It Takes a Thief

by Kay Hooper

  "I have guests. Miss Chantry," he said now in his even, toneless, "company" voice.

  "Oh, I don't mind them hearing what I have to say," Jennifer told him with biting politeness. "But you might."

  After a moment, Kelly glanced around at his guests and murmured, "Excuse me, gentlemen." They nodded and made courteous murmurs, wearing the stiff expressions of people who were intensely curious and trying to hide it.

  Jennifer turned and strode back out into the hall, waiting impatiently while Kelly came out and closed the doors behind them. "My study," he murmured.

  "Your study," she said bitterly.

  "It is mine, like it or not," he told her, leading the way to a secondary hallway on the other side of the house from the parlor. He opened the door of the study and gestured for her to enter, his well-kept hands making a mockery of the courtesy.

  She swept past him, head high, having no idea of what, exactly, she was going to say to him, and too furious to care. And before he could even get the door closed behind them, she swung around, making no effort to lower her voice.

  "Just what the hell do you mean by accusing my mother of anything?" she demanded violently.

  * * *

  In a quieter section of the house, the area reserved for storage and servants, Skye moved silently. It had been a simple matter to find a side window with a rusty latch, and no one had observed his stealthy progress. Jennifer's sketch had been clear enough, and this area of the house had showed the exact location of rooms and small suites set aside for staff.

  And the security staff. There were currently two full-time security men on the grounds, a fact Skye knew whether Jennifer was aware of it or not. Her family had worried little about security for the house itself except during social occasions. Kelly, a more paranoid and cynical man than his predecessor, kept his two plain-clothes guards in or close around the house at all times, and hired part-time help during his frequent parties.

  Skye had noted the fact that one of the guards seemed assigned to patrol the upper floors; the second guard, Brady Seton, appeared to roam with more freedom, and it was his room Skye was in search of. He moved with no sound, his rubber-soled shoes as soundless on polished wooden floors as they were on carpet; for a big man, he moved like a cat.

  He had briefly entered and discounted several rooms in the bare five minutes since he had come in through a window: the butler's suite, the suite occupied by a housekeeper and chauffeur – a married couple – and several apparently unused rooms. He finally located a small suite with two bedrooms that seemed to be the correct ones. The first bedroom he checked held a number of articles belonging to a man, and Skye discounted it when he found a wallet with credit cards in a drawer: this room belonged to the other security man.

  In Brady Seton's room, Skye searched quickly and thoroughly out of habit, then drew the counterfeit plate from its hiding place inside his black leather jacket and, after a moment's deliberation, placed it on the top shelf of the closet at the very back against the wall. He cast a professional glance over the seemingly undisturbed room, then turned to leave.

  The main door to the sitting room opened with a soft click.

  In fluid movement, Skye was against the wall beside the door, a silenced automatic held in his right hand. He listened intently as footsteps moved through the sitting room, but didn't move himself until Brady Seton walked into the bedroom.

  "Hello."

  Seton turned quickly, a hand reaching toward his lapel as if to draw the gun nestled under his arm. But he froze, the movement half completed.

  "Rotten timing," Skye told him softly.

  Seton was an ex-marine, had grown up rough, and knew a variety of self-defense tactics. He had also learned, somewhere along the way, at which moment in a dangerous situation it was wisest to simply give in and think about living another day. This was that moment.

  The man he faced was smiling, but Seton trusted that smile the way he would have trusted the polished molars of a shark. His first impression of a big man dressed all in black with a businesslike – and silenced – automatic had been perfectly accurate, and had his impression stopped there he might well have attempted a defensive move. Dangerous men he was accustomed to facing.

  But the eyes stopped him cold. They weren't particularly menacing eyes, not cold or hard; they weren't the empty, flat-black eyes of a soulless killer, or the mad eyes of a man beyond the limits of reason. In fact, they were very alive and intelligent eyes. But they were . . . reckless. Careless. They were almost an impudent invitation for Seton to try something.

  Try something. Go ahead. And we'll both have a little fun.

  Brady Seton didn't move a muscle. He had seen eyes like that before, in the faces of incredibly courageous and lucky men. Men who had led other soldiers into battle, men who had braved burning buildings to rescue trapped occupants. Men whom fate seemed to have touched with a kind of aura, like impenetrable armor.

  "Let's have the gun. Carefully."

  With extreme and utter caution. Seton handed it over.

  Skye stuck the gun inside his belt, then sighed a little ruefully. "You have botched the plan, friend. What am I going to do with you now?"

  Seton didn't venture a suggestion.

  After a moment, Skye said, "Well. No choice, I'm afraid. Pack a bag – and you're in a hurry, so don't bother to be neat about it."

  Seton packed a bag.

  * * *

  For the men who remained in the parlor after Garrett Kelly left, the next quarter of an hour was somewhat uncomfortable. They were all too curious to completely Ignore what was going on, especially since they could hear the faint echoes of Jennifer Chantry's voice even through closed doors and sturdy walls. Their own conversations dried up after a few murmured attempts, and they were left contemplating their drinks and each other.

  "That one's a shrew," one man finally observed.

  "She's got reason," another said, and grinned faintly. "You ought to hear her mother."

  "Who is she?" asked one of the few In the room who had no knowledge of the past events.

  "She grew up here at Belle Retour," the first man told him. "Her family owned this place for two hundred years, until Garrett won it from her father in a poker game."

  "Hell, the stakes better not be that high in tonight's game."

  Very conscious of the verbal battle going on several rooms away, and the presumed activities in another part of the house, Dane said, "The word I got was that Garrett's been on a losing streak. He may have to stake this place trying to recoup his losses."

  "I'd rather play for cash," one man said plaintively.

  An older man shook his head disapprovingly at Dane's comment. "You should never stake everything unless that's what you're prepared to lose," he said.

  Dane smiled slowly. "Isn't that the truth?"

  The conversation died away at that point, but when Garrett Kelly reentered the room five minutes later, he didn't seem to notice. They had all heard the slam of the front door and a car roaring away minutes before; he said nothing about that. He was perceptibly distracted, frowning a bit. But his voice remained calm and even when he addressed his guests.

  "Dinner will be served in an hour, gentlemen. Please make yourselves at home. I have a few calls to take care of, and then I'll rejoin you."

  There were more polite murmurs, following him back out the door.

  Dane set his untouched drink aside and said, "I think I'll walk in the garden before dinner." He didn't wait for anyone to offer to join him, but went out through a set of French doors leading onto the veranda.

  Four

  Dane moved lazily until the overgrown garden hid him completely from anyone in the parlor, then quickened his pace. It was a simple matter to cut through the garden toward the front of the house, and he was easily able to keep out of sight in the wilderness of untended plants and trees while he circled around and headed for the patch of woods to the left of the lane where Jennifer had agreed to meet him.

&nb
sp; And she was waiting for him, her small car parked just inside the woods on a rutted track. She wasn't sitting in the car; she was pacing violently beside it.

  Dane approached her just a bit warily, intrigued by the sheer unexpectedness of her temper. Granted, she had said that her temper was a force of nature, but her cool blond loveliness and serene grace had painted a rather different – and deceptive – picture.

  "Are you married?" she inquired fiercely the instant she caught sight of him.

  He blinked, stopping by the car. "No, I'm not."

  "My mother wanted me to ask." Jennifer was still pacing, obviously so angry she was hardly paying attention to what she was saying. "I'm glad you're not. Mother probably would have poisoned your wife."

  Dane leaned back against her car and folded his arms, patiently waiting for the storm to subside even while thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. "Why would she have done that?" he asked.

  "To get her out of the way, of course. She said divorce would be easier, but I know my mother. Poison in the tea, or something. The Borgias were Italian, you know."

  "Yes, I remember that." Dane was having a difficult time holding back laughter, but at the same time he was fascinated by what Jennifer seemed to be telling him.

  "Then beware," she said darkly, still pacing. "As far as I know, Mother isn't related to them, but you just can't be sure about these things. I can't control her. We'll be lucky if she hasn't already ordered wedding invitations."

  "Whose wedding iIs she planning?" Dane asked.

  "Ours," Jennifer snarled. "Damn. And just because I had to say something when I hadn't gotten any work done. How was I to know she'd go all maternal and Italian on me just because I said I was thinking about a man I'd met? I couldn't have known she'd do that, could I?"

  "Definitely not," Dane said solemnly.

  "She doesn't even know you, and she's probably thinking up names for babies. I've never heard such – Desperation, she said. Passion. Real men, she said, and essences." Jennifer stopped pacing suddenly, an expression of uncertainty passing over her face. "Essences?" she repeated, as if the word sounded odd.

  "Sounds fine to me," he offered helpfully.

  Jennifer stared at him for a moment, and the doubt vanished to be replaced by a return of her glare. "What price honor?" she demanded intensely.

  That one appeared to come straight out of left field, and Dane coped with it in some bewilderment. "Hypothetically?"

  "No, not hypothetically! You. Your honor. How can I trust you if I don't know that?"

  It was, Dane realized, a serious question despite the apparent mental contortions that had brought her to it. Before he could frame an answer, she was going on fiercely.

  "Would you sell your honor if the stakes were high enough? How high is high enough? Or is your integrity too important to you? Are there prices you aren't willing to pay, no matter what it costs you? Or do you bet your honesty the way you bet money?"

  "No." He hadn't meant the answer to come so harshly, and paused a moment before he continued, looking seriously into her startled eyes. "No, I've never gambled my honor – integrity, self-respect, whatever you want to call it. That price has always been too high to pay. Winning was never so important that I had to bet everything. Losing was never so important that I had to bet everything." He drew a breath. "But I'm a gambler, Jenny. And every gambler knows that sooner or later he'll have to pay – whatever the cost. Even if the price is everything. Even if he staked his honor."

  Jennifer stared at him for a long moment, then turned jerkily away. She was more shaken than she could remember ever having been before. Had that been she, that rambling, fierce woman? God, what she had told him! "I'm sorry," she managed. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

  Dane knew. The storm had passed, leaving her a shipwrecked survivor of her own tempest, and reaction was setting in. He straightened away from the car and went to her, but didn't try to make her face him. Instead, he rested his hands gently on her shoulders.

  "Why should you be sorry?" he asked.

  Stiffly, she said, "Look, just forget everything I've said, all right? I wasn't thinking, and – "

  "No, don't do that," he interrupted.

  "What?"

  "Slip back into your glossy shell." His hands tightened on her shoulders, but his voice remained light. "I didn't realize that's what it was, until you cut loose at Kelly."

  "I told you I had a temper."

  "And I should have believed you. But that calm surface of yours had me fooled. Is it the Italian blood, do you think, or was your father's family known for their passions?"

  She thought his word choice had been deliberate, and it made her uneasy. "My mother takes the credit," she murmured, very conscious of his hands on her. "Or the blame, depending on your point of view. Umm ... I really should be going."

  "Not yet." He turned her to face him, keeping his hands on her shoulders.

  Jennifer felt a sense of panic. "All those things I said about my mother and – Well, it's just a misunderstanding, that's all. She's a little volatile, and she just got carried away with the Idea – the wrong idea – that I was interested in you."

  "Is it a wrong idea?"

  "Of course it is! I hardly know you."

  "I'm very interested in you," he said, and then added thoughtfully, "A tame word, that."

  Remembering her mother's opinion of the same word, Jennifer didn't know whether to laugh or swear. "Well, it doesn't matter," she said with a touch of desperation, "because I'm not in the market for a fling at the moment."

  "Who said anything about a fling?" He was smiling, violet eyes glowing in that characteristic way, his hands holding her shoulders firmly. "Do you realize that you haven't once said my name?"

  Jennifer couldn't break the hold of his gaze. She felt curiously trapped, something alive captured in resin and imprisoned for eons. As if it were some phenomenon she observed apart from herself, she was aware of suddenly quickened heartbeats, of a rising heat that sapped strength, of dizziness. And then her detachment snapped, a rubber band stretched too tightly, and it was herself she felt reacting this way, like never before. It was her own body that was unfamiliar.

  "How are you doing that?" she managed to ask, baffled.

  "Doing what?" he murmured, the charm of his eyes still holding her, a lure she couldn't resist.

  With an effort that left her even more shaken, Jennifer yanked her gaze away, staring fixedly at the open collar of his white shirt. "Never mind. I have to go. Now."

  "You sound like a scared little girl, afraid to stop playing dress-up and try the real thing."

  Her chin came up in instinctive anger – and her eyes were caught again by his. As unwillingly fascinated as a rabbit watching a circling hawk, she stared into changeable eyes, purple, blue, dark, light, compelling. "Stop that," she said.

  "Say my name."

  In some part of her mind, Jennifer recognized that his was a conscious ability, and one he was completely aware of. He used it the way another man might use any particular talent, always aware of using it. Like flipping a switch. A siren's voice trapped in violet, a visual sorcery. And her instinct was to fight that, to fight him, as if he threatened to take something from her she was unwilling to give. If the lure of his eyes had offered only seduction, she could have fought him; she was both too intelligent and too independent to mindlessly give in to a purely physical demand.

  But it was more than that. It was a seduction of the mind as well as the senses, a vivid invitation to fly high and laugh joyously, to live on some Incredible level she had never even imagined. And it was irresistible.

  "Try it," he urged, and he didn't explain if he meant she should stop playing dress-up and sample the real thing, or if the invitation was that other, silent one. Or if both were the same, one appeal to her mind and the other to her heart.

  She heard her own voice respond, and it was not a submission but rather understanding and acceptance. "Dane."

  "The stakes are h
igh," he warned her softly.

  "I know." Arid she did. A gambler of integrity, Dane would stake some vital part of himself – but so would she. And in the end, he could win it all.

  "Maybe even . . . everything."

  Jennifer took a deep breath, a swimmer instinctively treading water to save herself from that third and final plunge in uncertain waters. "I know."

  His jaw tightened suddenly as a muscle flexed. "Be sure, Jenny. Be very sure. Once the cards are dealt the game starts."

  "Is it a game? Only that?" She was dimly aware that her hands had lifted to rest on his chest.

  "Everything's a game, up to a point." He drew her a step closer, his arms slipping around her. "Then it becomes real. The game can't hurt you, Jenny. But the reality can."

  Jennifer had never in her life been tempted to stray from the safe and predictable path: school, work, the undemanding social structure of occasional dates meaning little. But Dane's eyes promised so much more. Passion, danger, laughter, pain. The possibilities seemed endless. And the tempestuous nature she had so successfully controlled all these years wanted those possibilities with a wild yearning she had never been conscious of before.

  "What happens if I win the game?" she asked finally.

  "That depends on what you bet."

  "And on what you bet?" When he nodded slowly, she probed, "What are you betting, Dane?"

  For a moment, it seemed he wouldn't answer. His face was still, the changeable eyes something else now, something with stronger hints of danger, of a kind of wildness. "Too much," he said in a roughened tone. "Too damned much this time."

  When his mouth captured hers, Jennifer again felt that instant response, the uncurling heat inside her. She felt the hardness of his body against her, the unexpected strength of his arms around her. There was nothing lazy about him now, nothing polished or suave or humorous; it was as if another layer of himself had been abandoned. He was rougher, more direct, his growing desire unhidden.

  Hers wasn't the only true self hidden inside a "glossy shell," it seemed.