ItTakesaThief (8 page)

Before stepping out from under the portico, she glanced
around. In the short time they’d been together, TC had learned that Ian was an
early riser and liked his breakfast early as well. She risked peeking into the
family breakfast room. Finding it empty, she drew a deep breath for courage and
stepped onto the gravel path as if she hadn’t a care in the world. What felt
like an eternity later, she rounded a curve in the driveway that hid her even
from the highest castle battlements. Whipping her cell phone from her pocket,
she fumbled through a number she knew by heart.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered, hating the choking
sensation that clogged her throat. “Thank God, you’re there! Where are you
exactly?” she asked before the rich baritone could regale her with Nadim’s
usual nonsense. “Me? I’m in Torquay. Is there an airport nearby? I can’t risk
the train. If I miss it, I’ll be stuck here. You’ll what? Where? No, Nadim, you
can’t land at Hunter Hall!

“Yes. All right. I’ll hide in the maze until I hear the
helicopter.” Swallowing audibly she whispered, “Thank you. And, please, hurry.”

Trying to maintain an air of nonchalance, TC headed back up
the gravel driveway and ambled toward the maze that sat at the farthest edge of
the lawn. At least Nadim would have plenty of room to land his newest toy.

“Good morning, Miss Tiffany.”

“TC, hi.”

Oh, damn! The twins.

“Hey,” TC said, her smile feeling easy, natural, despite her
inner turmoil. She found it impossible to greet the girls coolly. Peace wore
her usual jodhpurs, teal blouse and boots spit-polished to a mirror shine.
Adeen had abandoned her black leather pants in favor of jeans, a red chambray
shirt and Western boots.

“We’re off for our morning ride,” Adeen said.

“Will you join us?” Peace asked, glancing sideways at her
sister, then back at TC with a matching hopeful look.

“Thanks, but some other time, okay?” At their crestfallen
expressions, TC spread her hands in apology. “I’m still a little sore from my
fall. I need a little more downtime.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We’ll see,” TC said, hating to lie to them, but reluctant
to promise. She had no intention of being anywhere near Hunter Hall in the
morning.

They backed away, their eyes looking as sad as those of
chastised puppies. TC tried to smile but, failing miserably, waved goodbye.
Tears stinging her eyes, she could only pray they might someday forgive her for
betraying their budding friendship.

She heard a distant rumble and looked skyward, expecting to
see lightning follow thunder. If she hadn’t realized her mistake, she might
have revealed Nadim’s attempt to rescue her. She pulled up her jacket hood as
if a deluge was about to descend and sprinted for the maze.

Hidden from the Hall by the lush privet hedge, she watched
as the leaves of ancient oaks began to quiver. When they shook like a tornado
was about to strike, she left her refuge. Spying Ian rushing from the breakfast
room, TC sprinted across the lawn, reached out for Nadim’s hand and vaulted
into the hovering ‘copter.

Landing on her belly, she felt as if her heart was breaking.
She would never forget the twins’ offer of friendship or Mark and Margreta’s
welcoming acceptance of her, battered face and all. And, God help her, she
might never recover from caring about a man who wanted to kill her.

* * * * *

He failed this time
, Damian read, smoothing out the
crumpled note Tiffany apparently had tossed into the wastepaper basket before
she left her room early this morning.
Will you give Ian Soria another chance
to kill you?

Well, now he knew why he had had a helicopter landing on the
lawn shortly after dawn. Returning to the house in a red fugue, he discovered
that a maid had delivered an envelope to Tiffany’s room as soon as she’d called
down for coffee. The missive apparently had arrived with the milk delivery.

Bloody hell! The woman believed he had tried to murder her.

He had not, but, according to George Fox, somebody had. The
star cover, normally rigged so that an actor standing on a small dais beneath
the stage could rap the underside and burst from the floor like a star, had
been sabotaged. The mechanism had been reversed so that the slightest pressure
from above had caused it to collapse inward. The platform, usually raised to
prevent a serious fall if the cover of segmented India rubber degraded, had
been lowered to its deepest level under the stage.

Tiffany had been lucky to escape with only a few abrasions,
caused when she tried to break her fall by grabbing the wooden framework. She
had reaped an overabundance of bruises on her belly and face. She easily could
have broken both her legs and her lovely neck, but apparently she had had the
good sense to relax as she fell to the bottom. And the two-by-four she had
slammed into had been sawed—which probably had saved her life. It gave way when
she hit it.

He and the stage manager had found her in a graceful heap,
all of her confined on a two-foot square piece of plywood. Even the trapeze
artists Damian knew could not have managed such an artistic landing, especially
not in the dark, in unknown surroundings.

Gymnastics, she had told him when they returned to the
Savoy, had taught her how to avoid serious injury from a fall. But she had
winced when he ran his fingertips down her naked arms. And, too afraid of
hurting her, he had not held her while she slept.

Had she set up the accident herself to gain his sympathy? he
wondered, but immediately rejected the idea. Whoever had rigged that star cover
had needed time to do the work. Tiffany had not been out of Damian’s sight for
more than ten minutes all that day. Somebody else had tampered with the
mechanism. Somebody who knew they would be at the theater that night, who knew
they would be on the stage. Who? Who could know and gain access to the theater
between the evening performance and their on-stage tour?

Glancing at his bedside telephone, he recalled Tiffany’s
phone in her suite at the Savoy, the one he had so cleverly had bugged. He knew
of one person who could have known—George Fox. Damian would deal with Reynard
later. First he had to find out where Tiffany had gone. And who the hell had
helped her get away.

He packed her clothes, then went to tell his family he was
returning to London.

* * * * *

“Now, my jewel, you will tell me why I had to rescue you
from Hunter Hall.” Nadim Al Bandin popped a grape into his mouth and leaned
against the gem-bright pillows strewn over his divan. “And why you look as if a
horse trampled you.”

Mimicking his lazy attitude, TC inhaled the rich aroma of
Turkish coffee, sipped and sighed her pleasure at the sinful chocolate taste.
“I’ll tell you. Right after you tell me how you happened to be nearby just when
I needed you.”

His hand over his heart as if she had wounded him, he said,
“My jewel, Allah told me of your distress.”

“And informed you where to find me. Allah even told you to
bring your helicopter to a relatively obscure village in Devonshire. How clever
of Allah. Or should I thank Hassan?”

His manservant seemed always to know where all Nadim’s
friends were at any given moment. While she resented anyone keeping track of
her, at this moment she was glad.

“As I do, my friend Hassan worries about you.”

“And in this instance, and this instance only, I appreciate
your concern. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“You didn’t ask a question. You demanded.”

“Forgive me, Your Royal Highness. I forgot to bow at the
feet of your princely-ness, Nadim Al Bandin of Kratzistan.” She touched her
chest, her lips, her forehead by way of a formal, if mocking, greeting.

“Sarcasm does not become you, Tiffany, my jewel.”

At the use of her given name, TC narrowed her eyes and
debated how much she should tell him. Hell, Nadim probably knew more about the
theft of Isabella’s Belt than she did. Assuming, of course, he hadn’t stolen it
himself. She’d never proven him guilty of any crime, especially not murder, but
she suspected him of many things. Stealing being the least of them. He reminded
her of Cary Grant, especially in
It Takes a Thief
. Always around when
valuables went missing. Always suave, charming and…there when she needed him.
If he hadn’t stolen Isabella’s Belt himself, he must think she had and would
lead him to it.

“You heard about the theft, of course,” she temporized.

“Both of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“The theft at the Banque de Medellin and the…red herring at
the Georges Cinq.”

“Oh yes. I had forgotten about the Georges Cinq.” The
English tabloids had speculated the theft was the work of a well-known cat
burglar with a penchant for emeralds.

“Not bloody likely,” Nadim muttered. Clearing his throat, he
said, “What do you make of them?”

She answered without thinking. “Somebody really has it in for
me.”

Before she could blink, his demeanor changed. Muscles
tensing, he sprang across the space dividing them and grabbed her shoulders.
“Tell me. Now.”

Editing mentally at a furious pace, unwilling to reveal what
she knew even to a friend, TC told him what she deemed necessary. When she
finished he released her. She rubbed her upper arms, suspecting his fingers had
given her bruises new bruises.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

“I always suspected you hedged your religious bets.” Her
voice sounded carefree, but the huge lump in her stomach told a different tale.
Emeralds stolen from the Georges Cinq. Isabella’s Belt with its enormous
emerald cabochon also stolen.

Somebody
was
out to get her.

Chapter Five

“The row,” Mrs. Paddington had confided to Nick Troy, Damian’s
contact in Interpol’s Research Division, “began as soon as Charles Cartierri
entered Sir James’ office.”

Damian shut off the agent’s tape recorder, then looked up at
the baby-faced thirty-year-old. Nick Troy’s appearance made women of all ages
spill their innermost thoughts and dreams at the flick of an eyelash. Neatly
groomed and scrubbed to a cherubic innocence, he had the open look of a man
worthy of trust. Wide blue eyes promised any secret would be held safe forever,
which, given the man’s occupation, was 180 degrees from the truth.

Damian, still irritated at discovering Tiffany had fled
Devonshire, Hunter Hall and him, had been unable to get more than monosyllabic
answers about “TC” from grandmotherly Sarah Paddington and had returned to his
London flat in a fit of rage. Nick had Sarah chattering like a magpie in less
than half an hour. Unfortunately, since the walls of Sir James’ office
effectively prevented her hearing anything but disjointed shouts, the
information was useless.

“I do not know how you do it,” Damian groused while smiling
at the younger man.

“It’s easy,” Nick countered, helping himself to another
buttery crumpet from the tea tray on Damian’s coffee table. “I don’t behave
like a bear with a burr up its butt and I don’t look like a thug.”

“Ouch.”

“Besides, old friend, we British don’t really trust
foreigners.” Nick laughed at Damian’s injured expression. “That intriguing
accent you inherited from your lovely Spanish mama may sit well with the
beauteous Tiffany Cartierri, but it puts off—”

“Who?”

“Your bird. The girl who stormed out of Sir James’ offices
and into your arms. Tiffany Cartierri. Charles Cartierri’s daughter and Sir
James Foster’s daughter-in-law. Changed her name when she went to live with Sir
James’ family as a teenager. She’s a widow, by the way. William Foster died
about a year ago. You should listen to the rest of the tape.”

“Later,” Damian muttered, his stomach clenching. She had
lied to him, he thought bitterly. He should have asked how her marriage had
gained her husband access to Charles Cartierri’s world. He had not, too
concerned with her feelings. If he remained on this case he needed to steel his
heart against her.

Even though he had sensed it, he had let her get away with
lying. Instead of asking her questions as he should have, he had let her lead
him around by his prick. Let her beguile him until he forgot his mission. Aside
from that, George Fox had failed to unearth the relationships, had instead
encrypted a clean slate for TC, as she called herself, and everyone associated
with her. Carter, the name she had registered under at the Savoy, was close
enough to Cartierri. A thorough search of Interpol’s soundex files should have
brought her real name to light. And he, Damian, should have gotten a look at
her passport instead of behaving like a rank rookie. His brother would never
let his feelings interfere with his job.

But Michael
had
let feelings get in the way. And that
had cost him his life.

Throwing off distracting memories of his brother, he said,
“Do you know where Ms. Cartierri is now?”

“Lunching at Sir James’ with her father and Sir James. They
don’t get along, in case you’re interested.”

“They?”

“Father and daughter. Half an hour in each other’s presence
and World War III breaks out.”

“And her relationship with Sir James?”

“Thick as thieves,” Nick answered, opening his briefcase and
laying a thick file on Damian’s cherry wood escritoire. “Reads like one of
those glitzy novels. This is the only copy, by the way, and I covered the
electronic trail.”

That might explain why George Fox had failed to unearth
anything, Damian thought, his instincts not appeased by this morsel of comfort.
“Covering was unnecessary.”

“Oh?” Nick asked, blond brows arching toward his
sun-streaked hair. “It seems more a personal matter than agency.”

“It is not,” Damian snapped, then grimaced an apology. “More
coffee?”

“No thanks. I’ll leave you to your reading.” Stopping at the
door, the slim young man turned to fire a parting salvo. “There’s something you
should know. Something I’ll be forced to pass over to Police Coordination
Division.” Nick hesitated and looked as if he wanted to scuff his toes on
Damian’s carpet.

“Out with it, Nick. You and I have no secrets.”

“Not usually, but this is one I should keep—except I don’t
believe it’s true.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I got a call last night. The caller refused to give his
name, but insisted he could prove what he was going to tell me is true.”

Quelling the impulse to shout at Nick’s dallying, Damian
waited in silence.

“He said you and Tiffany Cartierri plotted the theft,
executed it and murdered the two bank staff when they caught you in the act. He
said you had turned rogue for a ‘piece of ass’.”

“You are certain the caller was a man.”

“Almost positive. It could have been a woman with a naturally
deep voice.” Nick shrugged.

“Was the call routed through Lyons?”

“No, it came directly to my flat, on my private line. I know
because the line was clear, without that hollow sound you get when Lyons’
taping.”

“Well, that ups the stakes, does it not? But it also raises
a few questions.”

“Like how did he, or she, get my private number?”

“That, and how did he, or she,” Damian parroted, “know about
the murders? After all, we have managed to keep the murders out of the papers.”
Sighing, he said, “Thanks, Nick. Can you delay reporting this until tomorrow?”

“I can give you forty-eight hours. Which should give you
time to catch up with your Tiffany Cartierri.”

“Pardon me?”

“In case you’re interested, Ms. Cartierri’s booked on a
midnight flight to Bogotá. Seems she’s developed a yen for Muzo emeralds and a
wealthy Colombian named Emilio Santana. When I tell Reynard, he’ll put out a
Warning Notice at least. If he doesn’t go straight to Wanted.”

“Damn!” Damian exploded as his door shut with a nearly
silent click. He should have known she would run again. But now he had a
legitimate reason to follow her. He pulled his valise from the armoire and
tossed his clothes, willy-nilly, into it.

He had a plane to catch. Whether Tiffany realized it or not,
her leaving that note in the wastepaper basket was a plea for help. And now,
because of that anonymous call to Nick, Damian’s reputation and maybe his life
were as much at risk as hers.

And Emilio Santana would happily welcome his godson into his
home.

* * * * *

On the plane en route to Bogotá, Damian decided Nick had
done a brilliant job of putting together the information Damian wanted.
Somehow, exactly how he did not want to know, Nick had managed to get files
that various courts had sealed years ago. And from somewhere the young
researcher had unearthed a photograph of the Cartierris—Mr., Mrs. and
ten-year-old Miss—vacationing on the yacht of Kratzistani oil emir Amad Al
Bandin. Mr. and Mrs. Cartierri looked as if they suffered from boredom. The
young Miss Cartierri, who surely belonged at home playing with her dolls rather
than on a yacht loaded with the emir’s female playmates, looked nothing like
either of her parents.

Putting aside the photograph, Damian read every report,
every newspaper article Nick had assembled. Reports that his brother Michael
had not had access to twelve years earlier when Tiffany was fifteen or so.
Reports that showed a clear connection between the thefts of some of the
world’s most famous emeralds and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cartierri’s travels abroad.

Every instinct in him shouted that Charles Cartierri was
Michael’s elusive Emerald. The reports, however, proved otherwise. The
Cartierris had dined in public, seen a major play, been photographed with the
victims at the very moment the thefts supposedly occurred.

Miss Tiffany Cartierri, at bedtime treated like the child
she was, had been asleep in her room, her vigilant nanny, governess,
tutor—watchdog of the moment—on guard in the next room. Tiffany’s were the
records the multinational courts had sealed to protect her.

Groaning his frustration, Damian raked his fingers through
his hair, then stretched his entire body in an effort to relax his cramping
muscles. In addition to feeling like a pretzel, he felt like a fool and a dupe.

Twelve years ago, having accurately profiled a new, emerging
Colombian drug lord, Michael’s ego had been dealt a nearly mortal blow. He had
seen the patterns in the Emerald robberies—any fool with half a brain could
have seen that much—but the identity of the perpetrator had eluded him. At
twenty-five, Damian’s twin had felt like a failure, a one-night, one-time
wonder. His superior at Interpol had blamed it on Michael’s too recent triumph
over the drug dealer, but his brother still had blamed his failure on his own
stupidity.

Only now did Damian realize that Michael had been destined
to fail. By withholding those critical files, someone had seen to his failure
with a deft and subtle hand. Michael’s captain, now promoted to inspector? Or
someone else, someone clever enough, devious enough, to remain hidden all these
years?

Shrugging, feeling as if he was throwing off an impossible
burden, Damian retrieved the Cartierris’ photograph and stared at the child in
the picture. Even at the tender age of ten her eyes held shadows. Secrets.

Secrets he intended to uncover.

He closed his eyes and, with little effort, recalled the
crime reports he last had seen twelve years ago. Michael shared them, hoping
fresh eyes would give him new insights.

The victims’ profiles were virtual carbon copies. All were
in their mid-thirties to early fifties. All were wealthy to the extreme. Old
money, titled money and plenty of it. Most had children or grandchildren nearly
the same age as Tiffany traveling or staying with them when the robberies
occurred. Despite being able to replace the heavily insured pieces, all had
been outraged that they had suffered at the hands of a common thief.

Michael had thought Emerald brilliant. Damian had agreed.
And, apart from the thefts, the thief had never hurt anyone.

The scenes of the crimes were similar as well. The most
luxurious suites in the most expensive hotels throughout the world. Villas,
castles, or palaces, the victims’ own or belonging to the Cartierris’ close
friends. All the thefts occurred between the hours of eleven p.m. and two a.m.,
the servants having retired or fallen asleep at their posts, the owners
returning from gambling, nightclubbing, or theater opening.

Only emeralds taken. Damian still could not say why. But
Charles Cartierri’s apparent obsession with those particular gems offered a
clue—or yet another red herring.

In every case, the bedroom safe stood open, as if to taunt
the victims.

No physical evidence and never any sign of forced entry.
Well, once the local police thought they had found a clue. No one could account
for a single emerald stud they had discovered on the dresser. Left behind or
overlooked among the untouched diamonds, rubies and pearls no one could say.
The owner admitted having stud earrings, but thought them lost years earlier. Since
they were inexpensive and no longer held even sentimental value, they had not
been insured. The potential evidence had been dismissed as unimportant.

Why? What motivated this highly organized criminal? Why take
only emeralds? Why? Why? Why?

That question had haunted Michael until the day he died. Was
Damian any closer to finding an answer?

* * * * *

As her plane descended through a cloudbank and touched down,
TC felt her ears pop. Of all the harebrained things she had done in the last
few weeks, this neck-or-nothing race to Bogotá had to fall at the top of the
list! Second only to her mad involvement with Ian Soria.

Sir James had been curiously circumspect when TC’d dropped
the name at lunch. He had admitted a previous acquaintance with her nemesis,
but only as the Santanas’ godson and the son of the English ambassador to
Spain. Ian’s mother was distantly related to the Spanish royal family, he’d
added with a speculative glance at TC who had hidden her eyes behind oversized
dark glasses. She had ignored the look and resisted the impulse to rub her
gritty-feeling eyes. Sleeplessness exacted a cruel payment.

At least she had garnered an explanation for Ian’s
overbearing, high-handed manner, she thought while she gathered her purse and
carryon. He probably thought he could have any woman he wanted, for as long as
he wanted, simply by waggling his aristocratic fingers. But, if sex was what he
wanted, why attempt murder? Was he some sort of psychopath who used his family
connections to cover up his crimes?

“Señorita Cartierri?” a soldier asked when she deplaned, her
questions unanswered and unanswerable. A chill of fear chased down her spine
while perspiration formed over her lip and brow. The young man’s uniform looked
crisp, while TC felt as if she had taken a shower with her clothes on. His
fingers rested on the butt of his revolver, his stance overtly relaxed, but his
eyes radiating tension.

“Yes?”

“You will please to come with me, señorita.”

Do I have a choice?
TC wondered as he took her
carryon and clicked his heels. Well, if she was going to prison, she would go
in style. How many others had an armed guard as escort? With a sidelong glance
at the young man, she wondered if she could overpower or outrun him. Deciding
that was the surest way to get killed or end up in some deep, dark hole,
forgotten by everyone, she stepped to his side and matched his stride.

“Your luggage will arrive shortly, señorita. In Customs.”

He vanished before she could protest, even if she’d had a
mind to. She found herself inside what appeared to be a VIP lounge, poshly
furnished and blessedly cool. A pitcher of icy lemonade and a chilled glass
stood on the tile coffee table. If this was Customs, she was the only
first-class passenger going through it.