ItTakesaThief (9 page)

Her heartbeat accelerated, stalled, then raced on,
pitter-pattering like windblown rain. Maybe this setup was to lull her into
feeling secure, she thought while she looked for an exit. The door she had come
through had disappeared into the paneling and there was no obvious way out. Fighting
her rising panic, she sat and tried not to feel the walls closing in around
her.

A sudden noise—a key turning in a stubborn lock?—startled
her. Her heart pumped tumultuously and she was certain stark terror filled her
eyes. Another soldier, a colonel this time, entered at a brisk pace and stopped
within inches of where she sat.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Señorita Cartierri. With
this theft, one cannot be too careful.”

TC knew better than to feign innocence about the theft of
Isabella’s Belt. Her passport showed she had been in London when news of the
theft broke. She would have to live in a vacuum not to have read about it or
heard the newscasts. Besides, as the daughter and widow of renowned
gemologists, a certified gemologist herself, she would know of something so
monstrous in the world of priceless gems.

“I read about the theft, Colonel…?”

“Mendez,” he supplied with a smile that revealed large white
teeth beneath his luxurious black mustache.

“Colonel Mendez,” she acknowledged as she stood and smoothed
the skirt of her pale green linen suit. “What I don’t understand is why anyone
would try to smuggle Isabella’s Belt into Colombia. Isn’t that rather like
carrying coal to Newcastle?”

To his credit, the colonel made no pretense of understanding
the simile. Instead, with none of the impatience Charles Cartierri always
displayed over her ignorance, he said, “In Africa the Emerald Road leads from
Zaire. In South America that road begins at Muzo.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

“There is no better place than Colombia, señorita, from
which to dispose of individual stones. But first, one must be able to prove one
has possession of the entire article.”

“And you think I—” Biting her lip, she suppressed a nervous
laugh.

“You have sometimes acted as courier for your father,
señorita. You could be carrying gems from the Belt or a sum of money sufficient
to assure a contact of your sincerity to buy.”

Allowing herself a small laugh, TC offered her purse.

The dark-haired colonel held up his hand. “I already know
how much money you have in your possession. It was counted while you slept en
route. With my deepest apologies, Señorita Cartierri.” He offered his arm,
which she took.

As he led her through the artfully concealed door, she
observed, “To my knowledge, Charles Cartierri has never stolen anything.” Not
directly, at any rate.

“Two points, señorita, and then we will speak no more of
this unpleasantness. First, Isabella’s Belt and possessing it would tempt all
the saints in heaven.”

“And second?” she prompted as their footsteps echoed through
the otherwise silent corridor.

“A curious choice of words, señorita, but perhaps suited to
the situation.”

As Colonel Mendez led her outside, TC noticed a man forcing
a woman away from the baggage claim area. There, a single piece of luggage
waited in threatening solitude. Had the soldiers used their dogs to sniff out
contraband? Were they waiting to seize whoever claimed the bag? TC wondered,
relieved that her luggage already had cleared Customs.

“Yes?” She couldn’t keep a touch of trepidation from her
voice as bright, blinding sunlight burned her eyes.

“‘To my knowledge.’ A strange defense of your father,
Señorita Cartierri. Or was it of yourself?”

Before she could form a response, another voice intruded.

“If you are through with my guest, Colonel Mendez,” Emilio
Santana intoned in a silky voice that sent shivers skittering over TC’s skin,
“I shall take her home.”

“My apologies for the delay, Señor Santana. Señorita.” The
colonel saluted and then marched smartly back the way he had come. He looked
cool and calm, conditions TC resented wholeheartedly.

“You were not mistreated? You look pale.”

“I’m fine. The altitude here makes me feel a little
breathless.” She smiled at her host, a silver-haired, distinguished-looking man
in his mid-sixties. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”

“And you, querida, are more beautiful than ever. Rogelio
will be delighted when he sees how lovely you are.”

TC chuckled. “How old is your grandson? Four? Five?”

“Ah, TC, you have stayed away too long. Rogelio is ten and
quite the—”

“Dandy, like his grandfather?” She linked her arm through
his and they matched strides to his limousine. Across the road, in a park paved
with bricks, international flags waved in welcome.

Settling into the blessedly warm interior of the limo, she
sighed, then started. “My luggage.”

“In the trunk, querida, as is that canvas bag you seem to
carry everywhere.”

The silky voice had returned. Wondering what had prompted
that earlier oddly threatening timbre, TC shivered. She forced a grateful
smile, then closed her eyes. Soon they left the El Dorado airport behind and
descended into the lower mountains.

“I could have saved you a long drive, Emilio. The airport at
Medellin is much closer to your home.”

“I had business in Bogotá. Besides, despite the decrease in
lawlessness in Medellin, a woman as beautiful as you could have been
kidnapped.”

“Flatterer,” she said.

They chatted about inconsequential things before the
conversation turned to family. As if sensing her reluctance to talk about her
father even in the most casual terms, Emilio Santana did not ask about Charles
Cartierri but said, “How is your lovely step-mama?”

TC shrugged. “I haven’t seen Esmé since William’s funeral,
but Charles says she’s well. She’s keeping busy with her charities and
semiannual redecorating.” The silence stretched, making her uncomfortable. A
true gentleman—it struck her as strange that Emilio had not offered his
condolences.

As if inside her mind, Santana mirrored her shrug. “I cannot
feel sad that you are free of William, querida. It was an unnatural marriage to
an unnatural man. I cannot imagine why Charles allowed it.”

“He didn’t know or didn’t want to know,” TC murmured,
twining her fingers with his. As always, Emilio Santana both fascinated and
repelled her.

“The latter, I believe.” As if sensing her discomfort at
discussing her father, Emilio patted her hand, then said, “I will leave a car
at your disposal. In a few days, when you are rested, you may explore at your
leisure. Of course, we shall spend time in Bogotá. Later, once everyone has
settled in.”

“Gracias, Emilio.”

“Por nada, querida. Now, sleep.” After drawing her feet into
his lap, he slid into a corner of the limousine and slipped off her shoes. “Are
you comfortable?”

Feeling warm for the first time since leaving Paris, TC
sighed. “Lovely,” she murmured and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

Damian stood in the shadows of his balcony and watched
Emilio Santana exit the long white limousine. After delivering a softly spoken
order to his chauffeur, the elegant man turned back and offered his hand to the
slender woman emerging from the limo’s dark interior. Her hair cascaded over
her shoulders in wild disarray, much as it had over Damian’s pillows that
memorable and all-too-brief night in St. Anton. Aware that her suit was
rumpled, that she carried her shoes, shoes as frivolously feminine as the ones
she always wore, he yawned to force the tension from his clenched jaw.

Had they made love? he wondered, clenching his teeth once
more, fighting the image of her long, slender legs wrapped around Santana’s
thick waist.

“Mine,” he muttered to himself, his hands balled into fists.
Fists he wanted to smash into his godfather’s face.

With a feral snarl, Damian strode through the French doors
into his bedroom. Barely aware of the ornately carved, massive furniture from
the Colonial period or the cool tiles beneath his bare feet, he shed his
clothes and headed for the shower.

Tonight he would lay claim to her, by damn. Tonight he would
teach her where she belonged. And no one, especially not Emilio Santana, would
interfere.

Under the stinging flow of hot water, Damian imagined a
slender woman clinging to him for support. Clinging to him with passion.

* * * * *

Resisting the urge to fling herself across her bed and sleep
for a week, TC opened the French doors and stepped out on her bedroom balcony.
In spite of the elevation and the fact that spring had not officially arrived,
the air felt crisp yet balmy. Probably, she surmised as she stretched and sucked
in a breath of cool, clean air, because of Colombia’s proximity to the equator.
In the far distance, higher mountains ringed the valley like sentinels. Her
gaze was inexorably drawn to the stone walls that surrounded Emilio’s compound.
Surveillance cameras and electrified barbed wire topped the high walls.

Between drug running and gem smuggling, Colombia was not the
safest place to live. Though here, only a short distance from Medellin and
Muzo, such sordidness seemed impossible. Intellectually, she could acknowledge
Emilio’s need for security. On an emotional level, she felt as if she had
exchanged one potential prison for another.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, TC shivered. Determined
to banish the coldness that had become a part of her since the theft of
Isabella’s Belt, she returned to her room and shed her clothes. A shower would
warm her, if only temporarily.

The gentle pummeling of hot water evoked images of a man’s
hands on her body. Large, tanned hands that moved with sensuous certainty over
every inch of her until the coldness within her burned away and she glowed like
a comet streaking through a midnight sky.

Ian’s hands. The hands of a murderer?

* * * * *

Breadcrumbs, TC thought an hour later. She stood at the
intersection of three long and unfamiliar hallways and sighed. She should have
left a trail of breadcrumbs when the maid, Pepita, led her to her suite in the
guest wing. Frustrated that she’d let exhaustion override her normally
infallible sense of direction, she decided to take advantage of the situation.
After all, if someone found her in the wrong room, she could honestly say she’d
gotten lost.

Taking the hallway to her left, she ambled along and studied
her surroundings. Lights focused on museum-quality paintings by Carlos Jacana
and Fernando Bolero lit her way down the thick carpet runner that muffled her
footsteps. Reaching the end of the corridor, she opened a door and found
herself in another bedroom, smaller than her own, but exquisitely appointed.
Closing the hall door behind her, she went to the French doors and made sure no
one on the outside could see into the room.

Satisfied, she quickly checked behind a print of bucolic
flowers that hung on the wall. She huffed. Not that she expected to find a safe
and Isabella’s Belt, in a guestroom. But she had hoped… What? To discover a
sense of home in a house that felt more like a luxurious jail?

Disliking the path her mind seemed bent on taking—lately she
had spent far too much time thinking about prisons—she glanced at her watch. Damn,
she’d have to abandon her search and call for help before someone found her
skulking about. Maybe tomorrow she could find the time and an excuse to explore
the house. Resigned to the delay, she picked up the house phone and dialed for
help.

Five minutes later, Pepita guided her through a maze of
hallways to the grand staircase. There, the maid left TC to make her way to the
red salon on the floor below.

A mirror at one end of the large room allowed her to see in
while she remained out of sight. The classic Colonial-style construction, adobe
and tile, accented the clean, austere lines. The furniture, gilt and red
velvet, made her eyes hurt. The groupings, intended she supposed to make guests
feel comfortable, were too formal, too precisely arranged around colorful rugs
to feel welcoming. Unlike Hunter Hall, the flower-filled vases failed to lend
warmth to the room.

Smothering her dislike of the setting, TC stepped into the
doorway and took stock of the people gathered there. Seated on a red velvet
settee Esmeralda Santana, Emilio’s wife, held court for the women. Her
daughters and the wives of her sons, no doubt, they all wore elegant gowns in
the shades of the finest gems—sapphires, yellow garnets, emeralds. In a corner,
near a half dozen arches leading to the outside, Emilio stood surrounded by a
group of younger men. Dressed alike in exquisitely tailored dark suits and
conservative ties, they reminded TC of a gathering of IBM executives.

So much for dining en familia
, TC thought, grateful
she’d had sense enough to don a conservative cashmere dress that fell to just
below her knees, while the cowl neckline dipped demurely. Only the color, a
deep vibrant ruby, called attention to her.

At that moment a man appeared in one of the archways, a
low-ball cocktail glass held negligently in his elegant hand. His wide
shoulders seeming to fill the arch, he looked like a veritable Gulliver among
Emilio and his kin. As if drawn by an overpowering force, the man’s gaze
focused on her. TC felt the blood flee her face like a skier on a downhill race
to the bottom of Pico Cristobal Colon, the highest peak in Colombia.

No!
she silently protested even as she acknowledged
him with what she hoped was a dismissive nod.
Even if he is Emilio’s godson,
it isn’t possible for Ian Soria to be here
, her mind insisted. But her body
throbbed with remembered passion, with remembered fear of the attempt on her
life.

The blood returned to her brain in a rush that made her
lightheaded. Her cheeks flushed hot. She wanted to run, but her feet felt as if
they were nailed to the floor. With a shaky smile, she stood frozen while
Emilio and Ian crossed the room. Thirty feet or more separated them, yet it
seemed they were upon her in a single beat of her galloping heart.