheeks were ruddy with good health,
his gray eyes sparkled with merriment and—could it be?—pride.

“I said—”

“I did hear you, F-father, but DNA tests are unnecessary.
Unless you want them?”

“Me? Why no, Tiffany, dear, I don’t require them. I only
thought—”

TC crossed to the coffee table to retrieve a manila
envelope. “There are some benefits to having a law enforcement officer for an
ex-lover. Ian—Agent Hunter sent a copy of my birth certificate, presumably the
real one, naming you as my biological father.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” A grim smile accompanied her quirked eyebrow.

“Indeed. I see that you don’t trust the information. I see
that you believe your stepmother lied to you. Just as you think everyone has
lied to you all your life.”

“Haven’t they?”

“To my eternal shame, yes.”

When he refilled their cups with fragrant coffee, she
suspected him of stonewalling, so seized the moment herself. “Did you know?” He
looked up sharply from his coffee cup, his eyes filled with such pain TC could
feel it in her own heart.

“I should have known. Without going into maudlin detail,
your mother and I had an affair. She had been married to Charles for five years
and thought she must be barren. Ergo, we took no precautions.”

“I see,” TC said, her resentful feelings undone by his
description. Underlying the banal, almost callous words, she sensed a
long-suppressed sadness, an abiding love that even her mother’s abandonment of
him had not vanquished. The pain that knifed though her was unfamiliar, but she
recognized it. Jealousy. She was jealous of a woman she could barely remember,
of a love she would never share with a soul mate of her own.

“I begged her to leave Charles, to run away with me, but she
refused. My career was on the rise and she knew any hint of impropriety would
ruin me. God, what fools we were! To convince ourselves that a career could
replace the love we shared!”

Although she believed his sincerity, he ruined the effect
with the hopeful look he gave her from under his brows. She wanted to laugh.
Even more, she wanted to cry. There was no hope for her and Damian. His
betrayal of her, his lies, had killed whatever chance for happiness they might
have had.

“More than career problems are keeping Agent Hunter and me
apart.”

“Such as?”

“A small matter of murder.”

“Nonsense. Damian himself cleared you of any involvement in
Esmé’s death.”

She didn’t remind him of the two murdered people in Paris,
saying instead, “What did Mother do after she left you?”

James shot her an exasperated look, but let her change the
subject. “I never heard from her again. I tried to keep track of her through
mutual friends, but they had formed a phalanx of silence around her. Years
later, when I learned she had disappeared after giving birth to a daughter, I
assumed she wasn’t barren after all.”