The Russian's Tenacious Lover

by Nic Saint

  And then there was the necklace.

  Not merely the monetary value had been significant, but even more so the emotional one. Lydia had come to identify the pearls with her family’s heritage, reminding her of her childhood, when the Moorhouses had been the dominating force in the county, the most prestigious family, a force to be reckoned with in postwar Britain. Now all that was gone, as were most of her relatives, and when the pearls were stolen, the blow had been too much for a woman who was already in a fragile state of mind.

  She’d never recovered.

  Though the doctors doubted whether she would ever be herself again, Glynis thought the return of the necklace might offer a glimmer of hope to the woman she loved more than anyone else in the world.

  She hated Thomas Spencer and hated him with all the power of her being—hated him as much as she loved her mother, and if she could have pulled the trigger and undo the damage that callous man had wrought on her family, she would have done so in a heartbeat, her life and career be damned.

  Reason had returned to its throne, however, when she realized he was more useful to her alive. He would get those pearls back if it was the last thing he did. Then, perhaps, she would show mercy and simply hand him over to her superiors. If not, perhaps she might put the hand to the executioner’s weapon after all, and deal with the man with a swiftness justice couldn’t provide in this day and age of high-powered lawyers and a broken system that allowed the rich and famous to walk away from their crimes with impunity.

  “Let’s go,” she told the man, and when he eyed her suspiciously, she took him by the shoulder and forced him to his feet. “I said, Let’s go,” she hissed, and gave him a push in the direction of the door.

  “Where are you going to put him?” Dad wanted to know.

  “I thought the dungeon would be appropriate. I’m sure we still have some old chains and shackles down there, and more than a few rats to keep him company.”

  Thomas visibly shivered at the mention of the furry little rodents she’d envisioned as his prison pals.

  “Don’t be harsh,” he suggested. “I’m still a human being. Doesn’t the human rights treaty apply to the likes of me?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she bit and gave him a shove that almost sent him sprawling to the floor.

  He suddenly turned on her, a flash of anger in his eyes she hadn’t seen there before. Taken aback, she realized there was more to this man than the casual callousness she’d come to despise. Then, before she had the chance to respond, his eyes had softened, the mask of suavity firmly back in place.

  She brusquely took him by the arm and led him to the hallway.

  “Where are you taking me?” he inquired. He directed a worried frown at her. “Not… the dungeon?”

  “I would love to,” she announced gaily, “but unfortunately Dad is of the opinion we should treat our guests nicely, even rats like you. So I’m taking you to your room, where you will stay until the pearls are safely back in Mama’s hands.”

  “I really don’t see what all the fuss is about,” he grumbled. “Just a few measly pearls. Doesn’t your mother have other, more precious possessions?”

  “No, she hasn’t,” Glynis snapped, the anger bubbling up inside her once again. “Those pearls were a heirloom, and all that was left of a great fortune and heritage.” She escorted him up the stairs, keeping a close eye on him in case he tried anything foolish. “Not that you would understand the concept of possession. A thief values nothing, has an absolute disregard for the people he robs.”

  “In my defense,” he stated as he slowly mounted the stairs, “I’ve only ever stolen from people who could easily afford doing with a few baubles less.”

  “That’s not true!” she spat. “All Mom had were those pearls, and when you took them, she had nothing left.”

  He looked over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow, then darted a pointed look at the opulent hallway, decorated with expensive artwork, the marble stairs he trod on lined with a burgundy jacquard carpet runner. “I beg to differ.”

  She felt her face flush, anger rising to her cheeks. “Everything you see here was paid for with money that was honestly earned. My father put in long hours to provide a decent life for his family and I won’t apologize for his success. He’s worked very hard to achieve it.”

  “So did I.”

  They’d arrived on the top step, and when he looked down at her, she suddenly felt in a position of disadvantage. Not only was he towering over her, but the sly smile playing about his lips told her he was laughing at her, mocking her and the values she stood for. The man respected nothing—had not an ounce of respect for anything. To him, she was probably a curiosity, a woman with integrity and values.

  She brushed past him, furious. “You couldn’t possibly understand,” she sneered. “For a man without honor—without values—it’s impossible to appreciate people who do possess those rare traits.”

  In a sudden, fluid motion, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, holding it in a surprisingly strong grip.

  “I do have values, my dear,” he bit with startling ferocity.

  She frowned, trying to jerk herself free from his grasp. She only managed to be pulled closer to the infernal man, his dark eyes boring into hers as he was studying her face.

  “I have very strong convictions about a lot of things, including women,” he muttered, then suddenly pressed his lips to hers, and was stealing a kiss, his mouth crashing down on hers with a passion she hadn’t thought him capable of.

  For a moment, she was stunned, and didn’t move, the warmth and softness of his lips eliciting a surprised moan. His body was hard and firm as she was drawn against him, his arms circling her, pinning her to him. For a brief moment, time was suspended, and her soft curves yielded against his hardness. Then she pushed back hard, pressing her hands against his chest.

  Disgusted, she stared daggers at him, and when his lips curled up into a smile of triumph, she could have thrown him down the stairs, simply for his nerve.

  “How dare you!” she spat, then slapped him across the face.

  He didn’t budge, but merely touched his fingers to his lips, as if savoring the memory of the stolen kiss. “Very nice,” he murmured. “Very nice indeed.” Then his smile widened, and he added, “We should do this again sometime, Glynis.”

  “Never!” she cried.

  He merely grinned, and stared at her like a cat at a mouse, with that mocking expression firmly in place.

  She shivered, and suddenly wondered if engaging Thomas Spencer’s services had been such a good idea after all. The man had rattled her, and no man had ever accomplished that particular feat before.

  CHAPTER 11

  It wasn’t too much to say that the confrontation with Glynis had rattled Thomas. The way she’d felt in his arms had been intoxicating. Especially since she seemed to hate him so much. Yet when he kissed her, she’d responded with a warmth that surprised him. He’d merely wanted to get some of his own back, after the taunts and the threats, and the only way he figured he could do that was by wiping that furious expression from her face with a kiss.

  And then something inexplicable had happened. For a split second, it was obvious that she wanted to be kissed as much as he wanted to kiss, and it had shifted something inside him, had made him a little weary for the experience to occur again. At the same time, he could think of nothing but her warm, supple body pressed up against him, his lips on hers, and the warmth of her mouth ready for the plunder.

  He really didn’t want to go there, his main objective still the need to escape from the Scotland Yard detective’s clutches. Though on second thoughts, perhaps he wanted to be in her clutches as much as she apparently yearned to be in his?

  Such a strange thing. Jewel thief makes love to a cop. That would surely be the headline if some hack journalist were present to report on the strange occurrence. But however odd the circumstances, he felt a strong urge to repeat the experience—and could think of nothing else as she
finally escorted him into his room, then slammed the door shut behind him and turned the key in the lock, effectively rendering him a prisoner in her home.

  He studied his new surroundings and was happy that at least no chains, shackles or rats were present. The room was quite nice, in fact, the wallpaper of a faint flowery satiny kind, the furniture a classic white, and the bed… He tested the mattress and found it to his satisfaction. At least he would be able to rest comfortably here.

  Then, as he stretched his weary limbs on the bed, his mind returned to Glynis Fox, and he suddenly wished she were here, stretched out beside him, naked and longing for a continuation of their tangle on the top of the stairs.

  It had been merely an appetizer, he decided, suddenly adamant it wouldn’t be the last kiss they shared. Perhaps, he thought, if he did as she asked, and retrieved those infernal pearls of hers, she would be more susceptible to his not inconsiderable charm.

  To pursue the Scotland Yard agent would mean war, but he didn’t mind. He liked a bit of a tussle with a member of the opposite sex. All clean, healthy fun.

  With a quick change of heart he decided he would cooperate. Where before he’d been keen on escaping the beautiful Glynis Fox’s clutches, he would stick around to see what could be accomplished in the way of romantic interludes with the delectable baronet’s daughter.

  He already knew that those blue eyes could flash with anger and indignation, but could they also flash with passion?

  He was surprised when the door suddenly swung open, and the lady in question appeared before him, directing that nasty stare at him once again.

  “Could you please leave me in peace, darling,” he murmured. “And close the door. I would be alone.”

  In three steps, she’d crossed to the bed and was upon him. Grabbing him by the arm she’d pulled him to his feet with surprising strength, and was propelling him out the door and into the hallway.

  “Christ, not again,” he lamented, getting sick and tired of being shoved this way and that by this infernal female. “Can’t you leave well enough alone?”

  She’d taken him by the hand and was directing him to yet another door, then opened it quietly and stepped inside, forcing him to follow along.

  “What now?” he grunted, rolling his eyes. “Have you changed your mind? Are you going to pistol-whip me into acquiescence this time? A bit of torture?”

  In a flash, she turned on him, eyes shooting fire, and pressed her finger to his lips. “Shut up!” she hissed, then stepped deeper into the room.

  Following her, he couldn't deny experiencing a twinge of intrigue at the decor. This room looked more like a hospital room than a bedroom. When he saw the small figure of an elderly woman buried in white bedding, attached to a machine with tubes and plastic wires, he quickly sobered.

  This, he assumed, was the real lady of the house. Lady Fox. The woman whom he’d relieved of her precious pearls. As he reluctantly approached the bed, dragged into the room by an insistent Glynis, he frowned at the sickly figure, the woman’s skin the color of parchment, the eyes sunken deeply into her skull, the wispy white hair like clouds of chiffon framing a gauntly skeletal face. The woman looked positively emaciated and on the verge of tumbling into the tomb, he decided, and now remembered the same woman as he’d seen her last.

  At the ball he’d been invited to as a guest of Rostislav Mamykin himself.

  She’d been the life and soul of the party back then, a slender, beautiful woman of indefinable age, the epitome of health, well-being, and ageless class.

  With a pang of concern, he noted the difference between the woman he’d briefly made the acquaintance of, and the sickly person in the bed before him. As he noted Glynis’ gaze of concern, he realized with a rising sense of unease that he’d had a hand in this. Though still not entirely convinced, it dawned on him that he might be responsible for the fate that had befallen the beautiful Lady Lydia Fox.

  He plopped down on one of the visitor’s chairs, his eyes riveted not so much on the mother, but more on Glynis.

  Her lovely face, the wisps of blond gently dancing around it, was bent over Lydia, and the look of deep sorrow in her eyes was very real.

  And very touching, he decided.

  He might be an insensitive cad, quite self-absorbed and indifferent to the fate of others, but even he had to admit that the scene unfolding before his eyes was touching to a degree.

  He sat, effectively stunned, staring at mother and daughter for five long minutes before he found that in that short space of time, he’d not only accepted responsibility, but had started to question if relieving the woman of her pearls had been such a good idea after all.

  When he compared Lydia Moorhouse to the woman for whom he’d stolen them in the first place, Laila Mamykin, Rostislav’s umpteenth wife, a spoiled and rather huffy female he didn’t much care for, he decided in a sudden moment of clarity that, even though the money had been good, he’d perhaps made a terrible mistake.

  He now remembered that seeing Lady Fox, and more specifically the pearl necklace adorning her neck, he hadn’t given much thought to the consequences of his actions, figuring she had plenty more jewels where those came from. He’d never known the importance the pearls held for the woman, nor could he have. For him, jewels were merely pockets of money, the emotional value some people attached to them a mere hindrance to his work. A distraction. He was cold and calculating that way, and it was only now, for the first time in a long career, that it dawned on him that perhaps gems represented something more to their owners than mere money.

  Glynis kissed her mother’s brow, the woman hardly stirring, and he frowned to himself. If he really was going to get those pearls back, he would have his work cut out for him. He hadn’t lied before. For him—especially for him—the mission was an impossibility. But then he gazed upon Glynis’ face, at the expression of sadness reflected therein as she caressed the old lady’s cheek.

  No matter, he thought ruefully. It had to be done. He had to rectify this mistake he’d made, and try to salvage something from the wreck he’d inadvertently caused.

  With bemused concern, he saw that perhaps for the first time in his life, he was developing a conscience.

  How quaint.

  And how unfortunate.

  CHAPTER 12

  Glynis entered the parlor and sank into one of the upholstered chairs. Spending time with Mummy could be emotionally draining. Daily care had been left to a nurse, but she still handled a lot of the details personally. At first, her father had done most of the work, but the emotional stress had been too much for him. Watching him bend under the strain, she’d taken over, deciding that she didn’t want to lose both parents.

  Dad had done a great job, but now he needed to think of himself. If he were to work himself into a decline, there would be no one left in this big rambling place. As she stared up at the high ceiling, the friezes with gilded molding a reminder of days long gone when the Foxes had occasionally entertained, friends and neighbors popping in for afternoon tea or dinner, she couldn’t help but feel those happy days would never return.

  Not for the first time, she considered selling the manor. It would certainly stop the constant drain on the family purse, and would give them a respite from having to cough up the money for maintenance and upkeep of the house and the spreading grounds, not to mention the staff it took to keep a place like this.

  But father had always refused to sell, even if it did mean he had to work like a beaver to pay all the bills, and so did she.

  At least it kept the family together and focused on the task at hand: retrieving her mother’s pearls. She thought back to the man upstairs, and the fleeting expression of regret she’d briefly caught on his handsome face at the sight of the ailing patient he’d put there.

  Could it be that the man had a conscience after all? She’d hoped that seeing her mother would appeal to his humanity, would perhaps induce him to finally cooperate. She knew better than anyone that it would be hard going to acco
mplish anything if he refused to work with her on this. The stick only functioned to some extent, the carrot providing much more success in the long run. But the real kicker was that actual motivation had to come from within.

  Had it worked? Had he realized that his actions didn’t exist in a vacuum? That his thieving affected real people in a really devastating way?

  She doubted it. In her work at the Yard, she’d never come across a crook who genuinely showed regret. Crocodile tears, sure, and plenty of heated promises and expressions of contrition. But a genuine change of heart? Never.

  If only The Shadow would use one ounce of his skills to repair some of the damage he’d wreaked throughout his long and illustrious career, it would greatly improve their chances of securing the happy ending.

  Then she remembered his lips on hers, and the weak sensation in her stomach at his touch. The man might be a thief and a rake, but he had a surprisingly potent touch, one that whispered promises of a passionate nature lurking beneath that infuriatingly conceited front.

  She shook her head, deciding not to go there. Theirs was a business relationship, and anything beyond that would only serve to distract her from the task at hand. No matter how hard Thomas tried, she wouldn’t be distracted from her life’s mission: returning her mother’s jewels and nursing the woman back to health.

  It was a long shot, she knew, but one she was desperate to take.

  Then she heard a noise upstairs. A thump on the floor. She frowned and was out of her chair in a flash. Racing along the hall, then taking the stairs two at a time, she was upstairs and hurtling to the room she’d locked him up in. Fumbling in her pocket for the key, she pressed it into the lock and swung the door wide, half expecting to find Thomas dangling from the window in an attempt to escape.

  Instead, she found him engaged in pleasant conversation with a pretty young blonde. Not only did the girl look vaguely familiar, but her obvious state of undress spoke volumes of what was going on here. Her blouse was open to her navel, her milky white boobs dangling precariously from a lacy black bra.