Thieves In The Night Page 6

  In the bathroom he had said he owed her one, and he was going to give it to her now. “That’s good enough for me.”

  Standing in front of him and waiting, Chantal had been ready for a lot of things, but blanket acceptance hadn’t been one of them. That was it? she wondered, astonished. Good enough for him?

  “That’s it?” she said aloud, her brow furrowed in disbelief.

  “Yep, that’s it. Do you think you could patch me up now?” He turned and ambled toward the fireplace, his fingers dabbing at the antibiotic cream on his shoulder. “I know you’re supposed to let the air get to the wound and all that stuff, but I still think we should put a little gauze on this thing or I’ll be bleeding all over your furniture.”

  That’s it? She mouthed the words at his back as she returned the papers to the hope chest. Didn’t he know those were top-secret documents she’d been looking at? Of course he knew—he was the one who’d stolen them. Strangely enough, his cavalier attitude made her mad. America deserved better protection than this. What if she had been a spy, or something?

  With caution lightening every step, she followed him to where he’d dropped cross-legged on her Chinese rug. She stared down at him, but he was either oblivious of her watchful gaze or deliberately ignoring her.

  “The safety of the free world’s at stake and all you ask is one lousy question?” she blurted out. He nodded, and she shifted her hands lower on her hips. “You sure as hell don’t make much of an interrogator, do you?”

  He glanced up from inspecting his shoulder, his face the picture of calm despite her insult. “And you don’t make much of a liar.”

  “I’m a thief, for crying out loud!” The words were out before she had time to think. Oh, brother.

  “If you are, you’re a damn good one. I was there, remember?”

  “Remember? How could I forget?” Her voice rose to a strained pitch. “If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would have happened.”

  “Ah-hah! Now we’re getting somewhere.” He scooted around to face her, a gleam of victory lighting his eyes. “I wondered when you’d get to that. But don’t worry. I’ve got a plan to make amends.”

  She shot him a suspicious look. “What amends?”

  “Amends for the trouble I’ve caused you. Whether you know it or not, we’re in this thing pretty deep now. And while I’ve got a good cover and a great escape plan, your . . . uh, derriere is hanging out over a limb.”

  Her gaze narrowed another fraction of an inch. “What plan?”

  Jaz had done a lot of thinking in the bathtub—it was a great place for thinking—but the look in her eye told him to keep his thoughts to himself for a while longer. “How about if we talk about it over dinner? I’m starved.”

  Chantal’s eyes became two slits of cerulean suspicion. Jaz Peterson warmed up was proving to be as unpredictable as Jaz Peterson freezing to death in her arms. But fate could only be allowed so much rein, and it had fooled around with her long enough.

  Four

  She’d bandaged his shoulder while he ate. A little poking around, by both of them, had revealed a couple of glass chunks and no shot. He’d been a strangely detached helper, commenting on the injury and eating fried chicken as if he got blasted off cliffs every day. Even beaten, bandaged, and exhausted he radiated health, his body whipcord-lean and strong, his eyes sparkling and clear. He didn’t have the pumped-up look of a weight lifter. Rather, his muscles were well defined without excess bulk, and Chantal was having a hard time keeping her eyes to herself and not wondering how it would feel to have the power of his arms around her in passion.

  The fire was dying down and the embers were sending a soft glow over the hearth, wrapping them in a blanket of warmth, keeping out the cold of the night. Both of their brandy snifters were on the polished oak floor, next to the rug where they sat. A very cozy scene for two lovers, Chantal thought, and for a long moment, as she watched the last flames dance a pattern of light over his tawny arms, she wished that they were lovers. That there was more than one night. That he belonged to her, this stranger from fate with the clear gray eyes and easy smile.

  Crazy thoughts for a crazy night.

  “You really shouldn’t drink anymore,” she said when he reached for the brandy bottle. “Alcohol lowers your body temperature.”

  “I’m trying to deaden the pain.” He winked, and grinned that devastating grin she was becoming all too fond of. “Don’t worry, Chantal. I’m plenty warm, but I know a place where we’d be warmer.” He leaned over and filled her glass. The move pulled the pink bath towel tight across his lap and exposed a generous length of one muscular tanned thigh.

  Good grief, she thought, afraid for a second that the whole thing was going to fall off. When he shifted around to face her, she was sure of it. Her eyes widened and flashed to his face, but he either missed her concern or chose to ignore it, because he did nothing to secure the knot at his waist.

  “Mexico. The beach at Cozumel,” he continued, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his fingers over his lap. She followed every ripple of muscle down his arm. Her gaze detoured at his knee and went back up his thigh.

  “I’m sure Mexico is nice and warm,” she replied absently, thoroughly distracted from the conversation. The breathless quality of her voice brought her up sharp, and she forced her eyes back to his face. An equally distracting view, she realized too late. She compensated with a no-nonsense tone, asking, “Do you want to tell me what you’re talking about?”

  “Mexico. You, me, blue water, golden sand, a bikini. Ancient ruins, tequila.” His voice softened. “Long days and longer nights.”

  “A bikini?” She deliberately avoided the “longer nights,” easily imagining just how long those nights could get.

  “For you. I’m not shy.”

  “No kidding.” She shook her head incredulously, his plan finally becoming clear. “And I’m not going.”

  “A professional thief would jump at the chance for a little government interference,” he informed her quietly, looking up from under spiky black lashes.

  Chantal leveled her gaze on him, measuring her words carefully before she spoke. “I’m not a professional thief.” Heartbeats passed, and she waited for the silence to end.

  “You’re too damn good to be an amateur.”

  Bingo. She’d had enough. With a weary sigh she rubbed her hand over her face and looked at him over the tops of her fingers. “Are you ready to go to bed yet?”

  “You bet.” He flashed her another one of those smiles that lit up his whole face and crinkled his eyes.

  She’d walked right into that one, she silently conceded. How did he do it? Twist her around and muddle her brain? He moved faster than lightning, a speed she’d operated at more than once tonight, but he was certainly getting the best of her now.

  She cleared her throat with a small sound and said, “I’ll make this as simple as possible. You, bed.” She pointed at him, then back at herself. “Me, couch.”

  “Okay.” He half shrugged a reluctant acceptance with his right shoulder, but his come-on smile held firm. “Now, what about Mexico?”

  “I’m not running,” she said, pushing up off the rug. She didn’t get two inches before his hand covered her leg and held her to the floor.

  “Then don’t run away from me, Chantal. I may be the only chance you’ve got.” His voice was grim, his smile fading into a worried line and his eyes darkening with concern. Powerful fingers curled halfway around her slender thigh, holding her with gentle strength—gentle, but unbreakable.

  Chantal didn’t even try to release herself, the truth of what he said holding her more firmly than his hand. She knew exactly what he meant.” They had left a mess from the library to her front door, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it. Her gaze drifted to the fire, and she watched the ebbing flames flicker and die, then flicker again as they raced along the edges of the coals.

  “You’re in trouble, big trouble.” He voiced her thoughts perfectly.
“How long do you think it’s going to take Sandhurst to pick up our trail? A week? A couple of days? Try tomorrow morning. And it’s not going to be me he finds, Chantal. It’s going to be you—unless you come with me. I can offer you the same protection the government is giving me.”

  “Are you some kind of spy?” Damn, she wished she had looked at those papers.

  “No.” His soft chuckle eased the seriousness back out of the mood. “I’m strictly free-lance. Doing a favor for a friend.”

  “Free-lance what?” Questioning him was a lot better than having him dig around in her murky past.

  “Private detective. I’ve got a business, if you can call it that, in Cozumel. Tracker of wayward wives and objects of dubious value, that’s me.”

  Pure skepticism twisted the corners of her mouth and narrowed her gaze. “Since when does the government pull in a PI to do its dirty work?”

  “Since whenever it has its claws in one and needs somebody expendable,” he said offhandedly. “I used to be one of the country’s finest.”

  “You must have screwed up real bad,” she said bluntly.

  “Let’s just say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and on the wrong end of the totem pole.” That’s right, Jaz, he thought, win her over with the unvarnished truth. Two years had made the screw-up easier to live with, but only to a point—which didn’t include broadcasting his mistake to all comers. On the other hand, that disaster had led him into this one, led him into this night and to this woman. If he got on his afternoon flight the next day, he’d be in Cozumel before the sun set, and sure as hell he’d be setting himself up for a bout of sleepless nights haunted by exotic blue eyes and a golden mane of silky hair. He couldn’t desert her. His responsibility for her precarious position was one reason. The woman herself was a bigger one. She triggered feelings he’d been out of touch with for a long, long time, and he was thoroughly intrigued, with her and with his response.

  So he had a few secrets of his own, Chantal thought. Let him keep his and she could keep hers. No more should be asked of strangers.

  She redirected the conversation. “What about the police?”

  “Jimmy might have called them in on your trick, but he sure as hell isn’t going to call them in on mine.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “In a way I guess you could say I did you a big favor by bumping into you.” She gave him a look that told him in no uncertain terms he was stretching his luck.

  “Okay,” he conceded. “Maybe not a favor, but I can do one for you now.”

  “Why?” she asked. It would be so easy for him to walk away.

  Good question, Jaz thought. Damn good question. His gaze wandered from her bare feet and the pearlescent polish on her toes, to the damp blond waves curling over her lavender corduroy shirt. So many contradictions in such a small package.

  She was tough enough to pull off a complicated heist without a flicker of hesitation, step by step, with a mind like a steel trap. She hadn’t even flinched when he’d walked in on her. She had sized him up with a burning concentration he’d felt all the way across the library and then she’d taken care of business.

  Soft enough to care when he’d needed her, and even softer each time he’d kissed her. Her full lower lip had trembled beneath his, her tongue teasing the inside of his mouth and driving him just a little bit wild. Sweetness, passion, and intelligence. He doubted if he’d ever be the same after spending the night with this woman named Chantal Cochard.

  But the wariness in her azure eyes warned him that he couldn’t tell her those things, so he opted for the strictly logical.

  “Because you deserve my help,” he said. “I wouldn’t have made it without you—not on the roof, not on the mountain . . . and not in the bathtub.” A hint of a grin once again teased the corner of his mouth, deepening the crease in one lean cheek.

  She blushed at the memory and lowered her gaze. “I won’t run, Jaz. I can’t run.”

  “Can you hide?”

  She glanced up. “That bad?”

  “That bad, Chantal.” He reached out and cupped her chin in his palm, barely resisting the urge to draw her close and taste her mouth again. “Sandhurst is going to tear this town upside down and inside out looking for what I took from him, and he’s going to start on that hot trail we left. I was careful—he won’t track us to your cabin—but people like you usually have a reputation, and he’s got a lot of connections. Does he know who you are?”

  “Know me?” she blurted out. “That crook tried to steal my commission!”

  His face became very still, his voice very soft. “What kind of commission?”

  “Real estate,” she informed him, and Jaz felt his heart sink. “If it hadn’t been for Elise, he might have gotten away with it, too. But she’s a barracuda.”

  “Who is Elise?” He was almost afraid to ask.

  “My aunt, and my broker.”

  “Great.” He moaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I suppose Sandhurst knows it’s your necklace, too.” His lady was going down fast. His lady?

  “Of course not,” she snapped, her voice edged with irritation. “Besides, it’s not my necklace.”

  “Do you want to explain that?” An aching pulse was starting to beat under the fingers pressed to his temples, a sure sign the night was catching up to him.

  “It belongs to my father. It was stolen from his jewelry store.”

  The pulse eased off, and Jaz opened his eyes and stared at the shadows in his palms. “Is he the one who taught you?” In his whole career, public and private, it was one of the longest connections he’d ever made, but he had a feeling, a strong feeling. Jewelry dealer—jewelry thief. Maybe the connection wasn’t so long.

  “You’re better at the interrogation game than I thought,” she said slowly. “True confessions is over for the night, Jaz.”

  And just when he was getting his second wind. Damn.

  “Okay, Chantal. We’ll let your mysterious past ride for the night. We’ve got more important things to talk about—like the sleeping arrangements,” he said hopefully. The look she gave him dashed the last of his aspirations on that front. “How about Mexico? My flight doesn’t leave until two o’clock.”

  * * *

  Three things roused Jaz from slumber: a knock on the door, a muffled noise—which sounded suspiciously like a five-foot, two-inch body falling off a red velvet sofa—and the accompanying cry of dismay.

  They had argued until dawn, with him on the losing end most of the night. The only fight he hadn’t minded losing was the one about who got the bed. Actually, he had minded. He’d thought the queen-sized mattress was big enough for both of them. She had begged to differ, and now she’d fallen off the couch. She should have slept with him.

  “Are you okay?” he mumbled into the pillow, not quite bothering to wake up. The pillows were limp and abundant, just the way he liked them, and all of the bed linen smelled softly of Chantal. Lace-edged flannel sheets scented with her fragrance had woven her image through the shadows of sleep, making reality the less-pleasant option of the moment. He chose to continue his dreams and let his mind drift backward to the place where Chantal touched him with passion and whispered in his ear. A groan sighed from his lips.

  “Yes . . . no . . . Jaz, get up!”

  Part of his consciousness heard her struggling with her blankets, resented the intrusion, and figured she could handle them alone. He snuggled more deeply under his with an answering grunt. Mornings weren’t his best time. Half a bottle of brandy, very little sleep, and a body that felt like his rented Jeep weren’t making this one any exception, unless he was allowed to dream. She should have slept with him, he thought again. This was as harmless as he got.

  “I mean it! Get up!” The blankets came whooshing off his body in the rudest of awakenings and just as quickly came whooshing back. “Good Lord! You’re naked!”

  Jaz gave up. He grinned a sleepy grin and rolled over onto his back, discreetly covered by his once-warm, now-cool blanket
s. “That’s what I love about you, Chantal,” he said lazily. “Your keen eye for detail.”

  She pinned him with a steely glare and jerked the blankets to the foot of the bed again. Her eyes didn’t flicker from his, not once. “Get into that bathroom, and don’t you dare come out,” she ordered.

  He broadened his grin and reached for the pink towel he’d left on the bed. “Irate boyfriend?” he asked, nodding toward the door and the persistent knocks emanating from the other side. The seductive woman of his dreams was a spitting kitten in real life, a very rumpled kitten. One of her suspenders hung around her hip, her lavender shirt was only half tucked into her jeans, and her hair was wild, really wild, every silver-gold strand finding its own unique direction.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend. Now, will you—” She broke off, a simultaneous thought crossing both their minds.

  “Sandhurst!”

  Jaz jumped off the bed, almost killing himself with the effort. But he was awake. Man, was he awake.

  Chantal slammed her fist into the bedpost and shook her head with disgust. Lord, what a pair they made.

  “Don’t panic.” He grabbed her arms, the towel dangling uselessly from one hand. Give me strength, she prayed, keeping her eyes focused on his. “Play it easy. I swear to God, unless he’s a bloodhound he didn’t track me all the way here.” Laying the false leads was what had almost done him in the night before.

  “I promise,” she said through clenched teeth, “I won’t panic. Now, will you just get yourself decent and go in the bathroom?”

  An instant twinkle lit the gray depths of his eyes. “I don’t know, babe,” he drawled, a wicked grin teasing his mouth. “Is that a little panic I feel coming off of you?”