Too Wicked to Keep (6 page)

Still, he couldn't help himself from prolonging the situation for a bit longer. “The sun's up now, sweetheart. That means the rules have to change. And I happen to know that as much as I was dreaming about you last night, you were doing the same about me.”

He was guessing, of course. He'd been too caught up in his own fantasies to have picked up on any of hers. But the instantaneous blush of her cheeks told him his theory was dead-on.

The truth knocked him senseless long enough for her to scramble out from under him. Stunned, he rolled over and folded his hands behind his head while she attempted to straighten her yoga pants and zip up her hoodie.

Her skin was still pink and she was a little breathless. He supposed he should feel a measure of remorse after what he'd promised her last night, but he didn't. High from the prolonged contact of his body against hers, his blood zinged through his system and made him feel as if he could take on the world.

Or at the very least, one questionable art collector.

“So if we're not going to spend all day in bed, what is on the agenda?”

“Strategizing,” she replied, snatching up her empty mug.

From the outer room, the doorbell rang.

“Who's that?” he asked.

“Delivery. Take a shower in the guest room and stay out of sight. I don't want to explain you to anyone just yet.”

“As if you could,” he teased.

She frowned, then disappeared out the door.

Curiosity piqued, Danny followed her into the hall and found a spot that was both hidden and had fairly good acoustics to the entryway.

“Are you going to tell me why you need men's clothes and toiletries?” a sharply feminine voice asked.

“Not yet,” Abby answered. “But thanks for coming through for me. Did you do the other thing, too?”

“Of course,” the woman replied, her annoyance evident, as if the thought of her not doing something that Abby had asked was utterly repugnant. “But you need to tell me what's going on. The last time you were so secretive…”

“Yeah,” Abby said quickly.

Interesting. Danny wasn't normally so vain as to think that all conversations were about him…well, maybe he was. But in either case, this one certainly seemed to fit. He was, after all, Abby's biggest mistake. From what he knew of her life, she'd been the perfect child, the perfect daughter, the perfect student and the perfect wife. Except for the part where she cheated on her fiancé—thanks to him.

He ducked farther back into the hall. Somehow, he didn't think that inserting himself into the conversation was a good idea.

He heard the rustle of plastic coming nearer. He dashed into the guest room and removed his shirt seconds before Abby stopped dead in the doorway.

“Who's that?” he asked.

His voice popped her out of her frozen state. She scurried inside and shut the door behind her.

“My friend Erica. She lives on the Magnificent Mile, so I asked her to pick up some clothes for you—well, not
for you specifically, but for a man your size—as soon as the stores opened so we didn't have to go out in public together before we had a plan.”

“I am perfectly capable of shopping for myself.”

“I'm sure you are, but I prefer to keep an eye on you until this business is handled.” She tossed him the bag. Inside were jeans, a shirt, a sweater and underwear.

Tighty whities?

As if.

“And she did this favor for you without asking questions?”

“Just because she asks doesn't mean I have to answer,” Abby countered. “It's just the basics, but we'll pick up more later.”

“No reason why we can't plan a heist in the buff,” he suggested, handing her back the bag. He had no real objection to the clothes inside. He didn't have many preferences when it came to fashion. But he did like teasing her, especially when she skewered him with one of her dangerous looks.

Five years ago, he never would have imagined Abigail Albertini had any dangerous looks. She'd been secretly passionate and publicly malleable. But in the time since him, she'd grown a backbone lined with steel that glinted straight through her cognac-colored eyes.

He took the bag back.

“Right. No naked strategizing. It was just a suggestion.”

She groaned and marched—quietly—out of the room.

He dumped the contents onto the bed, then pawed through them to see that her friend had indeed purchased the right sizes. As he tested the softness of a dark gray cashmere sweater, the Murrieta ring caught the eastern light streaming in through the guest-room windows. He
tried once again to remove it from his hand, but it was stuck. The ring he'd been so keen to own for so long was now starting to piss him off.

He'd only met his biological father, Ramon Murrieta, once, but he distinctly remembered the moment he'd first noticed the man's ring. About five seconds into his explanation that Danny's mother had never told him she was pregnant, he'd lifted his hand to wipe sweat from his temple and the ring had sparkled green in more ways than one.

But Danny hadn't had a chance to take it. He'd dismissed Ramon's offer for a relationship. Already adopted into the Burnett family, Daniel hadn't seen any need to know more about the man who'd done nothing for him except provide half of his DNA.

At sixteen, Danny had not been interested in the history. He'd seen right away that the center stone was scratched and the gold showed signs of sloppy repair. Both then and now, the only things that kept the signet from being a total piece of junk were the brilliant black opals. But the ring had meant something special to Ramon. He turned it while he talked, as if contact gave him a measure of comfort or a jolt of courage.

From that moment, Danny had dreamed about stealing it. Not because he needed courage or comfort, but because the ring meant something to his father. He'd considered holding it for ransom or keeping it as punishment for his father's oblivious neglect. He'd considered selling it and destroying the family legacy he'd never be a part of.

As he'd done none of the above, now he was stuck with the thing.

And what was worse, he'd seen with his own eyes what had happened to his brothers when they'd worn
the damned thing. Alejandro, a confirmed bachelor, was now planning his marriage to Lucy Burnett, Danny's adopted sister and the only woman he'd ever trusted. And upstanding, reliable Michael had chucked his law-enforcement career aside to remain in New Orleans with a sexy private investigator who had a reputation for bending laws until just before they snapped in two.

And he was no better. Danny had been wearing the ring for less than twenty-four hours and he'd already spent the night in Abigail Albertini's bed without touching her once.

What the hell kind of magic did this thing have?

Determined to use the soap in the shower to coax the ring off his finger, he stripped off the rest of his clothes and headed into the bathroom, where he found a disposable razor and the toothbrush he'd scored last night from her drawer, along with a travel-size shaving cream, toothpaste and deodorant. The precision of Abby's thought processes took him by surprise. Apparently, she'd prepped the room for his use sometime before he woke up. He thought he was always ready for any contingency, but she had him beat. What she probably saw as basic hospitality and preparedness, he saw as careful attention to detail.

Maybe planning a heist with her wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe winning her back would be better.

The thought was insane.

Impossible.

And yet, Danny had pulled off unlikely heists before. His reputation for taking on the most difficult schemes and breaking through the most sophisticated security had not been unearned. And who knew? Maybe the ring would help him.

Stranger things had happened.

“S
O
,
WHO IS HE
?”

Abby cursed under her breath, then trudged into the living room. Instead of leaving quietly, as she'd hoped, Erica had planted herself on the couch, ankles crossed demurely and hands folded beatifically in her lap. She'd poured herself a cup of coffee in one of Abby's china cups and waited for her friend to dish.

Abby pushed aside her annoyance. If her best friend had sent her on such a mysterious errand first thing on a Monday morning, there was no way she'd scoot out without learning as many details as she could. She and Erica were peas-in-a-pod—two young ladies of wealth and privilege raised to be smart and capable. They'd both gone from their small, exclusive private school to Northwestern. They'd both collected master's degrees and now had low-key, but respectable jobs: Abby as an art curator and Erica as an event designer. While Erica had never married, she'd had three long-term relationships with three of Chicago's most eligible bachelors.

Although Erica disappointed her mother daily because she hadn't produced at least one grandchild by now, she was as close to perfect as Abby could stand.
Time and again, she'd proven to be an ideal friend—mostly because she didn't ask too many deep and probing questions, waiting instead for Abby to come clean on her own.

Except today.

Erica already knew Abby had a man in the house. What she didn't know was who—or why.

“He's a friend who is helping me out on a project.”

Erica's blue eyes narrowed. “I know all your friends.”

Abby grinned. “You don't know this one.”

“Do I want to?”

“No,” Abby answered, remaining standing as a not-so-subtle hint that she wasn't in the mood to chat. “But thanks for bringing the clothes. I'm sure his luggage will be delivered sometime today. Airlines.”

Erica snorted, the sound unapologetically unladylike. “What do you know about airlines? Even when you fly commercial, you ship your things to your destination ahead of time.”

“I only did that once! And I wasn't the one flying into O'Hare. He was.”

“Really? Then why wasn't Captain Brennan available to fly my grandfather to Dallas for an emergency shareholder meeting yesterday? Sucks that our families lease the same jet, doesn't it?”

Abby opened her mouth, but Erica cut her denial short with a raised palm.

“Save the excuses, Abigail. You're up to something. And since this is a rare and noteworthy occurrence, please don't lie to me about it. You're acting like you did right before your wedding, remember? All secretive and bending the truth in little ways. Please don't shut me out again.”

Guilt pressed Abby into the chair across from Erica.
They'd been close friends since high school, when she'd been a junior and Erica a sophomore. Together, they'd run a successful campaign for the top two jobs in student government. Then they'd attended the same college, a year apart, and when Abby pledged Alpha Delta Pi, Erica joined her the next fall semester. They'd spent a thousand early Saturday mornings attending teas and fundraisers with their mothers and another thousand late nights holed up in Abby's apartment drinking beer from the bottle and watching Farrelly brothers movies.

And yet, she'd never told Erica about Danny.

“I'm sorry,” Abby said. “I don't mean to shut you out of anything. I'm just in the middle of something I haven't really figured out yet.”

Erica leaned forward. “I can help.”

“I know.” Abby grabbed her friend's hand and gave it a squeeze. “And I'll take you up on it soon, I promise. But not until we have some real privacy, okay?”

She glanced over her shoulder toward the guest room. Erica followed her stare, then nodded and stood. “Okay, but call me soon. Honestly, I don't care if it's four o'clock in the morning. Whatever trouble you've gotten yourself mixed up in will be infinitely more interesting than anything I'm doing in the middle of the night.” She sighed. “Lately, even my dreams have been about tablecloths and floral arrangements.”

As a premiere party planner, Erica had skillfully put together society weddings, celebrity fundraisers and intimate dinner parties for the mayor. But for the past month, she'd been organizing an event that would rip through even the most confident woman's latent insecurities—her ten-year high-school reunion.

“Read any interesting RSVPs?”

Erica waved her hand and headed toward the door.
“First responses never come from anyone interesting. Just the same old crowd who will be showing off the same old pictures of their same old spouses, their same old little darlings and their same old winter homes.”

Abby slid her hand over Erica's shoulder. “Not that you're bitter.”

Erica screwed up her face. “Sounds that way, doesn't it?”

“Just a little,” Abby said, pinching her fingers together.

Erica's usually bright eyes darkened as she contemplated the doorknob. Abby had hit a raw nerve, something she'd ordinarily insist on deconstructing over large amounts of coffee or, later in the day, martinis.

But today, she had to put her own needs first. She had an ex-lover showering in her guest bedroom and her family on the brink of public embarrassment. Her friend was strong and capable and resourceful. Whatever had Erica off-kilter could wait until Abby had her own house in order.

“Can I ask you one question before you get back to your big secret?” Erica asked.

“Of course, honey.”

“Do you think nice men are overrated?”

Abby nearly choked. The unexpected and wholly apropos question hit her straight in the center of her stomach. “Of course they are. But for girls like us, what other choice is there?”

 

D
ANNY SHAVED QUICKLY
before jumping in the shower. Being naked—something he was ordinarily comfortable with—felt off, as if stripping down while alone was deeply and intrinsically wrong. Even while he made short work of soaping up and rinsing off, images
from his dreams filtered through his brain. They were at once disturbing and erotic. No matter how he tried, he couldn't remember precisely what fantasies he'd had while he slept, but he knew they'd trapped him and, even now, weren't letting go.

By nature, he was a light sleeper. He'd adopted the same techniques used by soldiers on the battlefield, only allowing his mind and awareness to shut down enough to rest, but not enough to be caught unaware. Unless he was holed up in a safe house where he knew no one could get the jump on him, he never allowed his brain to go far enough into REM sleep to produce powerful dreams.

But last night, he'd fallen into a deep and constraining slumber. He'd clung to the images like a lifeline, fighting to remain asleep so he could continue to hold Abby, touch Abby, feel Abby underneath him, even if it wasn't real.

While he couldn't conjure the exact images, the sensations locked on to him, even now when he was wide-awake. The only clear picture he could recall was Abby, standing over the bed in her prim, buttoned-up, satiny pajamas, her mouth close enough so that he could smell the sweet spearmint of her toothpaste mingling with the earthy herbal scent of rosemary in her shampoo. If he closed his eyes really tight and blocked out the rest of the world, he could almost remember the feel of her lips on his—a whisper of a kiss and then, oddly, the taste of a teardrop.

None of it had happened, but it had him rattled and he did not do his best work when he was halfway out of his skin.

He toweled off, dressed and then listened at the door. He could hear music playing, but no voices other than
the singer's. Abby's friend must have left, or else she was using the radio to keep him from overhearing a private conversation.

Either way worked for him. He had his own private conversation to have.

He hadn't brought much with him when Abby had made her unexpected appearance, but he did have his cell phone. He moved to the other end of the room near the window and dialed one of the five programmed numbers.

“Danny? Where the hell are you?”

Leave it to Lucy to cut to the chase.

“Chicago.”

“Chicago? You hate Chicago.”

In the past five years, Lucy had had interest from several Chicago collectors who'd wanted to hire him for jobs in the Windy City, but he'd turned them all down. He'd never told her why…and he wasn't keen on confessing now, either.

“I felt like going to a Cubs game.”

“You hate baseball.”

“I don't hate baseball.”

“Well, you don't like it enough to travel to see it. What's going on?”

“So is this what a committed relationship does to you? Turns you into a mother hen?”

“Maybe,” she confessed, not sounding the least bit doubtful, “or maybe I'm concerned because the last time you did a job without me making the arrangements, you ended up in jail for murder.”

“I was never officially charged with murder,” he corrected. “The man is alive and well and convalescing at home with his wife and grandchildren.”

“You checked up on him?” she asked, sounding a
little more surprised than he would have liked. He might be a thief and a con man, but he wasn't a coldhearted killer. He'd always taken care to avoid security guards when timing his heists. The mark of a good cat burglar, as Abby called him, was not escaping capture, but not being detected at all.

“My lawyer told me,” he lied.

“Oh,” she said. “But I still don't understand why you're in Chicago. Michael told us what you did to help him with his case in New Orleans. I thought you'd stick around there awhile.”

“Why? Michael's got his hands full, or didn't he tell you that part?”

“Actually, Alex has arranged for us to stop in New Orleans on our way to Madrid. He wants to meet the woman who, um, inspired Michael to quit the Bureau.”

Danny groaned. “Meet her or bulldoze over her? Claire's cool, Luce. Michael's damned lucky to have her.”

“You're just glad he's not a cop anymore.”

“That's a definite plus, but seriously, Michael needs some loosening up and Claire's the woman to do it.”

Lucy whistled into the phone. “Wow. Is that a romantic sentiment I hear, coming from you?”

Danny glanced at the door. Though Lucy knew him better than anyone, he'd never told her a thing about Abigail. Up until recently, she'd shared his skewed view of right and wrong when it came to moving stolen goods, but when it came to relationships, she was fairly traditional. Before she'd hooked up with Alex, she'd kept her business and private lives separate. She wouldn't understand how Danny had blurred the lines with Abby—especially since both of them had ended up getting hurt.

“I like Claire, okay? She's cool and doesn't deserve
to get grief from your fiancé. But I didn't call to talk about Michael and Claire. I need information. Are you alone?”

He heard a door shut.

“Alex is downstairs, arranging for our luggage to be transported to the airport.”

“Good,” he said. “I need you to tell me everything you remember about that job I did in Chicago five years ago.”

“You mean the job where you stole that nude and then disappeared for six months? Yeah, I remember.”

“I didn't disappear,” he snapped. “I was lying low.”

“So low even I couldn't find you?”

“Yeah, well, it was a rough job.”

“So rough you never wanted to talk about it after it was done.”

God, women could be so frustrating. Couldn't she just tell him what he needed to know without prying into his past?

“The collector who hired me, do you remember his name?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation on a straight and narrow path.

“That was the art deco piece, right? It had to have been Bosco Reese. He was obsessed with the stuff.”

“Bosco,” he said, remembering the name for the first time in years. “I haven't heard a whisper about him in quite a while. I wouldn't even know how to track him down.”

“Neither would anyone else. He's dead.”

Danny mined his memory, vaguely aware of an invitation to a funeral he'd declined to attend. Bosco Reese had been a well-known dealer in stolen art, jewels and cars. His personal interest had been in deco pieces, so he must have wanted Abby's painting for himself. But
if he was six feet under, then anyone could have gotten their hands on the portrait since.

“Do you know what happened to his personal stash?”

“I think I remember his partner holding an underground auction and moving most of his collection outside of the United States, though I'm sure some of it is back since art deco is so hot here. Wait…is that why you're in Chicago again? Something to do with that painting you stole from that woman?”

“Something like that,” he said.

“I never liked that job,” she snapped. “It never felt right.”

She didn't know the half of it.

“Can you put out a feeler, try and find out where the painting ended up after Bosco kicked it?”

“I can try,” she said, but he could hear the reluctance in her voice. When she'd fallen in love with his brother—his uptight, upstanding brother—she'd decided to go legit. Lucy had adopted a new name, a new persona, a new outlook on life and love and business. She wouldn't deny Danny anything—her loyalty ran too deep—but in her new circumstances, he was asking a lot. More than he had a right to.

“Never mind,” he said, grimacing at the ring on his hand. He'd never felt guilty for involving Lucy in his schemes before. Why now? “I'll figure it out.”

“No, I'll help,” she said hurriedly. “It's just that Alex and I are leaving the country and it might be a while before I can make the calls.”

Danny cursed under his breath. “Holy crap. He's taking you to meet his mother, isn't he?”