B. G. McCarthy - A Thief At Heart

by A Thief At Heart (lit)

  A Thief At Heart

  He started to move towards her, but she felt awkward and stepped over to the fridge. What they’d done in the light of a kerosene lamp last night seemed so unreal now that watery daylight was streaming like melted butter through the windows.

  “I’m really short on food. I hope you don’t mind cold cereal and bananas. I planned only to feed myself.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’ll be fine. Is something bothering you? Is everything okay with Mary?”

  “Mary’s not quite herself. But then she’s very much herself.”

  Rob nodded. “I think I get that concept. What about you? Are you yourself?”

  “Yes. Maybe I’m getting back to being myself.”

  “After last night? You mean I was sleeping with some other chick? The wild chick who never sees the light of day?”

  “Chick? You know, Rob, some of the things you say are weird. Like a man educated at fine prep-schools couldn’t possibly ever think of saying.”

  “I watch a lot of Sylvester Stallone movies. I read Mickey Spillane books.”

  Riley smiled. “I guess that says it all.”

  “Are you having regrets about what happened?”

  Riley set the milk jug on the table with more force than she’d intended. She didn’t know what to say in answer to such a direct question. She found the box of Special K. “Are you having regrets, Rob?”

  “I might have known you’d answer a question with a question. And the answer is no. I wanted it to happen. Maybe I willed you to come to me.”

  “I heard a noise outside.” It seemed so lame now. Thinking about it now she knew she had heard something weird.

  He took the cereal box from her hand. He tipped up her chin so she had to meet his eyes. “We have to talk about this--”

  Talk. Since when did men want to talk? “We both know how things are with us, Robert. We know where this is going.”

  “I like it a lot better when you call me Robbie.”

  What They Are Saying About

  A Thief At Heart

  Ms. McCarthy has written wonderful, engaging characters that will draw you into their story and not let you go until the final page. The heroine is strong willed and feisty, keeping the hero on his toes to protect her from those who would harm her. The romance of Robin and Riley Jane will capture your heart and make you wish for a second chance with your first love.

  --Leslie Hodges

  Managing Editor

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Wings

  A Thief At Heart

  by

  B. G. McCarthy

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Romantic Suspense Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

  Copy Edited by: Leslie Hodges

  Senior Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist: Casey McCarthy

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  http://www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2004 by Betty McCarthy

  ISBN 1-59088-266-0

  Published In the United States Of America

  January 2004

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  To my dear mother and to my best-friend, Bev, great readers both, who believed in me and who are gone far too soon. I know you’re in heaven trading novels as I write this.

  One

  No girl had ever been able to do it like Riley Jane Turner: make him feel breathless and dazed, like he’d just been hammered on the head by a two-by-four and had his jeans stuffed with live firecrackers. For years he couldn’t even smell chocolate chip cookies without a jolt to his guts. Their first night together, their only night as lovers, her hair had smelled like the cookies she’d baked just for him.

  Fifteen years ago while working on old man Farley’s roof--a stint of court ordered community service--he’d watch through mirrored shades as long-legged Riley sunned herself on Aggie’s back steps. She’d been sipping on a Big Gulp, enthralled by fashion magazines and romance novels. He’d believed she’d been watching him, too, but every time he turned around to take a look her eyes were averted.

  Aggie had warned him that she was out-of-bounds and he’d seen to it that they’d never been closer than a hundred feet until the end of summer. Their liaison could have remained a trick played on his mind, if not his juvenile delinquent heart, but for one outrageous party when he’d finally gotten close enough to really see her, touch her, hear her low, sweet voice. After that, given a fighting chance, he’d have been her man for life.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  Robin Butler jumped guiltily as Otis Ellis peered over his shoulder at the flickering videotaped image on the computer screen. Otis had indulged in garlic for lunch again. “You surfin’ hot babe sites, boy?” he asked.

  “This babe’s name is Jane Turner,” Rob said, feeling like a fool because the words came out husky. His pants felt crowded, too. Cripes, if Otis noticed he’d never live it down. How old was he anyway? Seventeen? “This is the woman you told Frankie Lopez to get some video on. And note that she’s wearing a gray suit, Otis, not a string bikini,” Rob snarled.

  “That’s the companion to Blake Connor’s elderly mother?”

  “Yep. That’s her.”

  Otis gave a wolf whistle. “Bet she’d look good in a string bikini. I wonder what a looker like her is doing playing nursemaid to an old lady. This broad can’t possibly be on the up and up.”

  Rob’s jaw tightened. “I ran a check on her. Miss Turner’s as fresh and clean as Irish Spring soap.” He wasn’t going to tell Otis that he and Jane Turner had known each other. Otis had a general idea of Rob’s former circumstances. Most of the people around here shared a similar background. Call it self-preservation, but Rob hadn’t willingly shared his personal sentiments about his family, his youthful escapades, or his stints in foster homes with any of his associates. And he wasn’t about to start now. That was history. Just as he’d believed Riley Jane Turner was history.

  “Give me something I can sink my teeth into.”

  Robin shoved that image to the back of his mind and tried for neutral. “There isn’t much. Miss Turner spent her formative years in foster care. She had some issues--like most foster kids do--but straightened herself out. She has a degree in occupational therapy, completed as an adult student. She’s been with the old lady for about a year. That’s about all I found of interest.”

  “Yeah? You sure, big guy? She’s looks pretty interesting to these old eyes,” Otis said, leering at Riley Jane Turner’s captivating image.

  “I did all my homework, Otis. As far as I can tell, if Miss Turner’s ever been up to anything she managed to fly right under the radar.”

  Otis grinned. “Unlike you.”

  Rob bit back a grin of his own. “I like flying over the radar. More of a rush.”

  Otis agreed with a snort. “Think it’s possible this Miss Jane Turner has a hidden agenda? Maybe Toddy-boy has caught her eye. The old lady’s gonna be pushing daisies s
oon and with Daddy Blake six-feet under only six months ago, pretty-boy Todd’s prime meat for a female predator.”

  A female predator? Riley Turner? Rob shifted in his leather chair. “You have such an interesting way of putting things, Otis.”

  “How old will Todd be when he comes into his money?”

  Rob sighed. “Thirty for the trust fund that his father left. That’s peanuts and a full five years away. If the old lady dies Todd splits around sixty-three million with his sister.”

  “Holy crap. That much, eh? We should keep an eye on Sweet Baby Jane. She may even be useful to us, boyo.”

  Rob’s lips drew into a tight line as he loosened his navy blue tie and started to yank it through his collar. He hated ties, but he’d been meeting a mark that afternoon and Otis had this thing about image. “I think she’s on the up and up.”

  “What do you think of her looks?” Otis questioned. “You’re a connoisseur of the ladies, aren’t you?”

  Feeling an unaccountable rush of blood to his face, Rob slammed down the cover of the laptop. Riley Jane Turner’s image disappeared but he felt little relief. “She’s attractive,” he said, achieving bland indifference.

  “More attractive than Belinda Connors?”

  “They’re different types. Belinda’s a twenty-year-old kid.”

  “Does having to romance Belinda suddenly bother you?”

  Finally free of the tie, Rob tossed it on the desk. “Maybe it won’t have to come to that. I’ll just break into the compound. Do it quick. I’ve told you a million times that I could pull it off in a--”

  “A B-and-E?” Otis howled, jowls quivering like jelly. “No way, son. Time to turn on the finesse, the legendary Robbie Butler charm. Halfwit, silicone-enhanced Belinda’s the perfect way to gain access to her father’s personal records. It’s all been planned and we’ll take our time and do it right. Concentrate on baiting Belinda. I’ll have another man keep an eye on Todd at the office.”

  Rob thought for a minute that he might prefer sleazy car salesman over gigolo. “So, let me get this straight, Otis: all we know for certain is that Vasco and Blake Connors met about three years ago on the French Riviera.”

  “That’s about it.” Otis chuckled at some classified joke.

  Louis Vasco’s movements were vast and complicated. Stories about him had prevailed around here since Rob had been a newbie recruited straight out of the clink. The man was handsome, cunning, a thief, a master of disguise and a lady killer--perhaps literally. There was this one juicy story circulating about a spinster coffee heiress from Columbia. Her fortune had gone missing thanks to Vasco. She’d soon met the same end.

  Vasco apparently got whatever he wanted, but never had to do any of his own dirty work. When Otis talked about the ‘shady bastard’ it was with awe, like he was describing a childhood hero, which, knowing Otis’s own former rap sheet, might not be far off the mark.

  No one had a recent picture of Vasco. They’d been flying blind for years. There was a lot at stake. Millions, to be exact. The so-called ‘good-guys’ had failed miserably already in trying to apprehend him, but the system had always sucked. Too little communication, too many players. So now Vasco--or more importantly his ill-gotten fortune--was open game for anyone with the wherewithal to take it. But their people weren’t faring much better at the moment than the status-quo as far as Rob could see.

  “From what I can see here, Otis, Connors’s record looks spotless. Business and otherwise.”

  Otis looked at Rob like he’d lost his mind. “He paid people to make it look that way. His record was too spotless. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that someone in Blake’s family--or in his employ--was in close personal contact with Vasco. Before and since Blake’s suspicious death.”

  “Suspicious death only to you, man. He was a wild driver.”

  Rob got a dirty look for that. “It all works for me, kid. I’d bet my next grandchild on it. Connors Luxury Automobiles has made several suspicious stolen car claims since young Toddy-boy took over the helm. The place is goin’ to hell in a hand-basket according to my sources. Or up young Todd Connors’s nose.”

  Rob tiredly rubbed his neck. “Maybe they were legitimate claims. The local adjustors didn’t blink an eye.”

  “Maybe the adjusters were in on it, boyo. We have some recent intelligence that Vasco may have been involved.” Otis clamped a meaty hand on Rob’s shoulder. “But that’s not your problem. Do what we pay you for, pretty boy. You’re to find the goods, not to analyze incoming intelligence. We stand to make a tidy profit if we recover just one of those stolen paintings. Only God only knows what juicy pies Vasco has dipped his sticky fingers into besides stolen art and antiquities.” Otis sank his girth into one of the swivel chairs with a grunt. “The Connors are little fish. Just a means to an end. Our big payoff is in finding Vasco’s operation.” Otis suddenly leaned forward and barked. “Robbie, what the hell is wrong with you?”

  Rob crossed the office to the window, looking down at the scruffy street kids walking Granville Street

  at four in the morning. One of the girls was obviously pregnant. It was freezing out there for March. Things hadn’t changed one whit on the means streets of Vancouver.

  “So, you’re ready for this party next week?”

  Rob ran a hand through his long, shaggy coffee-brown hair. “I’m ready. I’ll be attending some gala to benefit Promise House, that youth center they want to build on Main. Blake Conners’s mother is on the board of directors.”

  “Get a close shave and a good haircut, then. You look like a derelict, boy. No rich young woman’s going to fall for a scruffy biker dude, even if he’s wearing a nice tux. I’m thinking more James Bond, less Snake Pleskin.”

  Robbie touched his mangy stubble and smiled. “I have a disguise in mind.” He could easily pull it off. Even without a disguise his own mother wouldn’t know him now. He almost laughed over that irony. His mother hadn’t been sober enough to tell him from his stepbrothers half the time.

  The old man snorted. “I could give this one to Scottie Fields if you don’t figure your head’s into it. He’d love this one.”

  Scottie Fields. That turkey? “I’m in,” Rob said, his head spinning with thoughts of seeing Riley Turner. He wondered if she ever thought about him, that one crazy night so long ago.

  Despite that night they’d spent together, they hadn’t known each other at all. God... that night. That party had been so wild. He’d just let himself go with it, have fun. They’d been so young, so swept away.

  Had it really been that long? Over fifteen years. An eternity. He was not that boy any longer. He didn’t get the chance or even the penchant to seduce and destroy too many nice girls these days.

  He wondered if Riley Jane Turner was still was a nice girl, the kind who baked cookies for boys she shouldn’t trust. Or the gold digger Otis predicted she was.

  ~ * ~

  Riley Turner’s feet were killing her. She didn’t have bunions or anything, just feet that had been forced into ill-fitting shoes for too much of her lifetime. This pair had felt pretty good the day she’d bought them. Considering her love of sexy shoes, it was just too bad she hadn’t had perfect little tootsies to tuck into them. Or the devil-may-care attitude.

  Riley sighed. She and Mary should have stayed in Mary’s luxurious apartments in the Connors compound and watched Pride and Prejudice for the hundredth time, then finished on a bang with Bridget Jones’s Diary. Mary never tired of Colin Firth’s discreetly smoldering charms. Riley didn’t either. It was just one of many things they had in common. Riley had developed a taste for classy guys in the last few years. Finding a classy guy who wanted a girl like her was the only problem.

  Riley thought again, with a slight stab of conscience, about how much she distrusted most of these rich, snotty people. They seemed to be able to read through her disguise right down to her dirt-poor soul, like they had x-ray eyes or something.

  She really had to keep her chin up. Maybe sh
e didn’t belong here socially, but these were Mary’s friends and family and as long as she wanted this job as Mary’s companion, secretary and caregiver she’d have to learn to go with the flow.

  Mary Connors, for all her money, could have been an insufferable wretch. But even after a stroke last year and the death of her only son in a terrible car accident in Europe, she was a trooper, delightful in an eccentric way. Not always nice, but never a drag. Riley allowed Mary her whims; she was the employer. Mary told it like it was and something in Riley’s makeup responded to Mary’s lack of artifice.

  Speaking of openness, Riley’s stomach gave a hollow little pang as she thought about the lies she had told Mary. As far as Mary knew, Jane Turner was raised in a middle class suburban home, traveled in Europe and Australia, then went back to school to get her degree in occupational therapy. Everything but the degree, attained recently, was a huge stretch of the imagination.

  Riley doubted that the sharp-tongued, lace curtain, Irish-born Mary O’Hara Connors would have cared a lick about the truth, but it had seemed too much of a risk. Things were too good now. When things got good, Riley, out of habit, got worried that everything was going to come crashing down about her ears.

  Riley glanced around the glittering ballroom, watching the beautifully garbed people laugh and schmooze and sip champagne. The gala was for the benefit of Promise House, a shelter for displaced teens. Mary was a supporter of many such charities. Riley suspected that her grandson, Todd, was into the charity gala scene for the chicks. Her granddaughter, the giddy and insensitive Belinda, would be here to make contact with the opposite sex as well. At the moment, Mary was looking to find a wealthy, pedigreed husband for her only granddaughter.