She got as far as the door to the hallway when he caught up with her. His hands were gentle but so very strong on her shoulders as he turned her back to face him. “Don’t be afraid of me, Francesca,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She met his gaze steadily, making no move to break free. “Then let go of me,” she whispered.
“Oh, love,” he murmured. “I can’t do that.” He pulled her against his taut body, slowly, giving her plenty of time to escape. She made no move to break free. His head dropped down, his mouth catching hers in a slow, searching kiss as his hands slid down her shoulders, down her back, molding her body to his. He kissed her with deliberate expertise, his tongue teasing her lips open, the rough texture exploring her mouth.
She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare react, or she would be lost. She stood passively in the circle of his arms as he kissed her, willing her mind to think of other things, willing her body not to respond. But then his head moved away a fraction, his eyes were blazing down into hers with a slumberous, intense passion that she could no longer resist.
“What’s the matter, Francesca?” he whispered, a note of laughter in his voice. “Cat got your tongue? You’re supposed to kiss me back.” His mouth caught hers again, she was lost. Her arms slid around his waist, holding him close against her, and she couldn’t tell if she was trembling or he was. Maybe they both were. Her tongue shyly met his, sliding along the rough-textured intruder with a shudder of delight. His narrow hips were pressed up against her rounder ones, and she could feel him hard against her. Those strong, beautiful hands of his were gentling her back, soothing her fears, just as his mouth was melting her brain. She couldn’t think, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything more than react to the overwhelming sensual stimuli he was using. She could feel the last restraints begin to slip away, her conscious thought fading before the sensual onslaught of his mouth and hands and her sudden, overwhelming, unbearable wanting, and she wanted to sink to the hardwood floor and pull him with her, pull that strong, lean body of his over her and into her and around her and—
“My, my, we seem to have come at a bad time.’ Olivia Summers’s coolly amused tones broke through the haze of passion like a bucket of ice water, and Ferris tried to break away in sudden horror. But Blackheart held on to her, allowing her only a few inches distance as his strong hands caught her arms and held her there.
“What are you doing here, Olivia?” he questioned, and as sanity rapidly returned, Ferris could appreciate what he was doing. Guilt and panic were exactly what Olivia wanted, and she had almost made the mistake of giving them to her. She took a deep, calming breath, and Blackheart gave her arms a subtly reassuring squeeze before releasing her.
“Actually, I had a few measurements to make. I appear to have lost my notes, and Dale was a perfect lamb and offered to bring me over. It appears I interrupted a . . . conference?” she queried delicately, and it was all Ferris could do to control a snarl. “And such a charming spot for one,” she added, her patrician nose raised in amused disdain. “Honestly, Patrick, you’re up to your old tricks again. Do you and Trace always have to have a new conquest with each job? You really shouldn’t pick on poor Ferris. She isn’t as sophisticated as I was—she might think you mean it.”
Ever the little gentleman, he’d called himself. He proved it then, Ferris thought, with that distant, polite smile. “Maybe this time I do.”
“Oh, Patrick, I doubt that.” Olivia›s laugh was soft and faintly condescending. “And if you have no pity for poor Ferris, think of Phillip. You really mustn’t play fast and loose with people’s emotions. You should save yourself for someone who’s better able to handle you.” There was little doubt who Olivia meant, and not for the first time Ferris wondered how someone who looked like Grace Kelly could act like Attila the Hun.
“Olivia, I think there’s someone here.” Dale Summers’s rich, fruity voice came from the hallway, preceding his lanky form. “I don’t think we ought to—” Spying Blackheart and Ferris, he came to a halt, and a blush came over his long, bony face.
His obvious embarrassment only made Ferris more uncomfortable, but there was no way she was going to leave Olivia with the upper hand. “Go ahead with whatever you were planning, Olivia. Blackheart and I were just finishing.”
“Really?” Olivia raised one exquisite eyebrow. “It looked to me as if you’d just begun.”
“You do have a mouth on you, Olivia,” Blackheart said softly. “You might consider washing it out with soap every now and then.”
“So charming,” Olivia purred.
“I do my best. What are you two doing here? I can’t imagine you needed any measurements that couldn’t wait till tomorrow. And why do you have a key? You aren’t one of the people listed as having one.”
“Dear Patrick, you are becoming so professional all of a sudden. Well, you’ve caught me, I’m afraid. I borrowed Regina’s key last week and had a copy made. I didn’t really relish going to dear Ferris every time I needed to get in. It smacked too much of boarding school.” She cast Ferris an appraising glance out of her china-blue eyes. “Though I must say you’re looking a great deal less schoolmarmish than usual, Ferris.”
“You still haven’t answered my question, Olivia,” Blackheart persisted, that deep, quiet voice of his embedded with steel. “Why did you and Dale come here today?”
Dale had blushed even a deeper red, and his prominent Adam’s apple worked convulsively. Ferris watched him with distracted fascination, almost missing Olivia’s indulgent little laugh.
“Why, Patrick, you taught me about the erotic possibilities of empty mansions. I’ll never forget the costume ball at San Simeon. I thought I’d bring Dale along and see if I could recapture the old magic.” Her perfect lips curved in a smile. “I figured anything was possible.”
Ferris had finally reached her limit. “Then I think we should leave you two to your privacy,” she said quietly. “We were just about to head back to town anyway. I’m expecting a phone call from Phillip.” She said it defiantly, eager to show she had nothing to hide from Olivia’s beautiful blue eyes.
“Does he call you every Sunday? How sweetly predictable of him,” she cooed. “He used to call me every Sunday when we were engaged and he was campaigning. Of course he used to call me earlier. Three o’clock, every Sunday afternoon. I’m glad to know he keeps in touch.” She took a step toward Ferris’s still figure, leaning forward in a confiding fashion. “Listen, darling, I’d never realized that we had such similar taste in men. Why don’t we trade men for the afternoon? I’ve missed Patrick’s—shall we say, enthusiasm. And you’ll find Dale can manage a creditable performance when properly inspired.”
Ferris’s hand clenched into a fist. She would have given five years off her life to have driven that fist directly into Olivia’s perfect little teeth, but the strong hand on her back would have moved fast enough to stop her. She gave up the notion with great sorrow, promising herself that sooner or later she’d have her revenge. “I’m going out to the car now, Blackheart,” she said calmly, congratulating herself on her even tone of voice. If she couldn’t have revenge, she could at least have dignity.
With a cool nod at Dale, she strode past them, ignoring Olivia’s amused smile. By the time she reached the broad front steps she was shaking with rage, by the time she reached the car she was swearing and cursing in words taught to her by her brothers in deepest secret. Yanking open the car door, she slid inside and sat there, waiting, counting until Blackheart joined her.
He got there by seventy-three, and the surface of Ferris’s white-hot rage had cooled to red. He slid into the front seat beside her, turning to look at her before turning the key in the ignition.
She met his gaze accusingly. “How could you?” she demanded in a furious undertone.
“How could I what?”
“How could you sleep with that
slimy bitch?”
Blackheart shrugged, and she could see the amused light in his eyes. If it had reached his mouth, he would have been the recipient of her fist instead of Olivia. “I had nothing better to do at the time,” he replied. “You want to tell me about your past love life?”
“I would have thought that would be part of your report.”
“It should have been. Kate couldn’t find out anything of interest, apart from a high-school football player.”
“Damn you, Blackheart, leave me alone!” she snapped, enraged. “Tommy Stanopoulos has nothing to do with this.”
“Nor does my past affair with Olivia Summers,” he said calmly, starting the car.
“You’re right about that. Your affairs have absolutely nothing to do with me. As long as you have the energy left to get the job done you can sleep with every single socialite, married or otherwise, that you can get your hands on. I won’t say I don’t admire your prowess, but—what are you doing?”
Blackheart had started out the driveway, but as her words escalated he’d slammed on the brakes, turning to her with the first anger she’d seen from him. Part of her was gratified she’d goaded him beyond that smiling calm, part of her was terrified. He put those strong hands on her, yanking her against him, and his mouth effectively silenced her.
It was a long kiss, deep and searching, and she was helpless to do anything but respond. When he finally released her, they were both breathless. She fell back against her seat, staring at him as he slowly put the car in gear and started back out the driveway. His breathing slowed, the hands clenching the steering wheel loosened, and the tension in his wiry shoulders relaxed. “That seems as good a way as any to shut you up,” he said meditatively. “For your information, I don’t happen to want to go to bed with anybody but you. Not right now, at least. My reputation is based more on rumor than fact; Olivia Summers was an unpleasant mistake that I don’t care to make again. And if you want any more excuses, you can damn well do something to earn them.”
The rest of the ride was finished in complete, absolute silence. He didn’t bother to turn the car off when they arrived outside her apartment, and he kept his face averted. Without a word she climbed out of the car, without a word she grabbed her purse and without a word she slammed the door as hard as she could. She heard the tinkle of glass with real delight, and ran into her building before Blackheart could respond. Forgetting that when he was ready, locked doors weren’t about to keep him out.
The angry squeal of the tires as he drove away was balm to her outraged soul. “Take that, Blackheart,” she murmured, climbing the flight of stairs to her second-floor apartment.
Dale Summers turned to his wife, the high color fading somewhat. “That was close.”
Olivia was staring out the window, watching the Volvo start, stop dead, and then start up again. “Too close,” she murmured. “But every cloud has a silver lining. I’ve just had the most delicious idea.”
Dale looked at his wife’s serene little smile with worried doubt. “You wouldn’t . . .” he began, but the icy expression in her blue eyes stopped him. “I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he said plaintively.
Olivia smiled her tranquil smile. “Oh, I do, darling. I know precisely what I’m doing. Come along.”
Chapter Eight
ROUGH CUT HADN’T been enough to hold her interest past one that night. She clicked it off with a determined snap, burrowed under her tangled covers, and tried to will herself to sleep. It hadn’t been the best day of her life, starting with Blackheart’s appearance in her apartment and ending with Phillip’s querulous phone call. Even Phillip’s sulks were gentle and charming, and Ferris felt like every kind of traitor as she soothed his ruffled feathers. A traitor because she’d responded to Patrick Blackheart’s kisses far more enthusiastically than she ever had to Phillip’s restrained necking. Of course, Phillip respected her, planned to marry her. Blackheart didn’t respect anything or anybody, whether it was someone else’s diamond necklace or someone else’s fiancée. And he probably went after both for the same reason—the sheer, mischief-making challenge of it.
Ferris was still trying to sleep when she heard the restrained batting against the door that opened onto her terrace, and she dived further under the covers, trying to escape the determined daylight and that nagging little sound. But consciousness had taken hold, and as the tap-tap renewed, she tossed the covers back with a glad cry to survey the fierce-looking gray beastie outside on her terrace.
“Blackie!” she cried, flopping across her bed and reaching for the door handle. It only opened a scant three inches against the oversize bed, just enough to let the furry creature slither through, hop onto her bed, and survey her with his usual haughty disdain while she slammed the heavy door shut again. “Where have you been, old man?” she demanded, stroking him on his grizzled gray head. “I thought you’d left me for good this time.”
Blackie the alley cat expressed his thoughts with a feline sneer, batted at her hand, and headed for the kitchen. Ferris, knowing her duty when she saw it, headed after him, shivering a bit in the early morning chill. An ice-blue Victorian teddy wasn’t the warmest of sleeping apparel.
“You’ve been gone three days this time, Blackie,” she informed him as she opened a can of cat food. “I’d almost given up on you. I met your namesake while you were gone.” Blackie sniffed at the can, gave her a reproachful look and sat back on his haunches. “I know, you’d prefer herring in sour cream, but I ate it last night. I’ll buy you some more if you promise to stay around.”
Blackie continued to stare at her, unblinking. “No, I don’t suppose you will. Any more than your namesake. He’s far more elegant than you are, old man. And far quieter. You sounded like a herd of elephants outside the door this morning. Come on, Blackie old boy. It’s Dixie Dinner, your favorite.”
Blackie considered this, his gaze alternating between her beseeching face and the dish of Dixie Dinner. Taking pity on his poor mistress, he bit daintily into the food, slowly enough to show his disapproval. Ferris knew full well that the moment she turned her back he’d scarf it down in record time. “I should have left you in that alley,” she said ruefully.
And that was just where she intended to leave Patrick Blackheart himself. She must be out of her mind, to risk everything she’d worked so hard for, jeopardize her relationship with an undemanding gentleman like Phillip Merriam. She was going to be a senator’s wife, and with Phillip’s genteel ambition, who knew where that would end? Short of the White House, she devoutly hoped, but not too far short of it. She’d have wealth, security, and her own kind of power. Why was an amoral felon having any effect on her whatsoever?
It took her longer than usual to whirl through the apartment, straightening the mess she’d made the day before. Blackie followed her, weaving between her legs and doing his best to trip her. He seemed to take exception to the white linen suit she was wearing, and even Ferris had to admit it was a little severe. Just the thing to keep Blackheart in line, to keep herself in line. Although she may have accomplished just that objective when she’d inadvertently smashed his car window.
She made it to Carleton House at more than her usual breakneck speed, frightening even herself once or twice. She had almost forgotten—the Honorable Hortense Smythe-Davies was arriving that very morning, with the Von Emmerling emeralds in tow. They were being kept at a local bank until the night of the Puffin Ball, but the elderly Honorable wanted to see for herself that the emeralds would have the proper setting. And the ladies wanted to see the emeralds.
Ferris couldn’t remember whether she’d informed Blackheart, Inc., of the occasion. It would be just too bad if they didn’t know. Maybe it would be enough to take them off the case, and the major problem in her life would be resolved. Then all she’d have to do would be to change her cat’s name.
The parking lot was filled with cars. Pr
edominantly Mercedes, with a Bentley, several Porsches, and a Ferrari mixed among the Hondas, Cadillacs and Range Rovers. There was even a Volvo station wagon or two, but none of Blackheart’s vintage. Ferris smiled triumphantly. He wasn’t there.
None of that mitigated the fact that she herself was late. She scampered up the steps two at a time, entering the ballroom in a rush. Thankfully no one noticed her arrival—all the women were clustered three deep around an immensely tall, immensely skinny old lady with a crown of white hair, an aristocratic nose and an extremely British accent. Regina looked up and caught her eye, giving Ferris a broad wink before turning her attention back to the Honorable Miss Smythe-Davies, and Ferris allowed herself to relax for the first time that morning.
She made no move to get any closer to the famous gems—she’d see them soon enough, and she didn’t fancy trying to elbow past Olivia Summers’s regal figure, which was blocking almost everyone’s view. Leaning back against the white-and-gilt paneled wall, she prepared to listen to the old lady’s lecture delivered in tones loud enough to reach Oakland. And then she recognized the short, sturdy figure of Kate Christiansen, clad in modified combat wear, and her spirits flagged somewhat.
Well, she should have known Blackheart would be more efficient than he appeared. He was probably wandering around right now, preparing to pop out at her when she least expected it. That was resignation she was feeling, not pleasure. Do you hear me, mind?
“The Von Emmerling emeralds changed hands several times during the last three centuries,” Miss Smythe-Davies was declaiming. “My great-great-grandfather, the Earl of Borsbury, won them in a game of whist, and they have been in my family ever since, with the exception of a two-week period in the early nineteen-seventies.”
“What happened then?” Ferris could recognize Olivia’s sculptured tones.
“My dear, they were stolen. The only time in their history, as a matter of fact. My father was livid, of course—it nearly brought on a fatal apoplexy.”