Tess Gerritsen - 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.”

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