The Lady Is a Thief (13 page)

 
   
But she couldn't afford to chase that
prize…not now.

 
   
“Two days.” She swallowed. “I want two
days.”

 
   
He canted his head to the right and lifted
his brows. “And then?”

 
   
“Nothing.
And then nothing.
You asked me what I wanted—I want two
days. I need it.” Her pulse continued to rabbit and she let her gaze drift to
the bed. She could sleep with him—hell, she wanted to do that—and then while he
slept, she could get the hell out of here.

 
   
“Eat your dinner and I'll give you two
days.”

 
   
She blinked slowly. “I'm sorry, what?”

 
   
“You heard me.” He stood and walked over to
the phone. Hitting the button for room service, he waited for the other end to
be answered. “Yes, could you send up another plate of the shrimp and lobster
pasta, fresh coffee, and some bread? Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

 
   
He hung up the phone and walked over to the
door. He flipped the security latch, stripped off his jacket and hung it up.

 
   
“What are you doing?”

 
   
“I'm showing you good faith and letting you
begin your two days.” He watched her from his station by the door, his
expression unreadable. “Eat.”

 
   
She opened her mouth to protest, but thought
better of it. She needed two days. He gave her some time. They needed to talk,
but…he had to sleep sometime. Regulating her breathing, she dug into her meal.

 
   
“And, Kit Kat?”

 
   
“Yes?” She ate another mouthful.

 
   
“If you run again…all bets are off.”

 
   
We'll
see.
She smiled, the food already helped.

 
   
H
er
posture, curled onto her side away from him, might appear relaxed, but he
didn't fool himself into thinking she‘d gone to sleep. They'd eaten their meals
in respective silence. Jarod could almost hear the wheels whirring in her mind
as she considered her options.

 
   
Feigning sleep provided her with the best
option to continue plotting what she would do when he drifted off.
Unfortunately for her, he could maintain wakefulness for up to eighty-six hours
with only the lightest of dozes. He dimmed the lights when she lay down, but
the screen on his phone allowed him to continue his work.

 
   
Louis
duMonde
was
out of custody and checked into the Avalon in Beverly Hills. In addition to the
two men at the airport, four more arrived in the last three hours. Jarod told
the asset to stay in place and requested a second for back up. If he needed
more, then he needed to request them ASAP. He did not want
duMonde
slipping his leash.

 
   
“You're not going to go to sleep, are you?”
The quiet question drifted across the room and he glanced over. She rolled onto
her right side and propped her head up. She'd gotten back most of her color and
a great deal of her spirit. His arrival scared the hell out of her, but he
ignored the twinge of regret at the blank look in her eyes—and the way all the
color drained from her face.

 
   
“Not likely,
no
.
But you should.”

 
   
“I can't.” The dim glow of his phone left
most of her face in shadow.

 
   
“Why not?”

 
   
“I dozed on that bus today—too much I guess.
I'm tired, but I can't sleep.”

 
   
Thumbing his phone off, the room plunged
into darkness without the blue glow. “Try regulating your breathing.”

 
   
Her laughter teased his ears, like a
whispered caress across his senses. “I've tried that. I think it might be the
presence of an uninvited visitor in my hotel room.”

 
   
“If you stayed in the first room I set up
for you, you could have slept by yourself.” The smile curving his lips made him
glad for the darkness.

 
   
“Who are you Jarod Parker?”

 
   
“Just a man doing his
job.”

 
   
She snorted. “I won't insult your
intelligence if you won't insult mine.”

 
   
“All right.”
If she
wanted to talk about it now, they would. “I'm a recovery agent. I'm here to
pick up
The
Fortunate Buddha
.”

 
   
“And what is that?” A smile hummed under the
words.

 
   
“What’s that about not insulting my
intelligence?” He leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of
him. Tucking the phone in his pocket, he focused on staying in the chair and
not walking over to stretch out on the bed next to her.

 
   
“I'm not insulting your intelligence. You
accused me of having it—”

 
   
“Which you do.”

 
   
“I didn't say I did.” She argued, but the
smile in her words didn't waver.

 
   
“You didn't protest the accusation either.”

 
   
“Innocent people don't have to protest.
That's some really flimsy logic if you're going to accuse me of being in
possession of a stolen item.”

 
   
“You went out of your way to sneak off. You
have a Viscount with a known habit for the acquisition of stolen goods hunting
you. But those are only two of the current facts. You were also in Geneva,
Switzerland when it went missing from the same Viscount's safe. You left a note
for the agent assigned to retrieve it along with a digital recording of her in
Morocco. You were in New York when the Buddha was retrieved from the Museum by
the NYPD and shortly before it disappeared from their evidence lock up.” He
ticked off the events one after another on his fingers.

 
   
“Circumstantial at best.”
Satisfaction colored her answer.

 
   
Amusement surged through him. She was
absolutely right. The circumstantial evidence wouldn't earn a search warrant,
but he didn't need a warrant. “And you still haven't denied it.”

 
   
“Do you want me to deny it?” The swishing
noise of the sheets told him she moved. He looked away from the side of the bed
a moment before the light snapped on. She sat up in the bed, a pillow in her
lap and her knees up. Her green-eyed gaze met his with frank determination. She
appeared almost fragile, but possessed a tough, resourceful streak.

 
   
“No.” He shook his head once. “I want to
help you.”

 
   
She blinked. “I'm sorry, what?”

 
   
“You heard me.” He tipped his head to the
side. He enjoyed watching her mind at work and physical cues like the narrowing
of her eyes, chewing the inside of her cheek, or the flexing of her fingers
against the pillow

 
   
“If I already took it—which according to you
I did—why do I need help?” She didn't avoid his gaze or play coy. Another mark
in her favor, the direct intelligence and courage shimmering in those eyes was
far more attractive than her considerable beauty.

 
   
“What would you have done if I hadn't been
there at the airport?”

 
   
“The Captain and co-pilot would have helped
and I wouldn't have left the plane before they cleared the area.” The too swift
answer wasn't disingenuous, but she shook her head. “But I am glad you were
there.”

 
   
And the wall between them developed the
first real fissure. So he applied pressure to it. “Why is that?”

 
   
“Because Viscount
duMonde
,” she sighed and pushed the pillow away while
sliding off the bed. “…is not a nice man. He's spoiled, arrogant, and known to
be rather violent at times.” She'd gone to bed in a t-shirt and it hit the
middle of her thighs like an invitation for exploration. He kept his gaze on
her face, even if the rest of his body hummed to awareness.

 
   
“Then we are agreed on that particular
subject.”

 
   
“I suppose. Is there any coffee left?” She
glanced at the tray and he stood to reach for the barely warm carafe.

 
   
“There is but let me order us some more.”

 
   
“Okay.” She circled around him and walked
over to the sliding door. He dialed room service as she unlatched it and let in
the cool night air. She didn't walk out onto the balcony, choosing to lean on
the doorframe and study the city beyond.

 
   
The shirt curved up her hip as she folded
her arms, revealing gorgeous bare thigh. Letting out a slow breath, he ordered
the coffee and hung up. Probably better to stay on this side of the room
anyway. He leaned back against the wall.

 
   
“You said I could have a couple of days…are
you planning to arrest me?”

 
   
“As you said, I only have circumstantial
evidence.” He could pull strings and have her detained, but no matter how many
times he entertained the idea, he dismissed it.

 
   
She lapsed into silence and he let her
continue to work the Gordian knot of her situation out in her mind. When the
coffee arrived, he checked the peephole first and didn't let their waiter in,
taking the tray himself and relocking the door. Kit remained in the doorframe
while he set up the coffee and poured two fresh mugs.

 
   
“You're not a banker.” She said when he
handed her the cup.

 
   
“No.” He nodded.

 
   
“And you're not law enforcement.”

 
   
He smiled and took a sip. “No.”

 
   
“I didn't think so—even Interpol needs more
than circumstantial to push their way into someone's life and take them
hostage.”

 
   
“Do you feel like a hostage?” He frowned.

 
   
Shrugging, she walked out onto the balcony
and leaned against the rail, coffee mug cradled in her hand. The breeze carried
the barest hints of moisture, as if it rained somewhere else. “Somewhat.”

 
   
“You're not a hostage.”

 
   
“So I can just grab my things and walk out
that door?” Skepticism spread thickly across the top of the question.

 
   
“Absolutely.
But I'll
go with you.”

 
   
“I don't need a keeper.”

 
   
“Maybe.
But
duMonde
isn't in custody anymore. He's also got more men in
the city.”

 
   
Her mouth tightened and he regretted having
to scare her, but the independent streak in her could get her killed. “How do
you know that?”

 
   
“Because I'm having him
watched.
I'll know when he moves and where he goes. But all he has to do
is pick up a phone and call in someone I don't see and you'll have another
bloodhound on your trail.” Were he in
duMonde's
position, he would make the same decision. In fact, he'd have a dozen boots on
the ground, combing the city for the target.

 
   
“He has no idea where I am. You wouldn't
have known if you hadn't been a cab driver and how did you do that? You didn't
look like you in the cab.”

 
   
It was his turn to be startled, but he
covered it up with another swallow of the coffee. “I know how to blend in—a
skill you obviously picked up somewhere.”