Nancy Warren - Too Hot to Handle

“Not only is it loaded, but I am an excellent shot. Put your hands up, Mr. Pendegraff. Or whatever your real name is.”

“Oh, it’s Pendegraff all right.” His eyes crinkled with sudden humor. “And this is a very interesting situation.”

“It’s not interesting. It’s disgusting. You’re stealing from me.”

“Not you, technically. Look, let me explain.”

She raised the gun so it pointed at his heart. “Don’t move another inch.”

Somebody started banging loudly at the front door of the store.

The noise startled her. She’d never had so much action after hours before. “Open up, police,” a harsh voice yelled.

Pendegraff glanced at the phone in her hand. “You called the cops? I wish you hadn’t.”

“I didn’t. They must have followed you.”

His lazy and most puzzling amusement vanished. “You didn’t call them?”

“No.”

“Then, sweetheart, those are not the cops.”

“You’re a pretty lousy thief, aren’t you? Both I and the police nab you?”

She started for the door that separated her work space from the front of the store, keeping her gun trained on him. “Put the emeralds back in the safe and let’s go talk to the cops.”

“Think,” he said softly. “If you didn’t call them, how would they have tracked me? You don’t have a security alarm I could have tripped.” She could have sworn he sounded petulant. “No security cameras. And I’ve been in here ten minutes. If they’d followed me, they’d have been in long before now.”

“Maybe—” A crash had her turning her head. The cops had broken down her front door without giving her a chance to open it? That was pretty aggressive.

One second, Pendegraff was leaning so lazily against the safe you’d have thought he was napping, and the next second he was behind her, one hand grabbing her hard against him, the other wresting the gun from her grip.

She was no weakling and she fought to keep control of the weapon, jabbing him with her elbow, stamping on his foot, but her sweater socks were useless and her assailant was stronger than he looked.

Crashing sounds continued out front, she was sure she heard breaking glass, and then her own gun was jabbing her in the back. “Scream and I’ll shoot. Let’s get out of here.”

HE HAULED HER OUT THE SAME door she’d come from and dragged her up the stairs to her apartment. “Fire escape. Where is it?”

“I’m not telling you.” She was furious with both of them. With him for the whole escapade and with her for losing control of the situation. Not to mention her gun.

“Trust me, those guys downstairs are a lot meaner than I am. We really don’t want to run into them.”

She heard another crash. Pendegraff ran to her window and peered out.

She flipped open her cell, tried to call 9-1-1 but he grabbed it out of her hand before she could complete the call, tossing the phone onto her bed.

He yanked up the window sash. “Out,” he said, pushing her through the window and onto the fire escape, dropping out beside her. “I swear to God if you make a sound or do anything I don’t like, I’ll shoot you. Now climb down.”

“I’m wearing socks,” she told him in a furious undertone as the crisscrossed wrought-iron bit into the soles of her feet.

“Good. It’ll keep you quiet. Now move!”

He stayed right beside her as she stepped down, surprisingly as quiet in his shoes as she was in her slipper socks.

The fire escape was in good shape, but it was rickety and creaked as they made their way down. Still, no one came to investigate. Thanks a lot, New York’s Finest, she thought bitterly.

They hit the pavement below and she felt a stone bite through her socks.

“Run,” he ordered, grabbing her arm and breaking into a sprint, giving her no choice but to follow.

They ran, but cobblestone streets weren’t designed for a woman in slippers. He didn’t seem to care, hauling her along at a fast pace. She prided herself on being in pretty good shape, but she could barely keep up with his long-legged sprint. If his goal was to keep her too breathless to yell for help, he was doing an excellent job. She prayed she wouldn’t step on broken glass or a nail or something.

“Hey,” a man’s voice yelled.

“Don’t turn around,” Pendegraff warned her. “Move.”

They pounded down toward Canal Street and she saw a black limo glide toward them. She waved the vehicle down, almost sobbing in relief as it stopped.

Pendegraff didn’t flinch, but with a quick glance over his shoulder, he dragged her toward the car, opening the back door and shoving her inside. The limo was sailing away before he’d closed the door. She heard the click of the locks sliding smoothly into place even as she grabbed for the door.

“Nice timing, Healey,” Pendegraff said.

The limo took the corner at a sedate glide, and as it did so she watched through the tinted glass as a thickset guy in a cheap tweed jacket ran into view, gun in hand. When he saw the car, he slipped his gun under the flap of his jacket, then pounded past them.

“A getaway limo?” she panted. “Are you kidding me?”

She banged her head back against the leather headrest, frustration surging through her.

“It’s very convenient. In New York a limo is barely noticeable and the tinted windows provide excellent privacy.”

“Great. You stole the emeralds out of my safe, have your own getaway limo. And what are you planning to do with me?”

The gaze he sent her was speculative. He seemed relaxed and very cool sitting back in the black leather seat. “I haven’t completely decided yet.”

“Well, when you do, could you let me in on the secret?” She ought to be frightened, she knew that, but somehow she couldn’t seem to work up any true fear.

“It’s been a stressful night. Why don’t you join me in a nightcap?” He reached for the bar built into the back, which was conveniently set up, right down to the fresh ice in the ice bucket. Swanky.

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you drop me off at the next corner and I’ll grab a cab home.”

“Scotch all right?”

She rolled her gaze. “Fine.”

“Rocks or straight up?” he asked in that lazy tone that was beginning to set her teeth on edge. As though they were at the yacht club for a social engagement.

“Rocks.”

The ice tinkled into the crystal tumbler. “I promise I will let you go, unharmed, but I can’t do it quite yet.” He passed her a glass. Raised his own in a silent toast. “I promise, you can trust me.”

She snorted. “You robbed me. I don’t normally trust guys who break into my safe and confiscate my jewels. Call me a cynic.”

She sipped her drink. She wasn’t a big scotch drinker but he was right—it had been a crazy night and between the break-in, the police raid and the kidnapping, her nerves were a little jumpy. Naturally it was some ancient whiskey that had no doubt been lovingly distilled by kilted magicians a century or so earlier. The drink was smooth and rich.

He leaned back, and she thought that if she hadn’t caught him red-handed, she’d never have believed the elegant man beside her was a thief. The knife pleats were still sharp in his black trousers, his Italian loafers showed not so much as a smudge of dirt despite racing through the streets of SoHo, his black turtleneck rose and fell with slow, even breath, as the man casually sipped his drink.

“Does Penelope know you’re a thief?”

“Penelope?” His dark eyebrows rose. “I have no secrets from Penelope.”

“Is she a thief, too?”

“She’s more …” He seemed to consider his words carefully, and once again she caught the familiar amusement lurking in his eyes. “Support staff.”