“How did you get them back?” That was Regina’s voice.
“We paid a king’s ransom for them. I told my father we shouldn’t, but he was adamant. Fifty thousand pounds we paid the miscreant, far less than the actual worth of the gems, but steep enough. Since then we’ve been more careful.”
“It was only fifteen thousand,” Blackheart whispered in her ear. “And it was dollars, not pounds.”
She turned to stare at him, for once more startled by his words than his sudden appearance. “You didn’t!”
He smiled that charming, self-deprecating little smile that seemed to have the most insidious effect on her stomach and its nearby regions. “I did,” he confessed.
“Oh, my God.”
“Don’t worry about it, darling. The thrill is gone, the challenge has been met. I make it a policy never to steal the same thing twice. Unless it’s a kiss.”
“Keep away from me,” she warned in an undertone.
“I wasn’t talking about right now,” he said, much aggrieved. “You know, you look like a nun out on parole. Isn’t that outfit just a trifle severe?”
“I am a trifle severe. I don’t dress to please you.”
“That’s for sure.” His gaze turned back to the old lady, and Ferris gave in to temptation and studied his profile for a moment. It was a nice profile, with a strong, straight nose, good cheekbones, warm, deep-set eyes, and that demoralizing mouth of his. The khaki shirt hugged his wiry torso, stretched across his shoulders, tapered into his faded jeans. “Have you seen the gems?”
Guiltily she pulled her eyes upward. His pants were too tight, she thought grumpily. Or maybe she had that effect on him. More likely it was his proximity to jewelry that was turning him on. “Not yet,” she said. “I’ll see them soon enough.”
“They’d go beautifully with those eyes of yours.”
“No, thank you. Bland diamonds are more my style.” Of course she’d forgotten to wear her ring today, blunting the effect of that particular barb. She clenched her left hand, drawing Blackheart’s attention to it, and he smiled.
He was leaning against the paneled wall beside her, entirely at ease. “I’m afraid I disagree. You’d look magnificent wearing the Von Emmerling emeralds and nothing else. Have you ever made love in nothing but an emerald necklace?”
“No.”
“Well, I have. Of course, I wasn’t wearing the necklace—I’m not that kinky. The lady in my life at the moment obliged. It was very uncomfortable. I don’t recommend it.”
“That’s fortunate, because I have no intention of attempting it,” she snapped.
“Of course, pearls might be a different matter. I can just see you, draped in yards of huge baroque pearls. We could try that. I’d have to find the pearls, of course, but I imagine I could put my hand to some.”
“I imagine you could. No, thank you.”
“You mean it’s just going to be skin to skin when we make love?” he inquired, a thread of laughter in his soft, warm voice. “I thought I was going to have to be very inventive when I got you in bed.”
“You’re going to have to be fast on your feet when you try,” she shot back. “Or you’ll be walking funny for a week.”
“Such a romantic. Humor me, Francesca. What’s your most memorable erotic encounter?”
“Don’t call me Francesca,” she hissed.
“Then answer my question. I could always raise my voice, you know. Olivia would be fascinated—”
“You wouldn’t!”
“No,” he said regretfully. “I wouldn’t. But I’m tempted. Come on, Fra—Ferris. What did you do the last time you made love?”
Things were getting out of hand, as they always seemed to when she was around Blackheart. “I told Tommy Stanopoulos that I wouldn’t.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said that the last time I made love, I didn’t. I’m wearing white on my wedding day, Blackheart. Well-deserved white.” Why in God’s name was she telling him, she wondered.
Blackheart went very still, and she couldn’t read the expression in those beautiful eyes of his. It looked like an odd combination of amazement, wonder and belated anger. Why was he angry? It was a long moment before he said anything. “So if you can’t give Phillip Merriam a patrician background you can at least give him an honest virgin on his wedding night.”
“You bastard.”
“Actually, I was never certain of that,” he said calmly. “My father never told me, and I didn’t want to pry, out of respect for my dear departed mother. I hope you enjoy your fairy-tale life, Ferris. You may find it’s not quite what you expect.” And without another word he turned and walked away from her.
So why did she feel bereft, watching him go? No, she wasn’t bereft, she was relieved. She’d seen the last of Blackheart, heard the last of his taunting comments, and she was well rid of him. But why was he so angry?
“What’dya say to him?” Kate Christiansen had ambled away from the group of entranced women. “Must have been something good. He doesn’t often lose his temper.”
“What makes you think he lost his temper?” Ferris questioned coolly.
“The way he was walking. He must’ve lost his temper last night, too. His car window was broken. I had to give him a ride out here today.”
“Then I can thank you for getting him here on time.”
“No, you can’t. I don’t want your thanks for anything. I just want you to leave him alone.”
“What?” It came out a little too loud, and Olivia turned her regal head to glance at them, a smug expression in her blue eyes.
“I said, leave him alone. He doesn’t need you playing games with him. You’re going to marry Merriam, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave him alone.”
“Did it ever occur to you that it might be the other way around?” she questioned coolly, still aware of Olivia’s fascinated gaze.
“It occurred to me. But you’re not his type. I don’t think he needs a broken heart.” That was pain in Kate’s flinty eyes, and the pale mouth in her freckled face trembled slightly.
“Are you in love with him?” Ferris couldn’t quite believe it, but neither could she fathom the emotion she was eliciting from Blackheart’s assistant.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kate snapped. “He and Trace are my buddies.”
The light dawned. “Oh, it’s Trace you’re in love with,” she blurted out with less than her customary tact.
She was rewarded for it. Kate sent her a look of such murderous hatred that it made Blackheart’s temper seem mild in comparison. “You go to hell, Miss Berdahofski.” And she stomped out in her boss’s wake.
“What have you been doing, Ferris?” Regina glided up with the unconscious grace that had taken Ferris months to perfect. The Honorable Miss Smythe-Davies had ceased her lecture; the magpies were chattering and Olivia was still watching her.
“Winning friends and influencing people,” Ferris replied morosely.
“Don’t worry about it, darling. Did Phillip manage to track you down yesterday? He called me hoping I’d know where you were.”
“He got in touch with me a little after seven,” Ferris said.
“Phillip was very upset that he couldn’t find you. I told him not to be such a baby, but I’m afraid he’s a little spoiled. I must be to blame, though I don’t know how I let it happen.” Regina’s lovely brow wrinkled in worry.
“Everyone spoils him, Regina. He’s so charming and so handsome that people can’t help it, both women and men.”
“Well, don’t you do it,” Regina recommended. “Your married life will be hell. I suggest you make a habit of not being around when he calls. It doesn’t do him any good to be too sure.”
“Regina, we’re engaged
. Don’t you think people should be sure of each other if they’re planning to marry?”
“Are you sure of Phillip?” Regina asked gently. “And your feelings about him?”
When it came right down to it, there were times when Ferris thought she liked Regina Merriam even more than she liked her very likable son. She liked her too much to lie to her. “Regina, I have a miserable headache. Do you suppose the entire Puffin Ball will collapse if I go home?”
“I think you’re so marvelously capable that you’ve ensured that things will run smoothly even without your presence. Go ahead home, darling, and take your phone off the hook,” Regina said.
“Bless you, Regina.”
“What should I tell Patrick when he asks?” she queried slyly.
“Blackheart won’t ask,” Ferris said grimly, her head pounding. “If by any chance he does, tell him I’ve moved to Siberia.” On impulse she leaned over and gave the slender lady a hug. “I don’t deserve you, Regina.”
“Nonsense. It’s the Merriams who don’t deserve you. I hope for our sake that we get you, but I want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
That was too loaded a statement for Ferris to question. With another squeeze she headed back out into the cool San Francisco sunlight.
OLIVIA WATCHED Ferris go, a cat’s smile curving her perfect mouth. Things were looking very promising, very promising indeed. It always helped to be open to possibilities. Ferris Byrd would provide an admirable scapegoat if her first choice didn’t work out. The more possible culprits the better.
She took another longing look at the Von Emmerling emeralds. When it came right down to it, the glass and gilt reposing beneath her mattress was prettier. Perhaps that yappy old lady would appreciate the substitution. Perhaps not. That was scarcely Olivia’s concern.
She liked the choker the best. That one central emerald was really magnificent. The old lady said it had come from a Hindu idol and had a curse on it. Perhaps. Olivia had the notion that it would prove cursed indeed for several people. But lucky for her. Very, very lucky.
Chapter Nine
BLACKHEART STILL couldn’t understand why he was so mad at her. If he had any sense at all, he ought to be pleased that Ferris had resisted the countless importunate young men who must have thrown themselves at her magnificent feet. There was no doubt, no question in his mind that he would have her sooner or later—why wasn’t he obscurely pleased that he’d be the first?
Part of him was. Part of him reveled in the fact that whether Francesca Berdahofski knew it or not, her first lover was going to be a retired cat burglar and not the society blue blood she’d set her matrimonial sights on. Quite a comedown for such a ruthlessly ambitious young lady, and better than she deserved. Without any conceit on his part, he knew that he’d be a far better lover than someone of Phillip Merriam’s limited imagination. Besides, there was no way in hell that the good senator could want her any more than Blackheart did. He must want her a lot less—if Blackheart was engaged to her, she would have long ago left her pristine state.
Maybe it was the very fact that she’d clung to her virginity for so long that bothered him. A part of him wondered whether she was holding onto it for bargaining power—forcing Merriam into marriage if he wanted to have her. No, that didn’t seem likely. If Merriam was that hot to trot, he could have found a score of willing young ladies with more easily traceable pedigrees. He wouldn’t marry her just to get her into bed.
So why did the thought of her still being a virgin bug him so much? He had the unpleasant feeling that it was because he was afraid. Afraid of Francesca, of the depth of her feelings, of the entanglement that would result if he broke through twenty-nine years of defenses as he knew he could. If he was willing to go through all that trouble, was he willing to pay the price likely to be demanded? He still wasn’t quite sure.
He hadn’t come to terms with his abrupt change in life-style yet, and it had been years since he’d made his living out of rich men’s pockets. Well, no, that wasn’t completely true. He still made a very handsome living from the upper classes—the only difference being that now they had some say in the matter. It hadn’t always been so, he thought as he let himself into his apartment without turning on the light and flung his body down into the overstuffed sofa, stretching his stiff leg out in front of him.
There were three things his father had taught him, three things that were basic to the precarious profession of jewel thief. One: Never pull a job by the light of the moon. Two: Never feel sorry for the people you steal from—they can afford it far more than you can. And three: Never get caught.
He’d broken the first two prime rules, that night in London, and that, of course, had led to his breaking the third. His father later added a fourth rule to that list of sacrosanct commandments. Never trust a woman; they’re seldom what they appear to be. It was the breaking of that particular rule that had set the seal on his fate, and one would have thought he’d learned his lesson. But here he was, five years later and five years smarter, about to do the same thing all over again.
Francesca Berdahofski was a bundle of contradictions, as far removed from his varied lives as anyone could be. And he had the uncanny feeling that she could bring him down as effectively as Patience Hornsworth had.
Patience hadn’t been bad-looking, in a long-toothed, receding-chinned, sharp-eyed British sort of way. And of course, the diamond necklace her elderly husband had bestowed on her on the occasion of their seventh wedding anniversary, not to mention the tasteless but quite valuable sapphire and ruby collection belonging to Lord Hornsworth’s socially ambitious and extremely ugly sister, only added to Patience’s myriad charms. She hadn’t minded cuckolding her husband in his own house, indeed, had been doing it on a regular basis since the end of their honeymoon, and Blackheart had done his best to tire the energetic creature out before he set off on his nightly rounds.
It was one day past the full moon, and Blackheart knew better, but the opportunity was too good to miss—the Hornsworth town house was chock-full of friends and relations, there for some boring but mandatory charity ball. Among the both elegant and seedy guests present in the rambling old mansion there were at least three other likely suspects when the jewels turned up missing, and Emma Hornsworth had been far too tight and far too smitten with a rather myopic young fortune hunter to remember to see about locking up those hideous pieces her maiden aunt had left her. They would be lying on her dresser, and even if she were in the same room, accompanied by young Feldshaw, they wouldn’t see or hear him. He’d had too much experience to be more noticeable than a shadow or a breath of wind.
No, the damning light of the moon could be dealt with. The odd diffidence that had been attacking him more and more frequently was another problem. He’d been brought up to steal, brought up to think of the idle rich as nothing more than ripe and deserving victims for a poor man’s son. His father had thrown a whole lot of Irish nationalism at him at the same time, half convincing him, when he’d started out, that robbing the fat British upper classes was a political act for the oppressed minority. It had been a while before he’d noticed that the only oppressed minority who benefited from the influx of priceless jewels were his father and himself. By that time it was too late—he’d grown accustomed to the rich life, and the last thing he wanted to do was to turn his back on it. The fact that the precarious profession he was in had killed more than one member of his family made little difference—it even added to his self-justification. He’d risked his life for the jewels—the greedy owners had done nothing more, in most cases, than inherit them.
But even that constant litany wasn’t helping anymore. He was beginning to feel sordid, sleazy and, worst of all, dishonorable. Honesty and honor were two different things to him, and always had been. He’d tried to keep the latter in mind, while consigning honesty to perdition as a luxury he couldn’t afford. But honor was beginning t
o slip away, leaving him feeling like the lowest sort of criminal, and his self-proclaimed image as a latter-day Robin Hood somehow vanished beyond recall.
He’d have to give it up, he’d told himself as he’d shoved the tacky ruby and sapphire necklace and earrings in the black velvet pouch he’d inherited from his father for just such a purpose. Or find some way to rid himself of these absurd feelings of guilt. Because what in hell could he do as an alternative profession?
The rooftops of Hornsworth House were crenellated, gabled, full of interesting little twists and turns. He always preferred plying his trade in Europe—the boxlike structures that held most of moneyed America made it far too difficult to maintain an adequate hold. He’d done it, of course, and reveled in the challenge, but for pure esthetic pleasure you couldn’t beat the stately homes of England or the chateaus of France.
He’d shut the window behind him with a soundless click, leaving Emma Hornsworth happily entwined with a snoring Feldshaw. Blackheart had taken a moment to grin heartlessly at the happy couple. Better him than me, he thought wryly. Emma had been after him for more than a year now, but he drew the line at skin and bones and wrinkles. If he’d wanted to support himself with his talent as a swordsman, he might as well just be a gigolo. For one last time he tried to tell himself that what he did had more class, and for one last time he failed to believe it.
The moon had risen as he made his way back across the steep expanse of slate to Patience’s bedroom, and his silhouette was black and mercilessly visible against the silvered roof. He moved as swiftly as he dared, not giving up an iota of silence for the sake of speed. If it had only been two weeks later, he could have made enough to keep him comfortably for a year or more—the amount of jewelry adorning the wattled necks of the Hornsworths’ guests was estimable even in those overtaxed days, with a surprisingly small percentage of copies among the real thing.