About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author NANCY WARREN lives in the Pacific Northwest where her hobbies include walking her border collie in the rain and searching out unusual jewellery. She’s the author of more than thirty novels and novellas and has won numerous awards. Visit her at www.nancywarren.net.

This is for my readers.

Thank you for your kind messages

and for reading the books I love to write.

With love, Nancy

Dear Reader,

What is it about a thief hero that we love so much? Is it that he will take what he wants without asking—and that just might be the heroine? Is it that he’s a man who lives life on his own terms and makes his own rules? Of course, the thief hero is not some thug who hits little old ladies and steals their purses. No. Our kind of thief would risk his life to protect that little old lady and make sure she got her purse back. He’s elegant, smooth, only takes things from not very nice people who can afford to lose the stuff. He’s a pro. He’s Cary Grant in It Takes a Thief, he’s Robert Wagner in To Catch a Thief, he’s Pierce Brosnan in The Thomas Crown Affair.

He is, in a word, dreamy. Tough, smart, a born rule-breaker, and yet the right woman can tame him. Mmmm. Too Hot to Handle is my first attempt at writing a thief hero. I’ve always wanted to and never had the story. Until now.

I hope you enjoy Lexy and Charlie as much as I did. As always, you can come visit me at www.nancywarren.net.

Happy reading,

Nancy Warren

Too Hot to Handle

Nancy Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Ninteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Copyright

1

LEXY DRAKE LOVED CONTRASTS. Delicate with bold, hot colors with cold, new mixed with old.

Hard rock music played as she peered through the binocular magnifier and looped a string of molten gold with infinite care around a ruby.

She loved every one of the creations that were slowly making her rich—this one a pair of wedding rings for a young couple who’d come to her with his grandmother’s rings and a brooch that had been in her family so long no one knew its provenance.

Lexy would transform the old and forgotten into the new and now. It was the best kind of recycling, combining art, family history and love.

She worked alone, which was how she liked it. But never in silence. Her work might be delicate but her music provided much-needed contrast. Hard-driving rock and roll hammered the air around her. She’d have preferred to let the music reverberate off the walls, but since her tiny studio was tucked behind her SoHo store, she kept the volume low.

With the metal soft, she had a little time to bend it to her will, but only a little. With a final twist, she had the look she wanted; a bold swirl of gold twining around a ruby.

A sudden prickling at the back of her neck told her she was no longer alone.

She turned sharply in time to surprise a man standing in the doorway. The way his gaze suddenly rose, she suspected she’d been shaking her booty in time to the music and her latest customer had stopped to watch her swaying hips.

He didn’t look at all embarrassed to have been caught staring at her gyrations. If anything he appeared—interested—that would have to be the word.

“There’s a salesclerk out front if you need help.” It was rare for a customer to bumble back here to her private work space, but it happened.

“She’s busy. So I followed the music.”

“Oh.” She picked up the remote and punched down the volume on her iPod. “I should hire more staff now we’re getting so busy, but I haven’t got around to it. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s fascinating to watch a master craftsman at work.” He spoke in that perma-bored drawl with the crisp inflections she’d come to associate with the rich. She was pretty sure he’d been studying her ass—not her master craftsman hands—but he was a potential customer so she didn’t call him on it.

Probably a lucrative customer, too. His handmade suit and shiny leather loafers screamed Daddy owns a bank, while his tie had one of those crests from a fancy Ivy League school. She could never keep them straight, wasn’t interested enough to bother.

“I’m Charles Pendegraff III,” he told her in that snooty tone, holding out his hand to shake hers.

“And I’m Alexandra Drake. Lexy.” An imp inside her who would probably make sure she ended up broke, added, “The one and only.”

His gaze sharpened on hers and she was struck by the gleam of powerful intelligence behind the laziness. The impression was gone in a second. He said, “I see you’re working on a ring. I’m thinking of having one commissioned, myself. Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Sure.” He had money to burn and she had self-defense skills that would flatten him in a New York minute if he tried anything. He strolled toward her and she figured he might be rich, but he wasn’t idle. When he moved, his slacks molded around powerful thighs and as the blazer shifted she got the impression of a broad, muscular chest.

She loved contrasts and he seemed to have enough to be interesting. The lazy speaking voice was at odds with the sharp green eyes; the soft manicured hands didn’t match the hard planes of his face.

And when he moved closer she felt the punch of his forceful sexuality.

Wowza.

“How did you hear about my studio?” she asked him. She nearly always started with a little market research and in this case a chance to distract her from the instant and powerful attraction she was experiencing.

“One of the fellows I play polo with, Jeremy Thurston, had you design an amulet for his mother. I bumped into her when she was wearing it at one of those tedious fundraisers. She was dull. The bracelet was stunning.”

“Thanks.” She remembered the piece, of course. She remembered them all.

“So, I’d heard of you, but I hadn’t imagined you’d be so young. And somehow one never imagines a jeweler as sexy, now why is that?”

“Oh, well …” She could not think of a thing to say. Lexy was rarely thrown off her stride, and getting hit on wasn’t a completely foreign experience, so to be tongue-tied in front of this stranger was infuriating. But then she rarely felt the punch of attraction quite this strongly. And never from a guy with a number after his name.

No wonder she was speechless.

“Let me show you what I’m doing here,” she said, deciding to ignore the sexy comment and reaching a hand toward the design she’d penned. “I’m combining elements—antique gold, a splash of platinum, those tiny rubies and the diamond solitaire, it’s sort of my signature, you see—”

She stopped when he suddenly reached for her hand, taking it in his. “You’ve hurt yourself,” he said, pointing to a red patch on her index finger.

“Oh, that’s nothing, I burned myself on the soldering iron. I got careless.”

She tried to pull away from the intimate warmth of her hand resting in his, but with a strength that surprised her, he prevented her. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”

“Yes, but I can’t have cream or bandages on my fingers. I need them to do my work.”

His gaze rose to meet hers and she thought he had the most amazing eyes she’d ever seen. “Then I’ll use an old home remedy of my grandmother’s.” His words licked at her, soft, caressing. Intimate. “I’ll kiss it better.”

Her hand fluttered in his. She felt it, knew he must have felt the instinctive movement, too; she was completely annoyed by her reaction, but she didn’t yank her hand away, either. She watched him raise her fingers slowly to his lips. Felt the lightest whisper of a kiss land on the sore spot and then he returned her hand to the worktable.

“I—um.” She completely forgot what she was going to say.

He glanced through her magnifier at the ring. “This is exquisite.”

“Thank you. What kind of a ring are you looking for, Mr. Pendegraff?”

“It’s Charlie. And I need an engagement ring.”

She blinked. “An engagement ring?”

“Yes.” He raised his head and glanced at her. His green eyes were like cloudy emeralds, with too many occlusions to make them gemstone worthy, but it was the dark lines, the faults that made them so magnetic.

“You’re getting married?”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t believe the balls of this man. He was kissing the fingers of the woman he wanted to design his wedding rings?

But then she reminded herself of one of her mother’s favorite sayings. “The rich have different rules than the rest of us.”

That was why she stayed away from them.

“Penelope and I are getting married in September. That’s six months from now. Lots of time.”

“I see.” Ice coated her tone. “Well, if you’d like to come back out front, I’ll show you what’s in stock. All the designs are original, of course.” Lexy was a certified gemologist and she’d apprenticed with a designer in London. When she’d returned to the States, she’d been unwilling to work in one of those design factories that turn out diamond solitaires and wedding bands by the thousand. So, she’d gone out on her own, building herself a perfect little studio in SoHo, a live/work loft that meant she and her livelihood were never far apart, and her commute was less than a minute.

One of the things she loved about New York was how quickly word spread when somebody found a new designer. She’d gone from complete obscurity, to a few select jewelers selling her unique creations, to becoming the go-to designer for wealthy trendsetters in less than two years.

She was so hot that men like Charles Pendegraff III came slumming in order to get his bride the trendiest engagement ring possible.

“Or, I could have something designed, just for me?”

“And for your fiancée. Yes.”

As luck would have it, when she returned him to the storefront, her assistant, Amanda, was returning a ring tray to its display case. Her customer was walking out the door with one of their signature boxes made from recycled metal.

“Oh, good. Amanda’s free now. Amanda? Would you help Mr. Pendegraff? He’s looking for a ring. Goodbye, Mr. Pendegraff, and best of luck with the wedding.”

“Bye, Lexy.” He stuck out his hand and what could she do but return his clasp? Amusement lurked deep in his eyes as he gazed down at her. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

She mumbled something inarticulate and retreated to her work space, shaking her head.

Poor Penelope.

CHARLIE STRODE AROUND a bundle of yellow garbage bags piled on the sidewalk, dodging tourists as he checked out the entire block around Alexandra Drake Designs.

As he took careful note of his Broome Street surroundings, snapping a few discreet photos, he pondered the nature of the woman he was about to steal from.

A woman of contrasts. Contrasts that intrigued him. When he’d first walked in, casually, a customer looking for some information, delighted to find the single salesclerk busy, he’d followed the sound of some indie rock band into the workshop of Alexandra Drake. No more than an unlocked door separated the storefront from her work space. Was she really that trusting? Her back was to him and with the music pounding she couldn’t have heard his approach.

Had he taken advantage of the perfect opportunity to check out her security system? Eyeball the safe sitting in the corner? He could have taken photos and she wouldn’t have noticed.

No. He hadn’t. He hadn’t done any of the tasks a self-respecting thief would have accomplished in seconds.

His gaze had gone straight to the hips gyrating to the beat of the music, tightly clad in jeans, her legs not long, but shapely. She had small feet encased in boots. Above the swinging hips, her torso was still. She wore a navy tank top, not an ounce of extra flesh on her. Her bare arms revealed elegant swells of muscle. Her hair was black and wound into a big messy bun with what looked like chopsticks stuck through to hold it in place.

Her eyes were glued to a magnifier and he watched her hands. Those small, efficient hands. Using some kind of tool that looked like small pliers, she was twirling a strand of hot metal as though it were a piece of cooked spaghettini, draping it around a colored stone. He knew the moment she felt his presence. Those glorious hips slowed, her back stiffened.

Still, she finished the meticulous draping of the metal before setting the ring into a clamp. Then she raised her head and turned to him. Too fast for him to pretend he hadn’t been watching her.

He couldn’t have pretended anything, anyway. He was too stunned.

The woman was gorgeous. Cool gray eyes of a tilted almond shape that suggested there was Asian blood in her. Pale skin, full, sexy lips that begged to be painted red, but which she’d only touched with some kind of gloss.

He didn’t have time for lust. He had a job to do.

And yet somehow he couldn’t help himself. He’d come on to her. Enjoyed flustering her, finding an excuse to touch her.

And now, he was preparing to steal from her.

He had a bad feeling about this. A bad feeling that he was going to break every rule he lived by and get to know one of his marks. After the dust had settled, obviously, a few weeks from now when she’d have moved on and wouldn’t think to connect a missing set of jewels with a visit from Charles Pendegraff.

He called himself every kind of fool as he made his preparations, but he knew he was going to be stupid.

As crazy as it was, he was going to see Lexy Drake again.

2

AT SIX, AMANDA PEEKED into Lexy’s work space. “I’ve closed up. I’m heading out now.”

Lexy glanced up and rubbed her tired eyes. “Good day?”

“Three engagement rings, a few pairs of earrings and about a hundred of those bracelets that were featured on Party Girls of Manhattan.”

Lexy laughed. It was amazing how slavish people could be when they saw their favorite star wearing something distinctive on a television show. She only had a small number of mass-produced designs, but since one of the women on the newest semireality show had discovered her work, her designs—especially the ones that appeared on the show—were snapped up.

“Party Girls will do for you what Sex and the City did for Manolo Blahnik,” Amanda prophesied.

“Fine with me.”

Her assistant glanced around the crowded space. “You planning to work all night?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “No. A little longer. I want to finish this ring set, then I’ll take a break.”

“What did that woman and her daughter bring you, by the way? You seemed pretty excited. You know, that stylish woman with the perfect gray hair and her thin, pretty daughter.”

“Mrs. Grayson and her daughter—” What was the daughter’s name? She recalled the emeralds and diamonds with vivid clarity; she’d never seen such a perfect set, but recalling the details of the owners was always trickier. She closed her eyes for a second. “Judith, that was the daughter’s name.”

Lexy was becoming accustomed to the whims of rich people, and she was the first in line to recommend redesigning antique jewels into settings that would breathe new life into them, but as she’d opened the faded blue velvet box she’d had to suppress the urge to argue mother and daughter out of their idea to have this set broken down and reset.

The gems themselves were exquisite. Emeralds were funny things. The larger they came the more flawed they were likely to be. A few occlusions were expected but when she’d studied these gems through her loupe, she’d been astonished at the near perfection. And the color. Dark, clear green that she’d rarely seen outside a museum.

The setting was antique, no question. Like any personal ornamentation, jewelry went through fashions. But every age had its classics and this set was one of the most inherently beautiful she’d ever seen. Delicate strands of gold held the emeralds and diamonds in place but didn’t compete, so the green fire flashed from the necklace. “These are exquisite. Are you sure you want to reset them?” she’d finally asked.

Mother and daughter exchanged a quick look. “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Grayson had answered. “The set’s a gift to Judith, and she wants a more modern look. We both love your work. We’re excited to see what you could do with these. You are such an artist and with these emeralds, I believe Judith will be breathtaking when she wears the jewels at the diabetes fundraiser next month.” She smiled at her daughter. “I’d planned to give them to her when she got married, but now that she’s twenty-five, and unmarried, I’m going ahead. Why wait? They’ve been in the family forever, and they really don’t suit my coloring.”

Lexy suspected what the older woman really intended was to display some of the family wealth around her daughter’s throat in an unsubtle hint to potential suitors.

“You know, these emeralds are quite rare, and I suspect the pieces are hundreds of years old. You will compromise their value as antiques.”

“Oh, they’ve been in the family forever. It’s time they had a new look.”

Lexy had accepted the commission, of course. It wasn’t her business to talk clients out of her services and as lovely as the current set was, she knew she’d likely never have an opportunity to work with emeralds like this again.

Opening the safe, she withdrew the box and showed the emeralds to Amanda, who said, “Wow.” They both studied the sparkle of diamond and deep, gorgeous green.

Amanda touched the edge of the swirled gold setting. “I’ve never seen emeralds that color. They’re so rich-looking.”

“I know. The color’s spectacular. I think it’s because they are so old. They must have come out of South America centuries ago. Mayan stones are considered the purest and best.”

“How much do you think they’re worth?”

“Hard to say. But with the almost perfect diamonds and the unusual color and clarity of those emeralds, I’m guessing around a million.”

“A million dollars?” Amanda squeaked.

“Yeah.”

So Lexy had at least a million bucks worth of emeralds in her safe and a free hand to design settings that would help an unmarried twenty-five-year-old attract a rich man. Might be a little old-fashioned, not to mention Machiavellian, but this was also by far her largest commission ever.

“Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

She knew she could trust Amanda. They’d worked together for about eighteen months. In her early twenties, Amanda Sanford was tall and thin, had slightly more than the fashionable number of tattoos and piercings and a penchant for painted leggings and army boots. She was also great with customers and seemed happy in her work.

Lately she’d been letting Amanda help her with some of the simpler settings. When she was swamped, it was amazing how useful an extra pair of hands could be. Amanda also possessed an artistic eye and Lexy often sought out her assistant’s opinion when she was unsure.

AFTER AMANDA LEFT, Lexy finished the ruby wedding set. On a whim, she called her customer and let them know. As she’d half suspected the woman was so excited she wanted to come right over and pick up the rings.

So, her workday ended with a nice fat check, a happy and excited customer and one more peek at the emeralds.

Then, realizing she was starving, she opened the barely visible door that led upstairs to her living space. It wasn’t nearly as fancy as the downstairs since she’d put every cent of her savings and a good chunk of the bank’s into her business. Her tools, the display cases, lighting, decor, everything had to be consistent with her jewelry designs. Which turned out to mean expensive.

Which in turn dictated that upstairs she had little more than a bed, the most minimal kitchen and a couple of chairs and a table she’d found at Goodwill.

Pouring herself a glass of cool water, she noticed the familiar throbbing tingle of a burn on her hand. She regarded the spot, red and shiny, and recalled the guy who’d come in earlier, burdened by too much name and too little conscience. Charles Pendegraff III. Jeez.

He had a fiancée, and was going around staring at other women’s butts and kissing their booboos all better. She shook her head. She gave that marriage a couple of years, tops.

So long as the happy couple lasted long enough to pay for her ring designs, she reminded herself, it was none of her business. For all she knew, Mr. Pendegraff III and Penelope had one of those open relationships where fidelity wasn’t part of the contract.

She didn’t understand that kind of relationship; she was firmly determined that if she ever decided to get married, she’d be the kind of woman who went after her husband with a shotgun if he ever strayed.

And, since her dad was a New York cop who worried about his single daughter, and had taught her all about self-defense and marksmanship, she could shoot the lying, no-good cheater right through the heart. Or any other part of his anatomy she felt like blasting holes in. Whoever married her better understand that.

Her mother, who was half Chinese and very traditional, would probably come back from the dead to help her bury the corpse.

The image of Charles Pendegraff rose up before her and she felt her trigger finger squeeze.

Odd that she should have such a strong reaction to a stranger, but she knew that the biggest part of her disgust was the undeniable attraction she’d felt to the man. But then she already knew her taste in men wasn’t nearly as flawless as her taste in jewels.

As she finished her water the phone rang.

She checked the call display and picked up. “Carl. Hi.”

“What’s up, Sexy Lexy?”

“Just got home from work.”

“All tired out from the long commute?” he teased. Carl Wiesenstein was one of her tight group of friends, all of them artists or craftspeople. He was a metalsmith who was making an amazingly good living considering that his specialty was house numbers and door knockers. “Come out and celebrate. I sold a five-thousand-dollar door chime today.”

She laughed. “You’ve got to love New York.”

“Oh, baby, I do. I’m getting the gang together tonight at Emo’s. Nat and Bruce are coming, Ella if she can get a babysitter, a few others. You in?”

The thought of a night out with friends was tempting. She’d been working way too hard lately. But she knew she wouldn’t go. Not tonight. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got to work.”

“You work too much.”

“I know.” For a second she was tempted to tell him about the emeralds resting in her safe, but Carl wasn’t known for discretion and all she needed was for him to be overheard while he was telling her friends about her big day—as she knew he would. Maybe when she got million-dollar pieces sitting in her safe every day she’d become blasé, but for tonight she was worried that some burglar might overhear Carl and it was dead easy to find her studio. Even though her safe was supposed to be uncrackable, she really didn’t want it tested.

“I’ve got a rush commission. You know how it is.”

Carl chuckled. “Not feeling sorry for you. You’ll charge them through the nose to turn around a design fast.”

“Gotta love New York,” she said again. Frugality might be fashionable, but not to her clientele.

“If you decide to get a life, we’ll see you at Emo’s later.”

“You got it.”

She almost changed her mind when she opened her fridge and found nothing in there but half of an old pizza and a corked bottle of wine she didn’t even remember opening.

She tossed both and called down to a Thai place for delivery, then she kicked back, cranked the music up, pulled out her sketchbook and started playing with ideas for the emerald and diamond set.

At midnight, she turned out the light, but Lexy couldn’t sleep. A restlessness possessed her. She knew it was excitement. She loved her muse, she really did, but the damn woman was a workaholic slave driver. Ideas were chasing each other through Lexy’s mind faster and more confusing than a stock car race.

After a couple of hours of tossing and turning, unable to turn off her brain, she flipped on the light, looked at the sketch pad on the floor and knew that she needed to see those emeralds again. Her latest idea was bold, almost crazy, but she thought the gems were so unusually brilliant that they could dominate a bolder setting than the one they’d rested in for half a millennium.

THE ENTRANCE TO Alexandra Drake Designs was an eye-catching blue. Bight, shiny, as close to neon as paint can get, but the dramatic look suited her storefront and was oddly in keeping with the neighborhood, a place of avant garde shoe designers, exclusive little nooks selling nothing but handmade Italian bags, lingerie boutiques.

The woman was crazy not to have a decent security system, but then Charlie doubted she’d ever had to store anything as valuable as the emeralds that he assumed were currently residing in her safe.

It was almost too easy.

Broome Street was as quiet as it ever got. He could hear his soft footfalls on the pavement. In his black slacks, turtleneck and shoes he could pass for a man taking a walk after a night at the theater perhaps, or a meal at a good restaurant. The March night air was cool, crisp, and when the wind picked up, that man could as easily melt into the shadows of a doorway. And unlock the far-too-simple mechanism on the lock of Alexandra Drake Designs. This was the kind of lock he’d started his career with as a teenager. It took him less than a minute to take care of the main lock. The dead bolts took little more than a minute.

As the door of Alexandra Drake Designs opened and he slipped inside, he wished she at least had an electronic security system, something to give him a bit of excitement.

Charlie ought to be grateful he could be in and out in only a few minutes, with the Isabella Emeralds, but he had his pride. He might be a retired thief, but he was still the best. A little challenge would be good; otherwise a man could become complacent, lose his edge.

Silent and dark as a shadow he made his swift way past the dark shapes of her display cases to the back, to the door that separated the storefront from the small workshop. He was frankly insulted to find the door wasn’t even locked. How was a thief to remain on top of his game when his marks were so damn sloppy?

He felt his way around her table, where he’d watched her work earlier, grinning at the memory of her body rocking out while her hands created magic. He’d been shocked at the punch of lust that damn near flattened him when she turned and he received the full impact of her eyes. Eyes that ought to be in a porcelain doll instead staring at him from that strong-looking body.

He’d be back.

He’d give the woman time to get through the shock of the break-in. A couple of weeks, then he’d casually stroll in here, with Penelope conveniently history. He planned to ask the jewelry lady out.

In silence, he knelt before the safe.

At least the safe put up a fight.

For the first time since he’d stood outside in the night contemplating the pathetic excuse for a lock, he felt his peculiar set of skills being called on.

The safe was an older, German model and he respected it. As safes went it was stubborn, thick walled, heavy, fireproof, blastproof, tamperproof.

But not Charlie proof.

They never were.

He flexed his fingers a few times to limber them, crouched, slipping into the zone, the blissed-out state that told him he was doing what he was born to do, and went to work.

ONE OF THE MANY ADVANTAGES of a live/work loft was that Lexy didn’t have to commute very far to her job. She didn’t even have to dress. Shoving on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, she pulled on a pair of purple and pink slipper socks and made her way downstairs.

Excitement was bubbling and she knew her imagination was working on overdrive keeping her from sleep. She’d learned to live with the quirk. Her creativity kept her designs fresh and edgy, sometimes surprising even herself. So she lost the odd night’s sleep. She’d live.

She loved her studio at night. There was a hush that was almost palpable. Even though the traffic noise never ceased, and sirens pierced the night silence regularly, there were no customers, no movement, no commerce.

She could set herself to design knowing no one would bother her.

The door to her living space connected to the back room of the shop. As she neared the door she stopped, certain she’d heard something.

What?

A tiny scrape of sound, possibly nothing at all, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was behind that door.

Probably it was nothing. The creak of an old building, some animal she’d rather not think about nosing around in the alley, but not only had she been raised by a cop, she’d watched too many horror films to open any door behind which ominous sounds could be heard.

Instead she retraced her steps silently, grabbing the gun from her bureau drawer and taking her cell phone from its charger.

Deep breath, and down she went again. Silently.

At the door, she paused and listened. Was that a scrape? A click?

She eased open the door and flipped on the light.

And her eyes widened in surprise.

Charles Pendegraff III was standing nonchalantly in front of her safe. Her wide-open safe. The same one that was supposed to be unbreachable. And in his gloved hands, he was holding Mrs. Grayson’s emeralds.

For a second neither of them spoke or moved. Then he motioned to the gun in her hand and said, “At least you have some idea of security. Is it loaded?”

Not that she’d ever surprised a burglar before, but she’d have expected a little more drama. Maybe false protestations of innocence or an attempt to run. At least you’d think the man would replace the emeralds in the safe, but he did none of those things. Simply leaned against the safe like it was an open refrigerator and he was in search of olives for his martini.

“Not only is it loaded, but I am an excellent shot. Put your hands up, Mr. Pendegraff. Or whatever your real name is.”

“Oh, it’s Pendegraff all right.” His eyes crinkled with sudden humor. “And this is a very interesting situation.”

“It’s not interesting. It’s disgusting. You’re stealing from me.”

“Not you, technically. Look, let me explain.”

She raised the gun so it pointed at his heart. “Don’t move another inch.”

Somebody started banging loudly at the front door of the store.

The noise startled her. She’d never had so much action after hours before. “Open up, police,” a harsh voice yelled.

Pendegraff glanced at the phone in her hand. “You called the cops? I wish you hadn’t.”

“I didn’t. They must have followed you.”

His lazy and most puzzling amusement vanished. “You didn’t call them?”

“No.”

“Then, sweetheart, those are not the cops.”

“You’re a pretty lousy thief, aren’t you? Both I and the police nab you?”

She started for the door that separated her work space from the front of the store, keeping her gun trained on him. “Put the emeralds back in the safe and let’s go talk to the cops.”

“Think,” he said softly. “If you didn’t call them, how would they have tracked me? You don’t have a security alarm I could have tripped.” She could have sworn he sounded petulant. “No security cameras. And I’ve been in here ten minutes. If they’d followed me, they’d have been in long before now.”

“Maybe—” A crash had her turning her head. The cops had broken down her front door without giving her a chance to open it? That was pretty aggressive.

One second, Pendegraff was leaning so lazily against the safe you’d have thought he was napping, and the next second he was behind her, one hand grabbing her hard against him, the other wresting the gun from her grip.

She was no weakling and she fought to keep control of the weapon, jabbing him with her elbow, stamping on his foot, but her sweater socks were useless and her assailant was stronger than he looked.

Crashing sounds continued out front, she was sure she heard breaking glass, and then her own gun was jabbing her in the back. “Scream and I’ll shoot. Let’s get out of here.”

3

HE HAULED HER OUT THE SAME door she’d come from and dragged her up the stairs to her apartment. “Fire escape. Where is it?”

“I’m not telling you.” She was furious with both of them. With him for the whole escapade and with her for losing control of the situation. Not to mention her gun.

“Trust me, those guys downstairs are a lot meaner than I am. We really don’t want to run into them.”

She heard another crash. Pendegraff ran to her window and peered out.

She flipped open her cell, tried to call 9-1-1 but he grabbed it out of her hand before she could complete the call, tossing the phone onto her bed.

He yanked up the window sash. “Out,” he said, pushing her through the window and onto the fire escape, dropping out beside her. “I swear to God if you make a sound or do anything I don’t like, I’ll shoot you. Now climb down.”

“I’m wearing socks,” she told him in a furious undertone as the crisscrossed wrought-iron bit into the soles of her feet.

“Good. It’ll keep you quiet. Now move!”

He stayed right beside her as she stepped down, surprisingly as quiet in his shoes as she was in her slipper socks.

The fire escape was in good shape, but it was rickety and creaked as they made their way down. Still, no one came to investigate. Thanks a lot, New York’s Finest, she thought bitterly.

They hit the pavement below and she felt a stone bite through her socks.

“Run,” he ordered, grabbing her arm and breaking into a sprint, giving her no choice but to follow.

They ran, but cobblestone streets weren’t designed for a woman in slippers. He didn’t seem to care, hauling her along at a fast pace. She prided herself on being in pretty good shape, but she could barely keep up with his long-legged sprint. If his goal was to keep her too breathless to yell for help, he was doing an excellent job. She prayed she wouldn’t step on broken glass or a nail or something.

“Hey,” a man’s voice yelled.

“Don’t turn around,” Pendegraff warned her. “Move.”

They pounded down toward Canal Street and she saw a black limo glide toward them. She waved the vehicle down, almost sobbing in relief as it stopped.

Pendegraff didn’t flinch, but with a quick glance over his shoulder, he dragged her toward the car, opening the back door and shoving her inside. The limo was sailing away before he’d closed the door. She heard the click of the locks sliding smoothly into place even as she grabbed for the door.

“Nice timing, Healey,” Pendegraff said.

The limo took the corner at a sedate glide, and as it did so she watched through the tinted glass as a thickset guy in a cheap tweed jacket ran into view, gun in hand. When he saw the car, he slipped his gun under the flap of his jacket, then pounded past them.

“A getaway limo?” she panted. “Are you kidding me?”

She banged her head back against the leather headrest, frustration surging through her.

“It’s very convenient. In New York a limo is barely noticeable and the tinted windows provide excellent privacy.”

“Great. You stole the emeralds out of my safe, have your own getaway limo. And what are you planning to do with me?”

The gaze he sent her was speculative. He seemed relaxed and very cool sitting back in the black leather seat. “I haven’t completely decided yet.”

“Well, when you do, could you let me in on the secret?” She ought to be frightened, she knew that, but somehow she couldn’t seem to work up any true fear.

“It’s been a stressful night. Why don’t you join me in a nightcap?” He reached for the bar built into the back, which was conveniently set up, right down to the fresh ice in the ice bucket. Swanky.

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you drop me off at the next corner and I’ll grab a cab home.”

“Scotch all right?”

She rolled her gaze. “Fine.”

“Rocks or straight up?” he asked in that lazy tone that was beginning to set her teeth on edge. As though they were at the yacht club for a social engagement.

“Rocks.”

The ice tinkled into the crystal tumbler. “I promise I will let you go, unharmed, but I can’t do it quite yet.” He passed her a glass. Raised his own in a silent toast. “I promise, you can trust me.”

She snorted. “You robbed me. I don’t normally trust guys who break into my safe and confiscate my jewels. Call me a cynic.”

She sipped her drink. She wasn’t a big scotch drinker but he was right—it had been a crazy night and between the break-in, the police raid and the kidnapping, her nerves were a little jumpy. Naturally it was some ancient whiskey that had no doubt been lovingly distilled by kilted magicians a century or so earlier. The drink was smooth and rich.

He leaned back, and she thought that if she hadn’t caught him red-handed, she’d never have believed the elegant man beside her was a thief. The knife pleats were still sharp in his black trousers, his Italian loafers showed not so much as a smudge of dirt despite racing through the streets of SoHo, his black turtleneck rose and fell with slow, even breath, as the man casually sipped his drink.

“Does Penelope know you’re a thief?”

“Penelope?” His dark eyebrows rose. “I have no secrets from Penelope.”

“Is she a thief, too?”

“She’s more …” He seemed to consider his words carefully, and once again she caught the familiar amusement lurking in his eyes. “Support staff.”

“You must be a pretty successful thief if you can afford limos and Italian loafers.” She stumbled over the final word as a wave of fatigue washed over her. She was more tired than she’d realized.

“How about you?” he asked. “Do you have a significant other? Husband, boyfriend?”

“Worried someone will come looking for me?” she asked. At least she tried to ask the question. The words formed in her head but it felt as if there was a wad of cotton stopping them from making it to her mouth. Her head began to swim and in that moment she realized that there was more than scotch in her glass.

She jerked her head to face him. “You bastard.”

He reached out slowly, oh, so slowly it seemed, his arm snaking like a Dali image, all long and loopy, to take the glass from her hand. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

She struggled to keep her wits about her, jabbed the window control. If she could get some fresh air, maybe she could fight whatever he’d used to drug her. But even as she flailed for the button, she could feel herself slipping from consciousness.

LEXY WOKE WITH A SENSE of disorientation, as though she were on vacation and waking in a strange bed. But as her eyes opened slowly, the horror of what had happened to her came rushing back. She’d been in the back of a limo, she’d drunk scotch—not more than a few sips—and then she’d passed out.

Her mouth felt dry, her eyes were heavy and scratchy, and her head ached. She raised a hand to her face, rubbed her eyes. Then she looked around.

There was a little natural light coming in through a shuttered window. Enough to show her the ghostly outlines of a bedroom. She was in bed. Not her own. And she was alone.

She threw back the covers. Discovered she was in the same clothes she’d been wearing when she was kidnapped. But someone had removed her slipper socks. She pushed her bare feet to the floor and got up. Whoa. A little wobbly. She waited for her legs to steady, then padded to the shutters and opened them.

Gray light pushed sullenly into the room. As she looked out, she saw snow and trees. Huge, dark green trees and plenty of them.

Snow?

Something told her she wasn’t in Manhattan anymore. Her window was in an upper story of what looked like an architecturally interesting house, which sat in a snow-covered clearing in the middle of a forest. A single set of tire tracks led to a parked 4×4. If there were neighboring houses she didn’t see them. All she saw were trees. Everywhere she looked, trees, a gray sky and it was eerily quiet. It felt as though this place had been stuck in the middle of nowhere. To a woman who’d spent most of her life in Manhattan, all these trees and isolation were a little freaky.

There was no sign of anyone around. She unlocked the window and hauled up the sash, half surprised to find it opened. But then what was she going to do? Jump? At the very least a two-story fall would leave her with broken bones. She stuck her head out the window, filling her lungs with cool, moist air. The house was gray cedar shingle, all sleek lines and modern angles. A satellite dish perched incongruously from the roof.

A large bird swooped low over the trees and a chipmunk chattered. Apart from pigeons and crows, she wasn’t really good at identifying birds, but she thought this might be some kind of hawk. Some predator that pounced on innocent animals, those that were smaller and inoffensively going about their business. Rather like she had before Charles Pendegraff III had pounced on her.

Lexy didn’t like being a victim. And she most certainly didn’t like that she’d been spirited to heaven knew where, with a thief who’d stolen property out of her safe. Not only did she have Mrs. Grayson’s commission to design, but she had several other projects on the go. No time for a kidnapping.

When she crossed to the door she discovered it opened as easily as the window. She closed it softly and retreated back into her room. She needed to think before confronting her kidnapper.

She also needed to brush her teeth. This place seemed pretty ritzy. The furniture in her room was simple pine, but it had the high-end country look of simple furniture that cost a fortune. The bed was big and comfy; a couple of large armchairs flanked a fireplace and a partly open door led to an en suite.

The room reminded her of a luxury ski resort. Expensive, comfortable and in the middle of nowhere.

The bathroom thankfully possessed not only a toothbrush still in its wrapper but a basket of toiletries and a stack of fluffy white towels. The tap water tasted fresh and clean so she filled one of the two glasses she found on the granite vanity and filled it, drank the contents down in a couple of gulps and refilled the glass.

Sipping her second glass of water more slowly, she took stock of her reflection, which was a mess. Her hair was all over the place, her makeup had smudged and her clothes—which were pretty casual to begin with—looked as though she’d slept in them.

She brushed her teeth, then took a long, hot shower, washing away the last of her drug-induced grogginess.

A white bathrobe hung on the back of the door—reminding her more and more of an upscale hotel—so she slipped it on and opened the drawers and cupboards in the bathroom hoping for a comb or brush.

She found both. Also hairstyling products and a limited supply of essential cosmetics still in their packaging. Her first instinct was to refuse to make herself pretty for a kidnapper, but she soon threw that idea aside. She had her own confidence to think of and it was amazing what a little lip gloss and some mascara could do.

Blow-drying her hair, putting on a little makeup, these small tasks steadied her and gave her some sense of normality.

When she returned to the bedroom and checked out the closet and drawers, she was only mildly surprised to find clean T-shirts, pajamas, track pants, a hoodie, outside jackets, rain boots and blessedly unopened packages of underwear and socks. He either had a lot of unexpected guests, or the kidnapping business had a high turnover.

She dressed swiftly—the only thing of her own she wore was her jeans—and then, pushing her shoulders back and her chin up, she left the bedroom in search of her captor.

Her feet were soundless on the thick carpet that covered the floors. The upscale mountain retreat look continued in the hallway. A muted palette of taupes and grays on the walls and woodwork highlighted several paintings and drawings that were so good she suspected they were originals. Hot ones, no doubt.

At the bottom of the stairs, she hit a slate entrance hall and landing. She listened, but heard no sound coming from anywhere. A flutter of panic in her chest as she wondered if she’d been abandoned here, but then she remembered the 4×4 out front.

She went searching. And discovered that Mr. Pendegraff had exquisite taste. Everything was of the finest from the leather furniture in the living room to the liquor in the cabinet.

She found the kitchen at last, and found Charles Pendegraff III sitting in a deep chair in a den area off the kitchen sipping coffee and watching a plasma TV. He glanced up when she entered the room and immediately flicked off the television.

He’d changed yet again, she noted warily. From rich fop to black-clad jewel thief, now he looked like an upscale mountain man. He wore jeans, a chambray shirt and hiking boots.

“Good morning. Would you like some coffee?”

“Is it drugged?”

His eyes clouded. “No. And I’m sorry about that, by the way. I couldn’t think of another way to handle things.”

There wasn’t any point in him drugging her now, she was pretty certain. And she was a weak, weak woman unable to resist the scent coming from the sleek coffeemaker. “All right, then.”

He rose, went behind the granite breakfast bar and poured a dark stream of coffee into a blue pottery mug that was much too ordinary and cheerful to be part of this house.

“Milk?”

“Yes.”

He opened the door of a stainless steel fridge that she saw was fully stocked, withdrew a carton and placed it on the black granite countertop beside the coffee mug. “Sugar’s in the pot there,” he said.

She took her time preparing her coffee exactly the way she liked it. She was determined to stay calm. The coffee was delicious. Strong and rich and she felt the caffeine punching up her energy. Good.

“What would you like to go with your coffee?” he asked, as though he was her waiter. “I’ve got eggs, breakfast muffins, some—”

“I’d like some answers.”

“I know. And you’ll get them. Over breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You will be. You like omelets?”

Frustration enveloped her, and forgetting her vow to remain calm, she marched up to him, right behind the granite breakfast bar and into his space. She stalked up until there were only a couple of inches between their bodies. She was so close she could smell him, hints of sandalwood from his shower gel or shampoo or something, the fresh laundered smell of his shirt, the smell of thieving hot man underneath it all.

His green eyes were wary and he’d missed a spot when he shaved. All that her mind processed while her anger boiled.

She slammed her coffee mug down on the counter. “I don’t want eggs. I want answers. Yesterday you came into my life, into my store, into my work space.” She began to list his crimes on her fingers, from mildest to most venal. “You lied to me, you broke in after dark and stole from me.” Her third finger hurt when she hit it to emphasize the third item on her list. “You kidnapped me.” Bang she hit her fourth finger. “And you drugged me. Now I have no idea who you are or where I am and I want to know.” Her fingers curled into a fist. Even though she wanted to punch him as hard as she could, she wasn’t foolish enough to do it. Instead she rapped her closed fist against the other open palm. Smack, smack.

“And I want to know, now.”

For a second he simply stood, gazing down at her. She wished she were over six feet tall so she wouldn’t have to look up to meet his eyes. It was infuriating being shorter and slighter than her foe.

It took her a second to realize that he was looking at her, not in a kidnapper to victim way, but in a man to woman way that made her blood stir. What was wrong with her?

How could her body respond to a criminal?

Needing an excuse to back away from this far-too-close contact, she picked up her mug of coffee. A tiny crack had formed in the bottom where she’d smacked the pottery on the granite. She only wished it was Pendegraff’s head she’d cracked.

And she stepped back.

“Okay,” he said. “You want to talk first, we’ll talk.”

“You’ll talk,” she reminded him.

THE DEEP, COMFY CHAIRS in the den made her want to curl her feet beneath her. Under different circumstances she thought she’d like this place. Wherever it was. There were no newspapers conveniently lying around, no phone book sitting by a phone that might give her hints to her current location.

She sat up straight, her feet on the floor.

He refilled his mug and took the other chair. Sipped, slowly, in a way that suggested he was stalling for time. Her foot began to tap against the floor.

“I actually am Charles Pendegraff,” he began.

“The third?” Skepticism tinged her tone.

A brief grin lit his face. “Yes, though I only mention the number when I want to come off as a pompous ass.”

“You’re good at it,” she said sweetly.

“As you’ve obviously gathered, I’m a thief.” He paused, shaking his head. “Was a thief. I’m retired.” He glanced at her and his gaze darkened. “And, until last night, I’d never been caught. I must be losing my edge.”

“Caught by me and the cops.”

“Lexy, those weren’t cops.”

“Oh, come on. Why would I believe you?”

He reached for the remote control. “You’re not going to like this. I recorded a news broadcast from New York this morning.”

He flicked on the screen and pushed a couple of buttons. A newscast she knew well, one she often watched as she was getting ready in the morning, told her it was going to be cooler in Manhattan today, then there was the usual banter between the show’s host and the meteorologist. Then the news.

“I’m really not sure what the U.N. funding crisis has to do with—”

He held up a finger. “Wait.”

And then there was news footage of a block of buildings she knew intimately. It was her street.

“A suspicious fire broke out last night at a well-known jewelry designer’s SoHo premises, destroying the store and the living space above it.”

“A fire?” she whispered.

The film that went with the voice-over showed her street, the blackened front of her store, the pretty blue paint all bubbled and black, all the windows smashed and uniformed firefighters spraying water into her apartment.

“Emergency crews responded at 4:11 a.m. when a neighbor saw flames coming from the building that houses Alexandra Drake Designs. Ms. Drake’s residence was above the studio.”

Like a horror movie, she watched as a man rushed to the store’s entrance and had to be forcibly restrained by the police officers standing out front.

“Carl,” she cried softly.

Next thing, her friend was being interviewed, clearly distraught.

“Lexy’s a good friend. We asked her to come out with us tonight, but she said she had to stay in and work. I was walking home and saw the fire truck.” He glanced around frantically. “I can’t find her. Did she get out okay?”

The camera cut back to the on-the-scene reporter. “Police and fire crews aren’t saying much at this point, only that they will be investigating the cause of the fire, which they are calling ‘suspicious’ and that robbery is suspected.”

The pictures of the fire crews at work continued to play as the morning news anchor took up the story. “Investigators recovered the body of a woman from the scene. It will be several days before a positive identification can be made of the victim, but at this hour, Alexandra Drake is still unaccounted for.”

Then there was video playing of her at a gala, taken a few months ago, wearing one of her own necklaces. A jeweled collar. Talking about her work.

The host continued: “Alexandra Drake was a fast-rising young jewelry designer in New York. Her work appears in the collections of movie stars, royalty around the globe, and has been featured in a handful of recent movies. Her specialty was wedding and commitment rings.” Close-up of Lexy at the gala, speaking. “I believe every love story is unique, so shouldn’t your wedding ring be as personal?” Back to the host. “Alexandra Drake was twenty-eight years old. And in the meat packing district today, a suspicious package in a garbage bag turned out to be—” Pendegraff flipped off the TV.

“Was? They said was.” Her shock must have shown on her face; she couldn’t have stopped it.

The man beside her nodded. Looking grim.

“They said there was a dead woman in my place. Why would there be a dead body in my apartment?”

“I don’t know, Lexy. We’ll figure this out.”

She rose. Unable to sit still one more second. “Yesterday my life was so normal. Exciting even. And today, my business and home are destroyed, I have no idea where I am.”

She glared at her companion. “Oh, yeah, and I’m dead.”

4

“YOU’RE NOT DEAD.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Right. Just kidnapped.” Rage filled her and she welcomed the fiery anger; it was so much easier to deal with than the despair she felt tugging at the edges of her consciousness. Everything she’d worked for, her home, her business, gone. “This is all your fault.”

“I know you aren’t ready to believe this, but I saved your life.”

It was the last straw. “You stole from me.”

“Technically I was reclaiming stolen property. Look, you’ve had a shock. Let me cook you some breakfast and we’ll talk this through.”

She barely heard him. “I have to call my father. He’ll have seen the news. He’ll think I’m—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Since her mom had passed away five years earlier, her father had become increasingly protective of her, encouraging her to come home and live in the Queens home she’d grown up in. She knew part of his problem was simple loneliness and his years as a cop had put him in contact with too many horror stories.

She couldn’t allow him to believe she’d become one of them. “Where’s the phone?”

Pendegraff put a restraining hand on her shoulder as she began searching for a phone. “Until I figure out who is behind this, who set me up and burned down your place, the safest thing you can do is stay missing.”

“But—”

“It’s for your own safety, Lexy. Your father wouldn’t want you to put yourself at risk, would he?”

“You don’t understand. He’s a cop. He lost my mother to cancer … I’m all he’s got left. He’ll go to my place, he’ll think it was me in that fire and he’ll drive himself crazy. I have to get hold of him.”

He rubbed her shoulder briefly before letting her go. “Give me half an hour to explain. Then, if you still want to, you can call your father.”

She glared at him, at the flawed emerald eyes, the expensive tough-guy face. How could she trust him? He wouldn’t even give out her location.

“Where am I?”

“I value my privacy. You already know too much about me. I really don’t want you being able to summon cops to my door.”

She remained silent.

“You’re in the mountains. Still in the States.”

“Not good enough.”

Maybe he understood how helpless she felt and how much she needed a little information to help her cope. “Colorado. It’s fairly remote, but the closest town is Aspen.”

“How did I get here?”

“Private plane.”

“Stolen?”

A slight grin cracked the serious expression on his face. “No. I bought it.”

“So you’re a pretty rich thief.”

“I do okay.”

“Where’s the pilot?”

“You’re looking at him.”

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. “This is like one of those nightmares where you want to wake up, and can’t.”

“I’m truly sorry about your home and business. This is not the kind of stuff I get involved in.”

“Right. You’re a gentleman thief, I bet. Somebody Cary Grant would play in an old movie.”

He smiled briefly. “Sit down while I cook you breakfast.”

She picked up her coffee and followed him as he strolled to the fancy-schmancy kitchen, pulling down a gleaming steel frying pan with all the confidence of a top chef. She watched as he opened the fridge and began efficiently removing butter, brown eggs, spinach, cheese and some kind of fresh herb she wasn’t enough of a cook to identify. She topped up her coffee and perched on one of the sleek kitchen stools.

“He cooks, he breaks into supposedly unbreakable safes, he flies his own plane. What other talents are you hiding, Mr. Pendegraff?”

He turned from his task and the glance he sent her was so full of sexual heat she felt as if her skin would scorch. For a second she couldn’t breathe. “One day, I’ll show you,” he promised softly.

Instead of returning the icy glare he deserved, she felt a response so strong it shamed her. Heat rushed through her, making her light-headed. Well, maybe he was the sexiest man who’d ever kidnapped her, but there was one thing she was certain of: it would be a cold day in hell before she’d be getting naked with this guy.

“You’ve got thirty minutes to explain what the hell is going on. Start talking.”

It was amazing how he could crack eggs, chop herbs, grate cheese and still manage to calmly explain a story that grew increasingly complicated as she listened. Her headache was gone and if she still felt a little fuzzy, she had no trouble following the plot.

“I help people retrieve things,” he explained. “Quietly, without a fuss.”

“You steal.”

“It’s a gray area. I used to steal, no question about it, but after a while the thrill wears off. Besides, I figured I should quit while I was ahead. Never caught.”

“I caught you.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. So, that bothered him, did it? Good.

“Had you at gunpoint, too.”

“I was unbelievably careless last night.” He flicked a glance at her … a quicker, softer version of the sexual scorcher he’d lobbed her way earlier. “On too many levels.”

He chopped whatever the herb that was with a vengeance. “And so were you.”

“Me?”

“What are you doing with no proper security? Candy-ass locks and no video surveillance? Anybody can get in.”

She shrugged. His words echoed her father’s uncomfortably. How many times had her dad nagged her about security? “I figured I could take care of things. I live on the premises.” She glared at him. “And the safe is supposed to be unbreakable.”

“No such thing. Not to a guy like me.”

“So what was a guy like you doing there? Spinning me some tale about wanting a wedding ring, then robbing me.”

The knife stilled. “Can we clear one thing up? I wasn’t robbing you. Had no intention of doing so. The only thing I took was the emeralds.”

She snorted. “Oh, is that all? Do you have any idea what they’re worth? My insurance would never cover that amount. I’d be ruined.”

He shook his head. “You can’t put a price on that set. What story did the woman give you? The one who brought in the emeralds?”

“How do you know it was a woman?”

“Please. I’m a professional. I didn’t pick your place to knock it over. I followed the gems to your studio.”

She drank coffee, stalling for time. She didn’t want to give out any information, but if he’d followed the woman to her place he must know something about her. “She said she wanted them reset, modernized to give them to her daughter to wear. I got the feeling she was hoping to attract a rich husband by hanging a fortune around that girl’s neck.”

He glanced at her sharply. “The older woman did the talking?”

“Yes.”

“Who did she say she was?”

“Florence Grayson.”

He laughed aloud. “Oh, you’ve got to give the woman credit. She’s got some guts.”

“Are you saying that woman isn’t Florence Grayson?”

“Nope. Technically I suppose they stole the gems from Florence Grayson. The young one? Pretending to be the daughter? She’s Edward Grayson’s mistress. Or was. I’m guessing Edward gave her the heave-ho and Tiffany treated herself to a little goodbye gift. The Isabella Emeralds.” He poured eggs into the pan and breakfast began to sizzle.

“Wait, I’m getting confused. The mother isn’t the mother, the daughter’s the mistress—and what are the Isabella Emeralds?”

“I’ve met Florence Grayson. That wasn’t her. I’ve also met the mistress, Tiffany Starr if you can believe that’s the name she picked for herself. And as for the Isabella Emeralds, they’re part of a legend. Should really be in a museum.”

Lexy had an affinity for jewels the way some people have for water, or music. They all but spoke to her. She recalled the sadness she’d felt at the idea of resetting stones that were so perfectly at home in the delicate antique setting. “I thought they were some of the nicest and best set gems I’d ever seen. That deep color was so unusual. I’d only ever seen it in jewels that came from Mayan mines in Columbia centuries ago. I actually suggested they might want to rethink the idea of having the set redesigned.”

“Your instincts were right on.”

Something was tickling her memory. She closed her eyes for a moment. And then it came to her. She’d actually read about the Isabella Emeralds back when she’d been studying antique gems. “I thought the Isabella Emeralds had been lost.”

“Nope.”

“Weren’t they rumored to have gone down with the Titanic or something?”

“I suspect the owner set about the rumor. Rich collectors can do some pretty strange things. They’ve been in a private collection, which pretty much means the same thing as lost to the world. Grayson is so terrified of losing those emeralds that he never lets Florence wear them. I didn’t know he even owned the set until I was called in to recover them.”

“Then how did the mistress hear about them?”

He threw an amused glance over his shoulder. “I’m guessing Mr. G got a nice charge out of decking his mistress in his precious gems—and nothing else, for his private pleasure.”

“Historical gems as sex toys? Oh, please.”

He chuckled. “You asked. I was giving my opinion.”

“Is that what you’d do if you had them?”

He folded the omelet expertly in two. “If I had the right model.” Something about his tone reminded her that the Isabella Emeralds were currently in his possession.

As was she.

“If I remember correctly, the Isabella Emeralds were a gift to Queen Isabella of Spain from Christopher Columbus, right?”

He nodded. Cut the omelet in half and slid the pieces onto two thick blue ceramic plates. “As part of a thank-you gift for funding his trip to America.”

“In 1492.”

“Exactly. Not only are the gems themselves amazing quality—”

“I noticed that. The diamonds are flawless, and the emeralds as close to perfect as you can get in that size. The gems alone would be worth a fortune, but their provenance makes them—”

“Priceless.”

He slid a plate to the counter in front of her, handed her a knife and fork and a blue linen napkin.

“Thanks.”

He brought his own meal and sat beside her at the breakfast bar. It was undoubtedly cozy and she might have felt uncomfortable if she weren’t obsessed with the notion that she’d very nearly unwittingly destroyed a piece of history. “How could that woman have been so stupid? By getting me to reset the gems she’d be decimating their value and annihilating a piece of history.”

“They’d be a lot easier to sell, though. You can’t exactly put the Isabella Emeralds on auction at Christie’s or post them on eBay and not have somebody notice.”

“Wow. So where do you come in?” She dug into the omelet, found it thick and fluffy and full of flavor, which didn’t even surprise her. She was beginning to think that Charles Pendegraff did everything well.

“Edward Grayson hired me to retrieve the gems after he discovered they were missing. Oh, he doesn’t know he hired me. My chauffeur fronts for me at all client meetings. I prefer to keep my identity to myself. I go along electronically.”

“Sneaky.”

“I prefer the term discreet. Anyhow, Grayson asked me to get the set back, with no publicity, no police, no embarrassment. In return I pocketed a nice fee. Everybody’s happy.”

“Except this one went sideways. Publicity, police and a very embarrassingly dead body. Somebody screwed up. Great omelet by the way.”

“Thank you. Somebody was set up.”

“But why? It makes no sense. And who is the dead woman in my studio?”

He frowned. “I don’t know for certain, but I could hazard a guess.”

5

THE EGGS SUDDENLY FELT like cement as she swallowed and made the obvious connection. “You think the dead woman is Tiffany Starr?” She had met the woman, talked to her even. She hadn’t reached her thirtieth birthday, and now she was dead? It was foolish and vindictive to steal priceless jewelry from a former lover, but did she have to die for her crime?

“Who else could it be? You and I were there when the goons started to break in. There was no one else in the studio or your apartment.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“So they threw in an already dead woman, torched the place. Days will go by before anyone realizes it’s not you in there.”

“Why? If what you say is true, why didn’t Grayson stick to the plan? He’d have got his emeralds back and no one would ever have known she took them.”

“That, Lexy, is something I’m planning to figure out.”

He was looking at her with an intensity she didn’t like. As though there were more bad news on the way.

“What?”

“My guess is that Tiffany Starr wasn’t the only one who was supposed to die last night.”

An unpleasant queasiness rolled through her. “You mean … ?”

“You’d seen and handled the gems and I’d been hired to retrieve them. As I said, no one has set eyes on them since the early part of this century. I pegged Grayson as one of those fanatics who want to keep all their toys to themselves.”

“Like a spoiled kid?”

“A spoiled kid with his own private staff of thugs and killers.”

She sank her head into her hands. “I should have listened to my mom. I should have gone into nursing. Or teaching. Something uncomplicated, with a pension.”

“Somehow I can’t see you in an ordinary profession.”

She groaned. “I know. It’s my curse.”

“Finish your eggs. It’s always been my belief that you can’t commit a crime on an empty stomach, and I’m almost positive you can’t solve one, either.”

She toyed with an orange slice but in truth she’d lost her appetite. As she played his words back, she dropped the orange. “Wait a minute. You said your chauffeur went into the meeting with Grayson instead of you. They think he is you. He’s the one who’s going to get killed.”

“Don’t worry about Healey. He can take care of himself.”

She didn’t know why she should be concerned about a man who’d aided and abetted her kidnapping, but then she was the sort of person who bought non-kill rodent traps and had, on occasion, transported a very angry rat to a new home.

Amanda had been horrified and flat-out refused even to open the door so she and the rat could get outside. Her breath caught in her chest. “Oh, my God. Amanda. She saw the women. I even showed her the emeralds.” She jumped to her feet, her heart hammering painfully. “I have to warn Amanda.” She ran past Pendegraff, headed for the door of the house. If the Jeep was still sitting there, she could get to a town, somehow she’d find a way back to New York.

She was out of the front door. Good, the Jeep was still there. Keys inside would be nice, but if not she knew how to hot-wire a car. Her dad had taught her a lot of useful skills over the years.

The gravel bit into her socks and the sun blasted her eyeballs but she barely noticed. Amanda was her employee, a friend, her responsibility. She had to warn her.

The Jeep was parked, a gray shape against the snow. She sprinted blindly toward it, was almost there when a strong hand grabbed her arm, almost pulling it out of its socket.

“Ow. Let me go.”

“Lexy. Stop.”

She turned to him, and in turning found herself bashing hard abs, a chest that felt like granite, looking up into a face that was surprisingly understanding. “I have to go. You’ve got to let me. Amanda trusts me. She’s my employee, my responsibility.” She panted, trying to get the words out and pull away from his grip at the same time.

“I know. It’s okay. Healey’s watching things.”

“Healey? The guy who helped you drug and kidnap me? Pardon me if I don’t feel superconfident in his abilities to guard my friend.”

“Healey’s the most capable person I know. It’s why I hired him.”

“Those men are killers. You said so yourself. Killer trumps thief. You know? Like Rock, Paper, Scissors? Killer would trump them all. Crush rock, shred paper, smash scissors. This isn’t a game. You’ve got to let me get back.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.