The Catspaw Collection

  “I don’t think I ought to have any,” she demurred. “I’ve had too much caffeine as it is.”

  Blackheart smiled that wry smile that was now completely devoid of tenderness. “Haven’t you seen the ads on TV? This is decaffeinated. Just what us artistic types need before a big job.”

  “Blackheart, you can’t blame me,” she said suddenly, ignoring the innocuous topic of conversation. “It looked like a setup. I couldn’t hide you from the police, it would have been aiding . . .”

  Blackheart walked out of the kitchen, and her words trailed off. Well, he’d told her he wasn’t ready for an apology, and she still wasn’t completely convinced he deserved one.

  Looking down at her inky cup of coffee, she sighed. She didn’t need any more sugar—she was too wired as it was. She wondered if she could fling herself at Blackheart’s feet, beg him to let her cry off? It wouldn’t do any good, and she would be damned if she’d tell him. . . .

  But why did it have to be twenty floors up? Why couldn’t Olivia be sensible and have a basement apartment? Only Blackie knew of her weakness, it was only for Blackie’s sake that she’d venture out on her unused, windy second-floor terrace. It wasn’t paralyzing acrophobia; if she had to, she could tolerate high places. She just didn’t like them much. Her family’s trip to the Grand Canyon when she was fifteen had been torment, she’d never even taken a close look at the Coit Tower, and the only way she managed the steep hills of San Francisco was to drive as fast as she possibly could, and yet now Blackheart expected her to traverse twenty-story buildings without a qualm.

  Well, she wasn’t going to tell him. She’d be more likely to get mocking disbelief than compassion, and nothing would make him let her off. It was his revenge, and if he was innocent, then he had every right to it.

  And if she didn’t go, if she somehow managed to cry off, then what? Then she would never be certain of him. There’d always be room for doubt, and she’d never know if she was the lowest slime bug in creation or a painfully good judge of character. And that uncertainty wasn’t something she could live with.

  The living room was in shadows when she finally trailed in after Blackheart. He was sitting on the sofa in the twilight, his feet up on the coffee table, hands clasped loosely around the mug of coffee, eyes trained on the skyline. He didn’t move when she came in the room, didn’t turn. Kate had left hours ago, with stern instructions to stay in her apartment and not answer the telephone or the door unless it was on Blackheart’s prearranged signal. The solitude of the apartment pressed down on Ferris, and she idly wondered what Blackheart would do if she gave in to her irrational temptations and leaped on him. He probably would have dumped her on the floor.

  Sighing, she took a chair opposite him. “When are we going to do this?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “Nine-thirty!” she shrieked. “That’s four hours from now.”

  “Three hours and forty-five minutes,” he corrected. “And that’s when Olivia and her husband should be well settled in at Regina Merriam’s. If we leave earlier they might decide to be late, or even worse, not go at all. If we go later they may decide to come home early. Regina’s going to do her best to keep them, but there’s nothing she can do, short of force, if they make up their minds. She’s a redoubtable lady, but I can’t see her barring the door.”

  “Regina’s in on this?” Ferris couldn’t control her astonishment.

  Even in the gathering darkness she could see the flash of teeth as he smiled his ironic smile. “Regina trusts her own judgment, and she trusts me.”

  “Was this her idea or yours?”

  “Oh, mine. She just offered her assistance.”

  “And does she know I’m going to be part of this?” Blackheart turned his head to look at her then, and she wished she could read his expression in the gathering darkness. “Don’t worry, Ferris. Your secret is safe with me. None of the Merriams have the faintest idea that you ever had doubts about my perniciousness. I imagine if all goes well no one will believe what Olivia has to say about my whereabouts the night of the ball. And once the police are convinced of my innocence, I imagine they’d have no reason to tell anyone where I was when they arrested me. Rupert had a damned hard time keeping it out of the papers as it was, but we’ve been fortunate so far. If you’re cool-headed and lucky, you should be able to carry it off and have your white wedding after all.”

  “Don’t, Blackheart.” Her voice was very still in the dark room. A long silence ensued. Despite her tightly strung nerves, the sleepless nights were beginning to take their toll. In the dark, silent living room she found her eyelids drifting closed, and the half-empty mug of coffee tilted in her hand.

  “Come here,” he said suddenly, and despite the softness of his voice she jumped, spilling coffee on her camel-colored skirt.

  “Why?”

  “Because we have hours before we have to leave. You need to sleep. You may as well curl up in the corner of the couch.”

  “Why don’t I just go home and take a nap?”

  “Because I don’t trust you to come back,” he said simply.

  There was no way she could argue with that. “What about the bedroom?”

  “I keep that for sex,” he drawled. “Come here, Francesca. I promise you, you’re entirely safe.”

  She should have been offended by that snotty tone of voice, but at least he’d called her Francesca. It could have been a slip of the tongue, but for some reason Ferris felt cheered. Without a word she set down the mug of coffee and moved over to the sofa.

  He was right, there was more than enough room for her to curl up without touching his body on the far end. “What are you going to do?” she asked sleepily, trying to make herself comfortable.

  “What I usually do before a job. Empty my mind of everything.”

  Ferris couldn’t control a sleepy laugh. “I guess meditation has a thousand uses.”

  “It does,” he agreed softly. “You’re at the wrong end of the couch.”

  She lay very still, her nerves atingle. “I thought the bedroom was for sex.”

  An iron hand closed around her wrist and she was hauled upright and over to his side of the sofa. A moment later she was curled up by his side, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm around her. “It is. Go to sleep, Francesca.”

  A thousand protests sprang to mind, but she uttered not a one. He smelled of coffee and Kate’s cigarettes and Blackheart, and she hadn’t realized how much she missed him, how much she missed the feel of his body against hers. She wanted to turn her face against the smooth cotton of his shirt, put her arms around his waist and tell him how sorry she was. But he was right—it was too soon. He wasn’t ready to forgive her, not yet. But the feel of his arm around her body, holding her comfortably against him, told her that he was getting there. With a sigh she closed her eyes.

  FERRIS HAD BEEN half hoping that she’d awake to find herself stretched out along the wide couch, safe in his arms. When she awoke she was alone in the darkness, the light from the bedroom a small pool of brightness in the inky room. She lay there for a moment, hoping she could pretend to be asleep, hoping against hope he’d go without her. Without any warning her heart had begun a steady, violent thudding, and her palms felt cold and damp.

  Blackheart’s shadow blocked the light, and then he moved across the room. She lay there absorbing his approach. As usual she couldn’t hear him, and once he was out of the lamplight she couldn’t even see his silhouette. But she could feel him, feel the displaced air as his body moved closer. Maybe he’d lean down and kiss her. Maybe brush the hair away from her sleeping face. Maybe even—

  The pile of clothes hit her with a whoosh. He must have dropped them from quite a distance, and the force of their landing made her sit up with a startled squeal. “Damn you, Blackheart!” she snapped. “Haven’t you heard about waking pe
ople up gently?”

  “I don’t have the time,” he drawled, leaning over to turn on the light. “Besides, you were awake.”

  Ferris didn’t bother to argue with him—Blackheart always knew too much. She looked up at him, silently impressed. He was dressed for work; that much was obvious. The faded jeans had been traded for soft black denims, the black turtleneck covered him from wrist to chin, even his running shoes were black. A pair of thin black gloves was tucked into his hip pocket, and a black watch cap balanced the other side.

  “You look very effective,” she said, and her voice was slightly strangled. He also looked devastatingly attractive, and that thought didn’t help her inner turmoil.

  “Put those on.” He nodded toward the clothes. “They’re the same sort of thing. I can’t see you climbing over rooftops in a business suit.”

  The very thought made her stomach lurch, but she managed a brave smile. “No, I suppose not. Whose clothes are they?”

  “Mine,” he said without batting an eye. “You’ll have to roll up the pants, but they should fit well enough.” He cocked his head to one side. “They may be a little tight in the hips.”

  “Pig,” she said, too nervous to be as insulted as she should be. “What do I do for shoes?”

  “That may prove a problem.” He gave her high-heeled sandals a disapproving glance. “I’ll check and see if I have anything that will do. We may have to stop on our way over to Olivia’s. I think black ballet slippers would be the best.”

  “Won’t I look funny walking around in ballet slippers?” she questioned caustically.

  “This is San Francisco, remember? Everybody looks funny. Hurry up. Are you hungry?”

  The very thought of food made her knotted stomach twist, but her panicky brain reminded her that food would take time. “I’m famished,” she said brightly.

  “Too bad. I never eat before a job.”

  Ferris looked up at him, a sudden, furious suspicion entering her mind. “You’re looking forward to this, aren’t you?” she demanded. “You’re excited, you’re glad to be breaking into a twenty-story building.”

  He smiled at her with more benevolence than he’d shown in the three days since the emeralds were stolen and he’d been arrested. “Damn straight. Wanna make something of it?”

  As the sinking feeling filled her heart, she realized there was nothing she could say. “No.”

  “Then change your clothes and let’s get going.”

  Heartless, the man was completely heartless, she thought, struggling into the clothes in the small confines of his apartment-size bathroom. And damn his soul, the soft, faded black denims were tight in the hips. Sucking in her stomach, she pulled the zipper up, then turned to admire the back view in the mirror. Even if they were tight, they looked very enticing. Maybe she’d do her best to precede Blackheart up a ladder. Oh, dear God, what was she thinking?

  Blackheart was waiting impatiently by the door when she finally emerged, and his expression was critical, not admiring. “You’ll need to tie your hair back,” he said, his eyes running over her body with a professional eye. “Maybe we ought to cut off those pants, rather than roll them up.”

  “Don’t you think you might need them again?” she said sweetly.

  Blackheart didn’t rise to the bait. “If I do, I could afford to buy new ones. B and E is a lot more lucrative than security work. Come on, we’re running late.” He tossed her a wool hat and a pair of thin kid gloves. “Keep those stowed until we get up on the first roof.”

  “First roof?” Her voice came out in a tiny squeak, and his smile was chilling.

  “I’ve been thinking about it. There are two ways we can get in. One way is from the bottom, but the security in Olivia’s building is very tight. Our alternative is to go from the top. There’s a building on the corner that’s fairly accessible, and the rooftop route is straightforward enough. No peaks, at least. We’ll scout around a bit before we actually do it.”

  “Don’t you want to try starting from the bottom?” she said wistfully. “It sounds a lot more direct.”

  “And a lot more dangerous. Five hours in jail is just about my limit. Much as it would please me to drag you along with me, I think I could do without another arrest.” He peered at her, and his sadistic smile widened. “You aren’t afraid of heights, are you, Francesca?”

  She managed a creditable shrug. “Of course not.”

  “That’s good,” he murmured. “Because if you were, you wouldn’t like tonight at all. Not one tiny bit.” And his smile was nothing short of sinister.

  “Don’t try to scare me, Blackheart. I’m tough enough to take anything you have to dish out and more,” she snapped, her backbone stiffening. “What do I wear on my feet?”

  “I found these in the back of my closet. They should do.” He tossed her a pair of dark-brown flats, a size too small for her size-eight feet.

  “Whose are they?” she queried, then cursed herself for opening her mouth.

  Blackheart smiled. “Let’s just say they came from the bedroom. Are you ready?”

  He wasn’t going to goad her. “Ready.”

  “Well, I’m not.” He’d been standing a few feet away, watching her. Before she could realize his intent, he’d crossed those few feet and pulled her into his arms, his mouth coming down on hers with a fierce hunger that washed everything away, her panic, her doubts, her guilt.

  Twining her arms up around his neck, she opened her mouth for his tongue, lost in the sudden swirl of wanting that washed over her. He’d caught her hips in his firm, strong hands, pressing her up tightly against him, and she whimpered softly as his tongue met hers, seeking a response that was there for the taking. His hands slid up her black-clad sides, around in front to cup her breasts, and his fingers were enticingly rough and arousing. She pressed herself against those hands of his, her own traveling up his strong, narrow back, the feel of the soft cotton turtleneck frustrating when she wanted silken skin. His blatant arousal ground against her, and for one brief, mad moment she considered tripping him up and jumping on him. Anything to avoid heights, she told herself righteously, pressing closer to his enticing body.

  His hands left her breasts, caught her arms and drew her away from him, slowly, deliberately, being very careful not to hurt her. His breathing was labored, his eyes glistening in the darkness, and she could hear the rapid thudding of his heart in counterpoint to hers. “Now I’m ready,” he said finally, dropping her wrists and turning away. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WAS A COOL, damp night, with a low-hanging mist that just might obscure the deadly drops between buildings, Ferris thought hopefully. It might also obscure her footing, but she was resigned to that. She was going to end up smashed on the sidewalks—she’d prefer not to have to see anything as she fell.

  Blackheart was right, as always. Nobody gave them a second look as they strode arm in arm, two black-clad cat burglars out for a stroll, she thought bitterly. She kept casting nervous glances up at the jagged roofline that looked like sharks’ teeth, with Blackheart constantly pulling her attention back to the earth where she’d so much rather stay, please God.

  “Where are we going now?” she whispered angrily as they strolled past Olivia’s building for the second time. It was a stately, post-earthquake building on Nob Hill, heavily doormanned, as Blackheart had warned her. She cast the uniformed guard a longing look. Maybe she could entice him into a back alley while Blackheart slipped upstairs alone. Without her archaic virginity to protect, she’d choose additional dishonor before death any day.

  But Blackheart had dragged her past the building without allowing her more than a wistful glance. “Forget it,” he’d ground out in her ear. “I’ve already checked everything. The only way we could get into that place is with a Sherman tank or the Pope by our side—and even then they might s
till want IDs. And I’m afraid anyone connected with Blackheart, Inc., is strictly persona non grata around here.”

  “But maybe I could distract him.”

  His laugh was heartlessly derisive. “You’re starting to see yourself as a Mata Hari after one night of passion? If you managed to get past him, there’d still be the elevator operator. This is a full-service apartment building.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh,” he echoed cynically. They plowed onward, Ferris’s hand numb on his arm. “We’re here,” he said finally, and her heart plummeted to the too-tight shoes.

  It was a small building, a little seedier than its sisters on the neat upper-class street, its facade smog and pollution-stained. “What is it?”

  “A hotel. Look sultry.” He began to steer her in through a tawdry lobby, and the woman behind the desk looked up with absolutely no expression on her tough, tired face. Her hair was an improbable shade of blond, her eyes were dead, and the stub of a cigarette hung from a coral-lipsticked mouth. Ferris stared at her for a moment, wondering how she managed to smoke so far down without burning those overripe lips of hers.

  “We’d like a room,” Blackheart announced, still maintaining a tight grip on Ferris’s arm.

  “So what else is new?” the woman returned, shoving the register at them. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I presume?”

  Still clamping the defiant Ferris to his side, Blackheart signed in a dark, sprawling script. The desk clerk turned it back, peered at it, then glanced up at the two of them suspiciously. “Berdahofski?” she queried. “Mr. and Mrs.,” Blackheart said sweetly.

  “Any luggage?” She dropped her cigarette butt in the Styrofoam cup of congealed coffee by her side. She didn’t bother to look or wait for an answer. “No loud noises, no screaming, no breaking the furniture. Twenty bucks.”