Gail Barrett - Heart of a Thief

Then he dragged her to the ground. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, ignoring the sharp twigs poking his back.

“My hair,” she said, and he saw the problem—her blond hair wouldn’t blend in. But she tugged the hem of her gown from beneath her legs, and he helped drape it over her head.

Then suddenly, a bright light flashed. And the helicopter thundered above them like an airborne train, its roar deafening, its searchlight probing. The earth around him shook, jarring his bones, vibrating his teeth.

He huddled against Sofia, sheltering her as the downdraft spun the dirt loose, dislodging stones and leaves. The branches around them swayed, and he couldn’t breathe, afraid the bushes would part and reveal them. The intense light lingered, skipped past, flared again.

And then, mercifully, it headed away.

“Don’t move yet,” he said into Sofia’s ear.

Still curled against him, her face buried in his chest, she shook her head. She clung to him, trembling wildly, her soft body plastered to his. His own stomach churning, he held her, absorbing her fear, listening as the thump of the rotors receded, replaced by sirens again.

He finally blew out his breath and slumped back. That had been close. Too close. Sofia eased her hold on his jacket and lifted her head.

“Oh, God, Luke. I’m so sorry. That was all my fault. My leg gave way and I slipped and the stones made noise and—”

“Shh.” He put his fingers to her lips. Her eyes were huge in the darkness. Her soft mouth quivered against his hand. Tears streaked her face, forging a trail through the grime to her chin.

She looked exhausted. Dazed. And so beautiful she made his lungs hurt.

He slid his hand up her back to her neck and rested his forehead on hers. Her warm breath hitched and brushed his face. “Luke,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Hold on. Just a little longer. Just until we get somewhere safe.”

He ran his thumb along her jaw and stroked her neck. He pressed his other hand to her back, feeling the heat of her skin, the violent shivers still jerking through her.

A few heartbeats later, she lifted her chin. Her lips were inches from his, whipping his nerves into sudden awareness. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to slide his mouth down that skin, taste the heat of her flesh, lose himself in that hot rush of lust.

But he couldn’t go there. She needed comfort, not sex. She was injured, shocked, rattled by the harrowing night.

He forced his hands to her shoulders and inched back, increasing the distance between them. Her gaze stayed on his, trapping him, reeling him in, while the blood rocked hard in his ears.

“What are we going to do now?” she whispered.

Get away from temptation, first off. He let go of her shoulders, grabbed a branch above him, and rose. “Get out of here before that helicopter comes back. Find a place to rest.” Somewhere they could make plans, get medical help for her leg.

Somewhere the police wouldn’t find them.

A sense of inevitability swept through him. He knew only one place that fit that description—aside from the slums where he’d grown up.

El Aro. The Gypsy enclave in downtown Madrid where his aunt Carmen lived.

Grim now, galled at having to ask his relatives for help but knowing he didn’t have much choice, he shoved his way out of the shrub. “Come on.” He turned back and pulled her out. “We need to find a car.”

“Where’s yours?”

“Back at the palace.” Surrounded by police, no doubt.

Still scanning the area, alert in case the helicopter swung back, he headed toward the parked cars lining the road. Sofia hobbled behind him, not even protesting his intentions, and he wondered if she had grown numb.

He finally spotted an ancient Seat, a car he could quickly hot-wire. He stopped, glanced around to make sure the road was still deserted, and expertly shimmied the lock.

“Get in,” he told her.

While she limped around the battered car, he rummaged under the dashboard. He found the ignition wire, isolated the starter, made a few twists and slid inside. A quick touch of the starter wire fired up the engine. Sofia shut her door, and he eased out the clutch and drove off.

The irony of his actions struck him hard. He’d gone full circle in the past few hours, from being poised on the edge of triumph to reverting to a life of crime.

Breaking the vow he’d kept for fifteen years.

He blew out his breath. Fatigue from the long night rocked through him, and he rubbed the ache at the base of his skull. He hadn’t asked for this trouble. He’d been set up, sucked in—and now he couldn’t escape. He had to find that necklace, clear his name and protect Sofia from Antonio’s killer, whether she was involved in this plot or not.

So while he hadn’t chosen this war, he couldn’t shirk it. He had to fight it with everything he had.

He glanced at Sofia. Her eyes were closed, her breathing rough. Her hair was wrecked, her soft cheeks streaked with grime, her once-elegant gown destroyed. And before he could stop it, something shifted inside him, something long-buried flickered to life.

Maybe it was the weariness, the ordeal of the past hours creeping in, blunting the bitterness he’d harbored for years. Making him remember the good parts—her gentleness, her passion, the sex.

Too dangerous. He yanked his gaze back to the road. This woman had betrayed him. He didn’t dare trust her, no matter how innocent she looked right now. Plus he had police on his tail, a killer stalking his heels. He couldn’t let down his guard.

Because if he wasn’t careful, he’d fall for Sofia again. And that would be the biggest danger of all.

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