Thieves In The Night (8 page)

“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 blankets. “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?”

“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. ‘