ItTakesaThief (27 page)

“You never dug any deeper?” Despite her efforts to smother
emotion, disdain leaked into her voice. He must not have cared very much.

“No. I think I was afraid to know. I allowed myself to
believe your birth, her vanishing, had occurred no more than a few weeks before
I learned of them. I am so sorry, Tiffany. Or should I call you TC?”

“Why start now? Besides,” she forced a bright smile, “I’ve
grown rather fond of the name Tiffany.”

“I imagine you have,” he said dryly, as if knowing Damian
also called her by her real first name.

“Don’t start,” she warned.

“Well then, shall we get rid of the breakfast mess and talk
about the future?”

Before she could say a word, he rolled the room service
table into the hallway, returned to her side and then trundled her to the
couch.

“You lied to me, Tiffany. You let me believe you’d turned
rogue.” Unrepentant, she nodded. “Why?”

“I couldn’t trust you. When I came to you in London, right
after the theft,” she amended as if he would have forgotten that momentous day,
“you seemed crazed somehow. Like the Belt was more important to you than
anything or anyone. You seemed to support Charles’ allegations that I had
stolen the Belt. I had, of course, taken the fake one, but I didn’t feel—” She
shrugged, once more feeling helpless and caught in the old, hated patterns of
her childhood. She still couldn’t say or do anything to win the approval of the
people she loved. Her mother had hated her so much—

No, she wouldn’t think about that now. Besides,
intellectually, she knew relationships between adults were more complex than
children could comprehend. Whatever her mother’s reasons for leaving, for
deserting her daughter, Tiffany wasn’t completely to blame. Her only true
regret, aside from never knowing her mother, was her lack of moral fiber. She
should have refused to steal for Charles, should have confessed the first time
the police questioned her.

Should have, but hadn’t.

Sighing, she met her father’s eyes and knew that, however
much her words might hurt him, she had to say them. “And when
Ian—Damian—confronted me with the Luxembourg blueprints, I thought—”

“I had sold you out. That I sent those security plans to
Interpol,” Sir James said, his expression and voice heavy with disappointment.

“I’m sorry, but it’s how I felt.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Tiffany. I’m to blame
for the misunderstandings between us.” When she started to protest, he raised
his hand, forestalling her. “That day in London…” He stood, paced to the
windows and stared out, much as he had that foggy afternoon. “Jean told me that
morning that she had filed for divorce, that she was tired of living with two
ghosts between us.”

“Two?”

“William and Marlene. For reasons known only to her, Jean
always blamed me for William’s sexual preference. If I hadn’t carried Marlene
in my heart, I’d have been a better father to William, taught him how to be a
man… I don’t know.” He seemed to suppress a sigh. “I do know that I did Jean a
great disservice by marrying her. I loved her after a fashion, but not the way
I loved your mother.”

Tiffany remained silent. She knew a lot about guilt. She
also knew that talking about the past, about feelings, helped to lighten their
burden. In a millennium or two, she might be willing to tell her father about
her own failures, about how the deepest love she’d ever felt was for a man
who’d betrayed her. But now wasn’t the time. Now was for her father and the
love he’d shared with her mother.

“The theft of Isabella’s Belt was the final straw,” he said,
at last continuing. “I saw everything I’d strived for crumbling around me. My
work, my marriage, my life. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, it simply
faded into nothingness and left behind an empty, lonely shell. Then in you
walked, looking so much like your mother. So lovely, so fearless.”

“I was scared spitless,” he surprised her into admitting.
“You in conference with Interpol. The Musée de Luxembourg staff intended to
have the Belt authenticated the day before the exhibit opened, but I saw it
when I went to the bank, examined and took the fake. The theft was discovered weeks
before anyone should have known about it. Not knowing if you’d opened the
package I sent from Paris in front of those two agents, or if you intended to
trap me into confessing everything and then have me arrested…” She shrugged. “I
just couldn’t trust you.”

They glanced at each other, smiled at the shared memory that
had led to so much misunderstanding, yet had brought them to this new chance,
to this new beginning.

“So, where do we go from here?” he asked.

“Well, Papa, I think we should put our devious minds
together and figure out who stole the real Belt.” She crossed to his side,
then, risking her heart, put her arms around his waist.

He stiffened, but she refused to pull away. One of them had
to take this first step toward healing. If he wouldn’t, she would. She owed it
to him. More, she owed it to herself.

“Papa, eh?” he said, squeezing her shoulders, then pressing
her head to his chest and stroking her hair.

“I think you know why, Papa.” Unlike “Father”, the name held
warmth and the abiding affection she always had felt for him.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Peace in her heart, Tiffany put aside her sorrow for the
years they’d lost and celebrated the years they would have together. And if she
mourned the loss of Ian Soria’s love, nobody would ever know it.

Especially not Damian Hunter of International
Investigations, Incorporated.

“Now, what would you like to do today?” her papa asked.

“Other than strangle Damian Hunter, you mean?”

“Other than that,” he said through a chuckle.

“I don’t suppose we could leave Cartagena?”

“I don’t see why not. Unless…unless you want to see Esmé?”

“No! No,” she said in a calmer voice. “I want to remember
her as she was. And I don’t want to risk running into Charles at the morgue or
wherever they’ve taken Esmé.”

“Charles is being detained by Colonel Mendez. The colonel
doesn’t think Charles was involved in Esmé’s death, but wants to give him time
to cool off. Since Charles has no alibi, the colonel thought it best to
restrict his movements.”

“But not ours.”

“Only minimally. We can leave Cartagena, but not Colombia.
So, given that restriction, where would you like to go?”

He looked so kind, so eager to please, that the ice around
her heart melted a little. She caught herself before it thawed completely. Over
the last few weeks she had learned one thing—if it seemed too good to be true,
it probably was.

“I think we should go back to Medellin. There are some
things I need to return to Señor Santana.”

“Tiffany, you’re plotting something.”

“I haven’t yet, but I will. I will.”

Chapter Seventeen

Emilio Santana’s face flushed red with rage when he saw her,
but Esmeralda Santana’s smile made Tiffany feel more than welcome.

“Señorita Tey Cey, bienvenido.”

“Señora Santana,” Tiffany greeted, leaning down to place a
kiss on the older woman’s cheek. “I believe you already know Sir James Foster?”

Upon their return to Medellin two days earlier, Tiffany and
Sir James had decided not to reveal their newly discovered relationship. Not
only were they still uncomfortable with their new status, they suspected their
relationship was, somehow, linked to the theft of Isabella’s Belt. They hoped
to trap someone into revealing that knowledge and more.

“James,” Esmeralda said, holding out her hands to him,
“welcome. I have not seen you in years.”

“You haven’t changed a bit. Still as lovely as ever.” He
kissed her hands with an Old World charm that made the señora blush like a
schoolgirl.

“Emilio,” James said, crossing the salon to shake his old
friend’s hand.

“You are welcome here, James, but that…thief is not.”

“You’ve hurt your hand,” James said, taking Santana’s left
hand, raising it as if to look under the bandage.

Emilio jerked away. “A mere scratch. An accident with a
small pick. It is nothing. Please, you will send that woman back to the hell
that spawned her.”

Opening her purse as she crossed the room, Tiffany extracted
a small black velvet bag, then dropped it into Santana’s hand. “Unlike the
emeralds that were planted in my hotel suite, these are real.”

“But how…? Where did you find them? So convenient for you,
eh?”

“Colonel Mendez recovered them from a safe deposit box in
the hotel,” James said before Tiffany’s temper got the better of her.

To Tiffany, Sir James looked as if he wanted to tear the
bandage off Santana’s hand, expose him as Esmé’s killer and haul him off to
prison. She suspected her papa had enough control to play the game to
completion. And if Santana’s continued renunciation of her was a sham, it was a
righteous one. At least in his and his wife’s eyes. Whoever had framed Tiffany
for the theft of Santana’s emeralds—perhaps Emilio himself—had done a damn fine
job of it. Only the desk clerk’s certainty that the guest using the box was
considerably shorter than Tiffany had saved her from jail.

“Stop this bickering at once,” Esmeralda ordered. “This is
my home as well as yours, Emilio, and I shall entertain my friends in it. If
you cannot be civil, you may retire.” Sitting on the sofa where Tiffany had
first seen her, she patted the plump cushion and beckoned Tiffany to sit beside
her.

“I was so sorry to hear of Esmé’s tragic death. I did not
know her well, but she seemed very…simpatico.”

“Nice?” Tiffany said, supposing that was as good a word as
any to describe how Esmé must have seemed to others, Tiffany included. The last
two days had been a lesson in how deceptive appearances could be. Damian’s
betrayal of her. And now, based upon the desk clerk’s description, it appeared
Esmé had tried to frame Tiffany for the theft of Emilio Santana’s emeralds.

“Poor Charles,” Esmeralda said, breaking into Tiffany’s
wandering thoughts. “He must be devastated.”

“In a manner of speaking,” James said as he brought a sherry
to each woman, then poured one for himself. “Colonel Mendez arrested him.”

“For what? Surely not for Esmé’s death? That was an
accident, wasn’t it?”

Emilio Santana’s face lost all color and he swayed.

Interesting, Tiffany thought, watching him pour himself a
drink. Not a delicate little sherry, but a potent whiskey, three fingers deep
and neat. After he had downed it in one long gulp, he rubbed his left hand.

“Perhaps you should have a doctor look at that,” James
suggested.

“I already have,” came the curt reply. Then Emilio Santana
fled the room as if the three-headed Cerberus pursued him.

“Sir James experienced a severe dizzy spell when we learned
of Esmé’s death,” Tiffany said when the silence threatened to become
unbearable. “The hotel doctor declared him fit, but I’d like another opinion.
Do you think your husband’s doctor would examine my father…-in-law?”

Esmeralda’s obvious indignation over her husband’s abrupt
departure faded under her quick smile. “Of course, my dear Tey Cey. I’ll call
him while you settle into your rooms.”

“He’s nearby?” Sir James asked. “We could drive to his
office, if that’s convenient.”

“He won’t mind coming here. And he can bring Rogelio with
him. My grandson would never forgive me if I let you go without seeing him,”
she added to Tiffany.

“Is he sick?” Tiffany said, concern for the boy bringing her
to her feet with a suddenness that made her lightheaded. Had someone made
another attempt on Rogelio’s life? Had the shooting at the Santana mine
traumatized him?

“Rest easy, querida. Rogelio is merely spending time in his
papa’s clinic. Like his father at that age, Rogelio shows a great interest in
medicine. So perhaps I shall have two doctors to see me through my old age,
eh?”

“I should have remembered,” Tiffany apologized.

“Why would you? José was not here the night you arrived and
you were unconscious when he treated your gunshot wound.” Taking Tiffany’s arm,
leaving Sir James to trail in their wake, she went on. “I have put you in rooms
in the family wing. I would not want that previous unpleasantness to color your
stay with us this time.”

Behind her, Tiffany could hear her papa muttering. “‘Gunshot
wound’? ‘Previous unpleasantness’? Good Lord, she was safer before she
retired.”

* * * * *

Damian slammed his fist on the top of José Santana’s
Colonial-style desk and fought the urge to swear. “You have to tell me, José.
Someone’s life could be forfeit if you do not.”

“Had your woman not betrayed my family, I might feel sorry
for her. But I don’t. And I don’t have to tell you anything. There is, after
all, the doctor-patient confidence.”

“Let it be on your head,” Damian said in an ominous voice,
spun on his heel and then stalked out of the clinic. Head down, muttering under
his breath, he collided with a small ball of energy.

“
Rogelio, m’ijo, ¿que tal
?”

“
Hola, Ian. ¿Como esta—how is la señorita TC
?”

“She’s here?”

“Abuela just called. La señorita and Señor Foster are at the
big house. You give me ride, eh? But first I must tell Papa that he is needed
at the house.”

Damian caught the young dynamo around his waist. “Whoa. Who
needs a doctor? Is Tiffany ill?”

Rogelio shrugged. “Abuela did not say it was an emergency,
only that the señorita wanted a doctor.”

Damian felt hope surge through him. Perhaps fate had
intervened on his behalf. If Tiffany was pregnant, she would have to let him
back in her life. He would offer marriage, of course, but, given the way she
had looked at him in Cartagena, so stunned, so betrayed, he doubted she would
accept. Not now, at any rate, but later. Maybe.

“Perhaps we should check with Tiffany before we disturb your
father. How ‘bout it, m’ijo?”

The boy did not hesitate. He sped toward the Land Rover and
looked back to ensure that Damian followed.

Climbing into the vehicle, Damian smiled grimly. He was
about to pump a child, a boy he liked, whose friendship and respect he valued.
But Tiffany’s life and that of their unborn child could be at stake. He
deliberately smothered his blatant disregard of Tiffany’s desires, flashed
Rogelio his most charming smile and said, “Your grandfather was very lucky. An
inch in either direction and he might have lost his hand.”

In seconds Rogelio was chattering like a magpie. His love of
medicine was second only to his love of gems, his knowledge of both more than
Damian wanted to know.

“Si. The pick merely grazed Abuelo’s hand, but he bled like
a bull.”

When they reached the house, Damian sent his young friend to
find Esmeralda Santana. Moments later she appeared in her kitchen, her frown
daunting to a man less desperate than he.

“Is Tiffany sick?” he demanded.

“No, she is not sick. Except, perhaps, in her heart. For
which you are responsible.”

“I know, Madrina.” Knowing any attempt at charm would put
his godmother dead-set against him, he did not smile. “And as soon as this
matter is resolved, I intend to make it up to her.”

“
Buena suerte
,” Esmeralda said, but her scowl lifted.
Pure deviltry sparkled in her eyes.

“Yes, I suppose I shall need a great deal of good luck. In
the meantime, please tell me why Tiffany needs a doctor.”

“She says Sir James needs one, but I suspect… Well, I think
they are both more interested in Emilio’s health than their own.” Her frown
returning, she pinned Damian with a glare and said, “You may stay in the guest
wing if,” she wagged an imperious finger under his nose, “you promise to stay
out of sight. Tiffany has suffered enough without having to endure your
presence now.”

Sweeping her a courtly bow, Damian acquiesced. “Will you
feed me, Godmother?”

“Bread and water,” she muttered. But before she left, her
gaze shifted to the massive refrigerator and the well-stocked pantry.

He took comfort in knowing that, while he laid his trap, he
would not starve.

* * * * *

Late that night, a small sound startled TC from a light
doze. Barely daring to breathe, she sat in the blackness of Emilio Santana’s
study, waiting, but she heard nothing more. Huddled behind a chair near the
light switch, she carefully extended her legs until she could flex the tension
from her cramping muscles. She half expected her bones to creak. Knowing even
that small noise would sound like a gunshot in the absolute stillness, she sent
a prayer heavenward and wondered what insanity had brought her here.

Isabella’s Belt, if in fact Emilio Santana had stolen it,
could be anywhere on his vast estate. But her gut instinct told her Santana
would keep it near him. Even if he could not see it, wouldn’t risk someone
walking in on him while he savored its beauty, she sensed he would want it
where he could get to it quickly. And she suspected he had another hidey-hole
nearby, where he could secret the artifact if he needed to.

Yawning, she kept herself awake by listing all the questions
she could not answer. How had Emilio gotten the Belt out of the Museo
Arqueologico after he had authenticated it? Was Charles Cartierri in on the
theft or was someone else involved at the Paris end? How had Damian Hunter
known she’d gone to Cartagena?

Her heavy eyelids drooped. Her head lolled against the wall.
She slept.

Across the room, Damian shifted his cramping body to a more
comfortable position and ground his teeth. If he were not afraid of revealing
his own presence, he would drag Tiffany out of here by her hair. What the hell
did she think she was doing? Did she imagine she could single-handedly
overpower a man who had killed the bank’s employees, two men in prime
condition? He grimaced into the surrounding blackness. Recalling how she nearly
had unmanned him, he admitted she was good. But was she good enough, quick
enough, to dodge a bullet?

Damn, he should have taken her into his confidence, should
have told her everything he had learned from Colonel Mendez, should have locked
her in her room to keep her safe.

Chuckling silently, he admitted the futility of such an
action. Since she had gone to work for James Foster, the woman had become a
master at defeating the most sophisticated locks in the world. Tying her to her
bed might have slowed her down, but he doubted anything short of
unconsciousness could have kept her in her room.

What made him so sure the figure huddled in the corner was
Tiffany? She wore no perfume, and yet, like a wolf scenting his life-mate,
Damian recognized the combination of soap and skin that was uniquely hers. He
could only hope the killer would not recognize her scent, or Damian’s either.

He smothered his resentment that Tiffany seemed oblivious to
his presence. She had been through so much these last few weeks, he could only
admire her fortitude.
More like sheer stubbornness
, he thought, willing
his muscles to relax. Picturing a sleek panther poised to pounce, he drifted
into a light doze.

A “putt” followed by a thud brought him to his feet. In the
darkness he heard the sounds of strained breathing and almost silent grunts.
Pulling his gun from the holster at the small of his back, he turned on the
lights and blinked in the sudden brightness.

Two figures, each clothed completely in black, struggled for
control of a gun. He chanced a quick glance at the corner where Tiffany had
huddled and swore. One of those engaged in mortal battle was Tiffany. But which
one?

“Cherub, Reynard, get in here,” Damian shouted.

Circling the two combatants, he pulled the knit cap from one
head, then brought the butt of his gun down sharply. A grunt brought a
satisfied smile to his lips, but it soon vanished. Staring down the barrel of a
Walther held by a woman with mayhem in her emerald eyes was not his favorite
pastime.

“Come to finish me off, Ian?” Tiffany asked, her voice
dripping sarcasm.

“Come to save your lovely backside,” Damian said. Moving
slowly, carefully, he placed his own weapon on the desk, then stepped back. His
foot bumped something and he looked down. “You better get José up here.
Emilio’s been shot.”

“Don’t pull that crap on me. Hey, stand up so I can see you!
Damian!” Huffing her exasperation, Tiffany rounded the desk, then gave a little
shriek. “My Lord, you’ve killed him.”

“He isn’t dead yet, but he may be if you don’t call José.”

Tiffany dropped the Walther as if it was a white-hot poker,
then picked up the phone with hands that shook so hard she barely could hold
the receiver. Surprising her, her voice sounded steady when she told José what
had happened. She hung up and retrieved her gun.