ItTakesaThief

by Dee Brice

  “Maybe. If I can translate your crimo-babble.”

  TC gaped. Then, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a protest, she closed her mouth and crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “Let us see if I understood you correctly.” Ian stood and paced to the French doors to her balcony. Shoving his hands into his slacks pockets, he turned to face her, his expression faintly derisive. “Someone wants to kill you because he or she—let us not be sexist about this—thinks you can find Isabella’s Belt.”

  “And the real thief.”

  “So, the attempt on your life was not a falling-out among thieves.”

  So much for the tender man of earlier this morning, TC thought, narrowing her eyes at the insult he had just given her. “I think you’d better leave.” Her voice was as cold as the ice blanketing the sentinel mountains.

  “Why should I?”

  Huffing her impatience, she flung back the covers and, holding onto the bedpost for support, eased to her feet. She refused to give him the pleasure of watching her take a nose-dive into the throw rug. Nor would she let him see how difficult just standing was. “Because I’m going to take a shower. Then, after I dress, I’m going downstairs and ask Esmeralda to have her cook fix me a platter of cholesterol. You know, eggs, bacon, that kind of thing.”

  “A shower, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “How are you going to get there?” He sneered.

  “About like you would, only on two feet.”

  “The lady bites,” he said and laughed. “You can barely stand, Tiffany darling. You are sweating and I bet you feel dizzy.”

  “Shut up, would you? Just…shut up. And women perspire. We don’t sweat.” Weary beyond belief, she sank to the bed and covered her flushed face with her hands. “If I could take a shower, I’d feel human again.”

  Damian heard the fear in her voice and knew she needed more than a shower. She needed to feel safe again, if only for a few hours. “All right. I give up.” He waited until she looked up at him, then started to unbutton his shirt.

  “W-what are you doing?”

  “You do not expect me to ruin a perfectly good silk shirt solely for the sake of your tardy modesty, do you?”

  “N-no. Of course not.”

  Holding his lips firm against a smile, he watched her gaze dart to the floor, then back to him.

  “Too bad we do not have some music. Something suitable for stripping.”

  When she blushed, he covered his laugh with a cough and reached for his zipper.

  “Silk trousers?” she sniped, her gaze flying from floor to window, like a tennis ball batted between two baseline sluggers.

  He slid his shirt off and watched her blush deepen. Her lashes fluttered down, twin flags of surrender.

  “Silk shorts.”

  Her eyes popped open and she swallowed audibly. “I’m not getting into a shower with you naked.”

  “Why not? You will be.”

  “Because every time I get naked with you, we end up…”

  “Making love?”

  “Having sex.”

  “That is supposed to be my line.” He had said far cruder things to the woman in St. Anton and since, but this Tiffany was not that woman. This Tiffany was more vulnerable. And even though it went against his conscience, he would seduce her to get the information he needed.

  “Then why didn’t you say it?”

  That brought him up short. He raked his fingers through his hair and went to sit beside her on the bed. Realizing he was about to give her tremendous power over him, knowing he had to say the words despite the risk, he willed a laconic tone into his voice.

  “I did not say it because it is not true. When I hold you, kiss you, join our bodies, it is more than ‘having sex’, Tiffany darling. You fill me.”

  She laughed. “I think you have that backward. You’re a rogue, Ian Soria.”

  Wounded by the relief in her voice, although it was what he had wanted, Damian managed a lascivious smile, then assumed the posture and voice of his father’s valet. “Does my lady wish to disrobe here or in the bathroom?”

  “The lady does not wish to disrobe at all.”

  “Then the lady does not wish to shower,” he stated flatly.

  From between clenched teeth, she growled, “The lady would kill for a shower and shampoo.”

  “No shampoo. You have stitches. That is why I—why Esmeralda had your hair washed last night, before the doctor got here.”

  She narrowed her eyes and tilted her chin until she looked down her nose at him. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the impertinent button at the end, but he got the message. She was madder than hell.

  “You lying, yellow-bellied snake. You did undress me. You took advantage of me while I was unconscious, you…you—”

  “I told you before, Tiffany, luv, do not say anything you will regret.”

  “The only thing I regret is making love with you. And my name’s TC!”

  Damian shucked his shoes, socks and slacks, then paced to the bed.

  “Get away from me.” She tucked her chin and held up her fists like a boxer. Her eyes fastened resolutely on his face.

  “We can do this easy or hard, Tiffany darling,” he said and saw her eyes flare—with passion, he hoped, but more likely with rage.

  “If you’re not out of here in two seconds, I’ll scream the house down.”

  “Hard it is then.” Ducking under her guard, he hoisted her over his shoulder.

  She shrieked, pummeled his back, then slumped, dead weight. Betting himself she was grinning like a hellhound about to feed, he grunted and staggered into the bathroom.

  Depositing her on the closed toilet seat, he turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. When he turned back, he found her staring at the tile enclosure with both longing and trepidation.

  “We might try a compromise,” he suggested, tucking her hair into a shower cap while she sat motionless. Silent. “Okay, then, I guess we will not.” He reached for her buttons, only to have his hands caught in hers.

  “Wh-what sort of compromise?”

  “I shall stand guard while you bathe.”

  “Stand guard against whom? You’re the only blackguard in here. Unless, of course, you plan to let the sniper in so he can finish the job.”

  Noting her suddenly pale face, Damian said gently, “Do not frighten yourself, Tiffany. I shall even turn my back while you undress.”

  “And you’ll stay out of the shower?”

  “If you promise to shout if you feel faint, yes.”

  “All right.” She stood, wobbling slightly, but waved off his silent offer of support. “Well, turn around.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise. Now turn around.”

  He did, but he watched her reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror. She glanced at him every few seconds until, apparently, the lure of hot water overcame her shyness. Even slowed by her injury, the sight of Tiffany taking off her pajamas was the most erotic image in his world.

  Her left shoulder appeared. Every muscle in his body tightened. Inch by agonizing inch, she eased the cranberry-colored silk off her right shoulder and let it slide down her back. Damian briefly closed his eyes, but opened them in time to see the twin mounds of her delicious derriere wiggle free of their silk cocoon.

  His entire body clenched, he began to hum The Stripper. Tiffany grinned at him over her shoulder, then vanished into a cloak of steam. Acknowledging she had paid him back in spades, laughing in admiration, he called out, “Careful, Tiffany darling. I might consider your behavior a breach of promise.”

  “Warm up a towel for me, will you, Ian, darling? There’s a love.”

  Certain she was up to no good, glad he had made sure there was nothing in the shower she could fashion into a weapon, Damian turned on the towel warmer and rested his hips against the sink. Rubbing his chin, he tried to get inside her head. In spite of everything he knew about her, both from her dossier and personally, he could not
begin to predict her thoughts. Or what she might do next.

  Her hand emerged from behind the glass door.

  “I do not think the towel is warm yet.”

  “It’ll do.”

  “In good conscience, I cannot let you wrap up in a cold towel.”

  Her head appeared, minus the shower cap. Her expression assessing, she drawled, “When do you think it might be warm enough?”

  “Probably by the time you walk from there to here.”

  “In that case I’ll stay in the shower.” She slammed the door. In a few seconds he heard the water running again and a clear, true contralto singing Aupres de Ma Blonde with rollicking enthusiasm. She sang verses he knew she had not learned in any high school French class.

  “I think the towel is warm enough now,” he shouted over the din. To no avail. Sung in idiomatic Spanish, the next song out of her luscious mouth was one about Esperanza not knowing how to cha-cha.

  Abruptly the singing stopped.

  Tired of her games, knowing she was far too stubborn to admit exhaustion, he grabbed a towel and tromped to the shower. Opening the door with a vicious jerk, he found Tiffany huddled in the corner, her eyes wide with terror, her hair matted with blood.

  With a feral growl, Damian threw aside the towel and pulled Tiffany into his arms. Standing under the showerhead, he held her quaking body in a fiercely protective embrace. When her trembling eased, he soothed her with nonsense words and gentle hands that stroked through her hair and cleared away the globs. Globs he realized were not blood at all, but a viscous sludge having the color and coppery stench of blood.

  “Tiffany darling, where did this come from?” he softly asked when she wrapped her arms around him like ivy clinging to a tree.

  “U-up there.” Her head tilted upward, but her eyes remained resolutely closed.

  Damian stared at the tiled ceiling, only now seeing the additional heads. Those seemed to be where the fake blood had come from. Cursing under his breath at his own stupidity, he eased Tiffany out of the enclosure and wrapped her in a warm towel. Drying her with brisk strokes intended to warm her, he tried to ignore her chattering teeth and his body’s response to her nearness.

  Not now, he told himself even as a greedy little voice insisted that making love was what she needed to banish her terror. With a wry grimace, he conceded it was what he needed to banish his fear for her. His body poised for flight or fight, he drew a deep breath to calm himself. He needed to get them out of here, but knew any announcement of that fact would panic her more. He also needed to stay, to investigate how someone had violated the security of the Santana compound.

  Wrapping his arm around Tiffany’s shoulders, he guided her into the bedroom. She did not resist when he seated her at the dressing table and, taking care not to touch her stitches, combed the tangles from her hair.

  “Why don’t you get dressed?” he suggested when she finally opened her eyes. “Then we’ll go downstairs and load up on cholesterol.”

  Her eyes haunted emerald pools, she looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

  “To the bathroom.” With a broad wink that brought twin spots of color to her cheeks, he tweaked her nose. Grateful she had misunderstood his intent, he strode away.

  “You’ll find plastic bags in my makeup case,” she said in a quivery yet determined voice.

  So much for fooling her. He smiled grimly and went to collect whatever evidence might remain on the shiny, obviously new fixtures in the shower ceiling.

  When he returned a few minutes later, Tiffany was slipping her slender feet into low-heeled loafers and smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her black slacks. She glanced at him, then focused on the two empty bags he held loosely in his right hand. In the brief moment before she turned her attention to her hair, gathering it into a loose knot at her nape, he saw her determination to get to the bottom of these attacks.

  “I don’t think we should mention this,” she said. He nodded, then put the plastic bags back in her case. “Not even to Emilio.”

  “I cannot do that, Tiffany,” Damian protested. “This is a serious breach of his security. Emilio not only has the right to know, he must be told so he can correct the problem.”

  “Or do more than terrorize me next time. Next time he might use acid instead of fake blood.”

  “Don’t be so bloody paranoid!”

  “Paranoid, am I? With three attempts on your life, wouldn’t you be a little paranoid?”

  “Three attempts?”

  “Three. The two here and the one in London. Or is your memory so bloody selective you’ve forgotten London?” Seeming to throw caution to the wind, she rounded on him. “Isn’t it strange that in each instance you’ve been nearby? What’s your role in all this, Ian?” She drawled his name as if she knew it was not his real name, then whirled away, only to meet his gaze in the mirror. “Just hanging around to finish me off if the next fall or the next bullet don’t do the job? If the next bloody shower doesn’t scare me to death?”

  He crossed the room in two long strides. Grabbing her arms in a grip he could see hurt her, he turned her to face him, barely resisting the impulse to shake her until her teeth rattled.

  “I am on your side, Tiffany, whether you believe me or not.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Teeth bared, she glared at him.

  “Why? You trusted me enough to make love with me.”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “It shouldn’t have happened. You were supposed to be—” Blushing, embarrassment blazing from her eyes, she pulled from his grasp. Rubbing her arms, she backed away from him.

  “I was supposed to be what? A one-night-stand?”

  “Y-yes!” she snapped, her stutter betraying the lie. Her eyes were as vulnerable as those of the little girl he had seen in the grainy photograph.

  “You trusted me until you got that note.”

  “What note?” Her voice dripped sarcasm, but her chin, now tilted to an imperious angle, quivered.

  “You are a miserable liar, Tiffany Cartierri. The note you threw in the wastepaper basket at Hunter Hall. You knew I would find it and come after you. You wanted me to come after you because you do trust me.”

  “I don’t,” she insisted, but her shoulders slumped and her chin lowered. “I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and glared at her. “What do you suggest? I cannot be on guard every second.”

  “Of course not. Besides, I’m not your responsibility. I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh yeah? How?”

  “By calling for reinforcements. I intend to call Sir James and—”

  “No!” he shouted, grabbing her shoulders, again resisting giving her a hard shake. “I do not trust him.”

  “And I no longer trust Emilio. So where do we go from here?”

  “We could call your father.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Pleased by her implacable attitude—he did not want either man anywhere near her, though he could not explain why—he offered, “I suppose I could call Nick.”

  Wariness shining from her eyes, she said, “Nick who?”

  “Nick Troy. He is…sort of…an agent.”

  “‘Sort of an agent’? Is that anything like being ‘sort of pregnant’?”

  Her voice challenged him, but mischief danced in her eyes. And, he noted with pride in her resilience, color had returned to her face. Maybe he should keep her frightened. If he scared her badly enough, she might do as he told her.

  Straightening the shawl collar on her emerald green sweater, he grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “Sort of.”

  Her sudden smile inverted and she frowned up at him. “Is this a trick?”

  “This?”

  She pulled from his light grasp, paced away and then whirled to face him. “How do I know that the fall in London, the sniper yesterday and the blood today weren’t your doing? How do I know that this ‘sort of agent�
�� friend of yours won’t arrest me for past indiscretions?”

  “Or for that matter, for stealing Isabella’s Belt and murdering two men,” he snapped, immediately regretting that her mistrust of him had loosened his tongue.

  Her face even paler than it had been in the shower, she stuttered, “You do think I murdered those poor people.”

  “Damn it, Tiffany, I am sorry for springing that on you.” He went to her but, sensing she wanted to slug him, he did not touch her.

  “In all the years I was in the business… In all the years I’ve worked for… I never hurt anyone. But I’m sure that’s in my dossier, if you cared to look for it instead of condemning me out of hand.”

  Throwing out concerns for his own safety, Damian crushed her to him. “Listen, Tiffany, I realize things look pretty suspicious from both our perspectives. But who can we trust at this point except each other?”

  Surprising him by not struggling to free herself, Tiffany sagged in his arms and buried her face in his neck. “I don’t trust you. I can’t.”

  “You do trust me. You just do not know it yet. Besides, who else will help you get out of this mess? Sir James? Your father?”

  “I especially don’t trust Charles.”

  “But you do trust Sir James?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Sighing, she slipped from his arms and rubbed her temples. “Until the fiasco in Paris, I’d have trusted Sir James with my life.”

  “What happened to change that, Tiffany love?”

  Her smile bitter, she raised her haunted gaze to his face. “Let’s just say I was more monumentally stupid than you think.”

  Damian knew he should not touch her. Her eyes had lost their luster, reminding him again of that girl in the photograph. Having seen her naked, he knew her bruises had faded, but her face, chest and stomach still looked as if someone had beaten her without mercy. Her damp bangs drooped over her forehead, but he could see the stitches poking through the strands José had lobbed off in order to close the wound. He needed to question her about her stupidity and the Paris fiasco, but she looked so shell-shocked, Damian’s chest hurt.