Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen Page 2

  This was just wonderful. They’d have to take numbers to see whose turn it was to break in next. This was one hazard she hadn’t anticipated-an encounter with a rival thief. An incompetent one, too, she thought in disgust as she heard the sharp clatter of outdoor pottery, quickly stilled. There was an intervening silence. The burglar was listening for sounds of discovery. Old Whitmore must be deaf, thought Clea, if he didn’t hear that racket.

  The balcony door squealed open.

  Clea retreated farther behind the wardrobe. What if he discovered her? Would he attack? She’d brought nothing with which to defend herself.

  She winced as she heard a thump, followed by an irritated mutter of “Damn it all!”

  Oh, Lord. This guy was more dangerous to himself than to her.

  Footsteps creaked closer.

  Clea shrank back, pressing hard against the wall. The wardrobe door swung open, coming to a stop just inches from her face. She heard the clink of hangers as clothes were shoved aside, then the hiss of a drawer sliding out. A flashlight flicked on, its glow spilling through the crack of the wardrobe door. The man muttered to himself as he rifled through the drawer, irritated grumblings in the queen’s best English.

  “Must be mad. That’s what I am, stark raving. Don’t know how she talked me into this…”

  Clea couldn’t help it; curiosity got the better of her. She eased forward and peered through the crack between the hinges of the door. The man was frowning down at an open drawer. His profile was sharply cut, cleanly aristocratic. His hair was wheat blond and still a bit ruffled from all that wrestling with the wisteria vine. He wasn’t dressed at all like a burglar. In his tuxedo jacket and black bow tie, he looked more like some cocktail-party refugee.

  He dug deeper into the drawer and suddenly gave a murmur of satisfaction. She couldn’t see what he was removing from the drawer. Please, she thought. Let it not be the Eye of Kashmir. To have come so close and then to lose it…

  She leaned even closer to the crack and strained to see over his shoulder, to find out what he was now sliding into his jacket pocket. So intently was she staring, she scarcely had time to react when he unexpectedly grasped the wardrobe door and swung it shut. She jerked back into the shadows and her shoulder thudded against the wall.

  There was a silence. A very long silence.

  Slowly the beam of the flashlight slid around the edge of the wardrobe, followed cautiously by the silhouette of the man’s head.

  Clea blinked as the light focused fully on her face. Against the glare she couldn’t see him, but he could see her. For an eternity neither of them moved, neither of them made a sound.

  Then he said, “Who the hell are you?”

  The figure coiled up against the wardrobe didn’t answer. Slowly Jordan played his torchlight down the length of the intruder, noting the stocking cap pulled low to the eyebrows, the face obscured by camouflage paint, the black turtleneck shirt and pants.

  “I’m going to ask you one last time,” Jordan said. “Who are you?”

  He was answered with a mysterious smile. The sight of it surprised him. That’s when the figure in black sprang like a cat. The impact sent Jordan staggering backward against the bedpost. At once the figure scrambled toward the balcony. Jordan lunged and managed to grab a handful of pant leg. They both tumbled to the floor and collided with the writing desk, letting loose a cascade of pens and pencils. His opponent squirmed beneath him and rammed a knee into Jordan ’s groin. In the onrush of pain and nausea, Jordan almost let go. His opponent got one hand free and was scrabbling about on the floor. Almost too late Jordan saw the pointed tip of a letter opener stabbing toward him.

  He grabbed his opponent’s wrist and savagely wrestled away the letter opener. The other man struck back just as savagely, arms flailing, body twisting like an eel. As Jordan fought to control those pummeling fists, he snagged his opponent’s stocking cap.

  A luxurious fountain of blond hair suddenly tumbled out across the floor, to ripple in a shimmering pool under the moonlight. Jordan stared in astonishment.

  A woman.

  For an endless moment they stared at each other, their breaths coming hard and fast, their hearts thudding against each other’s chests.

  A woman.

  Without warning his body responded in a way that was both automatic and unsuppressibly male. She was too warm, too close. And very, very female. Even through their clothes, those soft curves were all too apparent. Just as the state of his arousal must be firmly apparent to her.

  “Get off me,” she whispered.

  “First tell me who you are.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll-I’ll-”

  She smiled up at him, her mouth so close, so tempting he completely lost his train of thought.

  It was the creak of approaching footsteps that made his brain snap back into function. Light suddenly spilled under the doorway and a man’s voice called, “What’s this, now? Who’s in there?”

  In a flash both Jordan and the woman were on their feet and dashing to the balcony. The woman was first over the railing. She scrambled like a monkey down the wisteria vine. By the time Jordan hit the ground, she was already sprinting across the lawn.

  At the yew hedge he finally caught up with her and pulled her to a halt. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded.

  “What were you doing in there?” she countered.

  Back at the house the bedroom lights came on, and a voice yelled from the balcony, “Thieves! Don’t you come back! I’ve called the police!”

  “I’m not hanging around here,” said the woman, and made a beeline for the woods.

  Jordan sighed. “She does have a point.” And he took off after her.

  For a mile they slogged it out together, dodging brambles, ducking beneath branches. It was rough terrain, but she seemed tireless, moving at the steady pace of someone in superb condition. Only when they’d reached the far edge of the woods did he notice that her breathing had turned ragged.

  He was ready to collapse.

  They stopped to rest at the edge of a field. The sky was cloudless, the moonlight thick as milk. Wind blew, warm and fragrant with the smell of fallen leaves.

  “So tell me,” he managed to say between gulps of air, “do you do this sort of thing for a living?”

  “I’m not a thief. If that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You act like a thief. You dress like a thief.”

  “I’m not a thief.” She sagged back wearily against a tree trunk. “Are you?”

  “Of course not!” he snapped.

  “What do you mean, of course not? Is it beneath your precious dignity or something?”

  “Not at all. That is-I mean-” He stopped and shook his head in confusion. “What do I mean?”

  “I haven’t the faintest,” she said innocently.

  “I’m not a thief,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I was…playing a bit of a practical joke. That’s all.”

  “I see.” She tilted her head up to look at him, and her expression was plainly skeptical in the moonlight. Now that they weren’t grappling like savages, he realized she was quite petite. And, without a doubt, female. He remembered how snugly her sweet curves had fit beneath him, and suddenly desire flooded through his body, a desire so intense it left him aching. All he had to do was step close to this woman and those blasted hormones kicked in.

  He stepped back and forced himself to focus on her face. He couldn’t quite make it out under all that camouflage paint, but it would be easy to remember her voice. It was low and throaty, almost like a cat’s growl. Definitely not English, he thought. American?

  She was still eyeing him with a skeptical look. “What did you take out of the wardrobe?” she asked. “Was that part of the practical joke?”

  “You…saw that?”

  “I did.” Her chin came up squarely in challenge. “Now convince me it was all a prank.”

  Sighing, he reached under his jacket. At once she je
rked back and pivoted around to flee. “No, it’s all right!” he assured her. “It’s not a gun or anything. It’s just this pouch I’m wearing. Sort of a hidden backpack.” He unzipped the pouch. She stood a few feet away, watching him warily, ready to sprint off at the first whiff of danger. “It’s a bit sophomoric, really,” he said, tugging at the pouch. “But it’s good for a laugh.” The contents suddenly flopped out and the woman gave a little squeak of fright. “See? It’s not a weapon.” He held it out to her. “It’s an inflatable doll. When you blow it up, it turns into a naked woman.”

  She moved forward, eyeing the limp rubber doll. “Anatomically correct?” she inquired dryly.

  “I’m not sure, really. I mean, er…” He glanced at her, and his mind suddenly veered toward her anatomy. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t checked.”

  She regarded him the way one might look at an object of pity.

  “But it does prove I was there on a prank,” he said, struggling to stuff the deflated doll back in the pouch.

  “All it proves,” she said, “is that you had the foresight to bring an excuse should you be caught. Which, in your case, was a distinct possibility.”

  “And what excuse did you bring? Should you be caught?”

  “I wasn’t planning on getting caught,” she said, and started across the field. “Everything was going quite well, as a matter of fact. Until you bumbled in.”

  “What was going quite well? The burglary?”

  “I told you, I’m not a thief.”

  He followed her through the grass. “So why did you break in?”

  “To prove a point.”

  “And that point was?”

  “That it could be done. I’ve just proven to Mr. Delancey that he needs a security system. And my company’s the one to install it.”

  “You work for a security company?” He laughed. “Which one?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “My future brother-in-law’s in that line of work. He might know your firm.”

  She smiled back at him, her lips immensely kissable, her teeth a bright arc in the night. “I work for Nimrod Associates,” she said. Then, turning, she walked away.

  “Wait. Miss-”

  She waved a gloved hand in farewell, but didn’t look back.

  “I didn’t catch your name!” he said.

  “And I didn’t catch yours,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  He saw her blond hair gleam faintly in the darkness. And then, in a twinkling, she was gone. Her absence seemed to leave the night colder, the darkness deeper. The only hint that she’d even been there was his residual ache of desire.

  I shouldn’t have let her go, he thought. I know bloody well she’s a thief. But what could he have done? Hauled her to the police? Explained that he’d caught her in Guy Delancey’s bedroom, where neither one of them belonged?

  With a weary shake of his head, he turned and began the long tramp to his car, parked a half mile away. He’d have to hurry back to Chetwynd. It was getting late and he’d be missed at the party.

  At least his mission was accomplished; he’d stolen Veronica’s letters back. He’d hand them over to her, let her lavish him with thanks for saving her precious hide. After all, he had saved her hide, and he was bloody well going to tell her so.

  And then he was going to strangle her.

  Two

  The party at Chetwynd was still in full swing. Through the ballroom windows came the sounds of laughter and violin music and the cheery clink of champagne glasses. Jordan stood in the driveway and considered his best mode of entry. The back stairs? No, he’d have to walk through the kitchen, and the staff would certainly find that suspicious. Up the trellis to Uncle Hugh’s bedroom? Definitely not; he’d done enough tangling with vines for the night. He’d simply waltz in the front door and hope the guests were too deep in their cups to notice his disheveled state.

  He straightened his bow tie and brushed the twigs off his jacket. Then he let himself in the front door.

  To his relief, no one was in the entrance hall. He tiptoed past the ballroom doorway and started up the curving staircase. He was almost to the second-floor landing when a voice called from below.

  “Jordie, where on earth have you been?”

  Suppressing a groan, Jordan turned and saw his sister, Beryl, standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was looking flushed and lovelier than ever, her black hair swirled elegantly atop her head, her bared shoulders lustrous above the green velvet gown. Being in love certainly agreed with her. Since her engagement to Richard Wolf a month ago, Jordan had seldom seen her without a smile on her face.

  At the moment she was not smiling.

  She stared at his wrinkled jacket, his soiled trouser legs and muddy shoes. She shook her head. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I’ll ask anyway. What happened to you?”

  He turned and continued up the stairs. “I went out for a walk.”

  “That’s all?” She bounded up the steps after him in a rustle of skirts and stockings. “First you make me invite that horrid Guy Delancey-who, by the way, is drinking like a fish and going ’round pinching ladies’ bottoms. Then you simply vanish from the party. And you reappear looking like that.”

  He went into his bedroom.

  She followed him.

  “It was a long walk,” he said.

  “It’s been a long party.”

  “Beryl.” He sighed, turning to face her. “I really am sorry about Guy Delancey. But I can’t talk about it right now. I’d be betraying a confidence.”

  “I see.” She went to the door, then glanced back. “I can keep a secret, you know.”

  “So can I.” Jordan smiled. “That’s why I’m not saying a thing.”

  “Well, you’d best change your clothes, then. Or someone’s going to ask why you’ve been climbing wisteria vines.” She left, shutting the door behind her.

  Jordan looked down at his jacket. Only then did he notice the leaf, poking like a green flag from his buttonhole.

  He changed into a fresh tuxedo, combed the twigs from his hair and went downstairs to rejoin the party.

  Though it was past midnight, the champagne was still flowing and the scene in the ballroom was as jolly as when he’d left it an hour and a half earlier. He swept up a glass from a passing tray and eased back into circulation. No one mentioned his absence; perhaps no one had noticed it. He worked his way across the room to the buffet table, where a magnificent array of hors d’oeuvres had been laid out, and he helped himself to the Scottish salmon. Breaking and entering was hard work, and he was famished.

  A whiff of perfume, a hand brushing his arm, made him turn. It was Veronica Cairncross. “Well?” she whispered anxiously. “How did it go?”

  “Not exactly clockwork. You were wrong about the butler’s night off. There was a manservant in the house. I could have been caught.”

  “Oh, no,” she moaned softly. “Then you didn’t get them…”

  “I got them. They’re upstairs.”

  “You did?” A smile of utter happiness burst across her face. “Oh, Jordie!” She leaned forward and threw her arms around him, smearing salmon on his tuxedo. “You saved my life.”

  “I know, I know.” He suddenly spotted Veronica’s husband, Oliver, moving toward them. At once Jordan extricated himself from her embrace. “Ollie’s coming this way,” he whispered.

  “Is he?” Veronica turned and automatically beamed her thousand-watt smile at Sir Oliver. “Darling, there you are! I lost track of you.”

  “You don’t seem to be missing me much,” grunted Sir Oliver. He frowned at Jordan, as though trying to divine his real intentions.

  Poor fellow, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica was deserving of pity. Sir Oliver was a decent enough fellow, a descendant of the excellent Cairncross family, manufacturers of tea biscuits. Though twenty years older than his wife, and bald as a cue ball, he’d managed to win Ve
ronica’s hand-and to keep that hand well studded with diamonds.

  “It’s getting late,” said Oliver. “Really, Veronica, shouldn’t we be going home?”

  “So soon? It’s just past midnight.”

  “I have that meeting in the morning. And I’m quite tired.”

  “Well, I suppose we’ll have to be going, then,” Veronica said with a sigh. She smiled slyly at Jordan. “I think I’ll sleep well tonight.”

  Just see that it’s with your husband, thought Jordan with a shake of his head.

  After the Cairncrosses had departed, Jordan glanced down and saw the greasy sliver of salmon clinging to his lapel. Drat, another tuxedo bites the dust. He wiped away the mess as best he could, picked up his glass of champagne and waded back into the crowd.

  He cornered his future brother-in-law, Richard Wolf, near the musicians. Wolf was looking happy and dazed-just the way one expected a prospective bridegroom to look.

  “So how’s our guest of honor holding up?” asked Jordan.

  Richard grinned. “Giving the old handshake a rest.”

  “Good idea to pace oneself.” Jordan ’s gaze shifted toward the source of particularly raucous laughter. It was Guy Delancey, clearly well soused and leaning close to a buxom young thing. “Unfortunately,” Jordan observed, “not everyone here believes in pacing himself.”

  “No kidding,” said Wolf, also looking at Delancey. “You know, that fellow tried to put the make on Beryl tonight. Right under my nose.”

  “And did you defend her honor?”

  “Didn’t have to,” said Richard with a laugh. “She does a pretty good job of defending herself.”

  Delancey’s hand was now on Miss Buxom’s lower back. Slowly that hand began to slide down toward dangerous terrain.

  “What do women see in a guy like that, anyway?” asked Richard.

  “Sex appeal?” said Jordan. Delancey did, after all, have rather dashing Spanish looks. “Who knows what attracts women to certain men?” Lord only knew what had attracted Veronica Cairncross to Guy. But she was rid of him now. If she was sensible, she’d damn well stay on the straight and narrow.