ItTakesaThief (31 page)

“Were you punished?”

Thinking about what Charles Cartierri had planned for
her—the most pleasant being life-imprisonment—she could say honestly, “I was.”

“Has Abuelo been punished?”

“Yes, Rogelio, I believe he has been. And I think you should
wait awhile longer before you decide whether you want to be a doctor or a
gemologist.” She gave the boy a fierce hug, then turned him to face her. “You
see, hombre, the stones sing to me too.”

“They do?”

Joy so fierce it felt like agony surged through her. After
weeks of smothering her pain while making everyone around her suffer, she knew
what she wanted to do with her life. Her life. With Charles Cartierri behind
bars, with her mother’s death avenged, with the strength to endure that Damian
had given her, it truly was her life. And she wanted to share it with the man
who had given her soul back to her.

“Oh yes, they do.”

“Señorita TC, you sing like the stones.”

“Do I?” She laughed, for the first time in weeks filled with
joy.

“Si. Damian will be very happy.”

“Will he, hombre?”

Looking pleased yet embarrassed, Rogelio nodded. “I think he
loves you very much. Almost as much as mi padre—my father loves my mother.”

“Almost as much as we all love you.”

“Abuelo, too?”

“Yes, Rogelio, your grandfather too.”

Rogelio stood and tugged on her hands until she got to her
feet.

“I think I will find Grandfather and tell him that I love
him.”

“And I think I shall find Damian.”

His hands fisted at his waist, his stance as solid as his
hero’s, Rogelio blocked her path. “And you will tell him that you love him?”

“With all my heart.”

* * * * *

When Tiffany sauntered into Emilio’s office wearing a
preoccupied expression, Damian’s stomach spurted acid into the region of his
heart. Nothing had changed. She still was trapped within herself. If Rogelio
could not free her, he feared no one could.

Her head bowed, Tiffany said, “I’d like to talk with you,
Damian.”

“Certainly.”

As if not knowing where or how to begin, TC strolled to the
window. Picking up a photograph very similar to the one she’d found in the
guest room in Torquay, she said, “Now will you tell me whose picture this is?”

“Let it go, Tiffany,” Damian warned, trapping her hand
between his and the picture frame he placed face down on Emilio’s desk.

She looked up at him, her expression determined. “No! I
won’t let it go. Since I met you, I’ve been lied to too many times. Now, I want
the truth and I want it from you.” In a gentler voice she said, “That day…the
day we learned each other’s names, you looked as if you hated me. Why?”

Sighing, turning his back to her, he raked his fingers
through his hair. His rigid shoulders told her how hard he struggled against
telling her. Worse, his body’s stiffness screamed his pain. But at last he
said, “Memories. Too damn many bloody memories.”

“Please, Damian. I can only imagine how those memories hurt
you but… You need to tell someone and it might as well be me.”

“Right. I do need to tell you.” He faced her. “You have
heard the expression ‘an heir and a spare’? Well, I am the spare. My—”

“Surely your parents never made you feel unwanted.”

“Of course not! It is just that Michael, my brother Michael,
was the first-born, but only by twenty minutes or so.”

“Twins? My God, you’re a twin?”

“Was. I was a twin. Michael was a brilliant financier. He
could have made his fortune on Wall Street or in any banking establishment in
the world. Instead he chose to work for Interpol, tracking down money
launderers and tax evaders.” Raking his hair again, he gulped. “But he soon got
bored with all the plodding paperwork. He wanted to be ‘in on the kill’, was how
he put it. In one particular instance, he was in on the kill. He bled to death,
cut almost in half by a drug lord’s Uzi.”

“Dear God,” TC whispered, her eyes, her voice clogged with
tears.

“I think by now you are aware that Interpol has no direct
enforcement jurisdiction. It operates where and when the local authorities
allow it and only in matters having international impact.”

“So that’s why Colonel Mendez has remained in charge here in
Colombia.”

Damian nodded. “Two years ago, my brother was betrayed by
someone in the local police department. Betrayed by a woman he had taken into
his arms, into his bed, into his heart.” He glanced at his white-knuckled
fists, then back at her. “I dreamed. The night we made love the first time, I
dreamed Emerald had shot me to death. Just like that bitch Yulie shot my
brother.”

“You thought I was Emerald.”

“You were— You are.”

“Were. Were is the important word here. And Emerald never
killed anyone. You know that…don’t you?”

“I know it now,” he said and drew her into his arms.

“Would you mind sitting down? Looking up at you makes me
dizzy.”

Feeling off balance, Damian willingly obeyed her request. He
seated himself, then found his lap, his arms, his heart filled with vibrant
woman.

“I love you, Damian, Ian—whoever the devil you are,” she
said, her kisses all over his face wreaking havoc with other parts of his
anatomy.

“And I love you, Tiffany Hunter.”

Eyes glowing like the emerald cabochon in Isabella’s Belt,
his ladylove said, “My name isn’t Hunter.”

“It will be,” Damian promised, then kissed her to seal the
promise. “I think I shall ask Nadim to stand up for me.”

“Not,” Tiffany said, then grinned impishly. “On second
thought, go ahead.”

“Who will you ask?”

Her fingers tracing erotic patterns over his chest, she
said, “I never had a girlfriend. Esmé came close, but… Anyway, other than you,
there’s only one person I’ve felt close to since this whole thing started.”

“The sales clerk in Bogotá?” Damian said, his eyes tilted
heavenward in fervent supplication. “Please, do not tell me it is—”

“But of course it is. Who else? Damian, darling, will you
please, please, please,” she pleaded between kisses, “give me Nick’s telephone
number.”

“A Man of Honor?” Damian groaned, wondering how his somewhat
staid family would react to this eccentricity.

“A Man of Honor is all the rage in the colonies,” Tiffany
assured him between renewed kisses.

“Is it now?” he said, a heartbeat later recognizing her turn
of phrase as a joke. Squeezing her to him until she gasped in protest, he threw
back his head and let laughter claim him. “Dios, I love you, woman.”

“I shall delight in hearing that every day for the rest of
my life.”

“Indeed you shall, Tiffany darling.” Long moments later
Damian said softly, “Tell me about William.”

Tiffany realized she was free, finally, of Charles
Cartierri’s machinations and could tell Damian the truth about her husband. “He
was my best friend. When he caught me stealing, he went to Sir James—to my
father—and told him. James told Charles that, since I was a minor, he could be
held responsible for what I had done. Charles agreed that I should be employed
by Bijoux to recover property claimed to have been stolen. William and I became
a team, until he got too sick, too weak.” She gasped, drawing in more air and
the courage to continue. “Even then, his mind functioned brilliantly. He used
to devise little ‘capers’ for Jerry and me to solve.” She laughed, then said
wryly, “I was better at the game than Jerry was, and I basked in William’s
approval. I gloated, delighted that I had beaten William’s lover, that there
was one area of William’s life Jerry could share only vicariously. Poor Jerry.
I treated him abominably, but his love for William proved more tolerant than
mine.”

“Then Jerry didn’t leave because of you.”

“William sent him away. He didn’t want Jerry to have to
watch him die.”

“But he let you watch him,” Damian said, his voice rough
with anger.

“He tried to send me away, but I wouldn’t let him.” She
shrugged. “I had nowhere to go anyway. And no one should have to die alone.”

Damian sighed. “I know a deathbed vigil is the custom of
many cultures, but I sometimes wonder… I think I might prefer to die alone,
rather than see your dear sweet face veiled by sorrow.”

“Oh, Damian,” she whispered, then kissed him tenderly.
“We’ll have a rich, full, long life together. And when we die, we’ll have
eternity.” He grinned. “What are you thinking?”

“I think I shall enjoy that very much.”

“Enjoy what?”

“Chasing you around heaven in our all together. You know,
naked. Speaking of which…” He waggled his eyebrows and smiled at her
lasciviously. “I think we should retire.”

“But I just woke up a little while ago,” Tiffany protested
when he stood with her in his arms.

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

“And all this time I’ve taken you for a literal-minded man.”

“Mmm. It has been some time since you have taken me at all.”

“We’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?” She fluttered her
eyelashes then, feeling silly, laughed.

“Precisely what I had in mind.”

* * * * *

Reaching the top of the staircase on her own feet, Tiffany
headed toward her room. Damian tugged her toward the guest wing.

“I thought Esmeralda consigned you to the cellar.”

“She did. Since you and I have reconciled, I am free to use
my own room.” His unabashed grin told Tiffany he’d been in his own room all
along.

“Since we reconciled just now, how would she know?”

Damian tapped the side of his nose. “Like cops, godmothers
know these things intuitively.”

“Ah.” When Damian opened the door to his room Tiffany said,
“Oh my. Godsons lead a pampered life.”

Against the far wall stood an enormous bed, its sheets and
blankets already turned down. To Tiffany’s right a cozy fire burned, inviting
occupants to linger on the sofa facing it. A champagne bucket sat on the coffee
table, a bottle and long-stemmed flutes already chilling.

“Pretty sure of yourself, huh?”

“Very hopeful. I prayed Rogelio would make you see reason.”

“I’ve been a bitch, I know.”

“Not exactly a bitch, but very nearly. You have
been…difficult.” Taking her hand, he led her inside and then closed the door.
“Would you like some champagne now?”

Feeling a little shy, she nodded. While Damian opened the
champagne, she wandered the room, touching knick-knacks, smelling roses that
gave the large room a homey feel.

“There’s something that’s been puzzling me,” she said,
sitting on the sofa and taking a full champagne flute from Damian’s hand. He
settled at her side, then drew her to him, making her assume she should ask her
question. “How did you know I’d gone to Cartagena?”

He chuckled. “Thank God, Nick has a flypaper mind for
trivia. He recalled you saying limousines are the safest mode of
transportation. We contacted the concierge and learned that you or your
stepmother had booked a car and driver to take you to Cartagena.”

Tiffany hmphed. “Another benefit of working with Interpol.
You got the answer with a snap of your fingers.” Sighing, she added, “And I’m
grateful. If you hadn’t been there when…”

He kissed her, his lips gentle. Easing back, he raised his
glass. “To our future. To our very long, very happy future. We have earned it.”

The certainty in his voice, in his mesmerizing eyes eased
the doubt in her soul. She clinked her flute with his, then sipped, her gaze
never leaving his.

He put their glasses on the coffee table. “I have a question
for you.”

“Shoot, er, ask it.”

“Do you like your hair pulled back so tightly? It looks as
if it hurts.”

Tiffany pulled the rubber band out of her hair. “It does
hurt. I should pick up some of those—”

He ran his fingers through her hair. “I like your hair like
this. All wild, as if we have just made love.” Twining a curl around his
fingers, he drew her face to his. “I like its scent and its softness. When it
is free like this, I like seeing it move when you walk. Most of all, I like
seeing it spread across my pillows, feeling it flow over my skin when you move
above me.”

His words, his eyes, told her everything that was in his
heart. She touched his face. Her fingers shaking, she unbuttoned his shirt,
then slid it off his shoulders.

He scooped her onto his lap. Tonguing the valley between her
breasts, he unfastened her halter-top, then cupped her breasts. Her nipples
pearled against his palms. She wiggled her bottom and felt his already hard
cock get even harder.

“We should wait,” Damian murmured against her arched throat.

“W-wait?”

“Until we are married.”

She grabbed his ears and pulled his face to hers. “It feels
like a year since we made love. I’m not waiting—”

He carried her to the bed. Both of them laughing, he tossed
her on it, following her down. “I have dreamed of you here.”

“I’ve wanted to be here.” His gaze locked with hers, he
traced her hairline, her eyebrows, her lips. “Damian.”

“I refuse to rush, querida. I want to sip you like fine
wine.” He nipped her lower lip, then kissed her gently.

Tiny bursts of excitement and need surged through her like
champagne bubbles rising in a flute. She shifted, rubbing her swollen breasts
and aching nipples against his warm chest. Her nipples were so sensitive, so
needy, his heat spread from them to her pussy. She could feel her labia swell,
moistened by her own juices.

“C-can’t we hurry now? Take our time later?”

Chuckling, he shook his head and teased one nipple with his
clever tongue.

She growled and ground her hips against his groin. His cock
pulsed against her belly. Satisfied his arousal matched her own, she snaked her
hand between their bodies and curled her fingers around it. She’d drive him as
crazy with need as she was.