by Anne Stuart
Of course Ferris immediately condemned him. A hanging judge if ever there was one, dear Ferris-Francesca. He was going to enjoy making her eat her words, having her crawling in abject apology when he was finally able to flush out the real thief.
But he was going to have to watch his step. He’d almost got caught last week when he broke into the Yendades town house to see if the thief had left anything incriminating that the police and Interpol might have missed. He couldn’t really blame the police. When confronted with the exact modus operandi with which he’d operated for a good fifteen years, it was no wonder they weren’t looking too far for another culprit. For a while he’d had very real doubts as to his ability to get back out of Spain.
But his passport was incontrovertible evidence. He hadn’t been in Spain at the time of the robbery, any more than he’d been in Lisbon during the Vasquez robbery or anywhere near the Phelps Museum in Paris. Granted, he’d appeared on the scene as soon as he’d heard about it. And he hadn’t been particularly cooperative toward the police. He couldn’t change a lifetime of habit, and he never could, never would trust the police.
The final straw, the last insulting touch, had been the tarot card left behind at each scene. Very few people knew about that obscure part of the Blackheart family past. His grandfather and uncle had started their careers in the late twenties, when interest in the occult had been high among the British upper classes. It had been their particular conceit to leave behind a Knight of Pentacles at each scene, and Blackheart had done the same until the romance of the business had gone stale and he’d been more interested in simply doing the job and getting out safely.
Very few people knew about that telltale signature. The police had always been very circumspect about mentioning it, for fear they’d end up with copycat crimes. Clearly whoever was patterning crimes after the Blackheart family tradition had inside information.
Blackheart stared out over Regina Merriam’s perfectly manicured grounds, across the wide expanse that would hold a circus tent, over to the impressive roofline of the Museum of Decorative Arts, the domed and angled roofs a perfect foil against the night sky. There’d been one link between all the recent robberies that had been plaguing Europe for the last couple of years, and Blackheart didn’t know if anyone but himself was aware of it. Each time a robbery occurred, somewhere within an hour’s journey of the crime the Porcini Family Circus was in residence.
He hadn’t been sure it wasn’t a simple coincidence until he’d heard of their benefit performance in his hometown. A benefit performance for a very moneyed charity. Most of the women volunteering for the Committee for Saving the Bay wouldn’t go swimming without their diamonds. They wouldn’t know how to dress down to attend a circus, and somewhere in that crowd of fifty or so employed by the Porcini Family Circus was someone who knew far too much about the Blackhearts and too great an interest in jewels.
He’d expected to have to cajole Regina into letting him take care of the security for the benefit. After all, it wasn’t as if priceless jewels were involved in the performance. But he’d reckoned without Regina’s romantic streak. If Blackheart and Co. were in charge of the security then they, he, would have no choice but to deal with Ferris.
He wasn’t sure if that was an advantage or a drawback. On the one hand, he had every intention of enticing the skittish, distrustful Ms. Byrd-Berdahofski back into his arms, his bed, his life. On the other hand, things would be a lot easier if he could concentrate on one thing at a time and didn’t have to worry about being framed for a succession of jewel robberies—not to mention the distinctly unpleasant sensation of having Stephen McNab breathing down his neck.
McNab hadn’t liked it when Blackheart and Co. had received its license. He hadn’t liked it when the company had prospered, and particularly hadn’t liked it when he’d had Blackheart safely in custody over the theft of the Von Emmerling emeralds, then been forced to let him go when the real thieves turned up. He hadn’t gotten it through his thick cop’s brain that Blackheart had been completely innocent, and he probably never would.
Sooner or later it would all come together, Blackheart thought, more in devout hope than in certainty. He was already one step ahead of the game. He’d thought it would take days to find out who’d been following in his family’s footsteps, and in the end it had been shockingly simple. He’d taken one look at Danielle Porcini’s bland, distant face and seen his long-lost sister staring back. And if he was still shaken by the fact, even Dany herself didn’t realize it. No one did. With the possible exception of his maddening, gorgeous ex-and future fiancée. He was going to have to watch his step.
THE FIRST THING Ferris wanted to do was to get the hell out of Regina’s overcrowded house. Regina was in the front hall, and she’d have too many uncomfortable questions. McNab and Phillip were where she and Danielle had left them, by the kitchen, and Danielle Porcini was threading her way back toward them with the effortless grace of an athlete.
That left the terrace. It was a little cool for it to be a popular place, and unless she was mistaken a light rain was about to fall. Her silk dress would be ruined, but that was a minor price to pay for a quick getaway. She’d sneak out on the porch, climb over the railing and make her way across the grounds before anyone even realized she was gone.
In theory it was a wonderful idea; in practice she hadn’t taken fate into account. No sooner had she slipped out the door, pulling it shut behind her, when a too-familiar voice purred in her ear. “Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?”
“Damn you, Blackheart,” she said with surprisingly little rancor. “I was trying to escape.”
He was leaning against the stone railing, oblivious to the lightly falling mist, and it was too dark to read his expression. Not that she would have been able to guess what he was thinking, even in broad daylight. Blackheart was adept at keeping hidden what he wished to keep hidden.
“With the family jewels?” he countered, still not moving from his indolent pose.
“That’s more your style, isn’t it?”
“Not with my friends.”
“That’s right, you have your standards.” She wanted to keep her voice lightly mocking, but an edge had crept into it. An edge of anger, but also of hurt and confusion. Why hadn’t he fought for her?
“Indeed. By the way, I hate that dress. You look like you used to look before we . . . before. All elegant and refined and half alive. If it weren’t for that blot of ice cream, I would have been afraid the real Francesca had gone for good.”
“Only you would notice the ice cream,” she mourned, staring down at the practically invisible stain. The light mist had soaked into the material, making it cling to her well-rounded figure, cling to the lavender silk underwear and the skin beneath.
“Only I would have been paying close enough attention,” he agreed. “As I am now. Maybe I don’t hate that dress, after all.” He moved as he usually did, with speed and a kind of lethal grace that she was too bemused to fight. At one moment she was standing in the rain, in the next she’d been pulled quite firmly into his arms, the wet silk dress a thin barrier between his body and her own.
She was too surprised to fight him, too surprised to do anything but stand perfectly still in the circle of his arms, absorbing his quite remarkable body heat. He didn’t kiss her; he just looked down into her rain-damp face, and his eyes were shadowed.
“What are you doing to us, Francesca?” he murmured, his mouth close to hers.
For a moment she wanted to dissolve in his arms, but she fought it, fought herself, fought him. “If you don’t let go of me, John Patrick Blackheart, I will toss you through the French doors, and you’ll lose another one of your nine lives.”
To her surprise he grinned. “Right now I don’t have them to spare, lady.” And he released her, stepping back.
It was so cold without his arms around her. So cold an
d lonely. “Thanks,” she said politely, and without another word she hiked her trailing skirts up to her thighs and scrambled over the wide stone railing, dropping lightly to the ground some four feet below. By then the rain had begun in earnest, and slipping off her high heels, she took off across the cold wet grass, running, telling herself she was running from the rain. But she was running from the man who stayed behind, watching her through the heavy curtain of rain.
Chapter Six
The Wrong Man
(Warner Brothers 1957)
FERRIS’S LATE MODEL Mercedes SL coughed, sputtered, and limped its way back to her apartment in the city. Her forty-thousand-dollar automobile didn’t like the rain, the fog, or damp weather of any sort, and she was a fool to hold on to it in rainy, damp, foggy San Francisco. But by that time the car was so fully integrated with her invented self-image that she couldn’t imagine herself without it, inefficient engine and all. Besides, it gave her something to curse, something to think about besides Blackheart as she drove home through the rain-slick streets.
It stalled two blocks from her apartment and refused to start again, but for once fate had the kindness to provide a nearby parking space on a downhill slope. She climbed out of the car and pushed, her feet squishing around in her wet high-heeled sandals, her hair hanging like a limp curtain around her face, her silk dress ruined. The parking spot was directly in front of a fire hydrant, but Ferris was beyond caring. She left the car at an angle, its elegant tail pointing out into the street, and she slammed the door with all her strength. She didn’t bother to lock it. With luck someone would steal it, preferably before she got a parking ticket, and her worries would be over. At least one of them.
She would have left her keys, just to make sure any would-be thief didn’t give up at the first little setback, but she didn’t fancy shinnying up her building again. If someone wanted her Mercedes, they’d simply have to work for it.
The rain turned into a downpour as she hiked the two blocks to her apartment, cursing and muttering under her breath. She was too physically miserable to think about Blackheart, to think about the strange undercurrents in Regina’s odd assortment of guests. She still hadn’t figured out how McNab had managed to show up. The A list of the Committee for Saving the Bay didn’t include cops, even if retired and semiretired cat burglars figured high on the list of desirables. He was awfully chummy with Phillip Merriam, but then, a politician on the stump was everyone’s friend.
Still, it seemed as if there was more to it than that. She might almost have suspected Phillip of bringing him, but then her former fiancé had no motive. Unless he was holding a grudge.
Her three locks gave easily enough, a small consolation on a miserable night. Slamming the door behind her, she stood in the middle of her living room and yanked off her clothes, dropping her sodden dress into a wastebasket, kicking her muddy shoes across the room, stripping off her lavender underwear and walking naked through the twisty little apartment, past the piles of boxes into her bedroom.
Blackie had gone out on his nightly rounds. Ferris shut the terrace door, shivering in the chilly night air, grabbed her flannel nightshirt and had started back toward the kitchen when something caught her eye.
If she hadn’t been so miserable, both physically and emotionally, she would have realized someone had been in her apartment. She had only a moment of uneasiness before irritation and a reluctant amusement washed over. Blackheart hadn’t let go as easily as she’d thought.
She’d left her bed a rumpled mess. It was now neatly made, the pretty pastel sheets smooth. And sitting in the middle of the bed was a familiar-looking bag. Mrs. Field’s Cookies. She didn’t even have to open the bag to find out they were the coco-macs.
She and Blackheart had shared half a dozen of them on their walk around San Francisco after he’d initiated her into the art of cat burglary, centuries ago. They’d eaten them on picnics, on drives, in movies and for breakfast. Most of all they’d eaten them in bed.
She should take the bag and hurl them off the terrace. But then McNab would probably show up and bust her for littering again. She’d had too many sweets that day—she should throw them out. Run them under water first, to blunt temptation.
But then she hadn’t eaten much at Regina’s. And after almost a week of not eating, surely she could afford to eat a cookie or two. She’d throw the rest out, of course she would.
By the time the ten o’clock news was over she’d finished the bag. Her pastel sheets were littered with crumbs, her stomach was complaining at the sudden influx of sugar, and she was very close to tears. The taste of those damned cookies was forever linked in her brain with the taste of Blackheart. He couldn’t have chosen a more insidious punishment. Or was it a bribe?
Crumpling up the bag, she tossed it under the bed, flipped off the light, and nestled down among the sheets, ignoring the crumbs as they dug into her skin. Six cookies. Wasn’t there an old legend about that? Someone had gone down into hell, eaten six pomegranate seeds, and ended up having to spend six months of every year in bed with the devil.
She’d already done her six months with Blackheart, a six months that had felt uncomfortably akin to demonic possession. Had she just committed herself to another six months? Was it worth fighting?
With a moan she rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. It was too late and she was too tired. Tomorrow she’d recognize what she’d done, pigged out on too many cookies and Blackheart’s fiendish sense of humor. Maybe tomorrow she’d send him a pint of Double Rainbow ice cream.
Maybe, if she had any sense at all, she’d forget it. Ignore the cookies, ignore Blackheart. The caloric gift was probably just his way of saying goodbye. If it wasn’t, she certainly couldn’t be won over by a sugar buzz. Answers were what she needed, and answers were just what he wasn’t going to give.
At least she had no reason to see him again. Regina might have invited him to her party, but there’d be no reason to run into him from then on. Why, with any luck she wouldn’t even see him for months and months and months. With any luck she’d have enough time to get over him.
Because it had only taken one look at him, one touch of his hands on her body, and she’d known she was just as in love, just as obsessed as she’d always been. And God only knew how long it was going to take her to forget him.
“WHO WAS HE?”
Dany stared at the pale face in the mirror, ignoring the reflection of the blustering man behind her. Marco had had too much to drink, and he’d been further stimulated by the obvious, idiotic admiration of all the fawning females at the big house tonight. She could see by the glitter in his eyes that he was in a dangerous mood, and if she had any sense at all she’d watch what she said.
But when had she ever had any sense? “Who was who?” she countered, taking off her crystal earrings and dropping them onto the plastic counter in front of her.
He moved swiftly, the drink scarcely slowing him down at all, but she’d been watching, and she was able to tense herself when he grabbed her, his thick arm going around her neck, snapping her head back. His breath smelled of whiskey and garlic, his body was sweaty and muscular, but she controlled the shiver of fear that had started deep within her.
“You know who. The man who was looking down your dress and trying not to.”
“My brother?”
The arm tightened for a moment, and she choked before he lessened the pressure. “Don’t be too brave, little one. As you may remember, I have a temper.”
“Not my brother, then. He didn’t know who I was,” she added smugly.
“No,” Marco agreed. “The great Blackheart has been overrated. But we’re not talking about your obtuse half-brother, are we? We’re talking about the other man.”
“The cop.”
For a moment she wondered whether he’d snap her neck. It might almost be a relief. There wasn’t an ounc
e of joy or pleasure in her life, and hadn’t been for years. Maybe it would be better to end it here than to carry through her intricate revenge and then hope to find some better sort of life.
Marco released her, stepping back. “A cop,” he echoed flatly. “What did he want? What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, I told him nothing. I’m in this just as deeply as you are.”
“Don’t forget it,” Marco snarled, sobering up. “That still doesn’t explain what he wanted.”
Dany smiled. “To look down my dress.”
Then he hit her. Not as hard as he could; it was an openhanded blow that knocked her back against the bed. She knew how to fall, how to relax her muscles and roll with it. She lay on the bed, staring up at him, veiling the contempt and hatred that threatened to consume her. She knew from bitter experience that hatred only managed to excite him.
It was a close thing. Marco stood there, weaving slightly, his eyes hooded, contemplating his alternatives. There was a dead silence in the room, broken only by the sound of his breathing. “Don’t push your luck, cara,” he murmured finally. “I get tired of your smart mouth. Did the cop have any suspicions?”
Her face tingled from the blow. She’d been hit so often that she’d developed a second sense about how much damage he’d done. This one wouldn’t even leave a bruise. Just a little stiffness around the jaw. “The cop was interested in Blackheart,” she replied, keeping her hatred banked and out of her carefully neutral voice. “He wanted to know if I knew anything about him, and I think he was attracted to me. But as far as I could tell he didn’t have any suspicions about either of us.”
Marco nodded, apparently satisfied. “Attracted to you, eh? No accounting for tastes. Maybe American men like flat-chested little man-eaters.”