The Catspaw Collection

by Anne Stuart

  “I DON’T WANT to be doing this,” Ferris said.

  Blackheart had his back to her. They were standing in a grove of trees on the west side of Regina’s stately mansion, and her ex-fiancé was looking upward, way, way upward, to the sharply angled roof four stories above.

  “Then why are you here?” he countered, not bothering to turn and look.

  He didn’t need to. He knew as well as she did that she was dressed in black denims and a turtleneck, with ballet slippers on her feet and her dark hair tied back with a dark bandanna, ready for his particular brand of work. He knew that panic would lurk in her eyes despite the determination on her lips. And he knew she’d have no argument against the indefensible. He asked, and she was here. It was as simple and as stupid as that.

  “Do you expect me to climb up the side of the building like Spider-Man?” she demanded. She could hear the distant noise from the circus on the great lawn on the eastern side of the building, could hear the muffled roar of the big cats.

  “I expect you to follow my lead, dear heart. If the two of us can break in, then the place isn’t as secure as it should be.”

  “What do you mean, if the two of us can break in? I thought we’d be a formidable combination.”

  He glanced back at that, his expression inscrutable. “So did I,” he said. “But you’re not viewing this from a distance. We’ve got one experienced cat burglar, but one who is sadly out of practice, whether you believe it or not. Not to mention that he’s hampered by a game leg. And we have a woman who’s a base coward, terrified of heights and terrified of love. It seems to me a baby gate could keep us out.”

  “Blackheart . . .” she warned.

  “Follow me, my love.” He swung himself up into the first branch of a tree, then began climbing. “Unless you’re too chicken.”

  “I’m too old to fall for dares,” she said, looking up at him as he disappeared into the branches.

  “I double dog dare you, Francesca,” his voice filtered down. “Hurry up, or you won’t know where to go when you reach the top.”

  She who hesitates is lost, Ferris reminded herself grimly, reaching for the first branch. She wasn’t as tall as Blackheart, nor as limber, and it took her a couple of tries to swing her body up and over the thick limb. She was just as glad she didn’t have an audience. “Are you up there?” she called. “I’m coming.”

  “I know you are,” she heard him say. “I’m waiting.”

  “I know you are,” she muttered under her breath, hauling her body upward, mentally cursing the last few batches of Mrs. Field’s Coco-Macs.

  He was waiting for her, all right. Miles away from the dubious safety of the thick-limbed oak tree, lounging indolently on a third-floor balcony. She stopped her relentless climb, clinging to the branch for dear life, refusing to look down at the ground miles below her, and glared across the vast space. “How did you get there?”

  “I jumped.” He leaned over the thick stone parapet that was waist high and held out his hand. It was an eternity away from her reach. At least eight inches.

  “Forget it,” she said. “I’m going back down.”

  “If you go back down you’ll have to look. And I’d advise against it.”

  She knew he was right. She considered a brief peek at the grass and gravel beneath her and thought better of it. “I think I’ll just stay here,” she said, clinging more tightly to the branch.

  “It’ll probably rain this afternoon. Don’t you think you’ll get wet?”

  “That’s all right. Then I won’t have to worry about a shower.”

  “What about food?”

  “I need to burn off a few of those cookies you’ve been plying me with. I’ll be fine. Just send the fire department to extract me in a few days.”

  “Francesca,” he said, his voice stern. “Come here.” He reached out, crossing the space, and could almost touch her. “I won’t let you fall. Trust me at least that far.”

  “I don’t trust you, Patrick. I thought we made that clear.” Slowly, carefully she pried one hand away from the tree branch and put it into his.

  His long, strong fingers closed over hers. The leap would only be a couple of feet, and she’d land on the terrace with its nice high wall protecting her. He wouldn’t let her fall. Would he?

  “Come on,” he said, yanking suddenly.

  Caught off guard, she had no chance to do anything more than shut her eyes and leap. When she opened them she was standing safely on the balcony, Blackheart’s arms wrapped tightly around her.

  She pushed him away, brushing the clinging bark and leaves from her black clothes. “Well,” she said briskly, “that was simple enough.”

  Blackheart’s smile was devoid of cynicism. “Wasn’t it, though? The next part will be even easier.”

  “We’re going into the house and climbing the stairs, right?”

  “Wrong. We’re climbing up the outside of the house to the roof and going in through the attic.”

  “The hell we are!” Ferris protested, heading for the door.

  His hand caught her before she’d gone two feet, spinning her around to face him. “Don’t chicken out now, Francesca. I’ll make a little bargain with you. If you can climb up the rest of the way without any more whining, then I’ll let you go.”

  “You’ll let me go back downstairs?” she said, not quite understanding.

  “No. I’ll let you go completely. No more breaking in to your apartment, no more leaving little gifts, no more cookies or movies or pickled herring. Just prove to me you’re brave enough to do it, and I’ll trust you to manage the rest of your life on your own.”

  She just stared at him. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Finally to be free of him? Wouldn’t she be willing to climb the Matterhorn for that freedom, never mind something as puny as Regina Merriam’s stone mansion? “All right,” she said breathlessly. “You’ve got a bargain.”

  His own smile was grim. “I thought I might. You first.” He gestured toward the edge of the balcony.

  She peered over it dubiously. “You want to tell me how we’re going to manage this, or am I supposed to make it up as I go along?”

  “No whining, Francesca, or the deal is off. Just be glad we’re doing this in broad daylight and not the dead of night.” He came up behind her, his body warm and solid, and she wished, longed for the chance to lean back against him and close her eyes, close out the dizzying heights and the miserable agreement she’d just made. His arm reached beside her, pointing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. There’s a stone ledge at least eight inches wide that will get us as far as that deep-set window, and you should be able to hoist yourself up the rest of the way.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “There are boxwood below. They should cushion your fall.”

  Her reply was brief and colorful. “Why don’t you go first?”

  “I thought I should be there to catch you if you fall.”

  “I hate you, Patrick. You know that, don’t you?” she muttered, climbing out onto the parapet.

  “I know that, dear heart,” he said gently, following close behind her, his strong hand within inches of hers.

  Ferris edged out onto the narrow parapet, her sweaty hands clinging to the stones jutting out from the building. Once out on that narrow ledge there was no going back. With a deep intake of breath she put her brain on automatic pilot and began to climb, always aware of Blackheart close behind her.

  Halfway up she realized she wouldn’t fall. Blackheart wouldn’t let her. Logic told her that there was nothing he could do to stop it if she started to tumble, but logic had nothing to do with it. He was behind her, his sheer force of will forcing her up, up, and that will would keep her safe. Even the dangerous slickness in her hands dried up in the soft autumn breeze that was playing around the angled
roofs of the Merriam house, and as she reached up for the copper gutter she only allowed herself a brief moment to hope that Regina kept her gutter intact. Even that thought vanished. Blackheart would have checked it first, before he brought her out here.

  She pulled herself up, landing on the roof with little grace and a great deal of relief, sprawling along the greenish metal and watching as Blackheart levered himself up and over.

  “You did it,” he said, his eyes alight with something she couldn’t read.

  “Yes, I did. Why?”

  “I thought it was to get me to leave you alone.”

  “I’m not talking about that. Why did you want me to do it? No lies or evasions, Patrick. Why did you make me climb up here?”

  “Because I wanted to be alone with you?”

  “No.”

  “Because I hoped you’d fall and take my terrible guilty secret to the grave with you?”

  “No.”

  “Because I wanted you to realize you do trust me, after all?”

  “That’s it,” she agreed. “But you promised to leave me alone if I did it.”

  He grinned in the glorious sunlight. “Francesca, dear heart,” he said. “I lied.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Thirty-Nine Steps

  (Lime Grove 1935)

  AT LEAST HE DIDN’T make her climb down the skylight window, Ferris thought as she followed him through the dormer window into the musty attic. She wouldn’t have put it past him. She knew for a fact that he was more than slightly partial to the old caper movie, Topkapi, and he loved the scene where the robbers were lowered through the skylight. While Blackheart hadn’t been into fantasy games in the past, she’d still been holding her breath. After what he’d just put her through, she wouldn’t have been surprised at anything.

  He’d proven his point, unpleasant as she found it. She did trust him, and in recent weeks she’d forgotten that elemental fact. Not with jewels, not with worldly goods, but with her life, with her well-being, even with her love, she trusted him. She just didn’t know how she was going to live with that knowledge.

  She landed on the dusty floor with a soft thud, her ballet slippers pinching her feet slightly. There were dust motes in the late-morning sunlight, shifting shadows, and an odd assortment of science-fiction-type lights over to one side. “What’s that?” she demanded, heading across the attic in its direction.

  “The security system for the Van Gogh.” Blackheart barely glanced at it.

  Ferris stopped short. “It looks impressive.”

  “Trust me, it isn’t. That wouldn’t stop a determined teenager. For one thing, three people have keys to the system, and that’s two people too many. For another, the technology is antique. That form of infrared detection went out several years ago.”

  “Who has the three keys?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Blackheart was poking around the boxes and trunks stacked by the doorway. “Any self-respecting thief could circumvent it, anyway.”

  “Is there such a thing as a self-respecting thief?” She was momentarily distracted.

  Blackheart turned and grinned at her, and even in the murky light she could see the flash of his white teeth. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re conscienceless. You still haven’t answered my question. Where are the keys?”

  “Regina has one, Phillip has the other,” he said, turning back to his investigations.

  “Need I ask where the third one is?”

  “You needn’t. It would probably take me less time to go through it without the key than with it, but yes, I have the third key. After all, I set up the system several years ago.”

  “An outmoded system.”

  “It wasn’t outmoded then,” he replied with great patience.

  “What the hell are we doing up here, Blackheart?”

  “I told you—we’re double-checking the security. We have less than a week to worry—after that it’s Nelbert’s problem. I just don’t want anything to happen in the meantime.” There was a row of doors at the far end of the cavernous room, and Blackheart systematically began opening them, pawing through shallow closets filled with old clothes, boxes and trunks.

  Ferris moved closer, drawn by a glimmer of deep blue silk, and within moments she was looking through an array of evening gowns dating back to the beginning of the last century. The heavy stone Merriam mansion had survived the earthquake and fire of 1906, so it was entirely possible that some of these gowns came from that era. They were made for women shorter and far more buxom than Ferris, but the richness of the materials shimmered across her hands, and she was assailed with a sudden weak-minded and entirely feminine longing for something as beautiful as this to wear.

  She turned to find Blackheart watching her, his expression guarded. He said nothing, closing the door of the closet he’d been delving into and advancing on her. She didn’t know what she expected, and instinctively put up her hands to ward him off.

  “Get into the closet,” he ordered tersely.

  “Blackheart, this is neither the time nor the place.”

  “Someone’s coming, you idiot. Get into the closet.” Without waiting for a further protest he shoved her in, following her and pulling the door shut behind them, pushing the silks and satins back on the rod with a ruthlessness that caused Ferris to cry out in protest. The noise didn’t get very far. He slammed his hand over her mouth and pushed her back against the partition. The dresses closed around them, still smelling faintly of faded roses, and they were alone in the cramped darkness, Blackheart’s hand across her mouth, listening, listening.

  At first she didn’t believe him. It wouldn’t have been beyond his capabilities to manufacture an intruder, just to give him the chance to back her into the closet. But a moment later she heard the sounds that had alerted him. After years of midnight invasions, Blackheart’s ears were more finely tuned than those of a normal human being, and the footsteps, the muffled voices just outside the attic door were clearly not just an excuse for him to put his hands on her.

  Slowly he released her mouth, but not his grip on her. His other hand was around her waist, holding her still, and she didn’t dare squirm as she so desperately wanted to. Her fear of heights didn’t extend to dark, enclosed spaces. She felt warm, cozy, and inexplicably excited in that cramped darkness with only Blackheart’s heated body beside her, and she had to mentally slap herself for thinking what she couldn’t help thinking.

  There were three voices and presumably three sets of footsteps to go with them, though Ferris’s hearing wasn’t sophisticated enough to be certain. “As you can see,” Jeff Nelbert’s thick, fruity tones lectured, “this security system is laughable. Nothing compared to what I’ve set up at the museum for The Hyacinths, but then, Blackheart got into the business through the back door in more ways than one. One couldn’t expect him to have the professional expertise I have.”

  Blackheart’s low growl was inaudible to anyone but Ferris, plastered against him in the dark closet. She smothered a laugh against his shoulder, wishing he’d move away, wishing there was room enough to breathe without inhaling the scent of faded roses and sexy, impossible John Patrick Blackheart.

  His mouth was somewhere just above her ear, his hand had reached up and loosened her hair, and yet all his attention seemed focused on the voices outside the closet door. She only wished she could be as single-minded.

  “What makes you think Blackheart’s going to go for the painting?” There was no mistaking Stephen McNab’s deep tones, and if Blackheart’s taut body started in surprise, it didn’t stop his lips from nibbling on her sensitive earlobe.

  Ferris stretched and preened like a stroked kitten. Her skin suddenly felt hot and very sensitive, and she wished those interfering voices from the attic would go away and leave her in peace with the man she loved.
/>
  “It’s his only chance,” Nelbert replied, his two-hundred-plus frame shaking the sturdy attic floor as he moved across the room. “He knows once it’s gone from here and under my protection in the museum, he’ll have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting his hands on it. He’s got to act fast, and he’s going to use these circus goings-on as a cover up.”

  “Maybe,” McNab said. “I’d like to believe it, but Blackheart’s never had any connection to stolen artwork. It’s hard to believe he’d change his MO so late in the game.”

  “Don’t you believe it? What makes you think he hasn’t done artwork before? Look at how hard it was to pin any of the jewel robberies on him. He could have been responsible for half the art thefts in Europe and those idiots at Interpol would have no idea.”

  “Maybe.” Ferris could tell by the sound of McNab’s voice that he was clearly unconvinced. She could also tell that he didn’t like Nelbert that much, but then, nobody did. She wasn’t able to make any more deductions because Blackheart had slipped his hands under her turtleneck shirt. “It wouldn’t hurt to check.”

  Blackheart’s mouth grazed her ear. “It’s hot in here,” he whispered, a bare thread of sound, one that would reach no farther than the tasseled silk wedding dress in front of them. “Why are your nipples hard?”

  She turned to glare at him, but his mouth caught hers, kissing her with a complete dedication that in no way diminished the attention he was paying to the conversation in the outer room. She knew that, she hated it, but she kissed him back anyway, pressing her hips up against his, noting without surprise the extent of his arousal, wishing those noisy people would just go away.

  “Listen, Detective—” A new voice entered the fray, one surprising enough to make Blackheart release her mouth and listen. “We wouldn’t be wasting our time if we didn’t think there was something that merited your attention. I’m well aware of how overworked and underpaid our police is. I’m simply concerned about my mother’s safety.”