by Kylie Brant
"I have money."
Her bald statement could have been plucked from his thoughts. Rubbing his thigh with one hand, he cocked a brow at her. "I'm not surprised."
"I mean I can pay you. A reasonable price, at least." Apparently having reached a decision, she crossed toward him, her face stamped with determination. "All you have to do is release my grandmother. And turn over this file you claim to have."
He waited until she stood next to him before saying, "No." Taking her hand, he pulled her down next to him. He'd have to be dead from the neck down not to appreciate the way her dark eyes flashed. He was tired, not dead. "There's only one way for you to get your grandmother released." "And that is?"
"To do exactly as I tell you." He could have been more persuasive, he could have been smoother. But where charm could be misconstrued as weakness, he knew she'd understand control. She was too used to wielding it herself to mistake it. And the sooner she learned that she was no longer calling the shots, the sooner the operation could commence.
She tugged at her hand. He didn't release it. "Tell me what you want."
It was, he knew, a concession of sorts. The first step toward admitting her options had narrowed dramatically. "I need something that someone else has."
"And you want me to steal it for you," she said flatly.
He inclined his head. "You have to admit that you're uniquely qualified. This job will be challenging, and secrecy is imperative. There are maybe ten people in the world capable of pulling it off. Three of them are in prison, le petit voleur is one of the five top remaining candidates."
If his assessment of her ranking annoyed her, she didn't let it show. "If any of the five would have done as well, why go to the trouble of tracking my identity?"
"Because my target is Hans Oppenheimer." Her face remained expressionless, her gaze steady on his. "Again … why me?"
He felt a flicker of admiration. She was a cool one, he'd give her that. "How do you think I discovered your identity, Juliette? It was Oppenheimer I was interested in all along. He's suspected of insurance fraud, did you know that?" Sam thought he saw a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, there and gone so quickly he couldn't be sure he'd seen it at all. "He's sustained so many losses over the last several years that I'm told his insurance premiums are astronomical. He had to buy an insurance company himself because no one else would underwrite him."
"Life can be tragic for the rich."
"Can't it, though? Especially when you've been targeting him almost exclusively for the last five years. That's what led me to you. Law enforcement focuses on the individual thefts, or a pattern of them. That line of inquiry gets murky quickly, especially since they can't be sure which jobs to credit le petit voleur with, and which are the work of others. But my focus was Oppenheimer. He's a man who collects enemies. If he wasn't running an insurance scam, and was suffering real losses, that meant someone had singled him out. I followed that possibility and it led me to you."
She succeeded in pulling her hand away from him and with a studied movement shifted away, curling her feet under her. "Did he send you after me?"
Now it was his turn to be offended. "No, although I understand he's given several investigators that particular assignment. He seems to believe that a ring of thieves is responsible, hired by one of his rivals to deplete his resources."
She gave a little smile. "He sounds like a fool."
"Don't make the mistake of underestimating him.
The price he has on your head is one million American dollars."
Cocking her head, she seemed to consider his words. "So he raised the reward. It's still rather low, given the value of everything he's lost, but he always was a man to want something for nothing."
There was a tinge of bitterness in her tone. He wondered what Oppenheimer had done to cause it. Sam knew exactly just what the man was capable of. "You sound like you know him well."
The words, quietly spoken, had her expression turning cautious. "You're not the only one who does research. So you're not representing Oppenheimer and your methods are too unorthodox for me to believe that you work for an insurance agency…" Her words trailed off as she raised her brows questioningly. When Sam didn't respond, she asked, "Exactly who are you working for?"
There was that flash of admiration again. He really was going to have to curb it, given the circumstances. But her instincts were, once again, right on the mark. "What makes you think I'm working for anyone? Maybe Oppenheimer has something of mine that I want back."
She was shaking her head before he even finished the words. "You've expended too much time, effort and manpower for that to be true. That translates into money. Lots of it. You may be independently wealthy, but most people with a grudge wouldn't go to these lengths to strike at their enemy."
"The details don't matter, my goal does. If that requires unorthodox methods, unorthodox allies…" He shrugged. "It's the end result I'm interested in." That much, at least was true. With the renewed interest in antiterrorist activities, executive orders had changed to allow for more latitude. An agent was no longer prohibited from recruiting criminals to further the country's goals.
Which only meant that now he could do so openly.
The discreet door buzzer sounded. "Must be room service. Check for sure before you let them in." If he tried to get up again, he was afraid his damn leg would give out on him completely. And he knew enough not to expose that kind of weakness to the woman beside him.
Woodenly, Juliette obeyed. She crossed to the door and looked out the peephole, saw the white-jacketed waiter in the hallway. She got some bills from her purse, opened the door and exchanged the tip for the food-laden tray.
"Put it here." He patted the cushion beside him, and she did as he bid. He studied the label on the Scotch with satisfaction. The French knew their liquor. Handing the bottle to Juliette, he asked this time, politely, he thought, "Can you pour me three fingers over ice?"
The civil phrasing of the request was obviously lost on her. She fairly snatched the bottle from his hand as she turned and marched to the galley kitchen. When she returned, he already had a plate balanced on his lap. He took the glass she thrust toward him and indicated the other plate. "You should eat something."
"I don't think so. There's something about blackmail that affects my appetite."
He considered her words as he tipped the glass to his lips. That first scalding slide of Scotch burned a path down his throat and pooled warmly in his belly.
The second dimmed the throbbing in his thigh, just a fraction. "Blackmail? That's an ugly word for a mutually beneficial business arrangement."
She gave a sharp laugh. "Is that what it's called these days? You kidnap my grandmother—yes," she stabbed a finger toward him when he opened his mouth to protest. "You can't pretty it up. You threaten her well-being in exchange for my cooperation. Not to mention the fact that you still have something that belongs to me."
That last statement had him choking on his first forkful of eggs. "If you're talking about the necklace, need I remind you that you stole it?"
"That's right, / stole it. I did the research, paid the expenses, figured the risks. Do you have any idea of the hours of practice I put in on that job?"
Color had risen in her cheeks. Sam watched her as he bit into a piece of bacon. Chauvinistically, he decided she was a woman who looked good with a storm in her eyes. He was intelligent enough not to tell her so. "I could see that. As a matter of fact, I've never watched anything like it." There had been something sensuous about the graceful contortions she'd undergone to dodge the laser beams. Just the memory was enough to heat his system much the way the Scotch had.
Deliberately, he pushed the mental picture aside. "It's that kind of attention to detail that we'll need on this effort."
She was silent for a moment, contemplating the ivory piece she'd set down on a nearby Chippendale table. Even from this distance he could tell the figure was quite old, a carving of some sort of pagan god. He
wondered if it meant something special to her. It was useless to consider. It had nothing to do with his assignment. But after months of putting this job together, months of piecing together the puzzle that was Juliette Morrow, it was difficult to turn off that level of inquiry. He knew what she was, how she operated. It was natural to question why she chose the life she did.
But it was dangerous to begin caring about the answers.
"Before we go any further, we need to get some terms clear."
His brow raised at her cool tone. After taking another bite of eggs and washing it down with Scotch, he said, "And they are?"
"You threatened to send my grandmother to prison. That's ludicrous. She's an eighty-year-old woman with a heart condition. My cooperation depends upon her immediate release. She'll leave the country if you want. I can't concentrate if I'm worrying about her, as well."
"I'll alleviate that worry in any way I can, but she's going to remain in Paris. Somehow I think her presence nearby will ensure your cooperation, rather than provide a distraction. And as it happens, I believe we can build a strong case that your grandmother has been your accomplice all these years."
If he hadn't been watching her so carefully, he would have missed her reaction to his words. Her mouth trembled for an instant, just one, before she firmed it.
Sam took another sip of Scotch and pushed aside a niggling feeling that felt suspiciously like guilt. He'd done worse things during his years on the job than to play on a woman's love for her grandmother.
And God knew, Juliette had done worse things herself. So he wasn't going to regret the actions he'd taken to ensure her cooperation. Not any of them.
At any rate, she bounced back admirably. With an edge to her voice she demanded, "Then I demand that I be able to see her. Talk to her."
That he could grant her. "I'll take you to her later. What else?"
Juliette's gaze turned speculative. "If I'm successful with this job you have in mind, I want the necklace back."
"Most would think my destroying the file on you would be reward enough."
"Oh, you'll do that, too." Her tone was grim.
"Yes." He looked her squarely in the eye. "I will." She couldn't be certain that he'd do any such thing, and she'd be a fool to trust him. He knew she wasn't a fool. But he hoped during their time together she'd discover that he was a man of his word. He had every intention of doing exactly as he promised.
Sam looked down, half-surprised to find that he'd finished the eggs and both sides of bacon. He leaned forward and found a plate of potatoes and started in on them. Some might have a problem with the messy deals that were required in order to preserve national security. It had always seemed simple enough to him. Life was a series of tradeoffs. In return for the landing of Oppenheimer, a threat of international magnitude, Juliette Morrow would be free to adopt a new identity. To continue her life selecting targets and robbing them of their valuables until she was inevitably caught. Inevitably tried. Inevitably found guilty. The ends justified these particular means.
But it was telling that it wasn't the choices he made that bothered him at the moment. It was the thought of Juliette spending a couple of decades in prison.
"The necklace," she prompted.
"Yes, the necklace." Her words served to jolt him back to reality in a way nothing else could. It was the prize that was important to her. He needed to remember that, rather than wasting any regret over her eventual end. They all made their choices. She'd have to live with hers.
"As it happens, that necklace is insured by Oppenheimer's own insurance company." He spoke in between bites of potatoes. "It suits my purposes to have one of his holdings take a hit this large. And it doesn't much matter to me that he's lost another prized possession. So it's possible that I could be persuaded to part with it. We'll call it a bonus, if I'm satisfied with this job's outcome."
Juliette said nothing in reply. She'd seen the way his eyes had cooled, heard the censure in his words. An explanation was on the tip of her tongue, and stubbornly she swallowed it. She didn't owe this man anything, especially the divulging of long-kept secrets. He'd crashed into her carefully planned life and wreaked havoc on it. Disrupted her schedule and set her time line back by weeks, if not months.
Yes, he could believe what he wanted of her. Draw conclusions based upon the illusion she'd created. As long as she was free at the end to finish what she'd started ten years ago. "Well, then, that's all that's important, isn't it?" Nonchalantly she began stacking the dishes he'd emptied onto the tray.
"Apparently." He handed her the plate he held. "I need a shower. Or better yet, a hot bath."
She stilled in the act of accepting the dish. "I'm sure if you call the front desk, they can find you a room."
"No need. I'm staying with you." He gave her a thin smile. "I trust you exactly as much as you trust me. That's to say, not at all. You and I are going to be joined at the hip for the duration of this assignment. Best get used to it."
She stood frozen, his words swirling around her. Slowly, with a care that didn't escape her, he rose. "But … there's no need. I've already agreed to cooperate." A feeling of desperation rose that owed nothing to their deal. "You can't stay. I don't want you here."
She was talking to his broad back. He was walking in the direction of the bedrooms. "It's not what I want either. But it's the way it has to be."
Setting the plate down on the tray she hurried in his wake and nearly bumped into him as he ducked back out of the first bathroom he'd come to. "This isn't acceptable." She made her voice as implacable as his had been. "You'd better get used to the fact that you aren't going to have everything your way. You can't…"
He turned around so suddenly that this time she did run into him. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he lowered his face to hers. "I am going to have everything my way, Juliette." There was a hint of a drawl in the way he pronounced her name that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. "I'm in charge. Do you understand that? You are going to do exactly what I say, when I say it. And in return you get your life back eventually. You're in no position to bargain, or to make demands. The sooner you learn that the better for both of us."
Their gazes did battle, but if he thought she was going to agree with his outrageous statements, he was doomed to disappointment. He released her and turned, heading down the hallway. When he ducked into her bedroom, she was compelled to follow. "No, not that one…"
"A whirlpool." His tone was practically reverent. By the time she entered the adjoining bathroom behind him he'd already started the jets.
"Absolutely not. You aren't using my bathroom. There have to be some boundaries, Tremaine. And this is … what are you doing?"
He already had his shirt half-unbuttoned. "This is really your fault, you know."
Try as she might, Juliette couldn't tear her eyes away from the wedge of broad chest he was baring. "How do you figure that?"
"Your kick on the roof caught me in a bad spot." His voice was sardonic as he dropped the shirt on the floor. "But I kinda figure you knew that at the time."
Dammit, he wasn't going to make her feel guilty. She forced her gaze off his heavily muscled torso, wide shoulders, impressive biceps. She'd known the night they met on the dance floor that he was favoring one leg. It had been instinct that had driven her to strike at his vulnerability, and she wouldn't apologize for it now. As a matter of fact, given a chance, she'd kick him again.
Her gaze fell to his dark shirt on the floor, with the necklace spilling out of the inner pocket. The temptation to grab it and run, fast and far, was nearly dizzying. She was familiar with the layout of the hotel. It was possible she could outrun him. But it wouldn't change anything. Even if she could get away from Tremaine, get a new identity, start a new life, her grandmother would remain behind.
And there was no way she would abandon the only person in the world who loved her.
The sound of his zipper shattered her thoughts. Her gaze bounced back to him incredulous
ly. He'd already kicked off his shoes and socks and his loosened dark pants were clinging precariously to his narrow hips. "This is a little more togetherness than I have in mind."
"Really? There's plenty of room for two in that tub." There was a devilish look in his eyes. He knew exactly how uncomfortable he was making her. That realization alone forced her to stay her ground, school her expression to polite boredom.
"I know exactly how much room there is in that tub." She manufactured a throaty laugh. "As a matter of fact, I can also tell you how long the hot water holds out. In case you're interested."
"I'm interested in anything you have to say, Juliette." The pants slid down long hard legs. He was left wearing only form-fitting black boxers, the sort that left little—very little—to the imagination. Something told her that after this scene her imagination was going to be very active indeed.
He grabbed the towel bar with one hand and stepped into the tub. Her gaze went to his injured leg and she nearly gasped aloud. She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't the jagged angry-looking scar that traced down his thigh. It started just beneath his hip and was at least eight inches long. Still red, it looked to be fairly recent. And as close as it was to a major artery, it had to have been a life-threatening injury.
Throat dry, she could only stare as he stepped the rest of the way into the tub, hissing out a breath at the temperature, before easing himself down to a sitting position. Then he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the picture of a healthy, blissful male animal.
"You know what would make this perfect?"
Somehow, she managed to swallow. Not trusting her voice, she merely shook her head.
"If you'd refill that glass of Scotch and bring it in here to me." He opened his eyes long enough to aim a coaxing look at her.
Without a word, she turned and went to fetch his glass, using the opportunity to draw a deep breath. She'd always prided herself on her ability to think on her feet. Instinct had driven her for so long, it was the primary sense she relied on. But right now she felt like she were standing on quicksand, with the earth constantly shifting and moving beneath her.