The Catspaw Collection

by Anne Stuart

  He started with a hundred push-ups, then moved into the weights. This was the time he could think and plan the best, when his body was being pushed to its limits and no one was around to disturb him with their idle chatter. He stood there in the early-morning drizzle, curling two hundred pounds of metal weights against his bulging chest, and thought about the future. And of how he was going to kill Ms. Ferris Byrd.

  Chapter Nine

  Spellbound

  (Selznick International 1945)

  JOHN PATRICK Blackheart, ne Edwin Bunce, was sitting on Regina Merriam’s flagstone terrace overlooking the early-morning bustle on the circus grounds, waiting for his Francesca. She might be having a little trouble recognizing that she was, in fact, his, but sooner or later he’d be able to convince her.

  Leaving her this morning had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. She’d been lying there in the maroon sheets, the blank television screen bathing the predawn room in an unearthly light, and he could see dried tears on her elegant cheekbones. The flannel nightgown was endearingly sexy, more so than one of her silk and lace confections, and he’d wanted to strip off his clothes, crawl into bed with her and just hold her in his arms.

  She would have woken up screeching. Maybe. He couldn’t take the chance. Even worse, she might have cried some more, and then his resolve would have vanished. And he couldn’t tell her what was going on. He couldn’t incriminate his own sister, but that was the only way he could exonerate himself. If McNab proved to be as tenacious and tricky as Blackheart suspected he was, it was going to be a close-run thing. And if he told Francesca what was going on, she’d have no familial qualms. She’d sacrifice Danielle Porcini without a second thought in order to keep him out of jail, and he couldn’t let her do that.

  Besides, he knew better than anyone alive that Dany couldn’t have pulled the Madrid job herself. She wasn’t tall enough for some of the reaches, even if she used the best of equipment. He had no doubt at all that she’d been instrumental in planning—there was simply too much Blackheart brilliance in the three recent robberies that had been placed on his doorstep. And who knows how many before? he thought wearily, shivering in the chilly morning air. His sweet little long-lost sister might have been active for years.

  But she hadn’t been active alone. With any luck at all he could pin everything on her accomplice, and get her out of reach of McNab’s long arm. Now he just had to figure if the identity of her accomplice was as obvious as it appeared to be.

  If he was going to save his sister’s neck without putting his own onto the chopping block, he was going to have to be very busy. As long as no one knew of his relationship with Danielle Porcini, they’d have no reason to suspect anyone involved in the circus. Blackheart and Company’s considerable reputation was behind the Porcini Family Circus, guaranteeing their trustworthiness. If he blew it, he’d blow it for Trace and Kate as well as himself. His partner and his wife were as dependent on the well-being of Blackheart and Company as he was. Not to mention any future with Francesca.

  “Damn,” he said out loud, his voice soft and bitter above the distant sounds of wild animals. “What did I do to deserve such a mess?”

  “You tell me.”

  It wasn’t Francesca. If he knew his slothful darling, she was probably still buried under the covers, unaware of the ring back on her finger.

  Instead Dany Bunce stood there, dressed in black chinos and a black turtleneck, her blond hair tied back, her blue eyes cool and mocking.

  He hadn’t seen her since she was six years old. He’d been eighteen, their father had just died in a fall from a slippery copper roof, and he was embarking on a career in the family business. He couldn’t take care of his six-year-old half-sister. Both their mothers were dead—his of cancer when he was a child, hers in a car crash in Nice. The only solution was his aunt and uncle in the Lake District. The Eustace Bunces were stoutly disapproving of the family business. Uncle Eustace was a farmer, Aunt Prunella a dedicated farm wife who’d already raised three docile children. They were the best able to cope with a half wild toddler. If they weren’t adept at showing affection, at least they’d instill conventional, comfortable values. And the farm was beautiful.

  He’d just about forgotten her existence. And now here she was, a defiant expression in eyes that weren’t much different from that angry six-year-old’s. Clearly the Bunces’ conventional values hadn’t taken hold.

  He’d been sitting in a tipped-back wrought iron deck chair and didn’t bother to change his position or his expression. He also chose to ignore her provocative statement. “Can I help you? Mrs. Porcini, isn’t it?”

  His sister smiled, showing very straight, very white teeth, either the result of orthodontia or the good Bunce genes. “Call me Dany,” she said affably, and her blue eyes were waiting, daring him to react.

  If she thought she could fence with him and win, she would soon find she was way out of her league, Blackheart thought, keeping his face smooth. “Dany,” he agreed.

  She moved over and perched on the wide stone wall, very lithe, very graceful. She would have been good, Blackheart thought, very good indeed. Who had she been working with?

  “I was interested in the Van Gogh. Detective McNab said there was a painting here worth millions of dollars. I wondered if I might see it.”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Aren’t you in charge of security? I’d think you’d be very wary of anyone messing with a priceless painting that’s your responsibility.”

  “I thought you wanted to look at it, not mess with it,” he said.

  “I expected you to be a bit paranoid. Anyone in your position might be.”

  “Oh, I’m never paranoid. Extremely distrustful, but never paranoid. Certainly you can see the Van Gogh, if you so desire. But not right now.”

  “Why not? Do you want to check out my background first and make sure I’m a decent security risk?” Her cool blue eyes were assessing.

  Feisty little creature, isn’t she? thought Blackheart, half amused, half irritated. He could still see traces of that six-year-old glaring at him. “We ran standard security checks on everyone connected with the circus before you even arrived in the States.” Which went to prove how worthless those security checks had been. They’d turned up nothing more exciting than one of the knife throwers having spent time in jail for spearing a rival. No mention of Madame Porcini’s clouded past, or anything that might point to her accomplice.

  She absolutely grinned at that point, and he resisted the urge to throttle her. “And you discovered we have spotless reputations?”

  “Something like that. You’ll still have to wait. Regina sleeps later than the working classes, and I don’t think she’d care to have people traipsing through her third-floor hallway.”

  “Is that where she keeps it?”

  He was getting tired of this, mortally tired. Dany Bunce had no more interest in the Van Gogh, no matter what its vaunted worth, than he did. The question was, what did she want? She wasn’t here for a family reunion. Unless he was greatly mistaken, she was out for blood. His. Those robberies in Lisbon, Paris and Madrid hadn’t pointed to John Patrick Blackheart’s famous modus operandi by accident. She’d framed him then, and she probably had every intention of framing him again. But how? And how was he going to protect himself, Francesca and his self-destructive half-sister?

  “Come back in a couple of hours, and I’ll have someone show you exactly where she keeps it. We’ll even acquaint you with the security system, in case you’re interested.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh, you never can tell when a knowledge of heat sensors and infrared lighting can come in handy. Life is full of possibilities. In the meantime, don’t you think you ought to be getting back to the business at hand?” He nodded toward the organized chaos of activity out on the south lawn. “Don’t you need to
practice, warm up, something like that?”

  “I’m no longer a performer. I used to be an aerialist, but now I work strictly in a business capacity.”

  “Why? Did you fall?” He didn’t like that idea one tiny bit. A fall had killed their father, a fall had nearly crippled him. He didn’t want to think of his larcenous baby sister tumbling down, down. . . .

  She smiled sweetly. “I’m scared of heights.” She slid off the wide stone wall, dusted her black chinos, and moved toward him. “What about you, Mr. Blackheart? Are you scared of heights?”

  “Nope. I love them. It runs in my family.”

  She blinked, her only reaction to his veiled taunt. But she was persevering and game. “I heard you were once a famous cat burglar. Is that true?”

  He reached up, caught her cheek between his thumb and forefinger and pinched, just hard enough to leave a red mark. “That runs in my family, too.”

  She jerked away from him, startled, her mouth open to say something, anything. Even the truth might have been a remote possibility. And then saw something over his shoulder, and her mouth curved in a smug, engaging grin that was a twin to his father’s, and her eyes lighted with malicious amusement. “What a happy childhood you must have had, surrounded by such a colorful family. Let me know when I can see the Van Gogh.” And she sauntered away, down the wide expanse of slate terrace.

  He watched her go for a brief moment. If he’d had any doubt why she hated him, she’d just put that to rest. Her life with the Eustace Bunces must have been hell. And she was determined to pay him back for that.

  He sighed, leaning back and shutting his eyes for a moment. And then he remembered that something had caught her eye and stopped her from incriminating herself. And that something, someone, had opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace behind him.

  He didn’t turn to look. The faint whiff of perfume was new, unfamiliar, a spicy, defiant scent unlike Ferris’s usual Cabochard. But he knew it was his beloved Ferris-Francesca behind him, knew it even before she dropped the big canary-yellow diamond ring into his lap.

  “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” she said in a voice that was even chillier than the autumn morning. “But you misplaced this, and I thought it should be back where it belonged as soon as possible.”

  “So did I,” he said calmly. “That’s where I left it.”

  “Stay out of my apartment, Blackheart. No secret visits, no gifts or bribes, for me or my cat. Leave me alone. Concentrate on your little circus girl.”

  At that he turned and looked up at her, a wide smile of genuine delight on his face. “You’re jealous,” he said, amazed. Ferris was never jealous.

  She was looking particularly gorgeous that morning, he thought with a resigned sigh, knowing that he shouldn’t touch her. She must have raced after him without bothering to put on her yuppie armament. Her thick black hair hung loose and wavy around her unmade-up face. The faded jeans she was wearing had seen years of service, and they hugged her long legs and wonderful hips as he longed to. She’d taken time to wear a bra under the cotton sweater, but if he pulled her into his lap and slid his hands up under that sweater he could probably unfasten it in record time. With another resigned sigh he closed his eyes again, shutting out the enticing picture she made, resting his folded hands strategically over his lap.

  “Blackheart,” she said in a weary voice that a less intelligent man might almost have believed, “I wish you every happiness in the world. Run away with Mrs. Porcini, pray that her husband with the bulging biceps doesn’t catch up with you, and live happily ever after. Just leave me alone.”

  Blackheart’s eyes flew open, her words triggering a sudden memory. “They’re not really married,” he said abruptly. That was one thing the security check had picked up, something he’d disregarded as of no importance until he’d seen the face that went with the name Danielle Porcini. There was no record of any marriage ceremony, legal or religious, between the two circus members.

  “Then I hope you’ll be very happy.” Her footsteps made angry, clicking noises as she walked away from him and the French door slammed behind her.

  He caught up with her in Regina’s deserted living room. There was no one in sight, the lights were still off, and the spacious, empty room was filled with shadows.

  When he put his hands on her shoulders she didn’t fight him. She had enough sense not to. Any resistance and he would have pulled her into his arms against his taut, needful body. As long as she stood, quiescent and watchful beneath his hands, he couldn’t do anything more than hold her there.

  “How did you get in here? Are any of the servants up?” Stupid question, he mocked himself. He was just wasting time, prolonging the brief contact his body and soul were crying out for.

  “What if I told you I broke in?” Her voice was hushed, solemn.

  “I’d be charmed.”

  “Too bad. Regina gave me a key years ago.”

  “Back when you were on your first fiancé,” he countered. If he made her mad enough, she might struggle.

  “Second,” she corrected him. “I was engaged to my high school sweetheart. You ran a distant third, Blackheart.”

  “Then how come I was the only one able to get you into bed?”

  “Is that how you viewed it, Blackheart? ‘Getting me into bed’? Well, now that you’ve accomplished such a remarkable feat, I would think the challenge would be gone. Time to move on to greener pastures. Maybe you can find another twenty-nine-year-old virgin to seduce.”

  She was getting very angry indeed. Good, he thought, sliding one hand up her shoulder to cup her neck. He could feel the pulse pounding beneath her delicate skin, and he wanted to feel that pulse beneath his lips. “I didn’t seduce you, Francesca,” he whispered. “I fell in love with you.”

  “Don’t.” The word was a quiet, helpless moan. But she wasn’t pulling away from him, she was swaying toward him, and the muscles in her shoulders had gone from tense and stiff to soft and warm and weak, and he slid up his other hand, cupping her face, his thumbs gently brushing her pale, lipstickless mouth. Her green eyes were lost and pleading, and he knew he could drown in those eyes, drown in her body, lose himself forever in the sweet delight of her smooth flesh.

  She was the one to bring their mouths together. In the lonely hours and days that followed he would remind himself of that, cherishing that small, temporary act of trust. Her soft, warm lips touched his, for no more than a brief instant. And then his self-control vanished, he slanted his mouth across her, and she opened for him. He held her there, kissing her with all the longing and despair that were ripping through his shaking body.

  For a moment she struggled, and he knew he should let her go, when her arms escaped the prison of his body and slipped around his neck, pulling him closer. He could feel the softness of her breasts through the sweater, the hardness of her nipples, the sweet warmth of her hips pressed up against his, and he groaned deep in his throat. Surely this was worth more than honor, family, safety, anything at all?

  He’d gotten his hands under her sweater, just as he’d wanted to since the moment he’d seen her, and he’d just managed to unfasten her bra when a bright light flooded the living room, streaking through their temporary insanity like a lightning bolt from an angry god.

  She tore out of his arms, as he knew she would, and he turned to rage at the intruder, frustration and fury wiping out the last tiny bit of common sense he possessed.

  The sight of Regina Merriam, her thick white hair in a plait down her back, her designer silk dressing gown reaching the floor, her usually kind, serene face creased with worry, brought back a measure of sanity.

  He looked at Francesca. She was out of reach, halfway across the room, surreptitiously fumbling with her bra clasp. He wanted to go to her, to brush her awkward hands away and take care of it, but he knew his touch w
ouldn’t be welcome. He stayed where he was, watched her flushed, miserable face, and cursed his sister with all his heart.

  “I don’t suppose this is a reconciliation?” Regina asked in a sorrowing voice.

  For some stupid, romantic reason Blackheart held his breath. But Francesca shook her head, her long dark hair hiding her face. “Just another mistake. I seem to be making a lot of them nowadays. I hope we didn’t disturb you, Regina?”

  “Not at all. I was just coming down to share coffee with Blackheart when I heard the two of you. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  Damn her, if she could be cool and unconcerned, so could he. “Yes, it was probably just as well,” he drawled, taking a small, perverse pleasure in her sudden start.

  Regina looked from one to the other, her sorrow now shadowing her face. “Why don’t you both join me for coffee? Surely we can at least share some decent morning conversation?”

  “Could I have a rain check?” Ferris pleaded, pushing her hair back and looking calm and very determined. “There’s something I want to find out.”

  Blackheart was a man who’d lived on his instincts for far too long not to listen to them when they were shrieking at him. “What’s that?” he demanded.

  “Mrs. Porcini,” she said. “I can’t get over the feeling I’ve met her before. I wanted to discover if that’s possible. I thought I’d ask her where she’d been for the last five years.”

  If Regina hadn’t been there listening, he would have let out a string of curses that would have turned the air blue. If Regina hadn’t been there he would have threatened, yelled, coerced, kidnapped her before he let her literally go down among the lions, with her jealousy blinding her to far more dangerous possibilities.

  As it was, he had to make do with a veiled warning. He knew his Francesca. Anything more overt would only fuel her determination. “Circus people are a funny breed, dear heart,” he murmured. “I don’t think they like answering personal questions about their pasts.”