Blackheart was right. She did look thoroughly kissed. Staring at her reflection in the mirror for a long moment, Ferris let out a deep, trembling sigh. “Damn his soul to hell,” she whispered. “What am I going to do?”
“ARE YOU READY? Olivia, do you hear me?” Dale’s querulous tones were definitely getting on her nerves. She would have to be circumspect in divorcing him. He had a vindictive streak—if she pushed him far enough he wouldn’t mind destroying himself just to get at her.
“I hear you, Dale.” She turned from the window, icy cool and elegant in a pale-blue silk dress that matched the wintry blue of her eyes. “I was just wondering how our friend was handling things.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any problem. You have an innate talent for putting the fear of God into anyone. Things will be just as you planned.”
“I do hope so,” she said mildly as he draped a silver fox stole around her narrow shoulders. “Because not only would I be very displeased if something went wrong tonight, I would also have to bring the two of you down with me. And none of us would like that, would we?”
“No, Olivia.”
His agreement was mumbled, but Olivia thought she could see a furtive flash of hate in his milky blue eyes. Good. Hate and anger kept you on your toes. As long as Dale was actively hostile, she didn’t worry about him. It was when he grew affable that he became careless.
It was their third, unwilling partner who troubled her. The partner that was right now in place, eagle eyes trained on the Von Emmerling emeralds. Olivia had managed to drown all objections and doubts with her forceful personality, but from now on she had to rely on the residual force of her orders. There was no way she could be on hand, reminding her minions of what was expected of them.
She took a deep gulp of the damp, chilly fog that blanketed the city. A good night for a jewel robbery, she thought, a little cat’s smile curving her lips. She could only wonder whether John Patrick Blackheart might agree.
Chapter Thirteen
FERRIS STOOD OFF to one side, half hidden by the heavy damask draperies that shut the fog-ridden night away from the gaiety of the crowded ballroom. The Puffin Ball was a smashing success, socially, artistically, and financially, and yet Ferris had never felt worse in her life.
The third winner of the Von Emmerling emeralds, a stocky brunette with the build of a fireplug and the voice of a sea gull was whirling around the dance floor in the arms of her equally unprepossessing husband. She’d chosen an unfortunate shade of chartreuse chiffon for her dress, succeeding in making the beautiful old emeralds look almost tacky in the candlelight. They’d fared better earlier. The first winner had been a slight, feathery blonde in pure white. Blue-blooded to her fingertips, she’d done the jewels proud for the two hours she’d worn them, giving them a stately elegance. As had the second winner, a fashionably blue-haired matriarch. And even if number three hadn’t quite the style or grace, she more than made up for it in enthusiasm, Ferris thought wearily, leaning back into the drapes. Who was she to sit in judgment?
Damn, would she like to sit, though. From the moment she’d arrived she’d been on display, an ornament on Phillip’s very urbane arm. She’d smiled till her jaw ached, her teeth felt windburned and her eyes were permanently crinkled. She’d shaken hands and chatted and danced and ate, and right now all she wanted to do was crawl under a blanket and hide. Her head hurt, her feet hurt, everything about her was a mass of pain. She would have given ten years off her life to go home right then, but she knew it was out of the question. Phillip had let her escape, reluctantly, when she insisted there was some important lady in need of her. That important lady had been herself, but Phillip didn’t need to know that. He was still holding forth, this time on gun control, and part of her longed to stay and watch with real admiration as he told each listener exactly what he or she wanted to hear. But there was a limit to her endurance. She would have to be there until the last possible contributor to Phillip’s campaign remained, she would have to stay until the Von Emmerling emeralds were safely stowed for the night.
If only the Honorable Miss Smythe-Davies had been up to the rigors of the Puffin Ball, a good many of Ferris’s worries would have been over. Somehow she knew that she wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until the damned jewels were no longer even remotely her responsibility. And then there would be no reason ever to see John Patrick Blackheart again.
She looked down at her slender wrist. There was a bruise there, just above the bone, a smudge of darkness against the lightly tanned skin. Would he regret it if he saw it? She’d make sure he’d never have that chance.
Phillip had been waiting when they arrived, long arms outstretched, that smile that could charm old ladies into giving up their Social Security checks beaming down on her and her companions. Blackheart had relinquished her readily enough, almost too readily, his eyes black in the romantic candlelight as his mouth quirked up in wry amusement.
But there’d been no sign of amusement from then on. Whenever Phillip drew her into an admiring circle of men, Blackheart would be nearby, glaring at her. Every time one of Phillip’s political cronies danced with her, and the times were far too numerous to count, Blackheart’s expression darkened, and when Phillip finally drew her to the floor, executing turns and dips to the fatuous pleasure of almost everyone there but Olivia Summers, his face was nothing short of thunderous. Ferris had smiled, moving closer to her fiancé’s stalwart form, each time she had caught sight of that unrestrained fury. Until she finally pushed him too far, and he’d cut in during the last one.
Phillip had relinquished her with a graceful smile and a hearty clap on Blackheart’s back, not noticing that Ferris’s smile was forced.
“You don’t have to crush my wrist,” she’d hissed at Blackheart when he’d swung her into the dance. The band was playing “I Can’t Get Started,” and the sound was slow and sad and sensuous. If Blackheart’s tumble off the side of a building had hindered his career of thievery, it certainly didn’t put a crimp in his dancing. He was smooth, graceful and more than able to concentrate on other matters as his body and hers did his bidding.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Byrd?” he inquired acidly, the fingers biting into her wrist.
“Definitely, Mr. Blackheart.” The more she strained against his imprisoning hand, the tighter the fingers held her.
“Do you think plastering yourself against the good senator sets a proper example for his constituents?”
“No one seemed to mind,” she replied coolly, ignoring the memory of Olivia’s pale anger. “I don’t know what your problem is.”
“Don’t you?” His hand tightened for a moment, then loosened, and the grim look faded from his face. “No,” he murmured, half to himself. “I won’t do that.”
“Won’t do what?” Surreptitiously she flexed her aching wrist.
“Won’t drag you closer and show you in specific, physical terms what my problem happens to be,” he replied.
It took her a moment to understand his meaning. “You’re a sick bastard.”
“On the contrary, I’m a very healthy male, with healthy reactions, particularly to long-term frustrations. I’ve been in somewhat the same state since Wednesday morning.”
“That’s no one’s fault but your own,” she snapped.
“I wouldn’t say that. You had something to do with it, willing or not,” he continued in a musing voice. “Actually, I suppose if you’d been willing . . .”
“Could you please change the subject?” Ferris’s voice was a little strangled.
“Certainly. If you’ll move three centimeters closer to me. I’m not radioactive,” he said gently. His thumb was absently stroking her abused wrist, the gentle caress sending shivers down her spine.
She looked up at him then, met his gaze directly. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re even more dangerous.”
&nb
sp; His eyes were dark with a distant humor and something else, something she vainly hoped no one else would recognize. What in heaven’s name would people think if they saw Senator Merriam’s fiancée in the arms of an ex-cat burglar looking like that?
Of course, not that many people knew she was engaged, despite the discreet rock on her left hand. And not that many people would be able to decipher the mixed emotions in Blackheart’s tawny eyes. But Ferris could, and it made her knees weak.
His temper, at least, had improved. “Do you want me to waltz you out onto the terrace for a little polite necking?” he murmured against her flushed temple.
“For one thing, Blackheart, we aren’t waltzing,” she said caustically. “For another, it’s cold and damp and foggy out there, not at all conducive to necking, polite or otherwise. And finally, don’t you think you might give at least a tiny portion of your attention to the Von Emmerling emeralds? After all, we’re paying a rather exorbitant sum to have you protect them—I would think you’d like to earn your keep.”
“Oh, but I am. As the only guest here under an assumed name, you’re still my chief suspect. My assistants are watching the emeralds themselves.”
“Don’t be absurd, Blackheart. You know as well as I do I wouldn’t steal those damned jewels. I didn’t even take a raffle ticket.”
“Maybe you still regret not taking the red shoes,” he said. “Maybe you’ve been secretly acting out your aggressions, stealing here and there to make up for that one act of self-control,” he continued, unmoved by her anger.
“I wish I’d never told you that,” she said in a deceptively quiet tone of voice. “I should have known you’d use it against me.”
“I wouldn’t use it against you,” he said softly, all the teasing gone from his eyes.
“You’d use anything to get your own way.” She was horrified to feel sudden tears springing to her eyes.
There was no way he could miss them. “Francesca, love, I’m sorry,” he said, stricken.
“Go watch your damned emeralds,” she said, pulling out of his arms and moving with lowered head across the dance floor. She could feel curious eyes on her, but when she raised her head, the only face she saw was that of Olivia Summers, that cool-bitch smile on her perfectly shaped lips.
But if Blackheart had regretted his words, his actions the rest of the night didn’t show it. To be sure, they kept their distance by unspoken mutual consent. But those dark eyes followed her, watching her when she least expected it, and she could no longer read their enigmatic expression.
And she watched him, from over Phillip’s tall, broad shoulder, past Regina’s stately coiffure, beyond the punch bowl and over the champagne. Every now and then his eyes would meet hers, sparks would shoot through her body, and she’d wonder how Phillip could miss her very strong physical reactions to his hand-picked security consultant.
Some of her tension must have penetrated, for at the end of the last dance he’d sent her upstairs. “You’re wound up as tight as a spring, Ferris. Why don’t you go and lie down for a few minutes? I can carry on without you. You’ve had a grueling week, I’m sure.”
“So have you, traipsing all over the state,” she replied conscientiously.
“Yes, darling, but I’m used to it,” he assured her. “And I haven’t got a tense bone in my body. I thrive on this sort of thing. I thought you did, too.”
It would be useless to deny it. If she could say one thing for Phillip, it was that he was abnormally perceptive. “I usually do,” she admitted. “I suppose it’s been a little much for me tonight.”
“Well, you go on upstairs and lie down for a bit. Try some deep breathing, all right?” He gave her his most winning smile. “You’re as nervous as a cat.”
Ferris couldn’t help it, she winced at the simile. “All right, I will, Phillip.” Reaching up on tiptoes, she kissed him on his smooth, scented, clean-shaven cheek. “I’ll be back before too long.”
“Don’t hurry, darling. I can hold down the fort.” With a smile, she turned to leave. And there was Blackheart again, that still, unreadable expression on his face. He’d seen her kiss Phillip, and Ferris told herself she was glad. She was only sorry she hadn’t given him a more enthusiastic embrace, just to make certain Blackheart understood how things stood.
But the problem was, Blackheart probably understood far better than she did. “There you are, Phil,” he said lightly, ignoring her. “Dale Summers was looking for you.”
“Thanks, Patrick. See that my lady gets upstairs for a rest, would you? She’s worn out on her feet and refuses to admit it.”
“Be glad to,” he said blandly. “Come on, Ferris.” He held out his black-clad arm.
There was no way she could avoid it. Phillip was watching her, concern clouding those big blue eyes that were a major asset in his political career. She put her hand on Blackheart’s arm, and she could feel the steel of clenched muscles beneath her light, touch. One strong, well-shaped hand covered hers with unnecessary force, and Phillip turned away.
Without a word he led her to the hallway, past a throng of merrymakers, both of them ignoring the curious glances cast their way. He stopped halfway up the wide, curving stairs, removing his warm, angry hand from hers, pulling his arm from her light grasp. “I think the senator’s lady is more than capable of finding a bedroom on her own. You’ve made it clear you don’t want my help.”
She stared at him, a sudden, unwary delight filling her face. “You’re jealous,” she said, her voice soft with wonder.
His black expression didn’t change. «That surprises you? I’d like to go back and rip Phillip’s tongue out. If you marry him and spend the rest of your life as Mrs. Senator Ferris Byrd Merriam, you’ll deserve it.”
“How about ending my life as Mrs. President Ferris Byrd Merriam,” she taunted. She shouldn’t have, she knew it, but this unexpected fury was so flattering it went straight to her head. She wanted more of it, more proof that she mattered to him, no matter how dangerous it was seeking it.
“How about Mrs. Francesca Berdahofski Blackheart?”
That effectively wiped the smile off her face. “What?” she managed in a choked voice. “Are you serious?”
“That look of pained disbelief is hardly flattering,” Blackheart drawled. “No, I wasn’t serious. Never trust a cat burglar, Ferris Byrd. You’ve made your bed; you can lie in it.” Without another word, he turned and left her on the stairs.
That was when her headache had started. For a brief moment she watched him go, wondering whether he really would rip Phillip’s silver tongue out, whether there was any molecule of seriousness when he’d asked her to marry him. Of course there wasn’t. She shook her head, trying to clear the mass of confusion, and continued up the stairs.
How did the man manage to move so silently, she wondered. It didn’t seem to matter what he wore on his feet—he’d crept up on her in dress shoes, Nikes and Tony Lama boots. Could she ever learn to move about as silently?
The second floor was far too brightly lit and noisy. Practicing her quiet moves, she continued on up the broad staircase, passing only one or two curious guests. If she could only perfect it enough to sneak up on Blackheart and scare the shit out of him, just once, she’d die a happy woman. If you stepped just the right way on the ball of your foot, she discovered—
“Darling.” A woman’s voice sighed deeply, and she heard the rustle of clothing.
Ferris froze in place. The third-floor hallway was dimly lit, the open door to the bedroom was a pool of light on the floor. She had better than average eyesight, even in those less than perfect conditions, and she had no trouble at all recognizing Olivia Summers clasped in a fevered embrace. And the man holding her was distinctive enough. She’d know Trace Walker anywhere.
Never in her life had Ferris been so embarrassed and so fascinated. Cool, snotty Olivia
wasn’t just kissing Trace Walker, she was climbing all over him, her greedy hands pawing at him. He seemed to be enduring the attention with good humor, even if Ferris suspected his heart wasn’t in it.
And then her hackles began to rise, as she recognized which bedroom the two of them had chosen for their tryst. The third-floor front bedroom was where the Von Emmerling emeralds were to be kept when they weren’t on display or hanging around some lady’s neck. And sure enough, that’s exactly where they were, clasped around Olivia’s skinny throat, the bracelet encircling the wrist that was traveling down toward Trace’s lean buttocks. They looked prettier than Ferris remembered them, more delicate, and the emeralds shone more brightly.
Of course, it was probably a coincidence. Trace had been keeping the emeralds company, and Olivia had decided to keep Trace company, since Blackheart seemed to have no time for her. But Ferris couldn’t stand around and let them use a fortune’s worth of jewels as an erotic toy. She was going to have to interrupt them, no matter how embarrassing just such a move would be. And she’d better do it soon—Olivia’s hands were getting positively indecent. Ferris caught the flash of the two-carat emerald ring before Olivia’s hand slid down in Trace’s front, and she could feel her face flushing. Damn them both, for putting her in such a position. It was just lucky that she’d come up here when she did.
She was about to clear her throat when she noticed the small dim figure by the far door. It was Kate Christiansen watching the embracing couple. She was wearing an unflattering floor-length dress of peach chiffon that made her short body look dumpy, and the expression on her face was a mixture of anger and such pain that it hurt Ferris to see it. She just stood there, her anguished eyes dark in her freckled face, too distraught to notice Ferris standing there like a voyeur.