Nights With A Thief

Jack’s hand brushed her arm. “Let me go first. If anything goes wrong, I’ll break your fall.”

Gentlemanly? Or seeing to his own safety first? Either way, she couldn’t protest over the knot in her throat. All she could do was watch as he slipped over the wall, then gracefully disappeared from sight without making a sound...and listen as the lock on the French doors clicked. The reflections on the glass panes shifted as the door slowly pushed outward. A gold-and-silver ball exploded in the sky high above the grounds, and a raspy voice said, “We’re right on time.”

Grasping the rope, driven purely by adrenaline, she swung her entire body over the wall to dangle in the air, nothing more than a thin line and her own ten fingers stopping her from splatting to the ground. Instantly she closed her eyes, unable to look at the sky, the tops of trees, the people made so small by distance they didn’t look real.

As she clung to the rope, the swaying caused by the inelegant start of her descent stopped. Time to start moving, to press her knees to the line, to balance her weight on her arms, to slide hand over hand down to the ground... Nothing happened.

Time, she told herself more forcefully. She couldn’t freeze now. She was strong, lifting weights just for this purpose, but she couldn’t hold herself forever. Even the thought sent fine tremors through her hands, up her arms and across her shoulders to meet in the middle.

Another starburst appeared in the sky with a muffled boom, so bright it would take only one guest glancing about to spot her dangling there. Sadly, there was no contingency for that in plans A, B, C or D.

Panic danced up her back, but before it got close enough to make the short leap into her brain, warm fingers closed around her ankle. Jack tugged on it, not enough to startle her into letting go, too much to ignore. Had he already reached the ground and come back up for her, or had he been waiting all this time?

Either way, the touch of his hand made her feel safer, braver. Focusing on that bravery, she pried up her left fingers one at a time, let her body slide, then grasped the rope again and repeated the action with her right hand. Let go, slide, grab tight, over and over, and the entire time Jack Sinclair’s fingers remained around her ankle.

At last, even with her eyes closed, she knew she was only feet above the ground. She could tell it from the overwhelming mix of perfumes that assaulted the air, from the voices, the clinking of glasses, the aura created by too many people jammed into too small a space.

“You can open your eyes.”

She didn’t want to, not until her feet were on the ground—hell, not until her butt was on the ground. But she forced them open and saw that they’d wound up exactly where she’d planned: in the corner where the east wing jutted out from the main building, in the shadows created by a feathery tree growing in a giant pot. Before she could undo her grip on the rope, Jack laid his hands at her waist and lifted her away.

He set her on her feet in the corner, stone at her back, earth under her feet, and stood close, his gaze crinkled as he studied her. His eyes were the rich, startling blue that she kept in her stock of tinted contact lenses, except his were natural. She studied them, looking for something—suspicion, awareness, too many questions or too many answers. She wondered why he had helped her, if he would now turn her over to Candalaria or figure she owed him a favor for not jamming her up. She wondered if she could escape him.

A very small part of her wondered if she had to escape him right this very moment.

Considering that last thought, she paid little attention to his movements—stripping off his gloves, stuffing them into his pockets, straightening his jacket, smoothing a wrinkle from her dress.

“Stay here.” He ducked behind the tree before disappearing around the corner of the building.

This would be the perfect time for her to run, and she even took a few stumbling steps before leaning against the wall again. She’d known better than to wear four-inch heels on a job, especially ones that could fall off so easily, but she’d been swayed by the fact that they made her legs look damn good. But slipping out of the party like this would raise the question of how she’d managed to lose a shoe, and the last thing she wanted was questions.

Especially given that, before long, both the grappling hook’s presence and the Shepherdess’s disappearance would be discovered.

With the faintest of rustles, Jack returned, her shoe seeming delicate and small in his hand. Prince Charming, she thought again, at exactly the instant he whispered, “Your slipper, Cinderella.”

“Thank you.” She took the shoe, wiggled her foot into it, straightened, and...

* * *

...leaned to the side and puked.

Jack took a hasty step back even as his hand went automatically to the handkerchief in his pocket. Bella Donna, the most famous thief in his rather elite circle, was throwing up after a relatively simple job. It didn’t fit the cool, mysterious persona.

She really was beautiful, even as she dabbed her mouth with the handkerchief. The skin exposed by her dress was a lovely bronze; her body was long, lean and muscular; her breasts were nicely rounded; and her hair was thick with curls. Her eyes were brown—at least for tonight—and her facial structure was classical: smooth forehead, high cheekbones, the kind of nose plastic surgeons offered their less fortunate patients, the kind of mouth made for kissing.

That face momentarily wore a chagrined look.

“You have a place to put those gloves? Because it’s time for us to say our goodbyes.”

She pulled off the climbing gloves, tugged her dress high enough that a slit exposed a length of long thigh and some kind of black rig vaguely reminiscent of a thigh holster, where she stuffed the gloves. He regretted watching the fabric slide back into place. He wouldn’t have thought that second skin of a dress could conceal anything, but when she stepped away from the wall, his scrutiny gave no hint that she was hiding anything more than a breath beneath the gown.

So what had she stolen? he wondered as he followed her, easing out of the darkness between starbursts, murmuring excuse me as they wove their way to the doors. Something small enough to conceal, maybe even brazenly wear. Maybe he could persuade her to go to his hotel with him, to let him take down her hair and run his fingers through the curls. To undo the zipper of her dress and slide the fabric down her body, to discover what, besides gloves, was underneath it. Maybe...

Once inside the ballroom, where guests bored by fireworks chatted in small groups, she faced him, all calm and composed. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Sinclair.”

He wasn’t surprised she knew his name. He’d stopped being modest about his reputation—both of them—years ago. He was sure she realized that his assistance had been unnecessary. She might have balked at taking that first step off the balcony, but she would have found the courage.

“I appreciate your not throwing up on my favorite tux.”

The corners of her mouth twitched to avoid a smile. His gaze skimmed from that lovely sight to her ears—bare—then her throat, wrists, fingers, also bare. If she’d stolen one of David’s countless jewels, she wasn’t bold enough to walk out with it on.

“What were you doing up there?”

“Following you. They chose well when they named you Bella Donna. Most of us shorten it to just Bella.”

Nothing passed through her eyes—no recognition, surprise, admission. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

He leaned closer, realizing she wore no perfume, either. Scents lingered, created memories, caused downfalls. “There aren’t so many of us that we aren’t familiar with one another. The stories about you, Bella...”

An older woman, notoriously passionate for gossip, gave them a curious look as she approached. The diamond studs twinkling in her ears were worth easily twenty grand, and he’d received three requests to relieve her of the gaudy ruby bracelet around her wrist so the stones could be put into a setting that did them justice.

“Are those—”

“Real? Yes. Burmese. Ten stones of ten carats each. Worth somewhere around eight million dollars.”

“Where are her bodyguards?”

“Around.” When the woman stopped in front of them, he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Aunt Gloria, I didn’t realize you were here.”

He caught the widening of Bella’s eyes, along with the gleam in Gloria’s expression.

“I imagine you were otherwise preoccupied. I saw you two disappearing from the ballroom. Our host didn’t, though. David was regaling a small group of us with stories of his adventures. Do you know how it feels to have every bit of air slowly sucked out of your body to the point you can’t think, can’t move, can’t even try to escape?”

She directed the question to Bella, who mutely nodded her head. Gloria smiled. “That’s our David. He has millions of millions, and in spite of that, he is undoubtedly the dullest and most boring man on earth.” Then she turned her smile to include Jack. “Of course, we only love him for his money, don’t we?”

Jack murmured a noncommittal response, then silence fell. His aunt was waiting for an introduction. Apparently, Bella figured it out and began to take tiny steps like a drunken crab, sideways and backward at the same time. When she put enough distance between them, her intent, no doubt, was to ditch him. His intent was to not let that happen.

He took hold of her arm, her skin warm and silken, her muscles tightening at his touch. “Aunt Gloria, this is my friend—”

“Lisette Malone. Of course,” Gloria said. “Someone pointed you out earlier. The gentleman you work with at the museum, I believe. The one with the damp palms.”

Lisette Malone. Most likely not her real name, but one these people would be much more comfortable with than Bella Donna.

Once more the corners of Bella’s—Lisette’s mouth twitched. “Mr. Chen.”

“Yes, that’s the one. I’m Gloria Mantegna. Even though I’m his great-aunt, Jack calls me aunt to my face and old bat behind my back.”

“Aunt Gloria,” he protested, but she patted his hand.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Mantegna,” Lisette said dutifully.

“My friends call me Gloria. My men friends call me Glory. Most of ’em are standin’ at attention when they say it.” Bawdy humor brought out traces of the Alabama accent she’d tried very hard to lose, and her bright, lascivious smile took ten years off her face. Considering that she was well-aged and astonishingly rich, Jack had no problem imagining long lines of men friends wherever she found herself.

He just didn’t want that image in his head.

Abruptly she made a shooing motion. “David’s heading this way. You two go. I’ll brave the boredom for you.”

Jack flashed a smile at his aunt, turned Lisette in a 180 and began strolling toward the main entrance.

“He won’t think it rude, your leaving without saying good-night?”

“It won’t be the first time.”

“That you’ve been rude?”

“That I’ve left without saying good-night.” He smiled as a few instances flashed through his mind: Viviana, Siobhan, Celene. Good memories.

Their steps echoed as they entered the cavernous hallway running through the middle of the castle. Servants crossed at various intersections, scurrying to salons, private meetings, up the grand staircase. None of them glanced at Jack and Lisette. The guards stationed every thirty feet did, though. There wasn’t a man in the ranks shorter than six foot five, or tipping the scales at less than 250 pounds.

As they passed under the scrutiny of the last guard, Lisette moved a step closer to Jack. “They’re a bit scary, aren’t they?”

“Just a bit? They terrify me.”

When they reached the entrance, staff opened doors tall enough to accommodate a double-decker bus. They walked through, met with cool air and a light breeze and, for Jack, a sense of relief. Not that they were free yet. That wouldn’t happen until they drove the four miles to the gate, where more guards awaited.

While valets went to retrieve their vehicles, Lisette tugged her arm from his grasp. “As I said before, thank you for the assistance.”

He pushed his hands into his pockets and studied her. “What did you take?”

No shifts in expression gave her away. She simply smiled and extended her arms out from her sides. “Do I look like I’m hiding something?”

His gaze slid over her with fine appreciation. “No. But appearances can be deceiving. And I’m pretty sure you weren’t crawling around that balcony just for the feel of the stone against your skin.”

The valet with her car returned first, saving her from a reply. There was no sign of the other valet with Jack’s rental, meaning she would have at least a couple minutes’ head start. “It’s been an experience,” she said, stepping away as the car stopped at the curb.

“I’ll see you again, Bella.”

She murmured something, then pulled a bill from nowhere to tip the valet. She gave Jack one last smile, the loveliest, sexiest, most beguiling of all, before getting into the car and driving away.

He hadn’t planned to let her go so easily, but plans changed. He knew the name she was using, and he knew where she was working for the moment. He would find her again.

Chapter 2

Certain she hadn’t been followed, Lisette drove to the only home she’d ever known. She’d taken her first steps on its floors, eaten baby food at the kitchen table, screamed through too many baths to count in the claw-foot tub. Marley had loved the small house, and because of that, Lisette did, too.

Padma’s car was parked in the driveway; Lisette pulled in beside it. Shivering in the chill air, she hustled up the side steps to the porch. As she reached out with her key, the door swung open and Padma ushered her inside. “No one followed you.”

That used to be Marley’s line, never a question because she’d taught them better. “Nobody.”

“Not even Prince Charming?” Padma screwed up her face in disappointment. If Prince—Jack didn’t track down Lisette tomorrow, they had a plan B and C for dealing with that, too.

“You got the painting back safe?”

“Of course. Was the party fabulous?”

“Obscenely expensive champagne, priceless antiques, fortunes in jewels, the rich and the filthy rich.” Lisette shrugged, and the shimmer of her gown made her long for her usual evening outfit of shorts and T-shirt.

“You look so gorgeous. I can’t believe the men left you alone long enough to steal Shepherdess. That dress is incredible, and the shoes—! Damn you for being a size bigger than me.”

Two glasses of yogurt-milk-mango lassi sat on the coffee table, along with a plate of gulab jamun, a deep-fried sweet that smelled delicately of rose water. “When was your mom here?”

“She got here right after me. You know, I could learn to cook my family’s traditional dishes, but then who would Mommy cook for on chilly winter nights?”

Lisette snorted. Mommy, better known as Dr. Laksha Khatri, was a bioengineer at the University of Colorado Denver, and she was happy enough cooking for Daddy, Sandesh, a gastroenterologist, who was usually trying to diet. “I’m sure Dr. Mom would find something else to occupy her time, like, I don’t know, cloning a human or something.”

“Could come in handy in our line of work.” Padma helped herself to dessert, then drew her feet onto the couch. She wore comfy clothes, all in black, and a sturdy pair of black boots were kicked off nearby. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her jewelry—necklace, earrings, bracelet, watchband—was all black in deference to the job. You don’t know how hard it is for this Indian girl to give up her gold, she lamented on a regular basis.

Lisette tasted the gulab jamun and sighed. “It’s settled. Your mom can never leave Denver for more than a couple weeks at a time. I couldn’t survive longer than that without her cooking.”

“She’ll be pleased you said so.”

Lisette had been saying so most of their lives. The Khatris had been her and Marley’s only family. Even though Padma’s mom had worked, she’d always made time for two curious little girls. She was a dark-eyed woman with a ready laugh and enough love for a dozen daughters, and she’d generously showered Lisette with it.

Had the good doctor known she was pampering the daughter of a criminal? When she’d given the girls her regular empowerment talks, telling them to find a career they loved and dedicate themselves to it with passion, to soar into the heavens with it, had she ever suspected that career would be stealing back previously stolen treasures?

“I did some checking,” Padma said, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “Jack is staying at Air. You know, that gorgeous old mansion turned trendy boutique hotel for the super-rich?”

“Air? Seriously? What did they name the restaurant? Water?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Padma paused for effect. “Water’s the spa. The restaurant is Fire, the bar is Spirit, and the grounds are Earth.” If she was kidding, her eyes would dance and the corners of her lips would twitch for the seconds it took her laugh to escape. None of that happened, though, which made Lisette shudder.

If she had that kind of money to invest in a getaway, the inn would be named Inn, with a crudely carved arrow pointing the way to Eat. The beach would require no sign because it would lie fifty paces from her hammock.

“It’s insane,” Padma went on. “Remember when we used to go there? It was so crazy perfect for its time period, but now everything’s all very minimalist. Do you think that’s the kind of place he prefers? Do you think he’s done that to his home on the island?”

“I hope I get a chance to find out.” Lisette spoke without so much as a twinge in her stomach. She’d long ago dealt with the fact that this plan—

A fool’s plan, Marley reminded her.

—meant Lisette would almost certainly find herself getting intimate with Jack Sinclair. Her mother had made such a big deal of it—

It is a big deal!

—but women had sex with men for a thousand reasons, and gaining access to Île des Deux Saints and Le Mystère was the best reason Lisette could imagine.

Besides, he was damn good-looking, too.

“Maybe he just likes staying at $3,000-a-night hotels,” Padma said with a sigh. “I’d like to live like that for a while, to know what it’s like to have the best of everything.”

“Aw, if you had that kind of money, you’d spend it saving the world.”

“Schools, water-treatment centers, clinics, sustainable growth.” Padma sighed again. Those were her passions. When she wasn’t handling electronics on their job, she used her environmental engineering degree to supply clean water around the world. It completed her in the way that returning a person’s lost property completed Lisette.

Padma abruptly swung her feet to the floor. “Come see it. Take your time appreciating it because we have an appointment to return it tomorrow afternoon.”

Lisette followed her into the dining room, where candlesticks and a vase holding a bouquet of flowers had been moved to the sideboard next to a tea set. Padma motioned that way. “The red is in the sugar bowl. And Shepherdess...”

The painting was unrolled in the center of the table, lit by the dozen small bulbs in the chandelier. It was still amazing—still gave Lisette a shiver. She studied it, her fingers itching to mimic the strokes, the colors. Mimic was all she could do. Her talent lay in stealing art, not creating it.

Tomorrow they would return it to a house like this on the other side of town. It would be lovely if Mrs. Maier could hang it in the bedroom once again, but losing a piece once made people cautious. Their recovered treasures usually went into a safe or a safe-deposit box or on loan to a museum. After all, if someone had stolen it once, then precautions must be taken to stop it from happening again.

Lisette and Padma could recover their property, but they couldn’t restore their peace of mind.

And that was a shame.

* * *

Jack didn’t like museums—they were set up specifically to avoid the intimacy needed to truly appreciate the works—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t spent thousands of hours in them. He’d seen the top collections in the world, roaming galleries the way other people hung out in malls, movie theaters and clubs.

The Candalaria wasn’t in the top of its class yet, but David intended to get there. He’d bought the Castle with the intention of housing his collections there but decided a more easily accessible spot in the city would bring in more visitors. Today it certainly had visitors.

Jack’s invitation from last night could have gotten him the VIP treatment at the private entrance half a mile down the road, but he preferred to mingle with normal folk, to wait his turn, entertain himself and count security guards—eight so far.

And, this particular morning at least, to think about Lisette Malone. Was she Bella Donna?

Her plan last night hadn’t been complicated, and it hadn’t gone off flawlessly. She’d taken too long, risking discovery, and she’d had that frozen moment on the balcony before she’d forced herself over the edge. To be fair, though, his showing up had thrown her off schedule, and she would have dealt fine with her fear. There were things he didn’t like to do, but they were easy when the only other options were capture or death.

The Candalaria had only one floor aboveground, with two floors of vaults, offices and work spaces beneath, but the roofline undulating from a mere twenty feet at one end to a hundred or more at the other made it seem huge. There were gardens of every type outside, but few people showed interest in them. Instead, they queued along the sidewalks, awaiting entrance to the museum.

Pushing his hands into his pockets, he studied the people around him. Most looked as if they could be waiting at the local cinema, but the artists stood out: accomplished or novices, young, old and every age in between, carrying backpacks, sketch pads, pencils. An aura of anticipation weaved around them, excitement and appreciation and the fervent desire to someday create pieces of art that would inspire this same feeling in others.

“You can pick the serious artists out of every bunch. They all give off pheromones of canvas, paper, oil and pastels.”

Jack turned to find Lisette—Bella?—Malone standing a few feet away. Her gorgeous black hair curled around her face and down to her shoulders, and her gorgeous legs were covered by tailored black trousers. Last night’s sexy shoes had been traded for flats, no doubt more comfortable for work but not the star of many fantasies. A white shirt topped the trousers, long-sleeved, buttoned down the front, unexpected bits of lace edging the placket on both sides. With a little silver-and-onyx jewelry, she pulled off a look of minimalist elegance.

She tilted her head to one side, studying him. Realizing long moments had passed while he’d done the same to her, he gave himself a mental shake. “Pheromones, right. Sorry. I was more interested in your pheromones at the moment.”

The intensity of her gaze dialed back to what could be described as merely curiosity. “Why are you standing in line? Your invitation gives you access to the VIP entrance.”

He gave her a pleasant smile. “I was in the VIP zoo last night. I’d rather hang out with real people this morning.”

“Really.” She didn’t sound quite convinced.

It was one of the consequences of being born into a family with more money than most nations. Everyone expected him to be spoiled and demanding, to not do mundane things, to be incapable of living daily life without an army of assistants to do the heavy lifting.

He leaned closer to her and caught a whiff of perfume. It was sweet and made him hungry. “When I’m at home, I do all the cleaning, cooking, laundry and toilet-scrubbing myself.” It was true, too, though he spent only two or three months a year in the house he considered home. The rest of the time he traveled, staying in hotels or Sinclair family homes, always fully staffed with people ready to meet his every need. “Was it as impressive as you expected it to be?”