The Catspaw Collection

by Anne Stuart

  But that wasn’t to be. He’d already risked far too much on a moonlit night, and he wasn’t as sure of Patience Hornsworth as he’d like to be. When he got back to the safety of her bedroom, he’d have to wake her up and make sure that she was too besotted to even think he could have left her bed for a rooftop stroll to her sister-in-law.

  It was with a rough start that he realized that for the first time in almost seventeen years of making his living he must have made a mistake. The window that he’d left open just a tiny crack was solidly locked. He must have miscalculated—Patience’s room must be on the next section of roof.

  But the moonlight made it more than clear that there were no wide dormers over there, nor were there any back the way he had come. He wouldn’t have, couldn’t have made such a mistake on such a brightly lit night. This was definitely Patience’s room, and the window was closed and locked.

  He was used to thinking fast, and this time he didn’t even hesitate. He’d go back the way he had come, sneak out through Emma’s bedroom and . . .

  And then what? Should he take his chances that Patience didn’t suspect anything, had just woken up with a chill on her soft white shoulders and shut and locked the window? He could tell her he’d gone for a late-night brandy and take the chance she’d believe him. But then, he’d had the foresight to grab those very pretty diamonds that had been sitting in plain view on her bedside table. He hadn’t taken the time then to check the rest of the room, planning on doing so at his leisure. Would there likely be enough to warrant the risk of going back? It wouldn’t take him long, once he made his way back there through the rambling old house.

  Or should he just get out as fast as he could? No one would see him go—he could be out of the house and out of the country before anyone realized that John Patrick Blackheart wasn’t quite who he appeared to be. It would be an abrupt end to his career, at least in the British Isles, but he could always pick a new alias, a new identity, and start again. Or he could retire.

  Suddenly, that thought seemed so beguiling that all hesitation left him. He spun around, planning to head back toward Emma’s room and, through that, to the sort of freedom he’d never really known, when he heard a clicking at the window.

  He was fast on his feet, and tonight was no exception. But Patience Hornsworth was faster. The casement window crashed open and Patience shrieked in fury, lunging out after him, her pale blond hair hanging around her white face, making her look like one of Macbeth’s three witches. He could have withstood that shock if it hadn’t been for Emma by her side, her improbably red hair a tangle, screaming imprecations. And for the first time in his remarkable career, John Patrick Blackheart fell.

  IT HADN’T BEEN a pleasant time. He might have wished he’d suffered more than a smashed knee—unconsciousness would have been a great relief. As it was, an enraged Patience had directed her servants to drag him inside and lock him in the cellar, to await his fate like an eighteenth-century servant. And it had taken that bitch three days to bring in the police.

  There were still times when he remembered what it had been like down there. The ghastly pain in his leg that had him rigid and sweating in agony, the hunger that began late the first day and was a gnawing in his guts by the time they let him out. The thirst had been worse—when the minions of the law had first shone their torches down at him, he’d been unable to do more than croak at them.

  But worst of all had been the darkness. He had no idea where they’d dumped him—even the Hornsworths didn’t possess dungeons in their London house, though he wouldn’t put it past them to keep a covey of skeletons in the house in the Lake District. But that damp, impenetrable darkness had shut in around him, leaving him alone with his pain and his hunger and his fear, and only the sound of some curious rodent penetrated the thick silence.

  In comparison, prison had been a snap.

  There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot they could do to him. After the weeks and months in the hospital, the operations just to enable him to walk, a goodly amount of time had been spent. And even if the entire British judicial system knew that John Patrick Blackheart was a burglar par excellence, even if they knew he’d been thumbing his nose at the police for more than a decade, and his family before him, there wasn’t enough proof to do more than slap his wrist with a six-month sentence.

  Emma and Patience Hornsworth did their best, of course, elaborating on the hideousness of his crimes so that, if they’d had their way, he would have been on trial for rape, sodomy, grand larceny and bestiality besides. Fortunately, the little velvet pouch had never materialized, and the witnesses for the prosecution were taken severely to task for their foray into vigilante justice, not to mention creative testifying.

  And at the end of his six-month sentence he had limped through customs and entered his mother’s country and site of half of his own dual citizenship. There was no way the United States could refuse to take him, much as it would have pleased the customs officials to reject a convicted criminal. The proceeds from the combined Hornsworth jewels would at least go far enough to pay for the best orthopedic surgeons on the West Coast. It would have pleased his sense of justice to have thrown it all away on wine, women and song, but finally he had his priorities straight. First he had to be able to walk straight again, then he’d see about making a living. He’d be far too busy to think about any kind of revenge, subtle or otherwise. The loss by Patience Hornsworth of her diamond necklace was revenge enough.

  The only thing Patrick resented, the only thing that still grated against his sense of tentative well-being, was that it hadn’t been his idea. He’d been on the verge of renouncing the life as it was—he hated like hell to let infirmity and the British judicial system make that renunciation for him. His anger at fate’s manipulation had driven him to breaking into Trace’s apartment so long ago, it pushed him into afternoons like yesterday, when he had to test his expertise against the solid bulk of supposedly impenetrable houses. A part of him always wondered whether sometime he’d have to do it just one more time, succeed at it just once, before he could let it go forever.

  Well, he hadn’t listened to his father, and he was still paying for it with his peace of mind. He’d robbed by moonlight, he’d identified with his victim and he’d gotten caught. And worst of all, he’d trusted a woman, Patience Hornsworth, who wasn’t the trusting, randy socialite he’d expected her to be, but an avenging Valkyrie.

  And here he was, about to trust another woman who made it clear she wasn’t to be trusted. If he had any sense, he would keep as far away from her as possible. It was Monday now, he thought, getting up from the sofa and moving across his darkened apartment to pour himself an amber whiskey, the ache in his leg slightly more pronounced than usual. If he showed any trace of self-control he wouldn’t have to have more than a few words with her in the next couple of days. The question was: had he lost his self-control along with his ability to climb around on roofs? He was rather afraid he had.

  OLIVIA WAS PLEASED, very pleased indeed. Things were falling into place with delightful ease. If things went as they should, she would be able to close up that little room, get rid of all that electronic equipment, and live the life she wanted.

  Of course, enough people would remember her lucrative sideline. Distribution of certain damning videos and the high prices commanded by them would be bound to leave an indelible memory in certain embarrassed gentlemen of wealth and power. Which was all to the good. When Olivia made her move, ran for office, there would be plenty of people who still owed her. The paying off of huge sums to cover up a recorded indiscretion didn’t wipe out one’s memory, did it? And she knew all their wives so well—a deliberately careless word here or there could do untold harm.

  No, she would have a lot of people eager to help her, and all the money she needed, once the emeralds were liquidated. If things just continued to go her way.

  Olivia smiled dreamily. Fate wouldn
’t dare do otherwise.

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS PROBABLY just as well that Blackheart was keeping such a low profile, Ferris thought. He seemed to have had an uncanny knack of avoiding her during the past three days. Every time she walked into a room he’d find a reason to leave, every time she had to seek out a member of Blackheart, Inc., Trace Walker would appear, a beaming smile on his affable face. Patrick was there in an advisory capacity—if she had any questions, Trace was more than happy to answer them. He was more than happy to drape one of his heavy, muscled arms around her slight frame, more than happy to invite her out to dinner, more than happy to flirt outrageously while a stricken, sullen Kate Christiansen looked on.

  Fortunately he took no for an answer with equanimity, his enthusiasm not the slightest bit diminished by her constant refusals. She only wished there was some way she could steer him in Kate’s direction. At her one mild suggestion that he feed Kate instead of her, Trace had stared back at her in honest shock. “Kate’s my buddy,” he protested. “Besides, she’s got a broken heart and she’s not interested in men right now, except as friends. Did I tell you about this little Vietnamese place I know . . . ?”

  Thank God it was almost over. It was Wednesday night, late, when Ferris fumbled through her keys. The ancient locks were more recalcitrant than usual—she had enough trouble using a key. How had Blackheart managed to get in so easily on Sunday morning? She should talk with her landlord—see about getting the antique locks replaced with something a little more reliable. Something hefty, burglarproof, fireproof, bulletproof. But could they find any that were Blackheart-proof?

  It was well after midnight—she’d had a late supper with Regina and several of the other stalwart members of the Committee for Saving the Bay, she’d had one brandy too many and she was tired, just slightly tipsy and edging toward depression. The only consolation was that it would soon be over. Phillip was murmuring something about announcing their engagement at the Puffin Ball, and in another four months Francesca Berdahofski would be Mrs. Senator Phillip Merriam. Damn it, no. Ferris Byrd would be Mrs. Senator Phillip Merriam. God, Blackheart, what have you done to me?

  Success was finally hers. The last key clicked into place in its lock and she stumbled in the door, closing it quietly behind her and leaning her forehead against the cool panel. She fumbled with the locks, with the latch and chain, feeling weary, depressed and very sorry for herself. In her current state even Double Rainbow ice cream wouldn’t help. She was going to go collapse on her bed and sleep the sleep of the just. She wasn’t even going to turn on the television. They were still running those damned caper movies, and night after night she watched cat burglars and their kin romp through millionaires’ homes and museums, and when she fell asleep she would dream of Blackheart. Last night it had been How to Steal a Million, and she’d been awake till four in the morning. Not that she was ever going to be Audrey Hepburn. And Blackheart was no Peter O’Toole in his prime. But God, she’d love to be kissed in a closet.

  Slowly she raised her head from the door. Her blouse and jacket were off, her skirt a pile on the floor, when she heard the thin, distant thread of sound in her rambling apartment. There was also a pool of light coming from her bedroom. She stood very still, the last traces of the brandy leaving her brain, her hand on the locks. Didn’t they tell you that if you came home and surprised a thief in your apartment you weren’t to confront him? You were supposed to run as fast as you could.

  Of course, the purveyors of that sage advice hadn’t taken John Patrick Blackheart into account. She wasn’t going to find some drug-crazed junkie looking for her cash. She was going to find what San Francisco Nightlife had termed one of the area’s most eligible bachelors. It was that article that had prompted her to christen her cat in his honor. But it was a very righteous indignation that prompted her to storm down two stairs, across the hallway, up three stairs and into her bedroom.

  He was lying stretched out on her bed, a pile of pillows propped behind him. He was barefoot, with faded jeans hugging his lean, muscular legs, a white cotton shirt open and loose about his chest. In the middle of his chest was a large patch of fur. Better known as Blackie, the wandering alley cat.

  The human cat smiled up at her lazily. “There you are. We wondered when you were going to get home. Out with dear Phillip?”

  “With his mother. What—”

  He joined her in perfect unison, “—the hell are you doing here, Blackheart?” he mimicked. “Watching Topkapi and waiting for you. Does Phillip know you wear sexy underwear next to that virginal body of yours? What color is that? Peach? It’s very erotic next to your skin. But I suppose you still wouldn’t be so pure if the good senator did know. There are some things that can’t be resisted.”

  It was too late for her to run screaming for a bathrobe. Besides, the hip-length silk chemise covered more than what she wore on the beach. “Blackheart, get out,” she said wearily, leaning against the doorjamb.

  “Not on your life, kid. This is my favorite movie, and my TV’s broken. I’m watching it here. You can join me,” he added generously. “We won’t mind.”

  “I’m going to call the police.”

  “No, you aren’t,” he said. “It would make too big a scandal, and a clever lady like you knows better. You’re going to climb on the bed and watch Topkapi with me. And I promise on my honor not to make a pass at you. I doubt your feline friend would let me.”

  He was right, of course. She couldn’t call the police, much as she wanted to. She couldn’t even call Phillip—as usual she had no idea where he was. She only knew he would arrive at her apartment in less than forty-eight hours to escort her to the Puffin Ball.

  “Please, Blackheart,” she said, hating the sound of pleading in her voice, unable to help herself. “I’m tired, I had too much to drink and I don’t want to fight with you. Please go home and let me get some sleep.”

  Smiling, he shook his head, patting the bed beside him. “I promise, Francesca. I won’t try to have my wicked way with you.”

  Was she demented in her old age? Or drunker than she thought, to be actually considering his suggestion. “Can I trust you?”

  That mocking grin twisted his mouth, and she wanted to kiss it away. “For tonight you can,” he said. “I can’t promise you more than that.”

  She believed him, or was too besotted to know the difference. With a sigh she flicked off the overhead light and crawled across the huge bed on her hands and knees till she reached him. Blackie took one look at her, a disgruntled expression on his face, and left, stalking with all the dignity of either a Winston Churchill or a very old alley cat.

  Ferris ended at the top of the bed, just within reach of her unwelcome guest, but he made no move to grab her, and slowly she began to relax. “He’s a great cat,” Blackheart said gently. “We had an interesting time waiting for you. What’s his name?”

  “Blackie.”

  “Very original. Except that he’s not black—he’s a dark gray.”

  “I know that, I have eyes.”

  “They’re not functioning too well tonight. How much did you drink? Not that I’m meaning to criticize—far be it from me to pass moral judgments on other people,” he said lightly. “I was just interested.”

  “Not enough to make me trust you,” she snapped.

  “Ah, but you’re on the bed, aren’t you? You must trust me a tiny bit. So why did you name your cat Blackie when he’s gray?”

  Yes, she was sitting on the bed, scarcely dressed. May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. “I named him after you. I’d read about the infamous retired cat burglar in San Francisco Nightlife and thought it was a good name for an alley cat.”

  “I’m flattered. Come here, Francesca.”

  “You said you weren’t going to make a pass.” She eyed him doubtfully.

  “And I’m not. I want to watch th
is movie, and I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you put your head on my shoulder and curled up, instead of glaring at me balefully. You’d feel more comfortable, too.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” He was stronger than she realized. One steel-like hand caught her by the wrist, dragging her off balance, and she fell against him. His other arm came around her, his hand catching the nape of her neck and holding her against the hollow of his shoulder. She struggled for a moment, then gave it up, the fight draining from her body. His hold loosened, and she relaxed against him. It really was comfortable, lying there next to him. His shoulder was surprisingly cozy, considering that it was composed of bone and muscle and not an ounce of soft fat. She sighed peacefully.

  “That’s not so bad, is it?” he murmured softly, one eye on the movie in front of them as his hand began threading through her loose bun of hair. A moment later it was free, a cloud around her sleepy face.

  “Not bad,” she murmured, snuggling closer. “Why did you retire, Blackheart?”

  She could feel the grin that widened his face. “I thought you weren’t sure that I did retire?”

  “I’m not. I’m taking your word for it tonight. Why did you? Was it because you were caught? I wouldn’t have thought your prison sentence was long enough to account for such a radical change of heart. It was only six months, wasn’t it?”

  “You know a lot more about me than I would have thought. I’m flattered.” His voice rumbled pleasantly above her ear. “And I haven’t had a change of heart.”

  “Then why did you quit? And why did you start in the first place?”

  “And what’s a nice boy like me doing in a place like this?” he paraphrased with a soft laugh. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you, if you really want to know.”

  “I really want to know.”

  “I became a . . . how shall I phrase it—”