by Anne Stuart
At least he’d left the front door unlocked. If she’d come back to a locked apartment, it would have been the final straw. She slammed the door, snarling with rage as she surveyed the empty living room, then slowly, carefully secured all three locks. Not that it would stop Blackheart if he decided to show up again, but it would slow him down long enough for her to hear him and be waiting with a cast-iron frying pan or something equally daunting.
Stripping off her sodden clothes as she went, she headed straight for the bathroom and a long hot shower, determined to wash away the chill of the early-evening rain and the stink of the garbage from her skin. There was no way she could wash away the tension and anger that were eating into her heart.
The phone rang, but she ignored it as she pulled on a soft yellow sweat suit and braided her wet hair. If it was Blackheart calling with explanations or apologies, she wasn’t ready to hear them.
“Who am I kidding?” she demanded of her reflection in the ornate gilt mirror she’d found at a flea market. “Blackheart never apologizes and he never explains. It’s up to you to see if you can live with that.”
The reflection looked skeptical. She stared back at her alter ego. Francesca’s green eyes were shimmering with anger, while Ferris usually managed to keep a cool distant expression in hers. Francesca’s generous mouth was soft and pale and vulnerable, while Ferris kept hers carefully lipsticked and slightly compressed. Francesca’s high cheekbones and thick dark hair made her look like a passionate gypsy; Ferris’s beautiful bones and carefully arranged hair made her look elegant and cared for.
Ferris sighed, staring back at the woman in the mirror. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded wearily. “And what is it you want in life?”
But her reflection had no answers for her. She turned away, ignoring the renewed ringing of the telephone, and went in search of dinner. If Blackheart wanted to talk to her, he’d have to come back. No one in Ferris’s large family could hold a candle to her when it came to stubbornness, and if Blackheart thought he could outlast her determination, then he was mistaken.
Curse him, he’d almost finished her brandy. And she simply wasn’t in the mood for frozen gourmet dinners. There was no ice cream to speak of in the freezer, only three nearly empty Double Rainbow containers with frosty teaspoons of refrozen ice cream slimed into the bottom.
She settled for Rice Chex, carrying a huge bowl and her brandy snifter into the living room and sinking onto the love seat. She wasn’t in the mood for the evening news, half afraid of what she might hear, and she hadn’t bought a DVD player yet, despite her love of old movies. It simply didn’t make sense when she was about to move in with and marry a man who owned the Cadillac of Blu-Ray players, but right then and there she would have given a great deal to snuggle down in her oversize bed with Alfred Hitchcock.
She looked down at the ring on her hand. She’d flatly refused to wear emeralds—they had too many unhappy memories. Blackheart had insisted that diamonds were too cold for her, but he’d settled for a large canary diamond in a beautiful, old-fashioned setting. She seldom took it off, but every now and then she wondered where he’d obtained it, and if it was left over from his ill-gotten gains.
She finished the mixing bowl of cereal, shoving the empty dish under the couch, then heard the footsteps approaching her door. Not Blackheart, she thought, listening, ignoring the sinking feeling of disappointment. He was so quiet that no one could ever hear him coming. He’d already taken years off her life by sneaking up on her. If he was coming back he wouldn’t approach her door with that even measured tread; he’d simply materialize like the Cheshire cat.
She considered ignoring the polite knocking, but like another kind of cat, she was intensely curious. The brandy and cereal had gone some way toward soothing her temper, and the knowledge that Blackheart was back in town, albeit not with her, was an added relief. At least if he was in San Francisco he couldn’t be in the great cities of Europe and couldn’t be involved in the current rash of jewel thefts. Slowly, languidly she pulled herself from the couch and headed for the door.
The middle-aged man standing there looked like a jockey. He came up to her collarbone and not much farther, and he was slightly bowlegged. Instead of jockey’s silks, however, he was wearing what looked like a chauffeur’s uniform.
“Ms. Berdahofski?” he inquired politely in a voice tinged with the rich, meaty sound of a cockney accent.
No one but Blackheart could have sent him, she decided then and there, ignoring the rush of relief that swept through her. Everyone else still called her by her acquired name, and while she’d been trying to change it back, she was still too diffident to push it. “Yes,” she agreed warily.
“I’m Simmons, ma’am. I have a car waiting for you. Compliments of Mr. Blackheart.”
“What kind of car?” A ridiculous question, but she was stalling for time. She was also curious to find out how far Blackheart was willing to go to woo her.
“A Bentley, ma’am. The Rolls is being worked on.”
She’d never ridden in either of England’s fabled limousines. Even in her heyday, when she’d been engaged to State Senator Phillip Merriam, of the very moneyed California Merriams, she’d only managed Cadillacs and Lincolns. Phillip might have preferred British luxury or German engineering, but he knew where his constituency lay, and buying American was almost a second religion with him.
“All right,” she said, throwing caution and hurt feelings to the wind. “Let me get my coat.”
“I’ll wait in the hall while you change, miss.”
It was a gentle hint, but Ferris was having none of it. “He’ll take me as I am,” she said sweetly, “or he can do without.”
The chauffeur allowed himself a small grin. “Blackheart’s never been a fool, and I’ve known him for a long time. I’m ready when you are, miss.”
The Bentley was a definite treat. Simmons settled her into the upholstered leather seat, handed her a sheaf of creamy-white roses, and began to open a bottle of champagne that had been left chilling in an ice bucket. He was oblivious to the rain pouring off his peaked cap, removing the cork with such efficiency that the quiet pop was barely audible. The champagne was Moet, the fluted glass he poured it into was Waterford, and the woven lap robe he tucked around her legs was cashmere.
The engine purred softly when Simmons turned the key, the minor noise quickly overridden by the lilting strains of Mozart as he deftly pulled into traffic. Ferris sat back and laughed out loud, taking a sip of the deliciously chilly Moet. “Is this a package deal, Simmons?” she inquired in her most caustic voice. “Or did Blackheart have time to arrange all this in just the last hour or so?”
“Blackheart wouldn’t use a package deal, miss,” he said, deeply offended. “He’s been planning this for a long time. Just had to wait till the moment was ripe, he told me.”
“You mean he wanted to wait until I was so mad he had to use extraordinary measures to placate me. I’m not placated, Simmons. You can tell him so.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Simmons grinned at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “You like that champagne?”
Ferris noticed she’d drained her glass. “Love it,” she said, reaching for the bottle and pouring herself another.
“Can’t stand the stuff meself,” said Simmons. “Give me a good dark ale any day, that’s the ticket. None of the frenchified stuff. I never could understand how a decent lad like Blackheart could abide it.”
“How long have you known Blackheart?” she inquired lazily, ignoring the streets of San Francisco speeding by beyond the smoked glass windows.
“Since he was a lad. His father used to bring him out to the racetrack when I was still a jockey. Blackheart senior used to like to play the ponies, and young Blackheart had a real gift for it. He’s always been lucky, miss.”
“Not always,” she said, breathing in the r
ich, delicious scent of the white roses. “He spent six months in jail after he fell.”
“Some would say it could have been a lot worse. They weren’t able to pin a whole lot on him. There are people who think he got off too easy by half. But then, there’s a lot of judgmental people around. I just likes to let things be. Live and let live, that’s my motto.”
“What was Blackheart like as a child?” she asked, unable to restrain her curiosity. “Did you know what his father did for a living?”
“Everyone knew. It was sort of a gentleman’s agreement—no one ever mentioned it, but everyone knew. Not the toffs, I don’t think. I can’t believe they’d have kept on inviting him into their homes if they’d known he was going to rob them, but then, I can’t be certain. The British upper classes are a strange lot, take my word for it. Blackheart was a good lad. A little wild, a little old for his age. He loved his old man, he loved his baby sister, and there it ended.”
Ferris sat bolt upright, slopping some of the precious Moet onto the cashmere lap robe. “Sister? I didn’t know he had any sisters.”
Simmons’s face darkened, and he ducked his head. “Just the one, miss. I don’t remember what happened to her. Don’t tell Blackheart I mentioned her. I don’t think it’s a very happy memory for him.”
“Sorry, Simmons. I’m in a bad mood—I’m not going to make promises to anyone,” she said firmly, draining the champagne.
“I understand, miss. But don’t be too hard on Blackheart. He’s going through a difficult time, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean. Explain.”
Simmons had pulled the huge limousine to a halt outside Blackheart’s apartment building. “We’re here, miss,” he announced, his cockney voice thick with relief.
“I could refuse to budge until you tell me more. There’s most of the bottle of champagne back here, and I’m very comfortable.”
“Please, miss,” Simmons said, sweat standing out on his lined forehead. “Give me a break, there’s a good girl. If you have questions, ask Blackheart.”
There lay the answer, she thought, and the problem. She didn’t want to ask Blackheart; she wanted him to volunteer the information. The few times she’d tried to elicit information from him, he’d slithered away from her questions like an eel, and it hadn’t been until hours later that she realized he’d never told her a thing.
That would have to change tonight. He could ply her with champagne and white roses and Bentleys, he could put those beautiful hands on her, and she would remain adamant. No matter what he said or did, she wasn’t going to give in to the almost obsessive longing that assailed her whenever she was near him, whenever she even thought about him. If there was to be any hope for their future, she was going to need some answers.
Simmons had opened the door and was standing there patiently, holding a huge black umbrella to keep off the pouring rain. She half expected him to whip off his jacket and lay it in the puddled gutter, but he contented himself with holding out a small-boned hand to help her out of the car.
Blackheart’s building wavered and drifted behind the curtain of rain. Ferris looked up at the brightly lighted windows, wondering for the thousandth time whether she could ever feel at home there.
That was the least of her worries right now, she reminded herself as she slipped out of the car, the white roses still clutched in her hands, a twisting, nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had to get through the next few hours first. After that, she could worry about the rest of her life.
DANIELLE LAY VERY still in the narrow bunk, clutching her stomach, breathing through her mouth as her body tried to adjust itself to the rolls and dips of the ocean far beneath her. She hated the sea, hated tiny dinghies, small sailboats, large yachts and massive ocean liners. Most of all she hated smelly diesel freighters that crawled across the vast, almost endless Atlantic Ocean, crammed with the contents of the Porcini Family Circus. There were elephants, tigers and lions in the hold of the ship, horses and monkeys and even seals. The smell on a hot day near the equator didn’t bear thinking about.
There were acrobats and jugglers and clowns, aerialists and sword swallowers and bareback riders, all vying for space on the crowded freighter. Marco Porcini didn’t believe in pampering anyone but himself, and the Star of Hoboken had clearly seen better days.
The ship rolled to the left, and Danielle emitted a small groan. They were nearing the Panama Canal on their interminable voyage from Madrid to the west coast of the United States.
She heard the door open, but didn’t bother to look up. It could only be Marco—no one else would dare enter the one decent cabin the Star of Hoboken boasted without knocking.
“Get up, Danielle.”
She didn’t bother to open her eyes. “If I get up I’ll die.”
“I don’t care. We want to use the bed.”
At that point simple curiosity made Dany open her eyes. Marco Porcini was standing there, luxuriant black hair slicked down, bedroom eyes cold and assessing, thick-lipped mouth tightly compressed. Lurking behind him, looking both nervous and excited, was the new girl he’d hired to repair costumes.
Dany sat up, still clutching her roiling stomach. “Don’t you think this will put the lie to our little farce of a happy marriage?” she inquired in her sweetest voice.
Marco smiled. “Of course not. Only if you were foolish enough to say something. And you are seldom stupid, little one.”
If there was anything Dany hated it was to be called “little one.” But if Marco could smile, so could she. “What about her?” She gestured toward the nervous-looking girl.
“She wouldn’t dare. Would you, darling?” he inquired over his shoulder. The girl shook her head, biting her lip.
Dany swung her legs over the bunk, pausing for a moment as the room spun around her. For a brief moment she prayed that she would throw up all over Marco’s shiny black shoes, but she’d thrown up so much in the last few days that there was nothing left in her stomach. She climbed off the bunk, gave the happy couple a weak smile, and headed out the door.
“And Danielle—” Marco called after her.
Dany paused. The girl had already gone into the cabin and was methodically, unemotionally stripping off her clothes. She was out of earshot, but even so Marco lowered his rather high-pitched voice. “If you behave yourself in San Francisco,” he murmured, “if all goes as I’ve planned it, I just might let you go.”
She stared up at him, for a brief moment allowing her hatred to fill her eyes. “You promised me,” she whispered.
Marco shrugged. “We’ll see how you behave.”
She didn’t move. “This is my last job for you, Marco. If you don’t let me go,” she said quite calmly, “I’ll kill you.”
“You could always try. Maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”
“Next time,” Dany said, her voice fierce, “I won’t miss.”
BLACKHEART STOOD in the doorway of his kitchen, waiting. He’d seen her arguing with Alf Simmons, seen her hold her ground in the Bentley, and he could feel himself smiling ruefully. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Francesca wasn’t the type to be dazzled into submission by limousines and champagne and roses. The candlelight dinner he’d planned probably wouldn’t do the trick, either. He could tell by the defiant tilt of her head, even from the distance of his fifth-floor apartment, that she was looking for trouble.
Looking for answers would be the way she viewed it. Unfortunately this time the two were synonymous. And he was faced with the choice between two evils: having her furious and distrustful, suspecting the worst, or having her know, and thereby endangering any chance he had for success.
No. He’d made his decision, and he’d abide by it. Even if he had to put up with fury, sulks and a constant barrage of questions, he wasn’t going
to tell her until he was ready. The worst aspect of it all was her lack of trust, but that was always there, whether she had any reason for it or not.
It would have been wonderful, he thought, leaning against the doorjamb, if she’d simply trust him, took him at his word No. She didn’t even have to get to that point, if she just knew he wouldn’t do anything wrong and never felt the need to question.
But life wasn’t that neat and comfortable. And in fact, he’d been doing a great many illegal things in the weeks he’d been away from her. She’d have too hard a time living with that, so instead she was going to have to live with her own damned lack of trust. He wasn’t going to lie to her, he wasn’t going to tell her the truth. They were at a stalemate.
That night, however, he had no intention of giving her a chance to ask those unanswerable questions. If it hadn’t been for that damned cop, he would be sound asleep in her arms right now, instead of worrying about placating her. Tonight he needed her, needed her with something bordering on desperation. He needed her lush, sweet body, her warm arms wrapped around him, he needed forgetfulness and comfort and that almost unbelievable release that only she could offer. In bed they communicated perfectly, in bed she trusted him completely. And that was where he had every intention of taking her, as soon as he possibly could.
The damp weather was making his leg ache, reminding him of a bad fall and too many operations. He rubbed it absently, listening for the sound of the elevator, listening for the sound of her footsteps in the hallway. For a moment the brief, delicious vision of her scrambling up the side of her building in a miniskirt assailed him. And then he pushed himself away from the wall and headed for the door. If she was still waiting in the Bentley, he’d throw her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs. Three weeks was too damned long.
Chapter Three
Shadow of a Doubt
(Universal 1943)
“IT’S NICE TO SEE you dressed for the occasion.” Blackheart’s faintly British voice was a low drawl from across the candlelit room. Ferris held her ground just inside the doorway, feeling both vulnerable and faintly absurd, still clutching the bouquet of white roses like a Miss America contestant, wearing her pale yellow sweat suit and running shoes instead of a strapless evening gown and high heels.