The Taming of the Thief (11 page)

 
   
 
“
Oui,
a tad strange.”

 
   
 
“We
were born in Louisiana. Mom studied law at Tulane and she fell in love with the
language, the Latin and the Greek from which most legal terms descend.”

 
   
 
“And
Rhett is a legal term?” Not wholly unfamiliar with the law, Pietr didn't
recognize that particular wording.

 
   
 
Another blush stole over Sophie and she tucked
the picture frame up onto a shelf, straightening it gently. “Rhet is a nickname,
kind of like Sophie.”

 
   
 
Pietr
was intrigued. He'd learned Sophie's legal name as a matter of course, but
knowing the fact didn't give an explanation for it. He knelt down and began
picking up the scattered knickknacks, mentally cataloging the damaged ones so
he could replace them later.

 
   
 
“Dare
I ask what it is a nickname for?” He kept his tone light, but curiosity flared
in him. If he couldn't get the story from her, he'd have his men dig deeper.
But he really wanted to hear it from her.

 
   
 
“It's
short for Rhetoric.” Sophie grimaced, following him to the overturned sofa when
the last of the knickknacks were back in place. Pietr grabbed the corner and
shifted the sofa's weight onto
it's
front and then
onto its back before she could touch it. The piece was unwieldy, but not overly
heavy.

 
   
 
He
barely swallowed the bark of laughter. “Why would your mother do that to him?”

 
   
 
“She
meant well,” Sophie was quick to defend her family. “We used to ask her the
same thing, but Dad told me that Mom really loved our names and it hurt her
feelings when we picked on her about them, so we stopped.”

 
   
 
“Dare
I ask what Sophie is short for?” Pietr caught the pillows she tossed at him and
dumped them back onto the sofa. He righted the table and bent down to help her
gather up the magazines and printouts. A flick of a glance showed him they were
all research on middle-eastern and far eastern artifacts.

 
   
 
His
fingers jerked when he saw a printout of a news item from the Far Eastern desk
of the BBC.
The Fortunate Buddha
was
pictured and a highlighted footnote in the article detailed its disappearance a
year before.

 
   
 
“It's
short for Sophistry.”

 
   
 
Pietr
glanced up to see Sophie staring at him, waiting.

 
   
 
“She
named your brother after speechmaking and gave you a name for facetious
arguments?”

 
   
 
“Well, yes and no.” Sophie laughed.
“Hence the issue with our names.
Sophism is a form of
teaching,
it originally meant educator or teacher.
Sophia meaning wisdom or wise one.
Sophistry got a bad rap
because Plato and Aristotle both disapproved of teachers charging students for
their education and the word has somewhat devolved since then, but my mother
loved the original meaning.”

 
   
 
“So
she intended for you to teach and your brother to enter politics?” He had a
feeling he would like Mrs. Kingston. There was a genuine bit of humor in her
name choices, but also a method of careful thought.

 
   
 
“Maybe, but Rhet's a fireman here in the city
and the last thing he's interested in is politics.”

 
   
 
“So
he's one of New York's Finest.” Pietr caught another grin at himself.

 
   
 
“No,
he's part of New York's Bravest. Dad and Frank were a part of the Finest.
Finest is police, bravest is our firefighters. Dad was a cop for twenty-five
years when he blew out his knee and had to take early retirement. He works as
an advocate for the department now and mom's an attorney who works civil cases,
housing problems and helping battered women with legal issues.”

 
   
 
They
moved to the closet and Pietr pulled out the disheveled boxes, stacking them
one at a time after scanning the contents. Guilt nibbled at the edge of his
conscience. He didn't intend to search her apartment, but she offered him an
opportunity and Walter mentioned her interest in the Buddha. So far, all he
discovered was the one news article.

 
   
 
“It
sounds like your family is very devoted to civil service.”

 
   
 
“So
what am I doing working in a dusty museum?” Sophie grinned. Her obvious
pleasure at discussing her family eased the tension of sorting through her
apartment's destruction.

 
   
 
“I wouldn't
have called it dusty. But yes, it does seem like you would have chosen another
field.”

 
   
 
Sophie shrugged. “Mom took us to museums all
over the country when we were growing up. I can't count the number of road
trips. Rhet used to get bored, but me, I loved them. I told you Mom fell in
love with the language of the law, but she also enjoyed the humanities, the
culture and the history. I guess I just loved it even more. I studied art every
chance I had, I even fancied myself a painter for a while.”

 
   
 
“Oh?”
Pietr's research hadn't turned up that golden nugget. He looked over the
apartment, checking each hanging for a sign that might label it hers.

 
   
 
“I
said I fancied myself a painter, but I was terrible.” Her gaze danced with
quiet laughter. “It took me about two years of art study and a really nice
professor explaining that a passion for art didn't always equate a talent for
it before I realized that I was chasing smoke.”

 
   
 
Pietr's heart squeezed. Beneath the glib
words, a wistful note of regret echoed. “But you didn't give up your passion
for art?”

 
   
 
“Nope.
I loved it too much, so I earned a degree in Fine
Arts and then a Master's in the study of antiquities and now I'm working on my
Ph.D.” She looked down into a box that contained tubes of paint, brushes and a
pair of rolled canvases. He gave into the impulse and reached over to catch her
face in his hands, kissing her softly.

 
   
 
“I
think that's wonderful.” He found that he genuinely meant it and had to release
her face before he took more than that hard, swift kiss.

 
   
 
“That
I am a terrible painter?” A smile tugged her lips wide and split his heart
open.

 
   
 
“No.
That you didn't give up on your passion.” His gaze skated over her slender body
with its voluptuous curves and back up to her warm eyes, which turned liquid
with heat. “Never, ever give up on passion.”

 
   
 
S
ophie had always enjoyed an
uncluttered lifestyle, placing less value on items and more on the stories they
told. Yet she'd never appreciated this quirk of her own nature more than when
she surveyed her righted apartment. The knowledge that others had been in her
space, their hands on her few precious knickknacks and photographs, not to
mention their haphazard destruction of her research, research she would to have
to sort through and re-priortize wasn't as easily shaken.

 
   
 
Or
maybe it was the presence of the man stacking her newly repacked boxes in the
closet that she couldn't shake. Every action spoke of a reckless type of
kindness, a perversity of joy and a gift for laughter. He definitely possessed
a sixth sense where her moods were concerned.

 
   
 
Then
there were the kisses.

 
   
 
Oh
the kisses.

 
   
 
Sophie sighed. Her lips tingled at the memory
of his mouth shaping hers, plundering and giving in the same breath. His kisses
were an addiction. Rubbing two fingers against her lower lip she turned in a
slow rotation, everything was back where it belonged.

 
   
 
“Better?” He came to stand behind her, his low
voice wrapping around her like an embrace. His ability to move so silently
unnerved her, but even that she seemed to grow accustomed to.

 
   
 
“I
don't know.” How he wrung these utterly truthful confessions from her, she
wasn't sure. It would be more polite to just tell him yes, it was fine.
Instead, she told him the truth. She didn't know if it was fine. She wasn't
sure about anything at the moment.

 
   
 
“You
should pack a small case and I can have Jacques come back for anything else you
need.”

 
   
 
“What?” She spun to look up at him.

 
   
 
“You're not staying here, at least not until
the authorities have caught the men after you.” Gone was the jovial, teasing
glint. Replaced by something harder, more indefinable, but utterly implacable.

 
   
 
“I
can hardly go stay with my
parents, that
would mean
explaining all this.” Sophie threw her hands up. “And I don't even know what
this is.”

 
   
 
“You'll stay with me.” The words uncurled a
fist of heat in her belly that spread like wildfire along her nerve endings.
Her body rose eagerly to the invitation. The heat stung her cheeks and Sophie
swallowed back the acceptance that leapt to her tongue.

 
   
 
“I
can't possibly.”

 
   
 
“Of
course you can.” He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. They were
standing in the middle of her living room, awareness flaring between them and
it took all of her willpower to keep from swaying into his larger frame.

 
   
 
“Pietr.”
Exasperation coated his name on her tongue.

 
   
 
“Sophie.” The grin on his face grew, but the
seriousness in his gaze remained.

 
   
 
“Pietr, we just met. I can't possibly stay
with you. Not that I am not grateful for last night, you were really very kind,
but we've known each other, what? Fourteen hours?”

 
   
 
“Fourteen months, fourteen weeks or fourteen
days, it doesn't matter. Not when someone tried to
kill
you last night. You
can
stay with me and you
will stay with me
.
The hotel has better security and I can keep an eye on you.” The harsh truth of
his words washed over her and Sophie retreated.

 
   
 
Someone had shot at her last night.

 
   
 
Someone had killed Doctor Hinkley the day
before.

 
   
 
Pietr
kept pace with her until her knees hit the sofa and she sat, abruptly.

 
   
 
“But
why do you want to keep an eye on me? Frank is here. Detective Bryant…”

 
   
 
Pietr
made a cutting motion with his hand and Sophie went silent. “Detective Bryant
didn't believe you until the shooting in the pub and I am not sure he is even
aware of the extent of the situation.”

 
   
 
“The extent of what situation?”

 
   
 
It
was Pietr's turn to sigh and scrub a hand over his face. He sat down on the
coffee table, his knees bracketing her legs. “Your research has tugged a few
lines in Europe. That's what brought me here last night.”