The Black Sheep and the English Rose (3 page)

“So, about the details of this proposed collaboration,” she began. “Let's elaborate.” From now on, business would rule the day.

She'd deal with the night when the time came.

He turned to face her. “We're both here for the same reason.”

She wondered if he knew just how complex her reasons really were. “Continue.”

“You were right earlier. Our adversary—assuming that is who left you in such a…bind, earlier, and is who I think it is—is a challenging one.”

Her lips curved in a wry smile. “To say the least.”

“So, it follows, that if we combine our skill sets and collective knowledge, we might prove a more formidable opponent than we would individually.”

“Exactly my thinking on the matter. However, in keeping with your request for honesty, given how my last encounter turned out, are you certain you want me as a partner?”

His blue eyes twinkled. “Let's just say you do more for blue silk than I do.”

Now her eyes widened. “So, you think I'm going to barter myself for—”

His gaze darkened. “No, that's not what I meant. I simply meant you're far more attractive bait in this particular scenario. Once our fish is hooked, we can proceed in any manner of directions, none of which will require you to—”

“Dip?”

“Right. In fact, I'd have a little problem if you felt otherwise.”

“Then we're square on that. But it should also be stated that my appearance obviously didn't get me very far last time. Not that I'd banked on it.”

Finn grinned. “Then the man must have other proclivities. Or he's dead from the waist down.”

She did smile a bit at that. “Perhaps he simply has more discipline and an ability to stay focused on the prize.”

Finn's gaze narrowed down so tightly on hers she thought she could feel him touching her. Everywhere.

“I suppose it would depend on your definition of ‘prize.'”

She could have sworn her heart rate tripled. “You of all people should know I'm no prize.”

He gave a little involuntary shudder, and she knew he was remembering the clams. She did feel badly about that, but she'd more than apologized back in Prague. And, had she to do it over again, though she'd try to be less punitive, if push came to shove, the job always came first and she'd do whatever she had to do. Bad clams included.

“Regardless of past exit strategies, I think we might complement one another in this particular endeavor.” He gave her another once-over. “Great dress, by the way. Makes your eyes this amazing shade of green.”

There it was again. That offhand sincerity that did odd things to her equilibrium. She was used to meaningless flattery, delivered by men hoping for benevolence from her foundation, or from her directly, of a more personal nature. Either way, it was always a calculated maneuver. It never seemed as such with Finn. When, of all people, it most certainly should.

“Thank you,” she said, finding she meant it. Despite the mischievous and playful side of him that was always near the surface, she knew him to be an honorable man with a highly regarded level of personal integrity. She doubted he'd sink to useless and hollow flattery as a means to get what he wanted. Certainly not from her, at any rate. “But continuing here, given our past, don't you think there might be a wee problem with trust?”

“We were opponents then.”

“To a degree, we still are. We each want the stone, and there is only one to be had.”

“I only ask for one thing.”

She arched a brow and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Which is?”

“Until the sapphire is in our hands, we operate as a team. No secret maneuvers, no hidden agendas.”

Her whole life was a hidden agenda. Well, half of it anyway. “And when we have the necklace? Then what?”

“See? I like how you think. When, not if.”

“Which doesn't answer my question.”

“I don't have an answer for that. Yet.”

She laughed. “Oh, great. I'm supposed to sign on to help you recover a priceless artifact, in the hopes that when we retrieve it, you'll just let me have it out of the kindness of your heart? Why would I sign on for that deal?”

He turned more fully and stepped into her personal space. She should have backed up. She should have made it clear he wouldn't be taking any liberties with her, regardless of Prague. Or Bogota. Or what they'd just done on her bed. Hell, she should have never involved herself with him in the first place. But it was far too late for that regret now.

“Because I found you tied to your own hotel room bed and I let you go. Because you need me.” He toyed with the end of a tendril of her hair. “Just as much, I'm afraid, as I need you.”

“What are you afraid of?” she asked, hating the breathy catch in her voice, but incapable of stifling it.

“Oh, any number of things. More bad clams, for one.”

“Touché,” she said, refusing to apologize again. “So why are you willing to risk that? Or any number of other exit strategies I might come up with this time around? You're quite good at your job, however you choose to label it these days. Why is it you really want my help? And don't tell me it's because you need me to get close to our quarry. You could just as easily pay someone to do that. Someone who he isn't already on the alert about and whose charms he's not immune to.”

“Maybe I want to keep my enemies close. At least those that I can.”

“Ah. Now we're getting somewhere. You think that by working together, you can reduce the chance that I'll come out with the win this time. I can't believe you just handed that over to me and still expect me to agree to this arrangement.”

“I said maybe. I also said there were myriad reasons why I think this is the best plan of action. For both of us. I never said it was great, or foolproof. Just the best option we happen to have at this time.”

“Why should I trust you? Why should I trust that you'll keep to this no-secret-maneuvers, no-hidden-agenda deal? More to the point, why would you think I would? No matter what I stand here and promise you?”

“Have you ever lied to me?”

She started to laugh, incredulous, given their history, then stopped, paused, and thought about the question. She looked at him, almost as surprised by the actual answer as she'd been by the question itself. “No. No, I don't suppose, when it comes down to it, that I have.” Not outright, anyway. But then, they'd been careful not to pose too many questions of each other, either.

“Exactly.”

“But—”

“Yes, I know we've played to win, and we've done whatever was necessary to come out on top. No pun intended,” he added, the flash of humor crinkling the corners of his eyes despite the dead seriousness of his tone. “But we've never pretended otherwise. And we've never pretended to be anything other than what we are.”

“Honor among thieves, you mean.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“I still don't think this is wise. Our agendas—and we have them, no matter that you'd like to spin that differently—are at cross purposes.”

“We'll sort out who gets what after we succeed in—”

“Who gets what?” she broke in. “There is only one thing we both want.”

“That's where you're wrong.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Wrong, how? Are you saying there are two priceless artifacts in the offing here? Or that you can somehow divide the one without destroying its value?”

He moved closer still, and her breath caught in her throat. He traced his fingertips down the side of her cheek, then cupped her face with both hands, tilting her head back as he kept his gaze directly on hers. “I'm saying there are other things I want. Things that have nothing to do with gemstones, rare or otherwise.”

She couldn't breathe, couldn't so much as swallow. She definitely couldn't look away. He was mesmerizing at all times, but none more so than right that very second. She wanted to ask him what he meant, and blamed her sudden lack of oxygen for her inability to do so. When, in fact, it was absolute cowardice that prevented her from speaking. She didn't want him to put into words what he desired.

Because then she might be forced to reconcile herself to the fact that she could want other things, too.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked, his gaze dropping briefly to her mouth as he tipped her face closer to his.

Every shred of common sense, every flicker of rational thought she possessed screamed at her to turn him down flat. To walk away, run if necessary, and never look back. But she did neither of those things and was already damning herself even as she nodded. Barely more than a dip of her chin. But that was all it took. Her deal with the devil had been made.

“Good. Then let's seal it, shall we?”

She didn't have to respond this time. His mouth was already on hers.

S
o much for playing it safe.

She tasted better than he'd remembered. And he'd remembered her tasting pretty damn sweet. “You know,” he said, moving his lips to the corner of her mouth, “for someone with a tart tongue—”

The rest of his sentiment was lost as she turned ever-so-slightly and slid that tart tongue of hers along his own, making him groan as he accepted her deep into his mouth. God, what in the hell had he gotten himself into here?

She lifted her head first. “Deal sealed, I'd say.”

His response was more along the lines of a hoarse grunt, which was all he could manage. That made her smile.

Serious trouble, that's what
.

“So,” he began, paused to clear his throat, then said, “let's order up an early dinner and discuss our strategy.”

She walked across the room, paused in front of the mirror to apply fresh lipstick, then continued to the door leading to the penthouse suite's private elevator. “Why don't we go to Antoine's, have his chef prepare us something perfect, perhaps add a bottle from his wine cellar as an accompaniment, and let the rest take care of itself?”

She didn't wait for his response. She merely pressed the button to summon the elevator.

Finn didn't bother with a debate on the pros and cons of their being seen together in a high profile spot like Antoine's, which was the latest on the list of Manhattan's hot spots. Instead, he crossed the room, paused in front of the same mirror, decided there was no hope for his now crumpled linen shirt and somewhat wrinkled trousers, raked his fingers through his thick blond mess instead, then gave up altogether and followed her into the elevator. “Why Antoine's?” He knew she hadn't just picked that one at random.

“If we want to snag the attention of one Mr. John Reese, then having dinner at his favorite spot could be the perfect place to start.”

Already two steps past him in planning. Hell, she'd probably had this all figured out while still shackled to the bed, with him on top of her. It shouldn't have surprised him. From what he knew of Felicity Jane, which, admittedly, wasn't nearly as much as he wanted to, she rarely did anything that wasn't directly related to benefiting her bottom line. Dinner at a five star restaurant was nice, but she could do that any night of the week. Beating an international artifact dealer—reputed to work deals on both sides of the law—at his own game while enjoying mouth-watering chicken marsala and a wonderful sauvignon? Far more satisfying.

He should be picking her brain on what else she knew about Reese besides his dining habits. He'd researched all the possible players in this game, Reese being the prime one, but hadn't stumbled across that little fact. Which was, arguably, why he wanted to team up with Felicity in the first place. But didn't explain why just the thought of how she'd conducted her personal research made him want to put a fist through a wall. Or square into John Reese's smug, smiling bastard of a face.

Quite the revelation for a man who prided himself on relying on quick thinking and fast reflexes rather than the use of brutality when it came to problem solving in tricky situations.

And he'd been back in her presence for an hour.

Once inside the elevator, he stabbed the button for the private parking lot level, then folded his arms. He didn't dare so much as look at her, much less touch her. He wasn't sure he could be responsible for his actions if she were to look at him with even a hint of that self-satisfied smile of hers. They'd be back behind locked doors and on the bed, the floor, or up against the nearest wall before either one of them could blink. By the time they came up for air, that satisfied smile would be there for an entirely different reason.

And Mr. John Reese could go fuck himself.

The doors slid open, and she stepped past him without pause, walking into the parking garage as if she owned the place. Which, for all he knew, she did. As could he, frankly, had he wanted to. But acquiring things for the sheer sake of ownership had been more his father's style.

“Let me call for a car,” he told her. “I have a service we use when we're in the city that's quite—”

He stopped when a long, sleek black limo purred up to the elevator landing. She glanced over her shoulder. “I brought my own.”

“Of course you did,” he murmured, waving the driver back into the car and opening her door himself. “Convenient,” he said.

“I always thought so. The Foundation prefers that I use private transportation when conducting business, so we've set up our own drivers in the cities we frequent most often.”

He wanted to ask her if stealing priceless gemstones could be considered Foundation business, but managed to refrain.

The Foundation was the Trent Foundation, started by a duke-of-something ancestor of hers over a century before. Finn had done a little digging after their initial introduction and had learned that it mostly funded charitable trusts and various other philanthropic endeavors around the globe, but also maintained the Trent family holdings, of which there were many. He'd had some experience with managing a global-scale family inheritance and didn't envy her position as the sole remaining Trent descendant. He knew what an immense responsibility that was.

It had taken him several years of intense, and often elaborate, planning to dismantle and disseminate what his father had spent half a lifetime building. Of course, had he built it honestly and with some benefit to someone other than himself, Finn might have seen fit to find some way to keep the empire intact, even if run by someone other than himself.

Felicity had opted to run hers. To be fair, there had been far more public attention paid to the choices she'd made upon inheriting, as the British loved nothing more than lavishing media attention on their more highly pedigreed subjects. At least Finn had stirred things up only in the business world with his decision to break apart the billion-dollar industries his father had assembled.

What he didn't understand was, given her rather high-scale global profile, how it was no one had ever discovered what he'd discovered within the first twenty-fours he'd spent with her. Which was that Felicity Jane Trent, media princess, heiress to billions, benefactor to thousands, was also a very talented, very dedicated, and very successful jewel thief.

He had no idea what she did with her loot, or how long she'd been in that particular line of work. He was fairly certain it was the thrill of the hunt, not the prize itself, that was the lure. It had to be. More wealth she didn't need. He'd looked into that after Bogota, wondering if perhaps her inheritance was more burden than actual asset. But her wealth rivaled, if not outdid, that of the queen, so she wasn't in it for the money.

He didn't need more wealth either, but then he wasn't acting in his own best interests. He was in it for the benefit of others. His own benevolent foundation of sorts, he supposed. He didn't charge his clients for the services provided to them by either himself or his two partners, as their goals were tied to righting wrongs for those who couldn't do it themselves, not increasing his bottom line. He'd retained enough wealth that his company supported itself in the form of a vast array of investments.

He had no idea what Felicity Jane's goals were, other than to find something exciting to do in her spare time. Except he couldn't seem to make that image line up exactly right either.

She reached out her hand to him. “Joining me? Or are you just going to stand there and scowl because my car is bigger than yours?”

He slid in, careful to seat himself at a diagonal, on the far side of the roomy, beautifully appointed interior. If he had any hope of regaining control, he had to get his shit together and get it there fast.

She crossed her legs. He looked out the window. It didn't help much. He could still see them reflected in the glass. Maybe he should just crawl across the damn seat, drag her underneath him and get it out of his system. Problem was, last time he'd tried that they'd still been going at each other two days later.

Right now there was an ancient artifact floating around the city, with a very limited window of opportunity for retrieval before it likely took off overseas in the pocket of a private collector's agent. Finn's client, who happened to be the rightful owner of the stone, if not the necklace itself, regardless of what various legal entities had declared, wouldn't be too happy if he lost what might likely be his only chance at regaining possession of a precious family heirloom because Finn had been too busy fucking his brains out.

“Perhaps later,” Felicity said, drawing his attention back to her. “After dessert. Or for dessert.”

“Perhaps later, what?”

She glanced down, below his belt, then back at him, with a private smile curving her lips.

He shifted slightly, but there was no hiding what was obvious to them both. “About this dinner,” he said, determined to get them both talking business at the same time. Even if it killed him. Which, given the relentless state of his aching hard-on, it just might. “Do you know who he might be dining with?”

“You mean, who is he going to sell the stone to? I don't know what courier he'll be using, but I have a fair idea of who the actual buyer is, yes.”

She'd said stone, not necklace, making him wonder if she knew about the contested nature of this specific artifact. And what impact that might have had on her decision to go after it.

She cocked her head slightly when he didn't respond right away. “I rather thought you'd be on the same page. After all, you were just behind John when you tracked him to me.”

And Finn should have kept on tracking him, leaving Felicity to deal with her unfortunate incarceration. Now all he could think about was damned dessert. “I have my own ideas on who the other players are, but I wanted your input. You seem to have a direct connection to Reese. If we both know what we're dealing with, all the better in terms of being successful in getting the piece back.”

She lifted one slender shoulder and picked at the folds of her dress. “As you said, there are several key players, but I'm fairly certain he's going with the Russian.”

Finn said nothing. She could be telling him the truth, or she could be purposely steering him off the right path. It was true, she'd never directly lied to him in the past, but, despite the adversarial nature of their relationship, she hadn't had reason to. In both cases during their previous meetings, they'd already known the whereabouts of the quarry in question and hadn't needed the information or discussed the topic with the other. Had she bested Reese earlier today, she'd have likely beaten him to the prize this time. Only she hadn't. Which meant it was a race now, to see who got to it first. And he wasn't entirely sure what she was capable of doing in her quest to win.

What the hell had he been thinking, partnering with her? His cock twitched when she recrossed her legs, reminding him exactly what he'd been thinking with.

“You're certain he has it?”

She nodded. “I was close, but I'd hoped to get a key piece of information from him and beat him at his own game.”

“He wasn't aware you were…in the market for the same piece?”

“I let him think I had heard about it and was interested in buying it.”

“And he'd give you just enough information on who he was getting it from?”

“Something like that.”

Finn thought on that for a moment. “Have you used his…services before?”

She smiled then. “You're adorable when you're jealous. I assure you, however, there is nothing to be jealous of. Yes, I have worked with him in the past, Foundation business mostly.”

“Mostly.”

“Yes,” she reiterated, “mostly. Some family business as well. Nothing of a personal nature.”

He wondered how foolish he was to believe her. But, holding her direct gaze as he was, he did. “Of course you're aware of his reputation for playing a bit outside the lines, when it comes to direct line of ownership with some of his more…unique artifacts. Not that this would be a problem for you personally, but how does the Foundation feel about working with someone whose character has been described as less than sterling?”

She laughed. “You'd have to understand British peerage and the Trents' very rich personal history to know that someone like John Reese causes barely a blip on the discomfort scale. The fact that he's a very powerful man building quite the trade empire is of more interest than whatever means he might have used to secure some of it. Of course, everyone maintains quite the upper crust appearance on the surface, but that doesn't mean they don't wallow in all the gossip once the evening's event is over. Everyone loves a good story, and John Reese comes packaged with quite a rich one.”

“He'd have gotten along well with my father,” Finn muttered. “Perhaps your family would have as well.”

“Perhaps,” she said, not taking the least offense. “Of course, I'm the last in the line,” she added, her own smile mischievous, “so I more or less dictate what the Foundation will deal with.”

Finn smiled at that. “So, you think the trade itself will take place at Antoine's?” he said, keeping his gaze anywhere but on her damn legs. “Rather high profile.”