Thieves In The Night (5 page)

Jaz slid his hand to her nape and turned her deeper into the kiss. Like a dying man taking his last breath, he opened his mouth over hers, taking every ounce of sweetness she gave. The smile faded from his face, replaced by a hint of desperation.

Chantal clung to him, savoring the taste of him and the heat coursing through his veins. Flame turned to fire under the breathless track of his tongue. Another rifle shot froze them both in mid-kiss.

“Take these,” he whispered between short kisses. “Ah, damn.” His open mouth twisted over her lips.

She felt his wince as much as she heard it. Then he was shoving his papers down her pants and under her sweater. They were still warm from his body.

“Washington, D.C., General Moore. Remember my name, Jaz Peterson.” One more complete kiss that left her feeling strangely incomplete. “Good luck.” He pulled her to her feet and helped her snap into her skis.

“Jaz.” Reluctance made her voice ragged. She reached out to touch his waist, but she was already sawing grooves into the snow with her skis.

He slipped his hand in hers. “Partners?” he asked.

Unfathomably pleased that they had put some kind of label on their tenuous relationship, she gave his hand a solid shake. “Partners.”

“Then go, Chantal. Ski like a pack of wolves is on your tail.”

She squeezed his hand one last time and pushed off. In less than a minute she had done a telemark on the switchback and disappeared into the shadows.

Jaz got to work, checking to make sure the gas tank was on the leeward side. A Swiss Army knife and a bandanna came out of his pocket, and he began cutting the cloth into two-inch strips. When they were knotted together, he stuffed one end in the gas tank and trailed the rest down the side of the snowmobile.

Searching the outskirts of the aspen glade, he found the perfect obstruction, a pair of downed lodgepole pines almost bare of branches. A flash of light to the south lengthened his strides and brought renewed strength to his arms. Sandhurst’s men were starting the switchbacks at the top of the mountain.

He felt the wound on his shoulder gape and bleed afresh as he dragged the trees across a bend in the trail, propping one on top of the other and anchoring their bushy tops together. Three more lights joined the one crisscrossing the trail.

Legs pumping, heart pounding, he raced back to the snowmobile. His first match was extinguished before the cloth lit; his hands started shaking.

“Come on, honey, don’t let me down,” he whispered. The second match took, but the flame didn’t hold past the first knot. “Dammit, there goes my safety net.”

Frantic now, he shoved the rest of the bandanna down the gas tank and pulled it out soaking wet. The crash, whine, and hollering of a snowmobile plowing into the barrier of trees jumbled up the night with confusion and sound. Jaz struck another match close to the cloth.

And then he ran like hell.

* * *

Arms and legs working in tandem, Chantal worked her way to the top of the last rise before the cut through the mountains. Her muscles were trembling, screaming for her to slow down. She ignored them. She stretched her right leg sideways and lifted her left ski an inch off the ground for a massive push-off down the other side, but a sky-rocking explosion sent her into a slicing hockey stop.

The skis dug into the snow, throwing her around. She caught herself with a hard plant of her poles and stared wide eyed, her jaw slackening in shock.

Her knees knocked together in fear and coldness. Her eyes saw the winding dance of lights closing in on the plume of orange flame and black smoke. But her heart held only one word—Jaz.

Her gut knotted in agony, and she clutched her stomach, feeling his papers.
Washington, D.C., General Moore. Remember my name, Jaz Peterson.
She had no choice.
Partners
. An incredible wave of sadness lodged in her throat and shortened her breath as she pushed off into the moonlit night.

The closer she got to home, the more her emotions overrode her physical sense of reality. Her muscles refused to work, and her mind was too caught up in shock to make them do her bidding. The ski tips crossed again and again, bringing her to her knees with arms too shaky to continue pushing her upright.

The lights of the Palmer place were the first milestone. Her own yard light beckoned a quarter of a mile up the valley.

Kick, glide. Kick, glide. The litany ran through her mind until she kicked out of her skis and gripped the stair rail leading to her deck. She stumbled up the steps, her boots sliding on the boards, the frayed ends of her gloves allowing snow to bite into her numb fingertips.

She pushed the door open and warm air rushed around her. The door closed behind her and she collapsed into a sobbing heap on the braided entry rug. Sadness, horror, and fear engulfed her senses, all for a man she didn’t know. For generations of Cochards theft had been a game, a battle of wits without consequences. But as she had the night in Monte Carlo, Chantal felt the consequences of this night to the marrow of her bones.

Curled in a fetal position, she pulled off her cap and pressed it close to her mouth to muffle her sobs. A tangle of long blond hair fell around her face and soaked up the salty tears.

When the trembling of her limbs took on gargantuan proportions, she finally acknowledged what her body had been telling her for an hour; it needed care. She forced herself up onto rubbery legs and walked in a daze to the bathroom. Soon she was slipping into a tub of steaming water, sliding deeper and deeper, until only her face floated above the burning heat.

* * *

Jaz collapsed on the top of a rise and lay still. A web of pain spread from his shoulder through the length and breadth of his body. Squeezing his eyes shut, he started to count to ten, promising to get up somewhere between eight and nine. At eight he rolled over and drew his legs beneath his torso. At nine he fell back into the snow.

Don’t do this to yourself, Jaz. Get up . . . get up . . . get up
. He held the thought, tightly.

Opening his eyes, he stretched his neck back until he could see over the top of the rise. The cut Chantal had told him about started a few yards from the bottom of the hill. He brought his chin back to his chest and searched the switchbacks. Lights still bounced through the trees, but the snowmobile fire was dying.

Just like you will if you don’t get up.

He rolled back onto his knees and willed his legs to hold him. Cradling his throbbing arm, he half ran, half fell, down the hill.

Three

Chantal sat on the edge of the bargello-upholstered wing chair in front of the fireplace, her eyes glued to the grandfather clock on the other side of the one-room cabin. A wood fire filled the home with warmth, from her living and kitchen area, to the raised dais holding her mahogany four-poster and armoire. The cabin was small, eight hundred square feet of hardwood floors and soft pine paneling, with large windows on the south, west, and east walls. Rugs of various styles were scattered around the room, and an antique red velvet sofa paralleled the moss-rock hearth. Most of the furniture had come from her aunt, whose only motto was, “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.” If Elise ever found out about tonight, Chantal thought, the merchants in Aspen would probably have a percentage rise in their gross income.

The clock chimed the half hour. Eleven-thirty.

She’d give Jaz until midnight, she decided, and then she was going after him. In the bathtub her mind had started working again, coming up with a lot of
maybes
. Maybe he was alive, maybe he was hurt, maybe he needed her. Maybe she was crazy.

The pendulum swung back and forth. Her toes curled deeper into the Chinese carpet in front of the fireplace. She lifted a warmed snifter of brandy to her lips, took a sip, and her gaze drifted to the amber liquid running down the inside of the glass. Memories glazed her eyes as the liquor pooled into the bottom of the snifter, into the past. . . .

* * *

“Drink this.” Her father’s voice was gruff with strain. He opened her fist and put the tumbler of brandy in her hand.

Rain lashed the small-paned windows of the French country home, matching the tears streaming down her face. Chantal gulped the brandy and swallowed hard. “Poppa, Paul made me leave.” She choked the words out between short gasps for air. “I didn’t want to leave him. He’s hurt, Poppa, hurt and alone on the roof of the Dubois villa.”

“No, Chantal, the police have picked him up by now. They will care for him. We can do nothing tonight without endangering your safety. When he doesn’t come home in the morning, I will call. By then you will be gone.” He gently cupped Chantal’s chin in his hand and tilted her head up. Light from the kitchen lamp sparked in her silver-gold hair. “Where are the Dubois jewels?”

“Paul kept them. He wanted to throw them off my trail, but they’ll know it was a two-man job.” Chantal grasped her father’s wrist, trying to pull some of his solid strength into her trembling body. “What will happen to him, Poppa?”

“Nothing.” Her father’s voice was low with conviction. “Paul will return the jewels and I will use my influence to convince the Duboises not to press charges. Their slate is not so clean that they cannot be convinced. None of our ‘clients’ are that clean.” He released Chantal’s chin and waved his hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “No one in Monte Carlo is that clean, except the Royal Family, God bless them all. In a hundred years the Cochards have never touched the Royal jewels.”

“And where will I go? Paris?”

“
Non, chérie
. You I will send to America, to your
tante Elise
, until this blows over. Paul I will disown, publicly, so the scandal does not interfere with our legitimate jewelry business. A few years will pass and all will be forgotten. It is the way of the world.”

His confidence did little to ease Chantal’s guilt. She shook her head slowly from side to side, hiccuping between sobs. “I am as guilty as my brother. He shouldn’t have to take all the blame. He shouldn’t have made me leave.”

“Paul did the right thing, the honorable thing. And do not worry, Chantal. I won’t let them keep my son locked up. There are favors to call in, debts to be repaid, and I will use them all to gain Paul’s release. The world is full of thieves—Dubois or Cochard—on both sides of the law.” He helped her to her feet and smothered her in a bear hug before sending her up the stairs. “Now you must do as I say. Go pack your things. I will call Elise.”

* * *

The world is full of thieves.
Chantal swallowed the last of her brandy and crossed the room for a refill. Her father was right about the thieves; he’d been wrong about everything else. The Duboises hadn’t backed down from the charges, and Paul had gone to jail. He had never revealed the identity of his accomplice . . . and he had never written to Chantal. She had carried her burden of guilt without respite for ten years.

A few years will pass and all will be forgotten.
The intimate circle of Monte Carlo’s elite had not forgotten, and the Cochards’ legitimate jewelry business had all but folded under their unspoken yet all-inclusive boycott. The final blow had come three months ago, when a group of thieves hitting the Cote d’ Azur had cleaned the Cochards out.

The tears she thought she had controlled began again as she uncorked the top of the brandy bottle. What irony, her father had written, that he, the greatest jewel thief in all of Monte Carlo, should be ruined by other thieves. But Chantal knew fate when she saw it, and one night a few weeks ago in the Hotel Orleans she had seen it wrapped around Angela Sandhurst’s neck.
The world is full of thieves.

Her father was overdrawn, underinsured, and he and Paul were on the brink of bankruptcy. Her brother’s sacrifice and her father’s belief and money had given Chantal a fresh start, a new direction in life. She could offer them no less. She didn’t have the kind of money they needed, but they had given her something that she had never lost—their skill.

She hadn’t been surprised to find her father’s best piece hanging from the neck of Aspen’s newest citizen. The older she got the smaller the world became, especially the world of the rich and infamous. No, she hadn’t been surprised by that. But Jaz Peterson . . . Ah, yes, Jaz. In his presence she had felt the hand of fate grasping her shoulder. His kiss had only tightened the grip.

With the back of her hand she wiped the tears from her face and glanced at the clock. It struck midnight, and chimes filled the room.

* * *

Jaz huddled in the doorway, shaking with cold. Gusts of wind sent snow swirling around his body.
Please, sweet lady, please.
He closed his eyes and knocked again.

A wall of warmth rushed over his face as the door opened. Unfortunately he’d been using it to hold himself upright, and without the added support he tumbled into a heap at her feet.

“Damn!” He rolled onto his back to take the weight off his wounded shoulder. His knees were splayed, his right arm cradling his left one at the waist. Glancing up, he registered the wide-eyed shock and absolute, drop-dead gorgeousness of the woman staring down at him. “Ja-Jaz Peterson,” he muttered, straining every syllable through chattering teeth. “Remember? You invited me.”

“I remember,” she said breathlessly, her sweetly feminine voice full of doubt. She clutched the door as if it were a life raft. Clouds of gold strayed from the pile of hair on top of her head. Tears tracked the high arch of her naturally blushed cheeks and pooled in the corners of her full mouth. Dark, almost black, eyebrows slanted above the bluest, wariest eyes he’d ever seen. He couldn’t blame her. She was hardly seeing him at his best—a grime-streaked, shivering mass bleeding on her rug.

“Chantal, I’m freezing to death and I need to warm up . . . n-now. Have you got a bathtub?” Lord, he hated to think about how much that was going to hurt, but what was another level of pain added to the depth of hurt he was already feeling?