Tess Gerritsen: Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

“It’s too soon, too fast,” she panted.

“It’s the way it was meant to be.”

“I’m not ready-”

“I’ll make you ready.” Without warning he grasped her breast and began to knead it vigorously like a lump of bread dough.

Clea sprang to her feet and moved away. It was either that or slug him in the mouth. At the moment she was all in favor of the latter. In a shaky voice she said, “Please, Guy. Maybe later. When we know each other better. When I feel I know you. As a person, I mean.”

“A person?” He shook his head in frustration. “What, exactly, do you need to know?”

“Just the small things that tell me about you. For instance…” She turned and gestured to the paintings. “I know you collect art. But all I know is what I see on these walls. I have no idea what moves you, what appeals to you. Whether you collect other things. Besides paintings, I mean.” She gave him a questioning look.

He shrugged. “I collect antique weapons.”

“There now, you see?” Smiling, she came toward him. “I find that fascinating! It tells me you have a masculine streak of adventure.”

“It does?” He looked pleased. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

“What sort of weapons?”

“Antique swords. Pistols. A few daggers.”

Her heart gave an extra thump at that last word. Daggers. She moved closer to him. “Ancient weaponry,” she murmured, “is wonderfully erotic, I think.”

“You do?”

“Yes, it-it conjures up knights in armor, ladies in castle towers.” She clasped her hands and gave a visible shiver of excitement. “It gives me goose bumps just to think of it.”

“I had no idea it had that effect on women,” he said in wonder. With sudden enthusiasm he rose from the couch. “Come with me, my lady,” he said, taking her hand. “And I’ll show you a collection that’ll send shivers down your spine. I’ve just picked up a new treasure-something I purchased on the sly from a very private source.”

“You mean the black market?”

“Even more private than that.”

She let him guide her into the hallway and up the stairs. So he keeps it on the second floor, she thought. Probably the bedroom. To think she had gotten so close to it that night.

Somewhere, a phone was ringing. Guy ignored it.

They reached the top of the stairs. He turned right, toward the east wing-the bedroom-and suddenly halted.

“Master Delancey?” called a voice. “You’ve a telephone call.”

Guy glanced back down the stairs at the gray-haired butler who stood on the lower landing. “Take a message,” he snapped.

“But it-it’s-”

“Yes?”

The butler cleared his throat. “It’s Lady Cairncross.”

Guy winced. “What does she want?”

“She wishes to see you immediately.”

“You mean now? ”

Guy hurried down the stairs to take the receiver. From the upper landing Clea listened to the conversation below.

“Not a good time, Veronica,” Guy said. “Couldn’t you…look, I have other things to do right now. You’re being unreasonable. No. Veronica, you mustn’t! We’ll talk about this some other-Hello? Hello?” He frowned at the receiver in dismay, then dropped it back in the cradle.

“Sir?” inquired the butler. “Might I be of service?”

Guy glanced up, suddenly aware of his predicament. “Yes! Yes, you’ll have to see that Miss Lamb’s brought home.”

“Home?”

“Take her to a hotel! In the village.”

“You mean-now?”

“Yes, bring the car ’round. Go!”

Guy scampered up the steps, snatched Clea by the arm and began to hustle her down to the front door. “Dreadfully sorry, darling, but something’s come up. Business, you understand.”

Clea planted her heels stubbornly into the carpet. “Business?”

“Yes, an emergency-client of mine-”

“Client? But I don’t even know what you do for a living!”

“My chauffeur will find you a hotel room. I’ll pick you up at five tomorrow, how about it? We’ll make it an evening.”

He gave her a quick kiss, then Clea was practically pushed out the front door. The car was already waiting, the chauffeur standing beside the open door. Clea had no choice but to climb in.

“I’ll call you tomorrow!” yelled Guy, and waved.

As the chauffeur drove her out through the gates, Clea clutched the leather armrest in frustration. I was so damn close, too, she thought. He’d been about to show her the dagger. She could have had her hands on it, were it not for the phone call from that woman.

Just who the hell was Veronica?

Veronica Cairncross turned from the telephone and looked inquiringly at Jordan. “Well? Do you think that call did the trick?”

“If it didn’t,” he said, “then your visit will.”

“Oh, must I really go see him? I told you, I want nothing to do with the man.”

“It’s one sure way to flush that woman out of the house before she does any damage.”

“There must be some other way to stop her! We could call the police-”

“And have it all come out? My late-night foray into Guy’s house? Those stolen letters?” He paused. “Your affair with Delancey?”

Veronica gave a vigorous shake of her head. “We certainly can’t tell them that. ”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Resignedly, Veronica picked up her purse and started for the door. “Oh, all right. I got you into this. I suppose I owe you the favor.”

“Plus, it’s your civic duty,” observed Jordan. “The woman’s a thief. No matter what bitter feelings you have for Guy, you can’t let him be robbed blind.”

“Guy?” Veronica laughed. “I don’t give a damn what happens to him. It’s your lady burglar I’m thinking of. If she gets caught and talks to the police…”

“Then my reputation is mud,” admitted Jordan.

Veronica nodded. “And so, I’m afraid, is mine.”

Clea kicked off her high heels, tossed her purse in a chair and flung herself with a groan across the hotel bed. What a ghastly day. She hated polo, she despised Guy Delancey and she detested this red hair. All she wanted to do was go to sleep, to forget the Eye of Kashmir, to forget everything. But whenever she closed her eyes, whenever she tried to sleep, the old nightmares would return, the sights and sounds of terror so vivid she thought she was reliving it.

She fought the memories, tried to push them aside with more pleasant images. She thought of the summer of ’72, when she was eight and Tony was ten, and they’d posed together for that photo that later graced Uncle Walter’s mantelpiece. They’d been dressed in identical tans and bib overalls, and Tony had draped his skinny arm over her scrawny shoulder. They’d grinned at the camera like a pair of shysters in training, which they were. They had the world’s best teacher, too: Uncle Walter, con man extraordinaire, damn his larcenous heart of gold. How was the old fellow faring in prison these days? she wondered. Uncle Walter would be up for parole soon. Maybe-just maybe-prison had changed him, the way it had changed Tony.

The way it had changed her.

Maybe Uncle Walter would walk out of those prison gates and into a straight life, sans con games and grifters.

Maybe pigs could fly.

She jerked as the phone rang. At once she reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Diana, darling! It’s me!”

She rolled her eyes. “Hello, Guy.”

“Dreadfully sorry about what happened this afternoon. Forgive me?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“My chauffeur said you’re planning to stay in the village for a few days. Perhaps you’ll give me a chance to make it up to you? Tomorrow night, say? Supper and a musicale at an old friend’s house. And the rest of the evening at mine.”