ItTakesaThief (5 page)

Payback is a bitch
, Damian thought as he watched her
leave. He expected her to flounce… No, that was too girlish a word to apply to
Tiffany Foster. To stomp out, perhaps. But no. Head high, spine straight, she
moved through the crowded restaurant like a queen, her stride as sinuous as her
body under him when they made love.

He did not bother to correct himself, to change his thoughts
to “had sex”.

Chapter Three

The distinctive double ring of the telephone awakened TC
from her nightmares. She glared at the bedside clock and swore. Who the hell
would call her at seven in the morning?

“Hello,” she muttered, her voice husky with sleep.

“I have them,” an exuberant voice with a quaint accent
crowed in her ear.

All she could think of was that Tony Trust, one of her more
reliable snitches, had gotten a line on Isabella’s Belt. But the voice on the
telephone wasn’t Tony’s, and besides, it was far too early in the game for any
solid leads.

“Who is this?” she said cautiously, wishing for coffee or a
cup of strong breakfast tea.

“I am crushed,” the voice said, somehow combining pout and
laughter.

“Do you know what time it is, Mr. Soria?”

“I was up half the night trying to get the theater tickets I
promised you. And I got them! For tonight, first balcony, center seats.”

TC sat up and, even though she was alone, tucked the sheet
over her breasts. “I told you goodbye last night. I meant it.”

“Of course you did, but I talked to Sir James this morning
and—”

“You what? Sir James doesn’t even get up—”

“He thinks it is a good idea for us to work together.”

“Oh he does, does he?” she said, barely restraining an
ominous growl.

“He thinks you and I should brainstorm—is that the
word?—over breakfast.”

TC ground her teeth and mentally counted to ten. When she
got to thirty, she said, “This isn’t something we should discuss in public, Mr.
Soria.”

“
Llama me Ian
, Tiffany.”

“Call me TC.”

“My suite or yours?” he asked, his voice silky smooth and
dark with innuendo.

TC discovered her senses were not immune to that voice, even
if her brain was. Or would be had it not taken a vacation. She suddenly felt
the cool sheets against her skin, the furled peaks of her nipples, the slight
moisture pooling low in her body.

“Sir James has a conference room in his offices. I’ll meet
you there at nine.”

“I shall bring scones and clotted cream.”

“Just bring coffee,” she countered. Resisting her sudden
urge to laugh, she hung up and headed for the shower.

She thought about calling Sir James and reading him the riot
act, but he might construe her tirade as overreaction. Ian’s relationship to
the Santanas was a double threat. Either he would dog her every step to ensure
she was doing her job…or he knew more about the theft than he’d told Sir James.
Either way, she needed to be careful. And she could hear her father-in-law say
in that calm, crisp, upper-upper-British-class voice, “Keep your friends close
and your enemies closer.”

Twenty minutes later, having showered and dressed in worn
jeans, a dull, light blue sweatshirt and sneakers, she noticed the message-waiting
light on her telephone. Hoping Tony Trust had called, she dialed the retrieval
code and listened with growing horror.

An unknown voice whispered, “Ian Soria is not what he
seems.”

* * * * *

“I didn’t realize you were staying at the Savoy.”

Damian had expected anger when she discovered him literally
loitering outside the entrance, not this dull indifference. He opened the
passenger door to his sleek English racing-green Jaguar, then closed it once
she had settled.

“My flat is being painted,” he lied, starting the engine and
easing the powerful car down narrow Savoy Way Place that led to the Strand and
Trafalgar Square.

Having limited his visits to London in the summer, he found
it strange to see the Square virtually empty. Only a few brave souls, rushing
through the heavy rain for the underground, shared the sidewalks with the
ubiquitous pigeons searching for one more handout. High atop his colonnade,
Admiral Lord Nelson seemed to smile at his solitude. The verdigris lions looked
grateful for the lack of sticky-fingered children who, during fair weather,
clambered over them.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, glancing at her from the
corner of his eye and noting the dark circles under hers.

“Not particularly.” Her tone was sullen, conveying her
desire not to talk. At least not to him.

Dios
, she must really be pissed if even politeness
kept her from asking how he had slept. “I thought Sir James’ offices would be
closed today, it being Saturday.”

“I have a key.”

“Good.” He had thought to drive along the Mall to Buckingham
Palace, then up to Regent’s Park. One look at Tiffany’s set chin and
straight-ahead stare ruined that idea.

What, he wondered, had happened between their telephone
conversation and now? Something must have occurred, because he would have sworn
he had wrung a laugh from her before she hung up on him.

She probably had called Sir James to complain about
Damian’s—Ian’s—demand that they work together.
Well, tough
! He had a job
to do and so did she. If she did in fact work for Sir James. Unless she needed
time alone to dispose of Isabella’s Belt. After all, she had invited him to
consider her a suspect. He slanted an appraising look in Tiffany’s direction
and decided she was simply pissed at him.

He took a more direct route, along The Mall to Constitution
Hill, by the Wellington, passing many of the foreign embassies. They completed
the ride in silence, mounted the steps to Sir James’ offices and settled in the
conference room. In silence. He put the scones and clotted cream he had ordered
from the Savoy kitchens on the conference table.

“We’ll need supplies,” Tiffany said and left him.

Looking around, he spotted the coffee pot and made himself
useful. Unlike the outer office and Sir James’ opulent lair, the conference
room was sparse, utilitarian. Still, it was far more luxurious than any room in
any police station he had ever seen. Books of various sizes and contents lined
three walls while the fourth gave way to more practical matters. A computer
station, a whiteboard and markers. Whatever got posted to the whiteboard could
be photocopied by pushing a button. Damian suspected the redoubtable Mrs.
Paddington had a lot to say about this particular technology, since it freed
her to guard Sir James and his privacy.

The carpet was an ugly gray, but serviceable, as if Sir
James, or Mrs. Paddington, expected the room would be used frequently. The
long, oval conference table looked like mahogany, but upon closer inspection
turned out to be laminate, not real wood. The chairs were covered in some sort
of worsted material. He sat in one and banged his knees on the underside of the
table. Leaning back in the chair made his back ache.

When Tiffany returned with paper plates and napkins—no
Limoges today—he poured coffee into Styrofoam cups and eyed the yellow legal
pads and mechanical pencils she laid on the table.

“There has been a new development in the case.”

She glanced up at him, but continued laying out plastic
utensils. “Are you going to tell me or make me guess?”

“Two staff members were discovered in the bank’s vault. They
had been murdered.”

Her trembling hand flew to her slender throat and her face
paled, turning so white he thought she might faint.

He stared at her hands and remembered how strong a grip she
had. Once she had accepted the inevitability of doing so, she had shaken his
hand with firmness. Had she strength enough in those slender fingers to murder
not one man but two? But he also remembered how gently she had touched him when
they made love.

“H-how were they killed?”

He shrugged and lied. “I do not know. The French police and
Interpol are keeping that information to themselves.”
But you know, do you
not?
he asked silently, remembering how her hand had gone to her throat.

“Are we going to use the whiteboard?” he asked, willing to
move on now that he had seen her reaction. Just something to add to his list of
things he knew about her.

“No. No matter how well it’s erased, it retains shadows. If
someone wanted to, and had enough time, he could figure out what had been
written. And, yes, I’m paranoid.”

“So long as you admit it,” he said in a flippant voice that
brought her gaze to his face.

“Which is more than you’ll admit,” she muttered under her
breath.

“What shall we work on first? Our suspect list or what we
can construct of the timeline?”

She stared at him as if trying to make sense of what he had
said. Then, with a sly smile, she sat in the one leather-bound high-backed
chair. She slid a legal pad and pencil toward him.

“Let’s start with the suspect list,” she said in a
take-charge voice. “At this point, it’s short.”

In a world where women were relegated to secretarial duties
regardless of their own rank or competence, Damian could forgive her the
obvious power play. Besides, he found it easier to think when he put pen to
paper. Something about seeing words on foolscap lubricated his mind.

“All right,” he said in a cheerful tone that made her frown.
Perhaps he had capitulated too soon, had relinquished his manly status too
easily. “Top of the list— Person or persons unknown.”

“Followed by Emilio Santana and his wife. And add a couple
of columns while you’re at it. ‘Motive’ and ‘Alibi.’ And don’t get your
knickers in a twist about your godparents. We—at least I—have to list them for
now.”

He grumbled, but did as she asked. “Right. The motive for
person or persons unknown is money.”

“As it is for the Santanas.” She held up her hand before he
began to tell her how wealthy his godparents were. “There are probably better
reasons, but we’ll go with the obvious first.”

“Next? Oh yes, you. By your own admission,” he added when
she stabbed him with a glare.

“Right,” she said from between her teeth. “Motive, money.”

“Sir James Foster. Same-ol’, same-ol’. Although I cannot
imagine him robbing the hand that feeds him.”

“Charles Cartierri,” she added as if conflicted, but willing
to do her duty come fire or flood.

“Why?” He made a mental note to take a deeper look at Sir
James’ friend.

“Money, of course. But… Charles has always loved emeralds.
They’re his gimmick to lure exclusive clients into his shops. Anyone, even I,”
she muttered bitterly, “can design magnificent settings for diamonds. Even the
cheapest diamonds have their own glitter that can outshine their settings. But
an emerald… It takes a special talent to ensure the inclusions add only depth
and brilliance to the setting. Only a true genius can design a setting fit for
an emerald.”

“Dios, you sound envious.”

As if startled out of a trance, Tiffany looked at him. “I
guess I am.” Sighing, she went on. “Despite Interpol’s interest, I don’t
believe the theft was an act carried out by terrorists,” she said, seeming to
tally a point for herself when his head jerked upward to reveal his surprise.

“No?”

“No.” Raising her index finger, she forestalled his
questions. “For one thing, the Belt isn’t a religious artifact that has
worldwide significance. And how many people know or care that it’s historically
valuable to Colombia?”

“And?”

She raised her middle finger, barely restraining a smile
when his lips quirked. At least she hadn’t given him the finger. “Second, were
the theft an act of terrorism, I think whoever was responsible would have
waited until the Belt was on public display—a gathering of dignitaries for the
unveiling or a weekend when common citizens and their children were waiting in
line to see it. And they’d have blown the exhibit room to smithereens. The
murder of innocents seems very important to terrorists.”

“Which brings us back to our short suspect list.” He tapped
his pencil on his legal pad.

“Three,” she went on, ignoring his comment, “the theft has
no direct economic impact on Colombia or France. Therefore, the theft was an
act of greed, nothing more.”

“Which, I think you will admit, leads us to another possible
motive. If the thief is not out for monetary gain, then he or she could be out
for revenge against…?”

“Person or persons unknown?” she suggested as if she could
see the speculation in his eyes before he lowered his gaze to his notepad.

“If you had Isabella’s Belt, what would you do with it?”

Nibbling on her full upper lip, she seemed to consider his
question. “If I weren’t interested in keeping it for myself or selling it to
some private collector for his eyes only? I’d break it up, which would
tremendously reduce its value.”

Her pause made him say, “What?”

“The Belt’s center stone, the cabochon, would have to be
broken apart, as well. Cut into smaller stones I mean. Destroyed.”

“Dios! Is that what you think the thief will do?”

“I think… If the thief is ‘unknown’ that’s exactly what he
will do.”

“And if this person is known? What then?”

She shuddered. “Then we may never know who stole the Belt or
why. The only thing we might learn—aside from the obvious—is why those poor
people were murdered.”

“What is the obvious?”

She looked at him with clear green eyes empty of any
emotion. “Because they got in the way.”

It was Damian’s turn to shudder.

A few minutes later, he found himself distracted by Tiffany
standing and stretching. Not even her baggy sweatshirt and jeans could
camouflage her sleek body or keep him from remembering every sigh, every pulse
of her hot, sweet cunt, every scream of pleasure he had torn from her.

Shit! He wanted her again. If she was involved with the
theft and murders, this might be his last chance to have her. And, by damn, he
would have her. Here. Now. On the table, on the floor. In the chair. He would
use her lust against her and his conscience be damned.

Standing, he gathered up the Styrofoam cups and paper
plates, then made his way toward the wastepaper basket near the door.
Good.
An inside lock
. He turned it, then slid his fingers down the light switch
and plunged the windowless room into total darkness.