The Catspaw Collection

  Ferris Byrd was a nosy complication, but she could be dealt with. That net of circumstance could drag her down, too. The thought was amusing, infinitely satisfying. The poor girl would never know what hit her.

  Maybe it would be a good idea to check on the Werdegast emeralds. It had been hard to resist the temptation to sit and gloat over them. Maybe just for a moment, before anyone came in. It wouldn’t do any harm—in another week they’d be gone, and the real ones would be in their place. Such a soothing, pleasant thought. And one more peek wouldn’t hurt.

  Chapter Five

  IT HAD BEEN Raffles last night. Ferris had told herself she wasn’t going to watch. The last thing she’d needed was to be presented with the spectacle of David Niven cavorting as a debonair cat burglar in London of the 1930s. What she did need was to lose herself in a long, fascinating book, forget that Blackheart ever lived, forget that name that he’d uttered so charmingly. Francesca, he’d said, and she could no longer hide from the fact that he knew far too much about her.

  But Raffles had been irresistible, and she had given up the pretense of ignoring it after the second dish of French vanilla. There was still no sign of Blackie, and the apartment had seemed curiously empty. She drifted off just as the virtues of exfoliations were being extolled by an Australian pitchman, her lush body stretched across the queen-size bed wearing purple satin boxer shorts and a matching sleeveless T-shirt, her clothes in a tangle at the foot of the bed, the sink full of dishes. And when she woke the next morning, the first thing she saw was Patrick Blackheart, leaning against the doorjamb, surveying her sleeping form amidst the clutter with great interest.

  Ferris usually awoke slowly, in stages, each successive cup of coffee bringing her into the real world. One look at Blackheart, however, and the adrenaline shot through her veins and she was suddenly completely awake. She sat bolt upright, ignoring the fact that she was wearing nothing at all under the thin satin undershirt and her full breasts were heaving with outrage and indignation. Blackheart’s gaze dropped to their level, however, reminding her, and she quickly pulled the sheet around her.

  “I hate to be redundant,” she said in a voice strangled with rage, “but what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Demonstrating my expertise. I thought I should convince you just how good I am at my job. I can get in or out of the most burglarproof apartment. If it passes my inspection, no one can get in.”

  “Apparently my apartment didn’t pass your inspection. How did you get in?”

  He gave her that cool, almost angelic smile. “You aren’t hiring me, Francesca. Phillip is. Check with Kate for my rate for apartments.” He moved out of the door, heading back down the three steps to the kitchen. “Want any coffee?” he called out over his shoulder.

  She was after him in a flash, the huge sheet wrapped toga-style around her body. “I want you out of my apartment,” she warned him, trailing him into the kitchen. “Now.”

  It had been a mistake. She had forgotten how very small her kitchen was, not much larger than a closet. There was barely room for the two of them to stand, much less without touching. Blackheart seemed amused by her predicament, but she stood her ground. She wasn’t about to let Blackheart drive her out of her own kitchen.

  “Do you take it black?” He reached overhead for one of her mismatched mugs, filling it from the pot before she could protest. She’d forgotten she had that pot—she usually made do with Starbucks. And damn him, he’d washed her dishes! They sat in the drainer, clean and shining. Ferris gnashed her teeth.

  “No,” Blackheart mused, “you’d take too much sugar and too much cream. Except that your cream is sour, and you’re out of nondairy creamer. You’ll have to drink it this way.”

  He held out the mug, and she had a hard time controlling the strong desire to splash the steaming liquid all over him. He was wearing jeans and a faded flannel shirt, and it would have hurt very much. With real regret she accepted the coffee.

  “Thank you,” he said in that gentle voice. “I wouldn’t have liked having a bath in hot coffee.”

  “It’s nothing less than you deserve,” she grumbled, taking a sip for lack of something better to do. Even without the gobs of cream she usually added, it was surprisingly good. “I still want you out of here.”

  He reached out a hand and touched a strand of her thick cloud of hair. “I like it better loose.”

  There was no room to whirl away from him—she would have come slap up against the refrigerator. One hand was holding the cup of coffee, the other clutched the sheet around her, and she had to content herself with a warning glare. Her regret when he dropped the hair and levered himself up on her kitchen counter, away from her, was inexplicable.

  “So tell me, Francesca Berdahofski, what are you doing today?” he inquired casually. “I need some help, and I thought you’d be the perfect candidate to assist me.”

  “You bastard. If you think you can blackmail me into helping you steal the emeralds you must be out of your mind,” she spat at him.

  The force of her noble outrage was weakened in the face of his astounded amusement. “You really do have a vicious opinion of me, don’t you? How am I going to convince you I’ve given up my sordid past? I assure you, I no longer have what it takes to be a cat burglar, more’s the pity. I have to get my jollies where I can, stopping other people from doing what I used to do so well.”

  She suddenly felt like a complete idiot, standing there clutching the sheet around her like an outraged virgin. Except, of course, that she was. What else did he know about her, besides her name? “What do you need help with?” she said, stalling.

  “My first step is to make sure that no one from the outside can get in to steal the emeralds. If I can narrow it down to the four hundred and some ticket holders, it will be a minor improvement. There are alarms on every window on the second, third and fourth floors, except for the Palladian window in the back of the second floor hallway. I presumed no one bothered because only one narrow section opens, and the entire thing is in full view of the downstairs hallway.”

  “And?”

  “And, I’m not convinced that someone might not be able to manage it. I don’t think the view is unrestricted at all, I think there’s a blind spot. I want to see whether I can get in without you seeing me.”

  “Why don’t you just have another alarm put on that window, too? Why go to all that effort?”

  Blackheart shook his head. “That’s my reward for working a nine-to-five job. I get to try a little B and E in the name of business.”

  “B and E?” She took another sip of the wonderful coffee, and the hold on her sheet relaxed somewhat.

  “Breaking and entering, it’s called by the men in blue. A very unimaginative term for what can be a form of art. Of course, most B and E is crude and unimaginative. Junkies in search of stereo equipment and the like.”

  “You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?” she demanded, outraged. “You see yourself as some sort of hero, better than some poor junkie.”

  He shrugged. “I had standards.”

  “Standards!” she scoffed.

  “I never robbed anyone who wasn’t obscenely wealthy. I never kept anything that was uninsured, and I never kept anything that was overinsured. I only stole gems, beautiful, shimmering jewels.” His voice had taken on an unbearably sensuous thread. “I never touched money or any of the other glittering toys rich people tend to have lying around. Just jewelry.”

  “Very noble,” Ferris mocked, leaning against the refrigerator.

  “So you’ll come with me, Francesca?”

  “Stop calling me that! My name is Ferris.”

  “Your name is Francesca. You never changed it legally,” he retorted calmly.

  “I don’t like the name.”

  “Tough. It suits you, with that cloud of midnight hair and yo
ur magnificent breasts heaving in rage. What in the world are you wearing under that sheet? Those scraps of purple satin certainly look enticing, but not at all the sort of thing one would expect from the future Mrs. Senator Phillip Merriam.”

  “Damn you, you are trying to blackmail me.”

  “No,” he said, the smile leaving his face. “I’m not.”

  “Then why did you check up on me?” she demanded.

  “I could tell you I had Kate run a routine check on all the major people connected with the Puffin Ball and the Von Emmerling emeralds, and that would be true. When you’re dealing with something worth that much money, you check out all the angles. But I didn’t tell her to rush the others.”

  “And you told her to rush mine. Why?”

  In that tiny, confined space, with him perched on the narrow length of kitchen counter and she as far away as she could be, leaning up against the mini-refrigerator, they were still within touching distance. A dreamy look came into his warm brown eyes, and a smile curved that mouth that looked suddenly quite irresistible. He was going to reach out and touch her again, he was going to pull her body against his and kiss her senseless, and she was going to let him. The sheet was going to fall at her feet, and she’d be standing there in the circle of his arms wearing the ridiculous purple satin boxer shorts and she wouldn’t care at all. The thought made her slightly dizzy.

  “Because,” he said finally, and his voice was a seduction, “I thought you were my prime suspect.”

  She stared at him in absolute amazement, and then he did reach out one of his strong, beautiful hands, placing a long finger under her chin and closing her mouth. “You’ll catch flies, Francesca,” he murmured, that devilish light in his eyes.

  “I—I—” Her outrage was so great that words failed her, a fact that seemed to please her uninvited visitor.

  “Since you’re feeling so modest in that sheet, why don’t you go get dressed? I brought some croissants, too. Once you feel you’re safely attired, we can discuss what we’re going to do at Carleton House.”

  “You’re going to get Trace to help you,” she snapped.

  “Trace is otherwise occupied; so is Kate. Sorry, lady, you’re drafted. You wouldn’t want Phillip to hear you’ve been uncooperative, would you?”

  “There’s a lot you could tell Phillip,” she said gracelessly.

  “But I wouldn’t,” he said, and she trusted him. That far, at least. “Go get dressed. And don’t wear one of those damned suits. We may need to scramble a bit.”

  She took as long as she possibly could, even making her bed-an unheard of occurrence. She was sorely tempted to wear a suit anyway, but gave up the idea. Blackheart was outrageous enough to take it off her if he so chose. She settled for jeans and a silk and wool sweater that barely hinted at the ripe curves underneath. Scraping her thick hair back from her face, she pinned it into a ruthlessly tight bun and shoved Phillip’s tastefully large diamond on her left hand before rejoining Blackheart in the kitchen.

  He was munching a croissant, managing it with far more neatness than she ever could, but at the sight of her a frown creased his brow beneath the long dark hair, and he put the pastry down, advancing on her with a determined air. It took all her willpower, but she stood her ground.

  “Very nice,” he murmured, his long arms reaching behind her head, “except for this . . .” With speedy dispatch he removed the hair pins, and the hair tumbled to her shoulders. “. . . and this.” Tossing the hairpins on the counter, he caught her left hand and took the ring from her finger before she was even aware that he’d touched her. She stared at him with reluctant amazement. The ring was still slightly tight that time of month, and yet he’d removed it as easily as if it had been two sizes too large.

  He gave the ring a dismissing glance before dropping it on the counter with as much care as the steel hairpins, and Ferris felt compelled to defend it. “That’s a very nice ring,” she protested. “You needn’t sneer at it.”

  “Completely unimaginative,” he said. “But then, Phillip Merriam has never had the reputation for creativity. You should wear emeralds to match your glorious eyes. Or rubies.”

  “Diamonds suit me just fine,” she said repressively, part of her getting caught up in the fantasy against her will.

  “Then a huge yellow diamond, the size of a robin’s egg,” he mused. “But not a damned bland white diamond any banker’s wife would wear.”

  “Did you want me to come with you or not? Because you’re treading on very thin ice, Blackheart.”

  “Because I think you should be showered with precious jewels? I’d better watch my step.”

  “You’d better.” She turned away, but not before a reluctant smile lit her face, and he caught her shoulder and turned her back, very gently.

  “You can smile,” he said softly. “I find that very reassuring.”

  “Then I’m no longer on the top of your list of suspects?” she said lightly.

  The hand tightened for a moment on her shoulder, and she felt him lean toward her. And then the moment passed, and she breathed a small, uncertain sigh. “I’ll trust you, Francesca,” he said, “when you trust me.”

  “And that will be a cold day in hell. Let’s go if we’re going.”

  “I don’t know, Francesca,” Blackheart mused. “There are times when I think you’re cold enough to freeze hell, and then some. Don’t glare at me—I’m coming.”

  Chapter Six

  DAMN, BUT HE was getting himself in trouble, Blackheart thought. Deeper and deeper, eyes wide open as he walked directly into the mire. At thirty-six he should have known better. It must be his restless streak acting up again. If he couldn’t risk life and limb scrambling over buildings, he could risk the far too secure tenor of his life by messing with the bundle of contradictions by his side.

  When it came right down to it, he disapproved of Miss Ferris-Francesca-Byrd-Berdahofski as much as she disapproved of him. He disapproved of her uptightness, of that proper image she’d created and wrapped around that surprisingly luscious body like an invisible cloak, of the snobbery that made her hide her roots, and most of all he disapproved of the fact that he wanted her so much it was a constant ache whenever he was around her. Of course, there was an obvious answer to the problem—stop being around her. But he couldn’t resist—the danger pulled him like a magnet, and that cool, to-hell-with-you expression on her face was a challenge he couldn’t resist.

  “This isn’t the way to Carleton House.” He also liked that husky note in her voice, and the snotty way she called him “Blackheart,” as if she thought the name suited him.

  “No, it’s not,” he agreed, glancing at her averted profile as he continued heading toward the bay. She’d taken one glance at the disreputable-looking Volvo station wagon that had seen many better years, and the disbelief in those green eyes of hers had been worth it. She sat now in the front seat, seat belt firmly fastened, hands clasped loosely in her lap, trying to convince him she was at ease. Her knuckles were white.

  “Are you kidnapping me?” she asked lightly.

  “Would you like me to?” he countered. She appeared to consider it, then shook her head, the cloud of black hair swirling around her fine-boned face.

  “We’re stopping by my favorite deli to pick up something for a picnic.” He took pity on her.

  “It’s too cold for a picnic. And I didn’t say I’d eat with you, I said I’d help you with . . . I don’t know that I actually agreed to a damned thing,” she said crossly.

  Damn, but he liked her. He liked the way she struggled to keep angry with him, he liked the ramshackle apartment with its piles of books and magazines over every available surface and the clothes tumbled on the floor, still smelling of Cabochard. It was a fitting perfume for her—it meant “pigheaded.” And that was one thing that could be said about her; she was definitel
y a very pigheaded young lady.

  Kate had warned him. She knew him and Trace like the back of her hand, had recognized that speculative look in his eyes and taken him to task for it. It was her thankless duty to try to keep Blackheart, Inc., running reasonably smoothly. Given Trace’s susceptibility to the pretty debutantes and beautiful matrons that abounded in most of their jobs, given Blackheart’s determination not to adhere to timetables or rules, she had her work cut out for her.

  The last six months had added a new fillip to her problems. Kate had, apparently, always been uninterested in romantic entanglements, preferring to keep to herself. Until last year, when she’d suddenly become extremely secretive. Blackheart had suspected a married man, but he’d done nothing to verify it, respecting Kate’s privacy. Whatever it was, it seemed to cause her more grief than sorrow. First there was a two-week period of swollen eyes, sniffling, and heart-felt sighs, and then Kate had pulled herself together, back into her usual pugnacious competence. And it had taken Blackheart months to notice that her usual bullying maternal attitude toward her co-workers had undergone a change. In Trace’s direction.

  Blackheart had been too respectful of Kate’s privacy to inquire into it. He knew Trace had taken her out drinking a couple of times when she was recovering from her recent troubles. But he also knew that Trace thought of her as a buddy, one of the guys, having been lectured early on that she wasn’t interested in him that way. But it looked to Blackheart as if she’d changed her mind, and Trace hadn’t the faintest idea.

  He pulled himself back to the present with no difficulty at all. There was nothing he could do about Kate’s tangled love life, and he didn’t think he would interfere, even if he could. Years of being a loner were hard to break. In the meantime, he had his own tangled love life to work on right now. And that was just what he wanted it to be. Tangled—in her sheets, in her limbs, in the cloud of hair.