Thieves In The Night Page 7
“Jaz.” She drew his name out in warning.
He dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head and, bare buns flexing, sauntered across the room. Chantal waited for the morning matinee to end before heading toward the door. Criminy, she thought, even his butt was tan.
* * *
The bathroom was huge, considering the size of the rest of the cabin, and in daylight Jaz noticed the walls weren’t white, but pale pink, a romantic contrast to the black claw-footed bathtub. The shutters were open on the frosty, small-paned window above the white pedestal sink. He smiled at the unusual placement, silently agreeing that he’d rather look at a mountain meadow than his own face first thing in the morning. A large wood-framed mirror hung on the wall above an antique vanity table and bench.
Jaz had no sooner noted the layout and closed the bathroom door, when he heard the front door open.
“Good morning, Mrs. Palmer. What has you up and about this morning?” Lord, she had a sweet voice, Jaz thought, relaxing his bruised body against the door. And she was pouring sugar into it for Mrs. Palmer, the wonderful Mrs. Palmer.
“Hardly morning, dear. It’s almost noon.”
Jaz checked his watch, a grimace passing over his face. “Damn,” he muttered. Two hours until flight time.
“Josh sent me over to check on you,” Mrs. Palmer continued, “what with all the excitement last night.”
Chantal ran her fingers through her hair, trying to shake the image of a naked Jaz sprawled across her bed, a naked Jaz parading around her cabin. She was struggling to concentrate on what Lily Palmer, a bundle of red parka and salt-and-pepper braids, was saying. Long, muscular legs entwined with her lace-edged sheets and stretching in a lazy stride were winning, hands down.
“Excitement?” she stammered.
“At first Josh thought our propane tank had blown. Or yours. He checked around outside, but there weren’t any fires in Timbers.” Timbers was the name of the area where they lived. It comprised forty one-acre lots, and the Palmers had bought the first two. They’d built their own large home on one and the small cabin they rented to Chantal on the other. Chantal held the listings on the remaining plots, thanks to Roger Neville, a real-estate developer and her aunt’s answer for Chantal’s happily-every-after.
“. . . absolutely bounced us out of bed!”
“Explosion?” Chantal repeated weakly. ‘
“Don’t worry, dear. Josh called Sheriff Lowe early this morning.” Lily patted her shoulder with a mittened hand. He should be here any time.”
Without warning, Chantal’s knees buckled, barely locking in time to keep her from hitting the floor. She would have had plenty of company. Her heart, her stomach, and her confidence had all congealed in the vicinity of her feet. Her mind raced over the night. She’d left no prints, no equipment, and no distinguishing tracks. The only clues were the rope and the snowmobile, and both belonged to Jaz.
The cherubic face of Lily Palmer crinkled in concern, the care lines and laugh lines melding into motherly solicitude. The mitten came to rest on Chantal’s cheek. “You work too hard, honey. Josh noticed your lights on into the wee hours. Them little orphans aren’t going to feel better by your wearing yourself to a frazzle. Did you eat the fried-chicken dinner I sent home with you the other night?”
“Yes, Mrs. Palmer,” she lied. “It was delicious.” No lie this time. Jaz had loved every bite.
“Such lovely, old-world manners.” The mitten patted and patted her cheek. “Well, don’t you worry, honey. Sheriff Lowe will get to the bottom of this.”
“That’s wonderful.” Her words sounded as sick as she felt. Thankfully, Lily didn’t seem to notice, and her mitten added one final pat to Chantal’s pale face.
“Well, you drop over and see us real soon, and don’t hesitate to bring your young man. Josh and I are very liberated about these things. Three grown sons don’t allow you to live in the past.”
“My . . . young . . . man?” The words dropped from Chantal’s lips in dismay, each one softer than the one before. Her stomach started churning its way up from the floor into a knot in her middle.
“Goodness,” Lily said, clucking. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But when you didn’t answer right away, I peeked through the window.”
Omigod.
Lily lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s quite handsome, isn’t he? A little on the thin side, but don’t tell him that. Men are so vain. Just fatten him up. I’ll copy off some recipes for you.”
Chantal’s hand fluttered to her breast. “Mrs. Palmer,” she said with a gasp, then had to stop to catch her breath. “Mrs. Palmer, I slept on the couch.” She swung her arm out behind her, in the general direction of the blanket-smothered sofa.
“Some nights are like that, honey.” Lily shook her head a little sadly and opened the door. “Hell get over it,” she assured the younger woman.
Chantal closed the door and leaned her head on the solid oak panel. Anyone who moved to the mountains for privacy was crazy, she thought. The fewer people per square mile, the more interested they were in each other—helpfully, curiously, dangerously interested. Lily knew everything except that the necklace and papers were in the hope chest.
It wasn’t that bad, she told herself, trying to buck up her spirits.
“Your young man can’t find his clothes.” The husky drawl drew her attention to the bathroom. “But I used the new toothbrush I found in your cabinet.”
Chantal turned around, leaning against the door for support. Her gaze flickered over the lanky body lounging against the bathroom jamb. Long after he was gone, the dusky-pink bath towel would hold memories for her. Low on his slim hips, hanging by a thread . . . Certainly she’d never worn it with such style.
Lily Palmer was wrong; he wasn’t too thin. And Lily Palmer was right; he was quite handsome, his sun-streaked hair tousled by sleep and sweeping around the back of his neck, his face lean and boyish, his eyes crinkled by the teasing smile curving his mouth. A real heartbreaker. But not of her heart.
“Your clothes are in the dryer,” she said. She’d laundered them during the lulls in their late-night—early-morning contest of wills. “I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but we’d better hit the road and get you out of here before the sheriff arrives.”
Good-bye came closer to reality, and Chantal suddenly felt she was making the biggest mistake of her life. That feeling was getting pretty easy for her to recognize. She’d had it at least a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours. Why should it be hard to let him go? Regardless, she had to get rid of him. By her estimation, he was the biggest clue in the valley.
“Kicking me out, huh?” he asked.
“ ’Fraid so, Jaz.” She pushed herself away from the door and headed for the kitchen, not giving her doubts a chance to form on her face.
“Then I’m not going to get over your sleeping on the couch last night,” he informed her with a quick wink before disappearing into the bathroom.
How did he do it? she wondered. His body was bruised, beaten, and had to hurt like hell, but he’d awakened with a smile. She hung over the sink without a smile in sight. She let the water run over her fingers, ignoring the stiffness and pain in her palms from the rope burns. When the water reached a bearable temperature, she pulled a clean dish towel off the shelf, wet one end, and buried her face into the steaming warmth. What else could possibly go wrong with her life?
A knock sounded on the door. What was this? Grand Central Station?
“Go away, Mrs. Palmer,” she mumbled into the towel. She wasn’t going to put her fight-or-flight system into gear again until she knew it was absolutely necessary. Her heart couldn’t take it. The knock came again, and with a heavy groan Chantal dragged herself back across the cabin to open the door.
The quintessence of dark-eyed, blond beauty waited on the other side.
Dumbfounded, Chantal had a hard time finding her voice. “Elise,” she finally croaked out. “What are you doing here?”
Before Chantal could get out a single word of explanation, the “guest” strode out of the bathroom.
“Chantal?” Struggling with his sweater, Jaz failed to notice the other woman watching his entrance. “You’re going to have to pin this thing, or something. You really did a job . . . Hello,” he greeted Elise easily. Chantal decided right then and there that she was going to leave the country and spend the rest of her days learning how to cope with embarrassment. She’d start in the bathroom, just in case she threw up during the first lesson.
“Excuse me.” She smiled wanly and turned on her heel.
Slightly perplexed, Jaz watched her retreat. Something was going on, something he didn’t understand. Chantal had scaled the Sandhurst mansion, faced gunfire, and held her own with him all night, but this lady had her running. Covering his confusion, he gracefully picked up the pieces of her ignominious retreat, stepping forward and extending his hand to Elise.
“I’m Jaz Peterson. You must be Chantal’s aunt.” The resemblance was remarkable, he thought, but where his lady was all sweetness and light, this lady was not. She was beautiful, very beautiful. Her face was a study in artful design, natural and applied, especially applied. High-boned cheeks were blushed with copper color. Her chocolate-brown eyes were outlined with layers of careful makeup, highlighting the contrast with her bluntly cut pale gold hair and lightly tanned face. What Jaz knew about clothes could be summed up in two words—not much. But this lady was dressed to kill, in leather and gold, real gold. The yards of fur draped over her arm spoke for themselves. He’d seen that slightly jaded look in her eyes many times on the beaches of the Caribbean, women who controlled their world with wealth and enough beauty to hold back the years.
The older, more calculated version of Chantal accepted his hand, albeit lightly. “Elise Stahl.” Her shadowed eyes measured him shrewdly, from his bare feet, up his wrinkled pants, to the mangled sweater falling off his bandaged shoulder.
Jaz knew without asking that he’d been found lacking. “Excuse me.” His own smile felt a little wan under her canny gaze. He also felt like a fool for mimicking Chantal’s retreat, but he did it anyway.
He closed the bathroom door behind him, and the first words out of his mouth were, “How long are we going to hide out in here?”
Chantal moaned. “Until I die.”
She was balanced on the edge of the glossy black bathtub, her face hidden in her hands, her toes stretched to the floor.
“Okay. It’s noon now. If she’s not gone by nightfall, we’ll make a run for it.”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
Jaz seriously doubted he was in any danger of making her laugh. He pulled the vanity bench in front of the bathtub and sat down facing her. Sliding his arms around her waist, he rested his forehead on hers, feeling the satiny texture of her skin against his, the silkiness of her hair falling next to his face.
“Aren’t you a little old to be explaining your love life?” he asked, confusion apparent in every word.
“I don’t have a love life,” she mumbled.
Now they were getting somewhere. “What a coincidence. Me neither. Maybe we should team up.”
“Oh, Jaz.” She slowly wound her arms around his neck, burrowing her face into his good shoulder. Her soft breath blew across his nape and sent a heated shiver down his spine. “What am I going to do?”
A few possibilities crossed Jaz’s mind, all but one of them unmentionable in her current state of distress. Controlling some very strong instincts he said only, “Come with me.”
Her fingers tunneled into his hair, and his control melted. He opened his mouth low on her neck, under the collar of her shirt, and nuzzled the tender skin there. “Come with me, Chantal,” he murmured.
She gently forced his head back, her eyes luminous and sad. “I’m never going to be able to explain you.” The words were whispered urgently, as if they held more importance than he could possibly imagine. Which they did.
“That wasn’t the question, babe,” he said dryly, a self-mocking grin twitching his mouth. She definitely wasn’t with him on this latest merger attempt.
“Elise is going to expect an explanation, and I can’t tell her the truth.”
“Yeah, because you’re a lousy liar. Why don’t you comb your hair and fix your clothes and let me explain myself? I’ve had a lot of practice.” Years of it, he thought ruefully, explaining himself to tougher numbers than the divine Ms. Stahl.
“Trust me,” he continued when she looked doubtful. “I can handle this problem. Then, later, you can tell me what the problem is. Okay?” His eyebrows rose hopefully.
He was darn-near irresistible when he looked at her like that, Chantal thought. A hint of a smile curved her mouth. How was she ever going to explain Elise to Jaz, let alone Jaz to Elise? He didn’t know the weak-willed, subservient Chantal, and she’d just as soon not have told him. It took her an instant to realize how strange the thought was. Jaz was leaving. She wouldn’t be explaining anything to him—except a good-bye he wouldn’t accept. Along came another one of those pangs of regret, tightening her heart and refusing to be ignored.
“Just keep it simple, Jaz. I’ll be out in a minute.” Her natural survival instincts were reasserting themselves. If she couldn’t lie her way out of this faux pas, she’d try bluffing, but not without some serious preparation.
“That’s the spirit,” he said. “Now, about this sweater . . .”
She slipped off the bathtub and hustled up some safety pins, putting him back together with a recommendation that he wear his jacket for a more respectable look.
“I don’t think she’s going to be impressed by my jean jacket, even if it does have a sheepskin collar,” he said wryly.
“I can guarantee it.” Chantal gave his sweater one last tug before surveying her handiwork. He looked like what he was, a refugee from disaster. “But wear it anyway.”
“You got it, partner.” He rose slowly from the bench, his hands trailing up either side of her body, a broad grin crinkling his eyes. “How about a little fooling around before I throw myself to the lions? Might be your last chance,” he warned in a low, teasing voice.
Once again, without any bidding, the image of Jaz lying on her bed returned. Chantal swallowed hard and very gently unpried his fingers from her hips. The man was incorrigible. The man was too much. The man was getting to her. The sooner she got rid of him the better . . . and the worse.
“Just keep it simple,” she advised lightly, keeping her incomprehensible sadness to herself.
She’d no sooner gotten his hands off her body when they cupped her face. Incorrigible.
“They have a word for that, Chantal.” He tilted her head back, and she found herself gazing into river-clear eyes.
“Word?”
“Kiss,” he drawled. “Keep It Simple Stupid.” His mouth turned up at one corner, and he lowered his head to hers.
“I never said stu—” The word disappeared as his lips claimed hers, softly, tenderly, then much too quickly released her.
Chantal didn’t watch him leave. Her eyes had drifted closed with the returning pleasure of his touch, but unfortunately she couldn’t help but overhear his opening statement.
“Chantal will be out in a minute. She’s just getting off to a rough start this morning. We had a . . . long night.” His tone hinted at more than the length of the night, and without actually seeing him she knew exactly which smile he was turning on Elise—the half-crooked, half-teasing one that usually came with a quick lift of his eyebrows. She was going to throttle him.
But first she had to throw herself together. Rummaging through h
er vanity drawer, she grabbed blushes, shadows, and glosses. She snapped up a long, curved barrette and stuck it in her mouth, using her hands to twist and curl her hair on top of her head in a softly messy Gibson. The barrette went in one side and a number of bobby pins went in all around. She brushed her teeth and stripped off her clothes at the same time, spitting out toothpaste while she shimmied out of her jeans.
A slip slid down her body and a pair of hose slid up. Her fingers flipped through the hangers in the closet until she found the perfect outfit, a mid-calf white angora sheath with a cowl neck.
“Damn,” she muttered. She should have done her hair last.
Carefully she eased the dress over her head, then smoothed it over her hips. A pair of slant heeled chamois boots added the inches she needed to carry off the length. She cinched a matching chamois belt with a silver cowboy buckle around her waist, tucking the belt end under the side.
Two smears of mauve eye shadow, eight or nine strokes of mascara, and a dusting of blush later, she was almost ready to go. She dipped her finger into the gloss pot and rubbed it over her lips. For the final touch she chose silver jewelry, a squash-blossom necklace and a pair of sterling feathers that swept up around her ears rather than dangled.
Now all she needed was a deep breath, which she took, and an ounce of courage, which she found. Steeling herself for the worst, she opened the door and marched into the fray.
But there was no fray. The bed had been made, the blankets from the couch were neatly folded at its foot, and the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee competed with the pine scent coming from the crackling fire. Chantal knew her aunt hadn’t accomplished any of this; Elise hadn’t made a bed in twenty years. She shot a confused glance at Jaz, expecting a self-satisfied grin and maybe a teasing wink. That was not what she found.
He stood at the edge of the kitchen, a slightly dazed look softening the lean angles of his face and clouding the shaded gray depths of his eyes. Her confusion melted into bewitchment under the lingering track of his gaze as it roamed over her body. Curve by curve she felt him burn her image into a private place in his mind. Then his eyes met hers, capturing them with a promise, and she knew it was more than her image this stranger was stealing. It was her heart. Second after pulsing second he was stealing her heart into . . .