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International bestselling author Tess Gerritsen gave up a career as a practising physician to write full time. She draws upon her experiences to bring all the tension and terrors of her thrillers to life. She lives in Camden, Maine, with her physician husband and two sons.

Also available from MIRA® Books and Tess Gerritsen

CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT

UNDER THE KNIFE

IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS

PRESUMED GUILTY

NEVER SAY DIE

MURDER & MAYHEM

Stolen
Tess Gerritsen

This work was first published as Thief of Hearts by Harlequin Enterprises Limited in 1995.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

Published in Great Britain 2009.

MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

© Terry Gerritsen 1995

ISBN: 978-1-4089-2840-0

Version: 2018-07-18

In memory of Jum Heacock

“In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.”

—Henry VI, Part III

William Shakespeare

PROLOGUE

SIMON TROTT stood on the rolling deck of the Cosima, and through the velvety blackness of night he saw the flames. They burned just offshore, not a steady fire, but a series of violent bursts of light that cast the distant swells in a hellish glow.

“That’s her,” the Cosima’s captain said to Trott as both men peered across the bow. “The Max Havelaar. Judging by those fireworks, she’ll be going down fast.” He turned and yelled to the helmsman, “Full ahead!”

“Not much chance of survivors,” said Trott.

“They’re sending off a distress call. So someone’s alive.”

“Or was alive.”

As they neared the sinking vessel, the flames suddenly shot up like a fountain, sending out sparks that seemed to ignite the ocean in puddles of liquid fire.

The captain shouted over the roar of the Cosima’s engines, “Slow up! There’s fuel in the water!”

“Throttling down,” said the helmsman.

“Ahead slowly. Watch for survivors.”

Trott moved to the forward rail and stared across the watery inferno. Already the Max Havelaar was sliding backward, her stern nearly submerged, her bow tipping toward the moonless sky. A few minutes more and she’d sink forever into the swells. The water was deep, and salvage impractical. Here, two miles off the Spanish coast, was where the Havelaar would sink to her eternal rest.

Another explosion spewed out a shower of embers, leafing the ripples with gold. In those few seconds before the sunlike brilliance faded, Trott spotted a hint of movement off in the darkness. A good two hundred yards away from the Havelaar, safely beyond the ring of fire, Trott saw a long, low silhouette bobbing in the water. Then he heard the sound of men’s voices, calling.

“Here! We are here!”

“It’s the lifeboat,” said the captain, aiming the searchlight toward the voices. “There, at two o’clock!”

“I see it,” said the helmsman, at once adjusting course. He throttled up, guiding the bow through drifts of burning fuel. As they drew closer, Trott could hear the joyous shouts of the survivors, a confusing babble of Italian. How many in the boat? he wondered, straining to see through the murk. Five. Perhaps six. He could almost count them now, their arms waving in the searchlight’s beam, their heads bobbing in every direction. They were thrilled to be alive. To be in sight of rescue.

“Looks like most of the Havelaar’s crew,” said the captain.

“We’ll need all hands up here.”

The captain turned and barked out the order. Seconds later the Cosima’s crew had assembled on deck. As the bow knifed across the remaining expanse of water, the men stood in silence near the bow rail, all eyes focused on the lifeboat just ahead.

By the searchlight’s glare Trott could now make out the number of survivors: six. He knew the Max Havelaar had sailed from Naples with a crew of eight. Were there two still in the water?

He turned and glanced toward the distant silhouette of shore. With luck and endurance, a man could swim that distance.

The lifeboat was adrift off their starboard side.

Trott shouted, “This is the Cosima! Identify yourselves!”

“Max Havelaar!” shouted one of the men in the lifeboat.

“Is this your entire crew?”

“Two are dead!”

“You’re certain?”

“The engine, she explodes! One man, he is trapped below.”

“And your eighth man?”

“He falls in. Cannot swim!”

Which made the eighth man as good as dead, thought Trott. He glanced at Cosima’s crew. They stood watching, waiting for the order.

The lifeboat was gliding almost alongside now.

“A little closer,” Trott called down, “and we’ll throw you a line.”

One of the men in the lifeboat reached up to catch the rope.

Trott turned and gave his men the signal.

The first hail of bullets caught its victim in midreach, arms extended toward his would-be saviors. He had no chance to scream. As the bullets rained down from the Cosima, the men fell, helpless before the onslaught. Their cries, the splash of a falling body, were drowned out by the relentless spatter of automatic gunfire.

When it was finished, when the bullets finally ceased, the bodies lay in a coiled embrace in the lifeboat. A silence fell, broken only by the slap of water against the Cosima’s hull.

One last explosion spewed a finale of sparks into the air. The bow of the Max Havelaar—what remained of her—tilted crazily toward the sky. Then, gently, she slid backward into the deep.

The lifeboat, its hull riddled with bullet holes, was already half submerged. A Cosima crewman heaved a loose anchor over the side. It landed with a thud among the bodies. The lifeboat tipped, emptying its cargo of corpses into the sea.

“Our work is done here, Captain,” said Trott. Matter-of-factly he turned toward the helm. “I suggest we return to—”

He suddenly halted, his gaze focused on a patch of water a dozen yards away. What was that splash? He could still see the ripples of reflected firelight worrying the water’s surface. There it was again. Something silvery gliding out of the swells, then slipping back under the water.

“Over there!” shouted Trott. “Fire!”

His men looked at him, puzzled.

“What did you see?” asked the captain.

“Four o’clock. Something broke the surface.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Fire at it, anyway.”

One of the gunmen obligingly squeezed off a clip. The bullets sprayed into the water, their deadly rain splashing a line across the surface.

They watched for a moment. Nothing appeared. The water smoothed once again into undulating glass.

“I know I saw something,” said Trott.

The captain shrugged. “Well, it’s not there now.” He called to the helmsman, “Return to port!”

Cosima came about, leaving in her wake a spreading circle of ripples.

Trott moved to the stern, his gaze still focused on the suspicious patch of water. As they roared away he thought he spotted another flash of silver bob to the surface. It was there only for an instant. Then, in a twinkling, it was gone.

A fish, he thought. And, satisfied, he turned away.

Yes, that must be what it was. A fish.

CHAPTER ONE

“A SMALL BURGLARY. That’s all I’m asking for.” Veronica Cairncross gazed up at him, tears shimmering in her sapphire eyes. She was dressed in a fetching off-the-shoulder silk gown, the skirt arranged in lustrous ripples across the Queen Anne love seat. Her hair, a rich russet brown, had been braided with strands of seed pearls and was coiled artfully atop her aristocratic head. At thirty-three she was far more stunning, far more chic than she’d been at the age of twenty-five, when he’d first met her. Through the years she’d acquired, along with her title, an unerring sense of style, poise and a reputation for witty repartee that made her a sought-after guest at the most glittering parties in London. But one thing about her had not changed, would never change.

Veronica Cairncross was still an idiot.

How else could one explain the predicament into which she’d dug herself?

And once again, he thought wearily, it’s faithful old chum Jordan Tavistock to the rescue. Not that Veronica didn’t need rescuing. Not that he didn’t want to help her. It was simply that this request of hers was so bizarre, so fraught with dire possibilities, that his first instinct was to turn her down flat.

He did. “It’s out of the question, Veronica,” said Jordan. “I won’t do it.”

“For me, Jordie!” she pleaded. “Think what will happen if you don’t. If he shows those letters to Oliver—”

“Poor old Ollie will have a fit. You two will row for a few days, and then he’ll forgive you. That’s what will happen.”

“What if Ollie doesn’t forgive me? What if he—what if he wants a…” She swallowed and looked down. “A divorce,” she whispered.

“Really, Veronica.” Jordan sighed. “You should have thought about this before you had the affair.”

She stared down in misery at the folds of her silk gown. “I didn’t think. That’s the whole problem.”

“No, it’s obvious you didn’t.”

“I had no idea Guy would be so difficult. You’d think I broke his heart! It’s not as if we were in love or anything. And now he’s being such a bastard about it. Threatening to tell all! What gentleman would sink so low?”

“No gentleman would.”

“If it weren’t for those letters I wrote, I could deny the whole thing. It would be my word against Guy’s, then. I’m sure Ollie would give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“What, exactly, did you write in those letters?”

Veronica’s head drooped unhappily. “Things I shouldn’t have.”

“Confessions of love? Sweet nothings?”

She groaned. “Much worse.”

“More explicit, you mean?”

“Far more explicit.”

Jordan gazed at her bent head, at the seed pearls and russet hair glimmering in the lamplight. And he thought, It’s hard to believe I was once attracted to this woman. But that was years ago, and he’d been only twenty-two and a bit gullible—a condition he sincerely hoped he’d outgrown.

Veronica Dooley had entered his social circle on the arm of an old chum from Cambridge. After the chum bowed out, Jordan had inherited the girl’s attentions, and for a few dizzy weeks he’d thought he might be in love. Better sense prevailed. Their parting was amicable, and they’d remained friends over the years. She’d gone on to marry Oliver Cairncross, and although Sir Oliver was a good twenty years older than his bride, theirs had been a classic match between money on his side and beauty on hers. Jordan had thought them a contented pair.

How wrong he’d been.

“My advice to you,” he said, “is to come clean. Tell Ollie about the affair. He’ll most likely forgive you.”

“Even if he does, there’s still the letters. Guy’s just upset enough to send them to all the wrong people. If Fleet Street ever got hold of them, Ollie would be publicly humiliated.”

“You think Guy would really stoop so low?”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute. I’d offer to pay him off if I thought it would work. But after all that money I lost in Monte Carlo, Ollie’s keeping a tight rein on my spending. And I couldn’t borrow any money from you. I mean, there are some things one simply can’t ask of one’s friends.”

“Burglary, I’d say, lies in that category,” noted Jordan dryly.

“But it’s not burglary! I wrote those letters. Which makes them mine. I’m only retrieving what belongs to me.” She leaned forward, her eyes suddenly glittering like blue diamonds. “It wouldn’t be difficult, Jordie. I know exactly which drawer he keeps them in. Your sister’s engagement party is Saturday night. If you could invite him here—”

“Beryl detests Guy Delancey.”

“Invite him anyway! While he’s here at Chetwynd, guzzling champagne—”

“I’m burgling his house?” Jordan shook his head. “What if I’m caught?”

“Guy’s staff takes Saturday nights off. His house will be empty. Even if you are caught, just tell them it’s a prank. Bring a—a blow-up doll or something, for insurance. Tell them you’re planting it in his bed. They’ll believe you. Who’d doubt the word of a Tavistock?”

He frowned. “Is that why you’re asking me to do this? Because I’m a Tavistock?”

“No. I’m asking you because you’re the cleverest man I know. Because you’ve never, ever betrayed any of my secrets.” She raised her chin and met his gaze. It was a look of utter trust. “And because you’re the only one in the world I can count on.”

Drat. She would have to say that.

“Will you do it for me, Jordie?” she asked softly. Pitifully. “Tell me you will.”

Wearily he rubbed his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Then he sank back in the armchair and gazed resignedly at the far wall, at the paintings of his Tavistock ancestors. Distinguished gentlemen, every one of them, he thought. Not a cat burglar in the lot.

Until now.

AT 11:05, THE LIGHTS WENT out in the servants’ quarters. Good old Whitmore was right on schedule as usual. At 9:00 he’d made his rounds of the house, checking to see that the windows and doors were locked. At 9:30 he’d tidied up downstairs, fussed a bit in the kitchen, perhaps brewed himself a pot of tea. At 10:00 he’d retired upstairs, to the blue glow of his private telly. At 11:05 he turned off his light.

This had been Whitmore’s routine for the past week, and Clea Rice, who’d been watching Guy Delancey’s house since the previous Saturday, assumed that this would be his routine until the day he died. Menservants, after all, strived to maintain order in their employers’ lives. It wasn’t surprising they’d maintain order in their own lives, as well.

Now the question was, how long before he’d fall asleep?

Safely concealed behind the yew hedge, Clea rose to her feet and began to rock from foot to foot, trying to keep the blood moving through her limbs. The grass had been wet, and her stirrup pants were clinging to her thighs. Though the night was warm, she was feeling chilled. It wasn’t just the dampness in her clothes; it was the excitement, the anticipation. And, yes, the fear. Not a great deal of fear—she had enough confidence in her own ability to feel certain she wouldn’t be caught. Still, there was always that chance.

She danced from foot to foot to keep the adrenaline pumping. She’d give the manservant twenty minutes to fall asleep, no longer. With every minute that passed, her window of opportunity was shrinking. Guy Delancey could return home early from the party tonight, and she wanted to be well away from here when he walked in that front door.

Surely the butler was asleep now.

Clea slipped around the yew hedge and took off at a sprint. She didn’t stop running until she’d reached the cover of shrubbery. There she paused to catch her breath, to reevaluate her situation. There was no hue and cry from the house, no signs of movement anywhere in the darkness. Lucky for her, Guy Delancey abhorred dogs; the last thing she needed tonight was some blasted hound baying at her heels.

She slipped around the house and crossed the flag-stone terrace to the French doors. As expected, they were locked. Also as expected, it would be an elementary job. A quick glance under her penlight told her this was an antique warded lock, a bit rusty, probably as old as the house itself. When it came to home security, the English had light years of catching up to do. She fished the set of five skeleton keys out of her fanny pack and began trying them, one by one. The first three keys didn’t fit. She inserted the fourth, turned it slowly and felt the tooth slide into the bolt notch.

A piece of cake.

She let herself in the door and stepped into the library. By the glow of moonlight through the windows she could see books gleaming in shelves. Now came the hard part—where was the Eye of Kashmir? Surely not in this room, she thought as the beam of her penlight skimmed the walls. It was too accessible to visitors, pathetically unsecured against thieves. Nevertheless, she gave the room a quick search.

No Eye of Kashmir.

She slipped out of the library and into the hallway. Her light traced across burnished wood and antique vases. She prowled through the first-floor parlor and solarium. No Eye of Kashmir. She didn’t bother with the kitchen or dining areas—Delancey would never choose a hiding place so accessible to his servants.

That left the upstairs rooms.

Clea ascended the curving stairway, her footsteps silent as a cat’s. At the landing she paused, listening for any sounds of discovery. Nothing. To the left she knew was the servants’ wing. To the right would be Delancey’s bedroom. She turned right and went straight to the room at the end of the hall.

The door was unlocked. She slipped through and closed it softly behind her.

Through the balcony windows moonlight spilled in, illuminating a room of grand proportions. The twelve-foot-high walls were covered with paintings. The bed was a massive four-poster, its mattress broad enough to sleep an entire harem. There was an equally massive chest of drawers, a double wardrobe, nightstands and a gentleman’s writing desk. Near the balcony doors was a sitting area—two chairs and a tea table arranged around a Persian carpet, probably antique.

Clea let out an audible groan. It would take hours to search this room.

Fully aware of the minutes ticking by, she started with the writing desk. She searched the drawers, checked for hidden niches. No Eye of Kashmir. She moved to the dresser, where she probed through layers of underwear and hankies. No Eye of Kashmir. She turned next to the wardrobe, which loomed like a monstrous monolith against the wall. She was just about to swing open the wardrobe door when she heard a noise and she froze.

It was a faint rustling, coming from somewhere outside the house. There it was again, louder.

She swiveled around to face the balcony windows. Something bizarre was going on. Outside, on the railing, the wisteria vines quaked violently. A silhouette suddenly popped up above the tangle of leaves. Clea caught one glimpse of the man’s head, of his blond hair gleaming in the moonlight, and she ducked back behind the wardrobe.

This was just wonderful. They’d have to take numbers to see whose turn it was to break in next. This was one hazard she hadn’t anticipated—an encounter with a rival thief. An incompetent one, too, she thought in disgust as she heard the sharp clatter of outdoor pottery, quickly stilled. There was an intervening silence. The burglar was listening for sounds of discovery. Old Whitmore must be deaf, thought Clea, if he didn’t hear that racket.

The balcony door squealed open.

Clea retreated farther behind the wardrobe. What if he discovered her? Would he attack? She’d brought nothing with which to defend herself.

She winced as she heard a thump, followed by an irritated mutter of “Damn it all!”

Oh, Lord. This guy was more dangerous to himself than to her.

Footsteps creaked closer.

Clea shrank back, pressing hard against the wall. The wardrobe door swung open, coming to a stop just inches from her face. She heard the clink of hangers as clothes were shoved aside, then the hiss of a drawer sliding out. A flashlight flicked on, its glow spilling through the crack of the wardrobe door. The man muttered to himself as he rifled through the drawer, irritated grumblings in the queen’s best English.

“Must be mad. That’s what I am, stark raving. Don’t know how she talked me into this…”

Clea couldn’t help it; curiosity got the better of her. She eased forward and peered through the crack between the hinges of the door. The man was frowning down at an open drawer. His profile was sharply cut, cleanly aristocratic. His hair was wheat blond and still a bit ruffled from all that wrestling with the wisteria vine. He wasn’t dressed at all like a burglar. In his tuxedo jacket and black bow tie, he looked more like some cocktail-party refugee.

He dug deeper into the drawer and suddenly gave a murmur of satisfaction. She couldn’t see what he was removing from the drawer. Please, she thought. Let it not be the Eye of Kashmir. To have come so close and then to lose it…

She leaned even closer to the crack and strained to see over his shoulder, to find out what he was now sliding into his jacket pocket. So intently was she staring, she scarcely had time to react when he unexpectedly grasped the wardrobe door and swung it shut. She jerked back into the shadows and her shoulder thudded against the wall.

There was a silence. A very long silence.

Slowly the beam of the flashlight slid around the edge of the wardrobe, followed cautiously by the silhouette of the man’s head.

Clea blinked as the light focused fully on her face. Against the glare she couldn’t see him, but he could see her. For an eternity neither of them moved, neither of them made a sound.

Then he said, “Who the hell are you?”

The figure coiled up against the wardrobe didn’t answer. Slowly Jordan played his torchlight down the length of the intruder, noting the stocking cap pulled low to the eyebrows, the face obscured by camouflage paint, the black turtleneck shirt and pants.

“I’m going to ask you one last time,” Jordan said. “Who are you?”

He was answered with a mysterious smile. The sight of it surprised him. That’s when the figure in black sprang like a cat. The impact sent Jordan staggering backward against the bedpost. At once the figure scrambled toward the balcony. Jordan lunged and managed to grab a handful of pant leg. They both tumbled to the floor and collided with the writing desk, letting loose a cascade of pens and pencils. His opponent squirmed beneath him and rammed a knee into Jordan’s groin. In the onrush of pain and nausea, Jordan almost let go. His opponent got one hand free and was scrabbling about on the floor. Almost too late Jordan saw the pointed tip of a letter opener stabbing toward him.

He grabbed his opponent’s wrist and savagely wrestled away the letter opener. The other man struck back just as savagely, arms flailing, body twisting like an eel. As Jordan fought to control those pummeling fists, he snagged his opponent’s stocking cap.

A luxurious fountain of blond hair suddenly tumbled out across the floor, to ripple in a shimmering pool under the moonlight. Jordan stared in astonishment.

A woman.

For an endless moment they stared at each other, their breaths coming hard and fast, their hearts thudding against each other’s chests.

A woman.

Without warning his body responded in a way that was both automatic and unsuppressibly male. She was too warm, too close. And very, very female. Even through their clothes, those soft curves were all too apparent. Just as the state of his arousal must be firmly apparent to her.

“Get off me,” she whispered.

“First tell me who you are.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll—I’ll—”

She smiled up at him, her mouth so close, so tempting he completely lost his train of thought.

It was the creak of approaching footsteps that made his brain snap back into function. Light suddenly spilled under the doorway and a man’s voice called, “What’s this, now? Who’s in there?”

In a flash both Jordan and the woman were on their feet and dashing to the balcony. The woman was first over the railing. She scrambled like a monkey down the wisteria vine. By the time Jordan hit the ground, she was already sprinting across the lawn.

At the yew hedge he finally caught up with her and pulled her to a halt. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded.

“What were you doing in there?” she countered.

Back at the house the bedroom lights came on, and a voice yelled from the balcony, “Thieves! Don’t you come back! I’ve called the police!”

“I’m not hanging around here,” said the woman, and made a beeline for the woods.

Jordan sighed. “She does have a point.” And he took off after her.

For a mile they slogged it out together, dodging brambles, ducking beneath branches. It was rough terrain, but she seemed tireless, moving at the steady pace of someone in superb condition. Only when they’d reached the far edge of the woods did he notice that her breathing had turned ragged.

He was ready to collapse.

They stopped to rest at the edge of a field. The sky was cloudless, the moonlight thick as milk. Wind blew, warm and fragrant with the smell of fallen leaves.

“So tell me,” he managed to say between gulps of air, “do you do this sort of thing for a living?”

“I’m not a thief. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“You act like a thief. You dress like a thief.”

“I’m not a thief.” She sagged back wearily against a tree trunk. “Are you?”

“Of course not!” he snapped.

“What do you mean, of course not? Is it beneath your precious dignity or something?”

“Not at all. That is—I mean—” He stopped and shook his head in confusion. “What do I mean?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” she said innocently.

“I’m not a thief,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I was…playing a bit of a practical joke. That’s all.”

“I see.” She tilted her head up to look at him, and her expression was plainly skeptical in the moonlight. Now that they weren’t grappling like savages, he realized she was quite petite. And, without a doubt, female. He remembered how snugly her sweet curves had fit beneath him, and suddenly desire flooded through his body, a desire so intense it left him aching. All he had to do was step close to this woman and those blasted hormones kicked in.

He stepped back and forced himself to focus on her face. He couldn’t quite make it out under all that camouflage paint, but it would be easy to remember her voice. It was low and throaty, almost like a cat’s growl. Definitely not English, he thought. American?

She was still eyeing him with a skeptical look. “What did you take out of the wardrobe?” she asked. “Was that part of the practical joke?”

“You…saw that?”

“I did.” Her chin came up squarely in challenge. “Now convince me it was all a prank.”

Sighing, he reached under his jacket. At once she jerked back and pivoted around to flee. “No, it’s all right!” he assured her. “It’s not a gun or anything. It’s just this pouch I’m wearing. Sort of a hidden backpack.” He unzipped the pouch. She stood a few feet away, watching him warily, ready to sprint off at the first whiff of danger. “It’s a bit sophomoric, really,” he said, tugging at the pouch. “But it’s good for a laugh.” The contents suddenly flopped out and the woman gave a little squeak of fright. “See? It’s not a weapon.” He held it out to her. “It’s an inflatable doll. When you blow it up, it turns into a naked woman.”

She moved forward, eyeing the limp rubber doll. “Anatomically correct?” she inquired dryly.

“I’m not sure, really. I mean, er…” He glanced at her, and his mind suddenly veered toward her anatomy. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t checked.”

She regarded him the way one might look at an object of pity.

“But it does prove I was there on a prank,” he said, struggling to stuff the deflated doll back in the pouch.

“All it proves,” she said, “is that you had the foresight to bring an excuse should you be caught. Which, in your case, was a distinct possibility.”

“And what excuse did you bring? Should you be caught?”

“I wasn’t planning on getting caught,” she said, and started across the field. “Everything was going quite well, as a matter of fact. Until you bumbled in.”

“What was going quite well? The burglary?”

“I told you, I’m not a thief.”

He followed her through the grass. “So why did you break in?”

“To prove a point.”

“And that point was?”

“That it could be done. I’ve just proven to Mr. Delancey that he needs a security system. And my company’s the one to install it.”

“You work for a security company?” He laughed. “Which one?”

“Why do you ask?”

“My future brother-in-law’s in that line of work. He might know your firm.”

She smiled back at him, her lips immensely kissable, her teeth a bright arc in the night. “I work for Nimrod Associates,” she said. Then, turning, she walked away.

“Wait. Miss—”

She waved a gloved hand in farewell, but didn’t look back.

“I didn’t catch your name!” he said.

“And I didn’t catch yours,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He saw her blond hair gleam faintly in the darkness. And then, in a twinkling, she was gone. Her absence seemed to leave the night colder, the darkness deeper. The only hint that she’d even been there was his residual ache of desire.

I shouldn’t have let her go, he thought. I know bloody well she’s a thief. But what could he have done? Hauled her to the police? Explained that he’d caught her in Guy Delancey’s bedroom, where neither one of them belonged?