The Taming of the Thief (12 page)

 
   
 
“My research?”
Her hands were limp when Pietr gathered them
into his. Unease crawled up her spine.

 
   
 
“Your research.
You've been gathering information on artifacts
with Middle and Far Eastern origins. That research triggered phishing programs
that sample for specific search terms.”

 
   
 
“What
are you talking about? Isn't phishing illegal?”

 
   
 
“When you are searching for a person's personal data, yes.
But similar algorithms can be written to piggyback searches on key phrases,
triggering an alert.”

 
   
 
“And
you think something I am researching triggered an alert?” Skepticism salted the
pauses in her words. It sounded more like a Dan Brown or Scott Turow novel than
anything that happened in real life. She tried to pull her hands away, but
Pietr's grip closed over them, locking them together between his larger hands.

 
   
 
A
frisson of alarm skated across her awareness.

 
   
 
“I
know it did. It would explain how Walter got your name and why he called me
about it.” The last hint of playfulness evaporated under the gravity of his
words. “It's why I flew to New York. It's why I went to the museum yesterday
and why you found me in your apartment last night.”

 
   
Fear uncurled a second fist in her stomach,
smothering the ache of need his earlier invitation had awoken.

 
   
“What item?” Sophie demanded, her hands were
ice and not even the wicked heat of Pietr's grip on them could warm her.

 
   
“Sophie,” his voice gentled, but she shook
her head, not wanting to fall sway to his seductive charm.

 
   
“What item?” She repeated, steeling her
shoulders for his next words. She'd known he'd wanted something from the night
before, they'd even talked about it, but the actual request had yet to be aired.
She shouldn't feel betrayed, but the insanity of what he suggested tumbled in
knots against her chest.

 
   
He met her gaze gravely and lifted her cold,
unresponsive hands to his lips. The tender kiss stabbed at her anxiety, but she
refused to be distracted.

 
   
Not again.

 
   
“What item?”

 
   
“It's called
The Fortunate Buddha
. It was stolen from a monastery in Thailand
nearly two years ago. It's passed through several countries and was in the
hands of a French Ambassador for a time, but then it was stolen again. We
suspected that it was being moved through back channels, using museums to avoid
the normal customs check a private shipment would earn.”

 
   
She frowned. “I read something about it and
a legend associated with the Buddha.”

 
   
“Yes and
it's
very
important to the monks, holding religious and cultural significance.”

 
   
“And what does my research have to do with
it?” A stray thought nibbled at the back of her mind. The stiffness in her tone
made the words jerky.

 
   
“Because a lot of people
are searching for the Buddha.
Some of those people are dangerous.”

 
   
“Are you dangerous Pietr?”

 
   
“Not to you.
Never to
you.”

 
   
“But I only have your word for that.”

 
   
“And my actions.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle flinching along his cheek. “I've done nothing to
hurt you and I have no intentions of doing anything that hurts you.”

 
   
“And if I demand you leave?”

 
   
Pietr sighed. “Sophie, be reasonable.
Whether you believe me or not, you can't dismiss the break in or the shooting.”

 
   
“We don't know that they are connected.”
A feeble argument.
But if Pietr was right then she dangled
over the edge of a maelstrom of conspiracy, and acknowledging that might send
her tumbling over.

 
   
“We don't know that they're not. And I am
not comfortable with assuming they're not and then reading about you and some
fatal accident in the newspaper.”

 
   
His words obliterated her objections and the
knot of anxiety hardened to stone, squeezing the air from her lungs. She didn't
even sense him move when he sat on the sofa next to her, pushing her head down
until it rested against her knees. The action helped and she inhaled a slow,
deep breath and then another.

 
   
“You're scaring the hell out of me.” She
whispered against the fabric of her gifted pants.

 
   
“If I didn't think it was a very real
possibility, I wouldn't. But danger has haunted this object, despite its
history or maybe because of it.” Contrition softened his tone and the hand
rubbing her back gentled, a slow, circular motion that encouraged deeper
breaths.

 
   
“Pietr, I don't want to believe you.”

 
   
“I know.”

 
   
“But you really think someone is trying to
kill me because my dissertation work turned up information on the Buddha?”

 
   
“Maybe.
Maybe it
has something to do with your Doctor Hinkley.” He paused and Sophie lifted her
head to meet his eyes. His troubled expression reminded her of the uncertainty
marring so many aspects of her life.

 
   
“You know there's a worse thought than every
one that you've brought up so far.” She drew her elbows up to her knees, the
pressure on her chest easing.

 
   
“Oh?” A faint spark of his earlier humor
kindled in his gaze. “Worse than being shot at, witnessing a murder and being
the part of a 'mad conspiracy'?”

 
   
“What if I didn't actually see someone shot?
What if I am imagining all of this? I am the right age for schizophrenia, you
know. Maybe none of this is real and it's all happening inside my head?”

 
   
Pietr's expression softened further. His
hand traveled up her back to stroke through her hair, the utter gentleness of
the action brought the need simmering inside back to the surface. The
ping-ponging emotions could be another symptom. As reasonable as the thought
was, it offered no comfort.

 
   
“You do realize that when a person asks if
they are insane, it generally means they
aren't?
”
Pietr murmured. His hand fisted in her hair holding her still as he angled his
head towards her. He was going to kiss her again.

 
   
She saw it in the intensity of his gaze and
the angle of his body. He was going to kiss her and she wanted him too. Her
tongue moistened her lips. But instead of kissing her, his mouth hovered close
to hers, his gaze locked on her eyes.

 
   
“You're not crazy, Sophie.” She felt the
words against her mouth more than heard them and then he sealed the distance,
his tongue gentle and probing as it sought and gained entrance.

 
   
“You should really stop doing that,” she
murmured against his lips, her mouth opening to his probing tongue.

 
   
“No,” he chuckled, tugging her onto his lap.

 
   
She sighed into the kiss, her arms snaking
upwards to wrap around his neck again. Maybe she was crazy, but his kisses were
worth it.

 
   
T
hirty
minutes later, Jacques stowed her suitcase in the car. She'd refused to pack it
so Pietr had done it for her. “Pietr,” she drew in a breath, ready to argue
again, but he just dropped a kiss on her lips, his body bracketing hers against
the limousine until her objection faded under a haze of desire.

 
   
“You can't win every argument with a kiss,”
she said belatedly, sliding into the limousine.

 
   
“I can try.” Pietr just grinned.

 
   
A
n
hour later, she led Pietr up the steps to the museum. They argued all the way
across town in the car, her suitcase of clothing and a box of research stowed
in the limousine's trunk.

 
   
 
Well,
she'd argued, he'd just given
her the
same response to
every objection much to her frustration. Jacques remained with the car after
depositing them on Central Park West. She wasn't sure where he headed now, but
Pietr assured her he would scoop them back up.

 
   
Probably back to her apartment for more
clothes and items that she'd refused to pack.

 
   
Pietr was implacable on this point.

 
   
“Why can't I just take out another room at a
different hotel for a couple of days?”

 
   
“We can certainly move to a different hotel
if you like. Name your choice and I'll arrange it.”

 
   
“I meant me, not us.”

 
   
“I am aware of what you meant. I am offering
you a compromise,
mon ami
.”

 
   
Between his hand on the small of her back
and the gentle French on his tongue, her brain fogged again. Damn the man. He
had to know what a profound effect he had on her and he took every advantage.

 
   
And
you're enjoying yourself.
The caustic mental voice reprimanded her. It
wasn't Pietr's fault she was attracted, even if the idea of danger seemed
ludicrous in the bright early afternoon sunshine.

 
   
“Sophistry Elaine
Kingston.”
The dreaded three-word name drew her spine up straight and
smashed her argument with Pietr. At the top of the stairs, amidst a stream of
school children swarming around him like a boulder amidst the stream stood her
father.

 
   
And he didn't look happy.

 
   
“H
i Daddy.”
Sophie's father was a big man, thick shoulders,
thick arms and a broad face marked by a lifetime of laughter and worry. She'd
inherited her black hair from him, but her darker skin and eyes from her
mother. Everything about her father was buttoned down, from his ties to his
slacks to his sensible work shoes that dated back to his days on the force.

 
   
He also radiated cop.

 
   
Even now that laser stare had taken in
everything about Sophie, particularly Pietr whose hand on her back burned
through the shirt and branded her flesh.

 
   
Shooting Pietr a warning glance, Sophie
darted up the stairs to be swept up into a bullish hug. Her father let her kiss
his cheek, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe, before he gave Pietr another
long look.

 
   
“Daddy this is Pietr Sauvage, Pietr, this is
my father…”

 
   
“Jonas Kingston.” Her father interrupted,
holding out a hand to Pietr. “You're new.”

 
   
“Yes, sir.”
Pietr
shook her father's hand, seemingly unperturbed by her father's gruff manner.

 
   
“And what are you doing with my little
girl?”

 
   
“Daddy.”
Sophie
stared. Her father had never cared for anyone she dated, but she wasn't dating
Pietr. Well, not exactly. They'd gone out for dinner, but that didn't count,
right?