ItTakesaThief (4 page)

“It is not?”

“No. Were it a date—a real date—I would change clothes. And
so, I expect, would you.”

“All right then. It is not a date. We are simply going out
to dinner because we both have to eat. We may as well eat together. Unless you
intend to invite your husband.”

“My husband is…indisposed.”

Damian opened the door and gestured for her to precede him
out. She gathered her raincoat and the same rather charming fedora he had seen
her wear on the security tapes from the Luxembourg. He could grow to like that
silly red feather stuck at a jaunty angle in the grosgrain ribbon around the
crown.

She checked her raincoat pocket, he assumed for her room
key, then turned to him with a faint smile. “Are we dining in the hotel? If we
are, I’ll leave my hat and coat.”

“I thought we would go just next door. If, that is, you are
not opposed to eating the finest prime rib in England. And if you can walk in
those shoes.” The highest heels he had ever seen did justice to her legs,
although he knew her legs and all the rest of her looked wondrous in nothing at
all.

“I’ve been known to cover every inch of every floor in
Harrods in shoes like these,” she said, a hint of humor flashing in her eyes,
matching a lopsided dimple in her right cheek.

“Then a short walk should not bother you.”

“How short is short?”

He frowned. “I do not understand the question.”

“Londoners—maybe all Brits—give distances in terms of time.
But the distance depends on how fast a person walks, doesn’t it? So how fast
shall we walk?” She had that teasing glint in her eyes again.

“A leisurely two or three minute stroll,” he said, once more
amused by her.

“I think I can manage.”

He helped her into her raincoat. Dodging his hands, she set
her hat on head, the jaunty angle at odds with her somber expression. To his
surprise, she linked her arm through his and urged him toward the lift. He
missed seeing her walk away, but decided pacing at her side was worth not
having to shorten his long stride to match hers. What else had he missed, all
these years dating women who were so much shorter than he?

More an excuse to touch her, he took her hand in his and
slid both into his raincoat pocket. He was unsure but thought he heard her sigh
like a besotted schoolgirl.

Surely not, he thought, glancing at her and finding her
expression stoic.

* * * * *

The restaurant was done in Tudor style, all white walls and
dark woods. It was also crowded, but the maitre d’ led them to a secluded
corner and pulled out a tapestry-covered chair for Tiffany.

“It smells wonderful in here,” she said, her nostrils
flaring in obvious appreciation of roasting meat and the scent of baking
Yorkshire pudding.

When they were seated and had placed their drink orders, he
said, “Is Sir James a good employer?”

She took a sip of water before she said, “Sir James is not
as forthcoming as he should be.” She looked directly at him, her eyes a darker,
more mysterious green.

“Meaning?”

“He refused to tell me exactly what you want me to appraise
and how you fit in with the theft of Isabella’s Belt.”

He glanced around them and decided no one was close enough
to hear their conversation. “I do not—”

She smiled at their waiter when he set a glass of Chardonnay
in front of her, served Damian his double Scotch and then left them to study
their menus.

“Don’t lie to me. You were in Sir James’ office with two
Interpol agents while they met with him. I don’t know a lot about police
procedures, but I doubt they would allow you to stay if you didn’t have a
vested interest.”

“That is quite a supposition, Mrs. Foster.”

“Mrs. Foster is Sir James’ wife. As I told you, I prefer you
call me TC. And don’t try to avoid the issue. Sir James may not have told you,
but I have a bullshit meter that’s better than a perfumer’s nose.”

Damian stared at her for a long, silent moment and then
said, “Very well. I shall tell you what I can.”

“Thank you.” But her eyes remained wary, the bullshit meter
obviously on full.

“The Santanas—Emilio and Esmeralda—are my godparents. They
also own Isabella’s Belt. The Belt has been in their family for generations and
its loss has devastated them. Especially Emilio, who asked me to represent the
family here in Europe.”

“And Señora Santana?”

“Pardon me? I do not understand your question.”

“Is she as devastated as Emilio by the loss of Isabella’s
Belt?”

Sighing, Damian fiddled with his silverware, then took a
deep swallow of his scotch. He wished he had assigned Reynard or Cherub to this
interview. Or had not let his cock rule him. He was too involved with Tiffany
to remain objective, but he would be damned if he turned this case over to
anyone else.

“Women are more pragmatic about the loss of things.
Madrina—my godmother—is more concerned about Emilio’s health.”

After a very long moment Tiffany glanced at her menu, smiled
and lifted her gaze to his face. “Smashed peas. May I have smashed peas with my
dinner?”

“If you will answer a question for me, you may have every
smashed pea in the entire restaurant.” He apparently had survived the bullshit
meter. This time.

“Shoot, Luke.”

“My name is Ian, not Luke. And I have no desire to shoot
anyone. Except, perhaps, your husband.”

Ignoring the sarcasm in his voice and the explanation about
her marriage he seemed to demand, she said, “I don’t expect you to shoot
anyone. It’s just an expression.” Laughing, she touched his hand, but pulled
away immediately. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“My family lives in Devonshire. Torquay.”

“Oh yes. Scones and clotted cream. Yum.” She licked her
lips.

Ignoring his swelling cock, he countered, “Would you like
some now?”

“What, and ruin my appetite for smashed peas?”

“Ah, humor.” He took a deep breath and said, “You and Sir
James are very formal with each other.”

“We’re both very private people.”

“Yes. I could sense that in his office. But… Is your
relationship outside the office so cool? So impersonal?”

“Sir James did not approve of my marrying his stepson,
William. On the other hand, William’s mother did not approve of William
marrying me.”

She looked somewhere over his shoulder. A hint, perhaps, to
change the subject. Which he did. “Then why did they allow it?”

“Oh Ian, this is the twenty-first century,” she said on a
laugh tainted with bitterness. “William’s mother allowed it because it gained
her son access to the high-flying world of Charles Cartierri, renowned jeweler
and gemologist.”

“And Sir James allowed you and William to marry because…?”

“Because it irritated Charles.”

She looked so annoyed, Damian thought it best to change the
subject. “Do you like the theater?”

“Love it.”

“I think I can get tickets for
Phantom.
” He watched
her eyes widen. “I might even be able to arrange a backstage tour.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“You have not seen the show?”

“Couldn’t get tickets. Seeing it in London makes it even
more special,” she crowed, then wiggled her shoulders like a puppy having its
tummy rubbed.

Damian wanted to wiggle too, preferably in a wide bed with
satin sheets and Tiffany under him.

“Backstage, too? Impressive.”

Damian ground his teeth but, mimicking his teenage sisters,
said, “Yeah, way cool.”

They sipped their drinks in silence until the waiter
finished serving their entrées. Tiffany ate as if food was a prelude to
sex—small, tentative bites at first, a nod of approval, a soft groan of
pleasure.

To save himself from more libidinous thoughts, like her
taking bites of him, he asked, “When did you first go to work for Sir James?”

“Can’t wait to start the interrogation, eh?” She put her
knife and fork at precise angles on her plate.

“I am simply making conversation. Conversation that avoids
the subject of your marriage, which you clearly do not want to discuss. Do you
like the prime rib?”

“Were I better with words, I would wax poetic about the
prime rib. And the Yorkshire pudding is perfection.”

“I suspect you are very good with words,” he muttered,
focusing on his plate instead of ogling her breasts or remembering how she had
writhed when he suckled them. “How are the peas?”

She retrieved her silverware and resumed eating, forking a
dainty bite of peas into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Yummy. I went to
work for Sir James—why do I always want to say Saint James?” she wondered,
making Damian laugh. “Anyway, I started with him when I was seventeen. Odd jobs
at first, like filing and answering phones. William and I married when I turned
twenty. When I became a certified gemologist, Sir James began to allow me to
appraise jewelry. He also allowed William to train me on security systems.”

“Including how to bypass them?”

She glanced up sharply but said in a smooth voice, “Of course.
It sometimes helps in determining whether the items were really stolen or were
‘mislaid’ by someone who only wants the insurance money. What we Yanks call ‘an
inside job’.”

“Are you a Yank?”

She chewed for a moment and then said, “No, I’m an international
woman. I went to college in the States, but my father, stepmother and I lived
virtually everywhere—Paris, Rome, London and Bogotá.”

“My godparents, the Santanas, live near Bogotá.”

“That makes sense. After all, Colombia is rich in emeralds.”
She put aside her utensils, resting her chin on her hand.

“I grew up in Madrid and Torquay.”

“Torquay, well-known as the English Mediterranean. Do you
like it there? And is Madrid why you have an accent?”

He chuckled. “And you do not? Have an accent, I mean.”

“Of course I don’t have an accent. I speak French like a
Parisienne, Spanish like a Catalan, German like a Berliner and Italian like a
Roman guttersnipe. And you haven’t answered my question. Do you like Torquay?”

“Yes, but I prefer Barcelona or Granada.” He forked smashed
peas into his mouth and prayed she would let the subject drop. Sooner of later,
she would ask where he worked and he did not want her to know. Not until he
could trust her.

“Ah, Granada. I fell in love once in Granada. Cold as sin in
February, but beautiful.”

“Sin is not cold, Tiffany.”

She laughed, flashing a hint of her dimple.

“I take it your Spanish lover was not William.”

“No. Luis was a medical student at the University of
Granada. And he was never my lover.”

“Saving yourself for William?”

She flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment he could
not tell. “I am sorry,” he said and covered her hand with his.

“A different time, a different girl.” She eased her hand
away to fidget with her spoon.

“Have you a theory about the theft of Isabella’s Belt?”

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly?

For a brief moment he thought to pursue the question, but
let the subject drop.

“Do you want to make love with me?” she asked when the long
silence threatened to become uncomfortable.

Feeling his face heat and his cock throb, he said, “Yes,
very much.”

“But? What happened in St. Anton was a fluke? We’re on
opposite sides regarding this theft?”

He seized the last subject like a drowning man would seize a
raft. He had no more desire to discuss St. Anton than she had to talk about her
husband. Any discussion about her marriage would lead him to the faithless
woman who had gotten his brother killed. Instead, he said, “How can we be on
opposite sides? You must want the thief brought to justice as quickly as I do. Bijoux
stands to lose a vast sum if the Belt is not recovered.”

“Yes, a vast sum. All due and payable to your godfather,
Emilio Santana.”

“That is an evil accusation!” he said, anger coloring his
voice and dousing desire. Dios, she had gotten under his skin quickly!
Wondering where the hell calm, detached Damian Hunter—temporarily assigned to
Interpol—had gone to, he took a deep breath. “You said you did not have a
theory about the theft.”

“I don’t. It’s just common practice to look at the owners,
along with any other suspects.”

“And if you have no other suspects?”

She lifted her gaze to his face, her green eyes filled with
what appeared to be irony. “‘Aye, there’s the rub’.” She shrugged, that
perfectly Gallic gesture that somehow conveyed puzzlement and who-the-hell-cares,
then added, “Of course, there’s always me.”

He couldn’t hold her gaze, she noted, but looked away, his
olive complexion stained with red. So, his thoughts had run to her
possible—merde, probable—guilt. Had he seen the surveillance tapes and, if so,
why? Surely Interpol wouldn’t allow a civilian to view them. On the other hand,
Sir James had seen them. But he had a close connection to the case. Closer than
Ian Soria’s at least.

He took a careful sip of scotch and then said, “You? That
never entered—”

Extending her index and little fingers and waving her hand
from side to side, she stopped his denial.

“What is that gesture? What does it mean?” He frowned and
mimicked her like a schoolboy learning a new obscenity.

“It means ‘bullshit’. It means, Señor Ian Soria, that
Interpol allowed you to see the Luxembourg surveillance tapes. It means,
despite my working for Sir James, you do consider me a suspect.” She folded her
arms under her breasts and shot him a “So there!” smile. Did he think her an utter
fool that she couldn’t figure out even that much?

“Is that why you offered fuck me? To divert my suspicion?”

Her fury rising, she thrust back her chair, threw her napkin
on the table and stood. All she could say was a curt, “Good night and goodbye.”