by Anne Stuart
“Are we going to do this again?” she murmured. “We’ve made love in your hallway once already. Why don’t we use the bed?”
He lifted his head to look down into her eyes. There was a dreamy expression on her face, a smile hovered about her pale mouth. “Are we going to make love?” he inquired huskily, pressing himself against her body.
“Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions,” she said, her voice catching somewhat as his hands brushed the soft, full breasts that were still confined in a lacy bra. “Maybe you were just planning to put me into the shower?”
“We’ve done that already, too. We probably shouldn’t repeat ourselves. What about the kitchen counter?”
“What about the bed?” she whispered, her lips brushing against his, slowly, tantalizingly. “We’re out of practice.”
“Practice makes perfect.” He lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist, and carried her into the bedroom, laying her down on the bed with infinite gentleness. He stripped off his clothes in the semidarkness and followed her onto the queen-size bed, his hands reaching for her with a sureness that felt impossibly right. It didn’t matter whether she trusted him or not. It didn’t matter what she knew, what she didn’t know, what she thought she knew. All that mattered was that she was here, now, lying in his bed, her wonderful green eyes glittering in the shadows.
Her hands on his body were the same, that heady mixture of wonder and delight. In their six months together she’d never lost that sense of astonishment, of discovery, and he hoped she never would. Twenty-nine years of virginity had made her particularly appreciative of sensual delights, and he could only hope that after fifty years of making love with him, she’d still retain that fresh attitude. He had every intention of being around to find out.
Her mouth was growing bolder, moving down his chest, kissing, nibbling, her hands sliding down his rib cage, trailing down to capture the heavy solid heat of him, her fingers deft, arousing him to a point dangerously near explosion while her mouth teased his navel, his hip bones.
She’d never before touched him with her mouth, and he hadn’t pushed her, never even suggesting the faint edge of disappointment he’d felt when she’d come close, achingly close. He wanted, he needed her mouth on him more than anything he’d ever needed in his life, but he bit his lip, hard, rather than beg.
She moved her mouth away from his stomach, looking up at his rigid face in the half light. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, a sensuous smile curved her mouth.
“Don’t you like that?” she whispered, her voice a throaty enticement in the darkness as her fingers stroked his cock, caressed, bringing him closer and closer.
“Come here,” he said, his voice a raw demand as he wrapped his hands around her upper arms, ready to haul her up and over him.
“Not yet,” she said. And put her mouth on him.
His hips arched in sudden reaction. He couldn’t help it: he put his hands on her shoulders, holding her there, terrified that she’d pull away. But she didn’t. He’d had a brief, conscious fear that during their time apart someone else had taught her this, but that unworthy thought vanished beneath her clearly untutored, achingly delightful ministrations.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear much more of this, and wasn’t sure if Francesca was ready for the logical consequence of her actions. “Dear heart,” he said, his voice strangled, pleading. “Come here.”
She lifted her head, releasing him from the warm, enveloping prison of her mouth, and he almost cried aloud with the anguish of that sudden desertion. “Didn’t you like it?” Her voice was low, uncertain.
“Like it?” His laugh was a bare thread of laughter. “Francesca, darling, I could die from the pleasure of it. But I want all of you right now.” This time when he pulled her she came, sliding up his length and over him, her hips settling over his as he reached up and joined them, slipping into her with a deep, savage thrust that she greeted with a shimmering, inner tremor. If he’d had any fears that he’d been taking advantage, her body set them to rest. She’d never been so ready, so responsive.
She was so right for him. So tight, so warm, so attuned to his body that he wondered how he’d survived so long without her. She sank down onto him, whimpering softly in delight, and he felt himself expand, filling her, every inch of her, until Ferris-Francesca and all her doubts disappeared, until Blackheart dissolved, until they were just one in a joining that grew more powerful, all-encompassing, until it swept over them, a triumphant destruction, a destructive triumph, a beginning that was an end and a beginning again.
He could feel her face, wet with tears or sweat or both, pressed against his chest as the tremors slowly left her body. He could feel his own face damp, with sweat or tears or both, and he wondered how he’d survive if she left him again—if she lifted her weary head and told him she still didn’t trust him.
“Oops.” Her voice was soft, muffled against his chest, and he felt her sudden stillness with a sinking feeling. Here it comes, he thought.
He was nothing if not resigned. “Oops?” he prompted. “Is that your way of telling me you made a mistake?”
She lifted her head, looking into his eyes, and there was a rueful expression on her face. “A major one,” she said. “I stopped taking the pill.”
“Oops,” Blackheart said. “Why?”
“Without you around, there was no need for it,” she said simply.
“But what if you met someone else?” He knew the answer to that one, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.
“Give me a break, Blackheart. If it took me twenty-nine years to find you, it’ll probably take me half a century to find a suitable replacement. I’ll be too old to get pregnant by that time, so why fill my body with chemicals?”
“That makes sense. This way you can just keep it full of healthy stuff like Diet Coke and cookies.”
“Exactly. Don’t worry, though. It’s the best possible time in my cycle. If I do get pregnant, it’ll be something close to a miracle. And then I’ll just simply have to accept my fate.”
“Accept your fate?” he echoed, not liking the sound of that.
Her smile lighted the darkened room with its sheer, childlike pleasure. “Maybe I should have said embrace my fate. Wholeheartedly.” Gently she pushed him back against the pillows, and there was a mischievous expression on her face. “The damage has already been done. Want to tempt fate again?”
He reached up, sliding one hand behind her neck and pulling her down to his mouth. “And again,” he said against her lips. “And again, and again.”
REGINA MET THE bland, ingenuous expression in her son’s blue eyes across the silver coffeepot, her expression troubled. “I’m so glad you could join me for breakfast, darling,” she said, pouring him a cup and adding the sugar and cream he liked. “I haven’t seen enough of you recently. How’s the campaign going?”
“Wonderfully. I’m up three points in the polls, and we’ve still got almost two months till the election.”
“Isn’t this very expensive?” she inquired in a careful voice. “I keep seeing your face on television when I least expect it. It’s very unnerving,” she added with a soft laugh.
“That’s the way campaigns are run nowadays, Mother.” He laughed his well-practiced, genial laugh. “We’re running at a slight deficit, but things should improve. I’m expecting a major contribution.”
“From whom?”
He frowned for a moment, clearly having forgotten that his mother was a sharp old lady. “A Dutch paint company,” he replied, a tiny, smug smile twisting the corners of his mouth.
And Regina, remembering a day some thirty years ago when her only son had taken her pearl necklace to buy a new bicycle and then lied about it, was filled with a sudden dread.
Chapter Sixteen
To Catch a Thief
(Paramount 1955)
“Thanks a lot.” His tone was ironic as he devoted his attention to the croissants heating in the toaster oven. “If I’d known that was all it would take to get you back, I would have shown up every morning with a thermos of the stuff. I should have realized you weren’t a woman to be bought with diamonds.”
“Nope. Mrs. Field’s Cookies and a great cup of coffee should do it.” She pushed away from the refrigerator, coming up behind him and putting her arms around his waist. “Don’t let me be stupid again, Patrick,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against his back.
He turned in her arms, threading his own around her, but his expression was wry. “I don’t think I have any say in the matter, dear heart. If you persist in ignoring your instincts and listening to your fears . . .”
She stiffened. “I think trust goes both ways. You refused to confide in me, you still haven’t explained.”
“And I’m not going to. Not until it’s over. There are just too many little threads that could unravel and end up tripping everything up.”
This time she pushed away from him, hard, and he ended up against the counter. “I thought we came to an understanding,” she said, her tone dangerously angry.
“Not exactly. We came to a climax, several of them, as a matter of fact. But that doesn’t mean that all our troubles are over. The fact remains that you still don’t trust me. Or if you do, it’s only after you’ve received concrete proof. You couldn’t pay attention to your own instincts, you were so busy running away. . . .”
She was about to run again, to storm from the kitchen in a rage, when his words stopped her. “You’d rather have a confrontation?” she demanded. “Fine.” And stepping back, she swung at him. But he caught her, his hand fastening on to her wrist and holding tight. They stood there, immobile, and then he slowly, deliberately pulled her toward him. She went, hating herself, feeling herself once more vanishing into a vast, impenetrable cloud of love and desire where everything she was disappeared. She couldn’t fight it, wasn’t even sure she wanted to. She pressed her body against him and put her head on his shoulder, shuddering lightly.
“Why do we always do this?” she whispered.
“If I told you, you’d try to hit me again,” he murmured into the silken cloud of her hair. He reached a hand under her chin, tipping up her head, her mouth to reach his. “Let’s stop talking.” His lips covered hers.
He tasted of coffee. He tasted of love. She shut her eyes, willing this to go on forever, when the insistent buzzing broke through her concentration. Lifting her head, she cast a questioning look at the toaster oven, but Blackheart shook his head.
“The front door,” he said, releasing her.
“Don’t answer it,” she pleaded. “It’ll be nothing but trouble. If it’s not someone to arrest you, it’ll be someone to arrest me. Let’s just hide in the closet or sneak out the back.”
Blackheart grinned. “The only way to sneak out of here is up the fire escape and over the rooftops. Are you game?”
“For you, yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Francesca, I could almost believe you do trust me, after all.”
“I . . .”
This time he silenced her. “Not now. Wait till we get rid of our intruder.”
She trailed after him to the door. “Don’t answer it.” He opened it anyway. Standing in the doorway was a rumpled, hostile-looking Stephen McNab. “What did I tell you?” Ferris demanded. “We’re doomed.”
McNab didn’t even waste a glance at her. Shouldering his way past a willing enough Blackheart, his flinty-gray eyes searched the apartment. “Where the hell is your sister?”
“For God’s sake!” Blackheart exploded. “Does everyone know we’re related?”
“Everyone who counts,” Ferris said smugly. “Why do you want Danielle?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” McNab said in a cold voice. “Where is she?”
“I haven’t seen her,” Blackheart replied with complete honesty. “Do you happen to have a warrant, Detective?” His voice was silkily polite. “Because if you don’t, I suggest you leave. The city of San Francisco frowns on police harassment.”
“I’m off duty,” McNab growled. “This is personal.”
“You mean you don’t want to arrest Danielle?” Ferris questioned.
“The only person I want to arrest is Blackheart. It doesn’t look as if I’m going to have the chance.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” Blackheart said cheerfully. “So tell me, McNab, what personal interest do you have in my sister? As head of the family I think I have a right to question your intentions.”
“Don’t push it, Blackheart,” McNab warned, his eyes mere slits in his angry face. “For one thing, your sister stole my car.”
“Did she? How enterprising of her. That makes her the first Blackheart in history to go for something other than jewels. Are you going to arrest her, McNab?” he inquired politely. “Or simply deport her?”
McNab glared at him. “I’m going to marry her.” And without another word he slammed out of the apartment.
Blackheart stared at the tightly shut door. “That’s all I need,” he mourned. “A cop for a brother-in-law.”
“Who says Danielle will go along with that?”
Blackheart shrugged. “I suggest we ask her. That is, if she’s still waiting meekly at your apartment.”
“She’ll be there,” Ferris said, sure of no such thing.
“I hope so. I have a few things to say to my long-lost sister,” Blackheart said grimly. “And I’m tired of having to chase around after her.”
“She’s the one who committed the robberies, isn’t she?”
Blackheart just looked at her. “You figure it out, dear heart. I’m not going to tell you.” And without another word he headed for the shower.
THERE WAS NO SIGN of the Bentley outside Ferris’s modest, two-and-a-half-story apartment building. They’d driven over in Blackheart’s aging Volvo station wagon, barely speaking, and Ferris was sorely tempted to say something—until she noticed the expression on Blackheart’s face, the muscle working in his jaw, the darkness of his eyes. She kept her mouth shut, following him up the stairs to the second-floor hallway, struggling with a new realization. Blackheart, the bold, brave cat burglar, Blackheart, who always knew what he wanted and seemed to know what everyone else wanted besides, Blackheart the invincible was afraid. Unsure of himself, wound up and afraid.
The last icy little part of her wounded heart melted. For some reason she’d never thought of him as vulnerable—it was only Francesca-Ferris with her troubled background and her confused future who was vulnerable. If Blackheart could care so much about a sister he hadn’t seen in decades, it proved he was human, after all, and not the invulnerable man of steel she sometimes feared he was.
“Do you want me to wait out here?” she asked, her voice low and husky, completely devoid of her previous sulky manner.
He looked at her in surprise, not expecting the sudden softening on her part. “What makes you think she’s still here?”
“She’s a Blackheart. Or maybe she’s a Bunce, I don’t know. Either way, she’s here. Do you want me to go get some coffee or something?”
For a long moment he looked at her, his tawny eyes dark and enigmatic. And then he leaned over and kissed her, a brief, hard kiss. “I want you with me,” he said.
The living room was empty. From some
where in the distance Ferris could hear the sound of voices, and it took her a moment to place them. Grace Kelly and Cary Grant, bickering throughout eternity, as To Catch a Thief played on the Blue-Ray.
Danielle was sitting curled up in the middle of Ferris’s big bed, dressed in jeans and a sweater, looking vastly different from the elegant creature she usually resembled. Her eyes were faintly red-rimmed, any makeup washed off long ago. In her arms, purring like a docile house pussy, sat Blackie, the smoky-gray alley cat.
Danielle was watching her brother, a wary expression on her face, a stubborn thrust to her lower lip. Blackheart stood motionless beside Ferris, and she found herself holding her breath.
“You look about three years old with that pout,” he said finally.
“I feel about three years old,” Dany said.
The light in the bedroom was filtered by the foggy day, but Blackheart was nothing if not observant. His eyes narrowed. “Who hit you? If it was that swine McNab . . .”
“McNab? What made you think of him?” She looked startled, hopeful and worried.
“He showed up at my apartment, demanding to know where you were. He said you stole his car.”
“Borrowed it,” Dany amended with a shrug.
“He also said he was going to marry you.” Blackheart moved into the room, his lean body tense and edgy. “Which is, as far as I’m concerned, the worst thing you’ve done to me. I can put up with being implicated in crimes I didn’t commit, I can put up with being framed for your latest clumsy attempt, and I can put up with my professional reputation going down the tubes. I can even contemplate the idea of an undeserved jail sentence with a fair amount of equanimity. But the thought of having Stephen McNab as a brother-in-law is too much.”
A small, wistful smile curved Dany’s mouth. A mouth that was almost a twin to Blackheart’s, Ferris noticed with belated surprise. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to marry him. It wouldn’t work. And I expect I’ll be the one who’s going to jail, not you. And I’m sorry, though that doesn’t do much good. Does that improve matters?”