“I’m staying with you.”

Juliette stood frozen, his words swirling around her. “But…there’s no need. I’ve already agreed to cooperate.” A feeling of desperation rose that had nothing to do with their deal and everything to do with the feelings he stirred inside her. “You can’t stay. I don’t want you here.”

Sam gave her a thin smile. “I trust you exactly as much as you trust me. That’s to say, not at all. You and I are going to be joined at the hip for the duration of this assignment. Get used to it.”

“This isn’t acceptable.” She hurried after him, protesting again as he ducked into her bedroom. “No, not that one…”

He turned around so suddenly that she ran into him. The heat from his hands on her shoulders seared into her. The hint of a drawl in his voice sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. “I’m in charge. You’re in no position to bargain, or to make demands. The sooner you learn that, the better for both of us.”

Entrapment
Kylie Brant

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KYLIE BRANT

lives with her husband and children. Besides being a writer, this mother of five works full-time teaching learning disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.

An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings! She claims she was inspired to write by all the wonderful authors she’s read over the years. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.

She invites readers to check out her online read in the reading room at eHarlequin.com. Readers can write to Kylie at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mail her at kyliebrant@hotmail.com. Her Web site address is www.kyliebrant.com.

For Jared—

who gets to be first, because being the oldest has its privileges! I love you, honey.

Mom

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Chapter 1

The lady was a thief.

Sam Tremaine watched the woman waltzing around the large ballroom, passing laughingly from one man’s arms to another. Even among the glitz and glitter of the Parisian consulate party, she stood out in a way guaranteed to draw the men’s eyes and the women’s envy.

He stroked his index finger absently along the stem of the crystal flute in his hand, the expensive champagne forgotten for the moment. He wasn’t surprised to find her at ease in the elegant social circle. He imagined she’d accepted the invitation he’d arranged on her behalf as her due. Beautiful, unattached women were sought after by hostesses looking to attract wealthy, powerful men to their parties. There would be no reason for any of the guests to see beyond her glamorous laughing surface. No reason to suspect that her beautiful, passionate face hid a soul as black as sin.

Her pictures hadn’t done her justice. The errant thought occurred, and he considered it objectively. He had a file bulging with photos of her, taken by telephoto lens when she was unaware. The flat two-dimensional likenesses hadn’t captured the energy that crackled around her, the incredible vivacity. In contrast to the heap of pictures was pitifully little background information. Juliette Morrow was shrouded in mystery. Most created identities were.

Sam set his half-full glass on a tray carried by a white-jacketed server and declined a replacement. He preferred to keep all his wits about him for the next step in this game. For it was a game; a contest in wits, bravado and cunning. And as in all games, it was one he intended to win.

He’d been watching her since she’d entered the room and he’d made certain she knew it. But far from the welcoming smile with which she graced her dance partners, she made a point of not looking in his direction too often. Perhaps she sensed a threat from him. If so, she had excellent instincts.

Purposefully, he began cutting through the dancing couples with deliberate strides. He noted the exact instant she saw him coming for her. That polite mask slipped a little, giving him a glimpse of…not fear. Wariness, maybe. And then her glance flicked away as if making note of the nearest exits.

“Excusez-moi. Est-ce que je puis emprunter cette belle dame?”

The portly balding man dancing with Juliette shrugged good-naturedly at his request and stepped back. Sam barely missed a beat before taking her in his arms and whirling her away. Because he was watching her so closely, he could see the struggle taking place in her expression, before she smoothed it with almost imperceptible effort.

“Monsieur Tremaine, the American lawyer. What brings you to our city?”

The flirtatious tone couldn’t disguise the very real interest behind the question. He’d shaken her by his unswerving regard this evening, just as he’d intended. The quiet sense of satisfaction that filled him at the realization was derived as much from the personal as the professional. “You know my name. Should I be flattered?”

“I doubt it. You don’t look like a man susceptible to flattery.”

Sam almost smiled. Her observation was right on the mark. Instincts hummed to life as adrenaline spiked through him. Without a worthy opponent, even the most noble games lacked challenge.

“With you, I may make an exception.” There was a painful twinge in his thigh, reminding him that the damaged muscle there hadn’t completely healed. To take some of the strain off his leg, he adjusted his movements until they were barely swaying to the music. She followed him effortlessly, but he could feel the rigidity in her spine beneath his palm.

“I know your name, too. Juliette Morrow.” He waited a beat before adding, “Or do you prefer the nickname the French press has for you? Le petit voleur. The little thief.”

He watched her reaction to his words with interest. There was a flicker of something in her wide dark eyes, there and gone too quickly to be identified. Then she tipped her head back and gurgled out an infectious laugh that had heads turning toward them.

“Do all Americans have such an offbeat sense of humor?” she inquired, once she’d recovered. There was real amusement in her voice. If he hadn’t been so certain he was right, he might have doubted the conclusions he’d drawn. But he didn’t doubt them. Which made her a liar, as well as a thief.

“I’ve been told I have a dry sense of humor, but I’m not joking now. And I think you know it. That’s why your pulse is racing.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her pulse, felt it gallop beneath his touch.

“It isn’t often I find myself in the arms of such an attractive man. What a pity to find that you’re demented, as well.” Her voice was cool, her gaze direct. “They say that mental illness is on the rise in your country. Perhaps in your line of work you find that quality an asset.”

Despite himself, Sam grinned. Her English was flawless, as was her aim. “Lawyer jokes…the bond that unites cultures. I’m too used to them to take exception.” Deliberately, he brushed his hand along the silky line of her back, left bare by her gown. He was gratified to feel her shiver in response, then used her reaction as an excuse to pull her closer.

She pressed both her hands against his chest, maintaining a small distance between them. “I’ve heard that Americans often romanticize criminals. Is your joke supposed to serve as some sort of compliment? A word of warning—few women find it flattering to be called thieves. If that’s your idea of flirtation, you really need to get out more.”

Sam didn’t try to keep the smile from his lips. God help him, but he was enjoying this. He didn’t want to consider what that said about him. “You prefer flirtation of another sort, don’t you? Flirting with danger, with the police.” He lowered his head to the side of her throat, distracted for a moment by the scent that lingered there. “What do you enjoy most, I wonder?” He breathed the words in her ear, even as he filled his lungs with her perfume. “The research, the planning…or the actual theft? Does the prize ever really measure up to the anticipation? Does the risk-taking get in your blood, driving you to dare even more? A good psychiatrist would have a field day with those questions.”

“A good psychiatrist is exactly what you need. I’ll leave you to make an appointment.” She pressed harder on his chest, attempting to free herself, but his arms only tightened.

“You’ll find I’m a little more difficult to escape than the German police were last month.” She didn’t gasp at his words; she didn’t seem to breathe at all. “The Riemenschneider was an exquisite pick, by the way. Intricate but balanced style, without the emotionalism of the period. But then I assume you had a buyer lined up before the job. A private collector?”

Juliette had given up the pretense of dancing, so Sam followed suit. His thigh screamed its appreciation.

Her voice, when it came, dripped disdain. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have a low tolerance for boredom, and this conversation is growing tedious.”

“Then let’s go out to the balcony to continue our discussion. I’ll take great care not to bore you, I promise.” He exerted the slightest pressure with the palm of his hand against her back. She didn’t move.

Looking around, she caught the eye of their host, Jean-Paul Rossiere. “I’ve tried civility, now I’ll be blunt. Either you leave me alone, now, or I’ll summon our host to have you removed.” Rossiere was already making his way toward him, drawn, no doubt, by the manufactured look of entreaty in Juliette’s big dark eyes.

“Good idea,” Sam murmured imperturbably. He waved to the approaching Frenchman. “Jean-Paul might find this conversation interesting. His cousin is married to the CEO of International Safety Mutual, did you know that? Their insurance company has taken a beating at the hands of le petit voleur in recent years. I’m sure he’d be fascinated by what I have to say to you.” He straightened as the Frenchman reached them, his watchful expression giving lie to the smile on his lips.

“Mademoiselle Morrow, are you enjoying yourself this evening?”

“As a matter of fact, Jean-Paul…” Sam started.

“Mr. Tremaine and I were just about to step outside for some fresh air.” Juliette smiled brilliantly at Rossiere as she placed her hand on Sam’s arm. “The party is lovely, but I’m afraid I’m in need of a rest before I begin another round of dancing.”

The slight crease of worry eased from the other man’s face. “Of course. It is becoming a bit stuffy in here, n’est-il pas? The balcony is just beyond those doors.”

They moved in the direction he pointed, but Sam wasn’t fooled by Juliette’s seeming about-face. Her capitulation didn’t signal defeat, but merely a change of venue for the next leg of the battle. He could appreciate her strategy even as he recognized its futility.

Drifting through the double French doors, Sam steered her past the couples lingering on the balcony toward a secluded area in the opposite corner. The night air was clear, fresh and keen as a blade. Shrugging out of his dinner jacket, he draped it around Juliette’s bare shoulders, the chivalry of the action too ingrained to be considered.

She glanced up at him, still wary, her fingers clutching the jacket’s lapels to keep it from sliding away. Turning to face her, he propped his hips against the ornate wrought-iron railing. Slipping an arm around her waist, he brought her close enough to stand between his spread legs, and left his arms looped loosely around her middle.

“If this was an elaborate scheme to get me outside alone, you get marks for creativity, at least.”

He deliberately dashed the hint of relief in her statement with his next words. “We’ll be assured privacy if people think we’re infatuated with each other.”

She strained away, as far as his grasp would allow. “And if you attempt to convince them of that, you’ll be assured of an ambulance.”

He was concentrating more on her voice than its content. “Where’d you grow up? I’m betting New York…Philadelphia. There’s a slightly clipped quality to your speech that you haven’t quite lost, despite the lovely French accent you’ve acquired.”

She tipped her face up, gazed at him boldly. “Ah, now it becomes clearer. You’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m almost disappointed.” She reached out then, startling him, and cupped his jaw with slender fingers. The brisk air couldn’t dissipate the warmth trailing in the touch. “Whoever she is, I’m not sure whether to envy or pity her.”

When she would have taken her hand away, he raised his hand to cover hers. “Envy?”

“Unfortunately, it’s not every day that a woman meets such a virile man. She could be forgiven for overlooking some of your less attractive qualities.”

Their gazes clashed. The star-studded night sky turned her eyes into fathomless dark pools that invited a man to wade in and sink helplessly in their depths. She’d been beautiful inside, illuminated by the softened lights. In the moonlight she was stunning. Her dark hair was pulled on top of her head, leaving only the occasional errant curl free. It tempted a man to release it, to plunge his hands into the dark silky mass as it tumbled to her shoulders. Her dress was black, a glittery tube of material that showcased her curves and hinted at seductive promises.

She swayed closer. Again Sam caught the delicate scent she wore, something sexy and elusive. The pale porcelain of her skin shimmered in the darkness, inviting a caress, one long heated stroke. Hormones, operating on a different level from that of his brain, stood at alert.

Juliette raised her free hand, and his jacket clung to her shoulders for a moment, before sliding to the ground. She dipped her index finger in the shallow indentation in his chin that made shaving such a pain. “I have to admit wishing we’d met under different circumstances.” When she went up on her tiptoes to press her lips against his, Sam recognized that the game had shifted. He was male enough to welcome the change.

He pulled her closer and sank into the taste of her. Her flavor imploded on his senses. Exotic. Forbidden. Exquisitely sensual. Her lips opened beneath his and his tongue swept in, found the darkly seductive taste stronger there. It went to his head faster than his favorite Scotch and was twice as lethal.

She gave a little gasp and went boneless, her body melding to his. For an instant he had a vision of what it would be like to have her naked, her body twisting beneath him. She’d be lightning in a man’s arms, strobing heat and emotion. Making love to her would be like plunging into a chasm of wicked flames. Damned if he wasn’t beginning to believe it’d be worth the fall.

Dragging his mouth from hers, he found himself distracted by the pulse beating wildly beneath her jaw. “Try the front one.” He breathed the words into her ear before taking the lobe between his teeth.

“What?”

It pleased him that her voice wasn’t quite steady. “Try my front pocket. My wallet’s not in there either, but you might find something else of interest nearby.”

He was prepared for her reaction, so he caught her fists in his hand before she could use them on him. Her struggles brought her hip into sharp contact with his injured thigh. He grunted, the now familiar pain lancing through him. He solved the problem by simply wrapping his arms around her and bringing her too tightly against him to wreak anymore damage. He hoped.

“Vous êtes fils d’une chienne!”

“Insulting my parentage isn’t going to solve anything. What were you looking for, anyway? Not money, since I doubt you need it. ID?” Her sharply hissed breath was its own answer. “As much as I was enjoying the search, I don’t carry ID with me. You never know when a gorgeous woman will use her clever fingers to pick your pockets.”

Juliette glared at him, and he took a moment to appreciate the storm in her eyes. So he had only himself to blame when she stomped her stiletto heel sharply into his foot.

“Dammit!” The resulting throb served as a vivid reminder of the seriousness of this encounter. He gave her a little shake. “Settle down. We’re attracting attention.”

She obeyed, but her voice when it came was a dangerous purr. “You dare to call me a pickpocket? I could go to those gallery doors and have a dozen men rush to defend my honor for that insult alone.”

“Funny how the term pickpocket offends you more than ‘thief.’ I’ll keep that in mind. But we both know that you aren’t going to summon any of your admirers from in there.”

She tipped her head back defiantly. “Do we? And why is that?”

“Because I’m about to tell you everything I’ve found out about Juliette Morrow. It isn’t much, all things considered. Given enough time, I’m sure I could discover more.” And he wished, more than was comfortable, that he had that kind of time. Wished for answers to questions better not asked. Better not considered.

She yanked at her hands, and, because he thought her temper had passed, he released her. “If you had done near the research you claim, you would have learned that le petit voleur is a man, hence the name.” Her shoulders straightened, as if daring him to disagree. “I think you’ll agree that I am very much a female.”

His mouth quirked. “I can certainly attest to the last statement, but the press’s nickname is merely a reflection of perception, isn’t it? Who would expect the most notorious thief on the continent to be a young woman?”

She gave him a pitying glance. “I am not sure what kind of women you are used to in America. In France, we understand that females are far different from males. We lack the strength, the daring necessary for the feats you accuse me of.” Her hand went to her chest, one finger absently traced the bodice where material met bare skin. It was a maneuver meant to underscore her words, to draw attention to her femininity. “In my country, we accept those differences. We…embrace them.” Her voice trailed off suggestively.

He was hard-pressed to know whether to kiss her or applaud. In the end, he did neither. “Bet those words were hard to say. But then, acting is part of your role, isn’t it?” He knew by the heat in her gaze that he’d scored a direct hit. “It doesn’t matter. We both know you don’t mean them. You’ve been thumbing your nose at the rest of the world for so long I doubt you remember where the pretense ends and you really begin.” There was a flash of expression on her face, there and gone too quickly to be identified. But he had the feeling that fleeting as it was, it was the first true response she’d shown him all evening.

“You know nothing about me.”

Raising his brows, he said, “No? How about if I just run through my information and you can see for yourself?” He leaned back a little and let the railing behind him take some of the weight off his leg. “It’s a convoluted little past you’ve concocted, and I have to hand it to you, damn hard to check out. Born at home outside Savigny…taken to live in Sweden when you were an infant…of course, before your birth could be recorded.”

She reached up, smoothed a tendril of hair back from her face. “There wasn’t time. My mother was very much in love with my father, and he wanted to take her back to his home country.”

“So much in love with her that he didn’t bother to marry her, but hey, I guess that would have left a paper trail, too, so you were wise to avoid that convention.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Are you insulting my parents now?”

“You mean the way you did mine earlier? No. Just remarking on the convenience of the past you’ve spun for yourself. By the way, having your mother be an American living abroad was sheer brilliance. Allows you to establish dual citizenship, and that must come in handy.”

“Well, I’m glad my life’s story has provided you with such entertainment.” Her words were glacial. “Perhaps you could get to the part where I need to steal for a living.”

Sam folded his arms across his chest. Not even to himself would he admit it was to keep from reaching for her again. “You mean because you’re an heiress, living off a modest trust you inherited upon your parents’ early deaths? Again, a nice touch. And it does thwart those pesky questions of how you live without visible means of support.”

“It hasn’t seemed to thwart yours.”

He shook his head. “I’m trained to look beneath the surface. To see what others have missed. Even a trail with as many twists and turns as yours can be followed, given the right incentive.”

She stooped to pick up his jacket which had dropped earlier, and draped it again around her shoulders. He had no doubt she’d checked the pockets, surreptitiously, before she’d turned her attentions to him. “And your incentive would be…”

“I want to acquire your services.”

This time she couldn’t hide her reaction to his words. He took in her frozen expression with satisfaction. “We’ll have to work out a different sort of arrangement than you’re undoubtedly used to, but I think you’ll find it to your benefit.”

It didn’t take her long to recover. “As…intriguing as that offer sounds, I’ll have to refuse. I don’t provide any services that are for sale.”

The music started up again in the ballroom, and couples on the balcony began drifting back inside. “I’m not offering to hire you, actually. More like work out a trade.”

“And here I thought you couldn’t get more offensive,” Juliette said coolly. “How unfortunate to be proven wrong.” She slipped out of the jacket and laid it over his shoulder.

He watched her turn that slender bare back on him and start away. She got exactly three steps before he said, “Threats aren’t really my style, but if you decline, the file I’ve accumulated on you could be turned over to the local authorities. I think you’d find it less inconvenient to cooperate than to be subjected to their questions.”

“Do your worst, Mr. Tremaine.” She looked back over her shoulder, her face serenely confident. “I’ve got absolutely nothing to hide.”

He still hadn’t adjusted to the time change. At least that was the reason Sam gave himself for being in the large well-equipped exercise room instead of upstairs asleep. He sank a blow into the body bag and danced away before it swayed his way again. Then, his actions a blur, he landed one blow after another, swift deadly jabs that would have rendered an opponent incapacitated.

“I hope the pounding that bag’s taking isn’t an indication of your frustration over this evening’s events.”

Sam didn’t bother to turn around at the voice. He already knew who’d be standing there, and Miles Caladesh topped the list of the people he least felt like talking to right now. “I told you I’d report in the morning.” With a studied movement he slammed his fist into the middle of the bag, sending it swaying.

“It is morning. I heard you as I came in and thought I’d get an update now.”

He wasn’t going away. Sam turned, resting a glove on top of the bag, and studied the other man. He didn’t ask how Miles had spent the evening. He didn’t need to. Too much alcohol had left his face flushed, and the fact that he’d returned to their borrowed quarters at all meant that his evening hadn’t turned out as he’d hoped. A fact which renewed Sam’s belief in the intelligence of the opposite sex.

“I made contact, as planned.”

“And?”

“And…” Sam tapped his other gloved hand against his leg. “Nothing. Yet. She isn’t going to just fold. She hasn’t gotten this far by lacking guts.” Honor, perhaps, but not guts. And to him, there could be nothing more damning.

“So we put the screws to her. If you’d listened to me you would have started out that way. When you’re dealing with the dregs of society, you don’t get anywhere by asking nicely. A show of force works quicker and is more effective in the long run.”

“Really? I didn’t realize you had any experience in the field, Miles. Is that what worked on your assignments?”

His words, delivered in a polite enough tone, had the man flushing even further. “I’ve pored over enough operation reports to know how things work.”

“Paperwork?” Sam didn’t bother to keep the derision from his voice. “There’s a big difference between what gets put in the reports and the actual fieldwork. Maybe before your next promotion you’ll realize that.”

“I was just offering another possibility. Hotter than hell in here,” the other man muttered. He reached up to loosen his tie.

“Step one is to initiate contact. That’s been accomplished.” Nothing would be gained by allowing his distaste for Caladesh to show, Sam thought. They were paired for the course of this operation, regardless of his wishes. And being the nephew of the United States president’s wife gave Caladesh a certain standing, however undeserved.

Bringing one of his gloves to his mouth, Sam used his teeth to untie it. Shaking it off, he turned his attention to unlacing the other. “Whatever your opinion of Morrow, rushing things isn’t the answer.”

“So you think she’s going to come to her senses and cooperate?”

Sam’s lips curved a little as he thought of the defiant look Juliette had tossed him, the dismissive disdain in her voice. “Not willingly.” She’d called his bluff, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d have done the same thing in her position. And since there was no chance in hell of him giving his file to the French authorities, or anyone else, it was a safe enough move.

“Not…” Miles stared at him, then jammed his hand through his meticulously groomed brown hair. “Need I remind you what we have riding on this operation?”

Sam walked over to the weight bench and adjusted it for leg lifts, then sat down. He certainly didn’t need any reminders. The memory of Sterling, his previous case officer, still burned. It had only recently been discovered that the CO had been a mole working for the very man Sam had spent the better part of two years investigating. One agent had already been killed, and sheer luck was the only thing that had saved Sam from the same fate once Sterling had revealed Sam’s last assignment. With the former CO on the run, it was impossible to know just how badly the agency had been compromised. Which explained the change of rules on this mission.

He positioned one foot beneath the bar, gritted his teeth and lifted. The muscles in his injured thigh screamed a protest. Ignoring the pain, he gulped in a breath and concentrated on counting the lifts. This investigation was too critical to national security to not move forward, but they were utilizing an unusual degree of inner agency secrecy. Sam reported to Miles, and Miles reported directly to Headquarters. The taint of corruption negated the usual chain of command, and their tactics had shifted accordingly.

Belatedly, Sam realized Caladesh was waiting for a response. “She didn’t respond to the threat I made tonight…she’s too smart for that. So we’ll move on to step two.”

The other man watched him for a moment, silent. Then he said, “How long before you get her cooperation?”

“Not long.” Despite the fact that his file on Juliette Morrow elicited more questions than answers, he’d come to know her on some level, long before they’d actually met. He’d begun to understand a little about how her mind worked. And become fascinated in the process. “She just needs more convincing, that’s all.”

“I guess I’ll have to assume you know what the hell you’re doing here,” Miles said, his voice doubtful. “At least Headquarters seems to believe you do. I’m going to allow you a little latitude on this assignment, Tremaine, but only a little. If Morrow slips through our fingers, this assignment is badly compromised.”

The weights descended to their resting place with a clatter. The muscles in Sam’s leg were shuddering with strain. Tersely he retorted, “I don’t need your reminders of what’s at stake here. It was my agent who was tortured and killed, remember?”

When the man turned and strode stiffly from the room, Sam cursed, long and inventively. He was capable of diplomacy, so there was really no reason for him to antagonize the man, despite his opinion of him. Miles’s presence here was an irritant, but it wasn’t contributing to Sam’s insomnia.

No, the cause of that could be traced to Juliette Morrow. He readjusted the bench for some overhead presses, a deep frown creasing his forehead. She fit into his investigation in a way he never would have predicted, and right now offered them their best opportunity to strike at their target. He’d discovered what she ate, what she wore, where she went, who she spoke to. Those details had been compiled with a painstaking precision that was no more or less meticulous than every other assignment he’d worked.

And that’s all this was. An assignment. Morrow represented a means to an end, and he’d use her in the mission with the same clinical detachment he employed with any other contacts he recruited.

Lowering the bar and weights slowly to his chest, Sam pumped it upward again. The repetitive motion should have soothed, but only proved to be a strenuous metronome to his thoughts. His greatest strength as an agent lay in the fact that he didn’t grow confused by the shadowy areas his job strayed into. Honor was more than a code to him; it was a way of life. It allowed him to see black and whites where other agents saw murky shades of gray. Involving Juliette Morrow in this assignment wasn’t going to change that.

It wouldn’t be allowed to.

Chapter 2

Juliette entered her home with all the stealth of the thief Sam Tremaine had accused her of being. It wasn’t until she’d closed her bedroom door behind her that she let her temper flare. She snatched the hairbrush from her dressing table and hurled it toward her bed.

Damnez-l’à l’enfer! Damn damn damn him to hell!

Her comb went the way of the brush, followed by a carved teak pin box and an antique pill bottle. Breathing heavily, she fisted her hands at her sides. If Tremaine had been standing in front of her, she’d have taken great satisfaction in landing a sucker punch right on his sexily dented chin.

She whirled toward the dressing table to search for another missile and stopped short when she saw the figure standing in her bedroom doorway.

“Well, darling, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you throw a tantrum like that.” Pauline Fontaine strolled casually into the room, wearing an elegant dressing gown. Even at eighty, her posture was straight, her movements graceful. Age, Pauline was fond of saying, couldn’t negate breeding. “Don’t tell me Lockhart beat you to that Monet you had your eye on?”

“No, of course not. Lockhart lacks the imagination and the cunning. I’m sorry, Grandmama.” Guilt pushed temper aside as Juliette went to her grandmother. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t, child. I wasn’t asleep, and thought I’d check to see if you’d returned yet. And you have, obviously.” A smile tugged at the older woman’s lips. “Mind telling me what, or who, has gotten you in such a snit?”

“I’m not in a snit, I’m seriously pissed off.” Juliette gave her grandmother a hug and ignored her sound of dismay at her choice of words. “I met a man tonight, and…” She stopped, and moved away from the older woman while she decided how much to tell her. Her grandmother’s advanced years had weakened her heart, if not her iron will. There was no use burdening her with details that she would only fret over.

“A man?” By her delighted tone, it was plain that Pauline had been successfully distracted. “Tell me about him. He must be unique, indeed, to have drawn this level of emotion from my cool, collected granddaughter.”

“Unique?” Juliette gave a short laugh, and turned to pace. “You could say that. There’s certainly nothing ordinary about Sam Tremaine.” He’d caught her attention the moment he’d made his entrance. Other women this evening had sent not-so-subtle admiring gazes his way, drawn no doubt by his bright shock of short blond hair, that angular poet’s face, his wicked green eyes. But it hadn’t been his looks that had elicited her immediate instinctive reaction. It had been the danger he’d radiated.

It would have been hard to miss. He projected an aura of power, partially glossed beneath a suave handsome presence, but there, nonetheless. The elegant black tux should have contained the shimmer of menace that surrounded him, but had only showcased it. She’d spent the evening hoping that the threat she sensed from him was purely masculine. Discovering otherwise was as much a slap at her femininity as it was to her safety.

“So. Tell me more about this not-ordinary-at-all man.”

Startled, Juliette looked back over her shoulder. She’d almost forgotten her grandmother’s presence in the room. “He’s an American. A lawyer, he says.” Aware of the agitation in her movements, she slowed, walked to the bed to retrieve the things she’d thrown.

“You say that as though you don’t believe it.”

“I believe he’s more.” Crossing to the dressing table, she replaced the items neatly on its surface. She looked in the mirror to see her grandmother had followed her, and their gazes met. “He might pose a small problem for us.”

“What kind of problem?”

“He seems to think he has discovered le petit voleur’s identity.”

Pauline said nothing for a moment. Then she sighed. “Ah.”

“He has nothing but supposition to go on, of course.” She was banking a great deal on that. But she didn’t need to tell her grandmother how serious it would be if even a breath of his suspicion made its way to the local police.

“Does he represent law enforcement? Insurance?”

Juliette reached up and began taking the pins from her hair. She always thought best when her hands were occupied. “I’m not sure.” She wasn’t in the mood to mention that her attempt to answer that question for herself had met with failure. The memory still stung. “I don’t think so. He offered me a job.”

“You don’t think Jacques might have sent him to you?”

She shook her head, and the hair she’d released tumbled past her shoulders. “Jacques would have informed me beforehand. And Tremaine didn’t reach that conclusion about my identity based on anything Jacques would have told him.” Dropping the last of the pins on the dresser, she pushed her hands into her hair, shook it out. “At any rate, I think it would be best to remain inactive for a while. At least until I can gather some more information on Tremaine and what he’s trying to accomplish.”

“That’s not acceptable. We can’t afford to deviate from our time line.” Pauline’s voice was implacable, as it always was when this subject was discussed. “One doesn’t duck in the face of obstacles, one finds a way around them.”

Her vehemence drew a half smile from her granddaughter. “You’re not fighting the Resistance anymore, Grandmama. A slight delay in any step of our plan isn’t a matter of life or death.”

Her teasing failed to soften the woman’s attitude. Steely-eyed she retorted, “No, but it is a matter of honor. I know I don’t have to remind you of that.”

The words raked at old wounds, renewed their throb. No, she didn’t need her grandmother’s words to remember. The specters that haunted her dreams were reminder enough. Taking a deep breath, she dodged the emotions that threatened to surface and reached for logic. Part of the woman’s adamance came from a fear she’d never live to see fruition of the goal they’d worked toward for so long. But analyzing the risks of each job was Juliette’s job. It wouldn’t do to become careless now.

“I can’t stick too closely to our schedule. I don’t know how much information he has on my activities.” Just hearing the words out loud was infuriating. She’d come much too far to allow a mere man to interfere with her plans. And there was more than a little ego at stake, as well. If Sam Tremaine thought he could rattle her so easily, he hadn’t discovered as much about her as he’d claimed.

A tiny smile crossed her lips as a strategy began to form in her mind. She’d spent the past decade learning how to create illusions. The game plan this time called for nothing more sophisticated than the old bait-and-switch. And when le petit voleur struck elsewhere while Juliette was still in Paris, Tremaine would be forced to admit he’d been wrong about her.

The prospect was delicious.

The slim steel cable glinted in the shadows of the darkened exhibit room in Copenhagen’s famed Gallery of Art. The floor’s guard had passed by two minutes earlier. If he stuck to his schedule he wouldn’t be back for another eight minutes. The display case in the middle of the room would be empty in six.

The black-clad figure set the vent cover aside silently and snapped the buckle from the cable to the body harness. With quick movements, the body crawled to the edge of the vent and poised on the edge, hand outstretched.

The red light on the palm-size remote winked rapidly as it was aimed at first one security camera, then the other. Within seconds the cameras’ power lights faded. The remote was clipped back on a belt, and with a quick tug, the strength of the cable was tested. A tiny whir was heard as the pulley mechanism activated and the figure was carried, legs curled upward, toward the center of the ceiling.

The red laser beams of the security system crisscrossed the space below in a random patchwork pattern. With the room rigged to be heat sensitive as well, it was thought by most to be impenetrable. They would soon be proven wrong. Every system was vulnerable. It was just a matter of research and ingenuity.

The Mylar suit the figure wore was stifling. It would successfully retain the body temperature, emitting a steady sixty degrees that wouldn’t trip the alarms. Form-fitting, it allowed for maximum flexibility, a necessity for this job.

The body bowed and twisted to avoid the slim beams. As one was evaded, another loomed. The technique was reminiscent of a strange ballet, fluid streams of movement, flexible arching and seemingly impossible contortions. Until finally, the body hung upside down, suspended between two beams, within arm’s reach of the glass case in the center of the room. The position would have to be held nearly motionless for the entire operation, taxing both muscles and nerves. If something was going to go wrong, it would likely be now.

A suction cup was taken from a pouch at the waist and affixed to the glass top. Next a vial was extracted, and dark gray powder shaken out in an outline atop the case, roughly the size of a basketball. That accomplished, one deep breath could be taken, but only one. There was far more to be done.

The first vial was exchanged for another. The cap was carefully removed and tucked away. Acid was poured with excruciating care. It raced around the circle, devouring the tiny grains with rapid greed. In the process the glass would be weakened, while the chemical reaction with the ingredients in the powder would deactivate any alarm on the market.

A cramp stabbed viciously, a blade between the ribs. A quick glance at an illuminated wrist watch showed five minutes remaining. So far so good. A slim glass cutter was taken from the pouch. The figure shifted a fraction. Both arms would be needed now. One was positioned with teeth-gritting caution between two red beams to grasp the knob on the suction cup. The other slid beneath a laser beam closer to the case. The cutter traced easily around the weakened circle in the glass, loosening it to be lifted and placed aside.

Anticipation thrummed. Time suspended. In the near darkness, everything else faded to insignificance. This was the moment that never failed to thrill. With near awe, a hand was slipped into the opening, carefully freeing the necklace from its bed of black velvet.

The perfectly matched pearls shimmered like moon glow in the shadows, but it was the square-cut twenty-carat ruby hanging from the center that commanded attention. With hypnotizing brilliance it speared the darkness with shards of crimson. The Moonfire necklace. In the past five centuries, countless women had coveted it. An untold number of lives had been sacrificed for it. And now one man would be denied it.

That knowledge brought the greatest satisfaction of all.

Unhurriedly, the necklace was tucked away into the pouch. The cramping pain increased, and a feeling of urgency rose. Two minutes left.

A moment was taken, and then another. Then with slow, methodical movements, the black-clad body was unbent, twisted, sinuous grace and fierce concentration evident as the pulley was reactivated, inch by excruciating inch. It wasn’t until the figure was curled up against the cable that another deep breath was taken.

Forty-five seconds.

With a near silent hum, the mechanism carried its burden across the ceiling to the cold-air vent. As the hole grew closer, a feeling of relief was allowed. The whole operation would take less than the allotted six minutes. By the time the guard noted what had transpired, escape would already be well underway.

Thirty seconds.

The vent opening was within reach. The taste of impending success was sweet. A feeling of unnatural calm settled over the adrenaline. Hands braced against the wall on either side of the opening, muscles bunched.

And then a light snapped on in the hallway outside the room, spotlighting the figure, freezing it in shock and dismay.

“Impressive.” A slow solitary clapping accompanied the admiring statement. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. You’re every bit as good as I’ve been led to believe.”

The words, their meaning, didn’t register. The man’s presence did. The figure dove forward in one streak of motion, entering the narrow vent like an arrow fired from a crossbow. Panic licked at nerve endings, was beaten back. Cool logic was called on now. Near misses had happened before. They’d been infrequent, long, long ago, but they had occurred. Precautions were always taken. Alternate escape routes planned.

But never had this eventuality been considered.

There would be time later for second-guessing and self-recriminations. With the ease of long practice, everything but the primary goal was pushed aside. Escape.

The ventilation system was narrow. Movement was accomplished by wiggling forward while pushing off with the toes. Thirty feet ahead the pipes branched off into a maze of joints and tubes traveling to opposite corners of the gallery. When the time came, the figure bent an elbow, squeezed to the left. Another several feet, and a palm went up, felt along the top of the tubing for the hole that had been cut to allow entry.

At that point a body could stand, head and torso through the hole, a sense of freedom that should have relieved. But there was no time for relief. Once free of the ventilation pipe the figure could run, stooped but surprisingly rapid, along the crisscrossing tubing, moving from memory alone. Two rights then a left and a flying leap to the wall ladder. A speedy ascent and then a shoulder applied to the utility door with enough force that the figure stumbled out onto the gallery roof. The night sky had never looked so welcoming.

There was no time to enjoy it. It was one hundred yards to the edge of the roof. The time spent crossing it seemed interminable, but the thought of escape gave impetus. A cable was waiting on the east side, allowing descent to the alley between the gallery and the neighboring building. With the cable grasped in two hands, a body could rappel down the side of the building like a spider leaving its web.

The edge was reached. The figure leaned over, reached for the cable.

And found it missing.

“Looking for this?”

That dreaded voice came again, unbearably smug. Unbearably amused. Whirling, the black-clad figure faced the man, similarly dressed, who was already nearer than expected. The cable—that precious symbol of freedom—was looped around his wrist.

With his free hand, the man reached up, swept the black watch cap off his head. The moonlight painted his hair golden. And his eyes, those damned wicked green eyes, gleamed. “Le petit voleur. We meet again.” Carelessly he stuck the cap in his back pocket and approached. A slow, single-minded stalking that was meant to hypnotize or to panic. The figure did neither.

“Weren’t expecting company down there, huh?” Sam’s voice was conversational. “I’m not surprised. You work alone, right? And you don’t make mistakes often.” He’d halved the distance between them with deliberate steps. Anticipation grew, was barely reined in. “The only one you made this time was in underestimating me.”

Behind the mask, the figure smiled, a grim stretch of the lips. There had been an underestimation, all right. But Sam Tremaine was the one who’d made it.

He took a step closer. Another. And then he smiled. Slow and wide and devastating. “Whatever you’re thinking, forget it. We’re partners now. In case you haven’t noticed, your options have just decreased dramatically.” He stretched one gloved hand across the distance spanning them.

In a blur of motion a kick was aimed at his weakened thigh, a solid blow landed. Sam’s leg buckled and he cursed, but he didn’t go down completely, and he didn’t loosen his grasp on the cable. The figure ran several feet past him, then turned and sprinted by him again, flying through the air even as his shout sounded. “Dammit, no!”

There was a moment of euphoria, as air whipped by, then a second of fear as the roof of the next building failed to materialize as rapidly as anticipated. Arms were outstretched, fingers flexed. When contact was made, the body scrabbled wildly, grasping for purchase, and settled on the narrow ledge edging the rooftop. It took every ounce of energy to pull up, to throw first one leg over the ledge, and then the other. Once safely on the roof, a lightning pace was set toward the other side. There was a fire escape fairly close beneath. From there, it was just a matter of…

It was like being hit from behind by a Mack truck. The figure went down hard, rolled, a huge weight attached. Vision was blurred by a dizzying array of stars. Lungs squeezed of oxygen. Helplessly, the figure lay there, trapped beneath Sam Tremaine’s hard body, capable only of the fight for breath.

He recovered first. “Sonofbitch.” His voice was grim. “You damned near killed us both.”

Air resupplied oxygen, and with it came instinct. One leg was drawn up sharply, but he shifted, removing its intended target from range. “I’d just as soon you didn’t finish me off right yet. I’ve got plans for you, little thief. But before I get into them…” He reached out, pushed the black hood slowly up to reveal features that would be all too familiar to him.

“Juliette.” His gaze raked her form. “Your getup gives a whole new meaning to basic black.”

“Bastard.”

He caught her curled fist just before it clipped him neatly on the jaw. Drawing both of her wrists up above her head, he held them there with one hand. “It’s a little early in our relationship for endearments. But if it weren’t…” His teeth flashed. “I’d tell you that you look exquisite in moonlight.”

She seethed, bucking beneath him. “Get off me.”

Still grinning, he didn’t move a muscle. “Your accent tends to fade when you’re mad, did you know that?”

With effort, she stopped struggling. Despite her long-standing aversion to being held against her will, it was preferable to the indignity of being unable to move him an inch.

Dark gaze battled with green. Slowly the smile faded from his lips. For the first time she became aware of their isolation. It had to be close to two o’clock in the morning. Unlike New York, with its unending traffic and sounds of life, Copenhagen slept, at least in this business neighborhood.

Smokey tufts of black clouds bumped and shifted across the dark sky. Juliette had always felt at one with the night. Darkness was her accomplice. But tonight that relationship had been marred by Tremaine’s appearance, and she wondered bleakly if things would ever be the same again.

The silence around them grew thick and fraught with tension. Her senses were always heightened on a job. Surely that explained why she was so aware of the weight of him, the heat. Her legs were caught between the hard length of his, the position much too intimate. Hips to hips. Breast to breast. Even their breath mingled. She moistened her lips, saw his gaze track the action and felt a thrill flicker through her at the desire in his eyes.

Juliette let her eyelids flutter, felt her stomach do the same. “Now that you’ve caught me, Sam, what are you going to do with me?”

Her question hung heavy in the night, the answer all too apparent in his expression. She’d seen passion on a man’s face often enough to identify it. His gaze was arrowed on her mouth, and the hard curve of his own drew closer. Despite the insulated suit she wore, it would be difficult to miss the signs of his growing arousal. The stillness around them hummed with chemistry and it became increasingly difficult for her to breathe.

His eyes slitted. “First,” he murmured, his voice raspy, “I’m going to relieve you of this.”

Before his words even registered, his touch did. He shifted, one hand going to the pouch at her waist. She tried to jerk away, but she was still caught securely beneath him. The necklace glittered as it dangled from his grasp.

He gave a low tuneless whistle. “Nice.” With a deft movement, he shoved it inside his shirt. “Not sure if it’s worth the price you’re going to pay, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

Her gaze narrowed. Given his careless tone, she would almost think she’d imagined the moments earlier. And if there wasn’t physical evidence to the contrary, perhaps she would. But they were pressed too closely together for him to hide it.

From bitter experience Juliette knew the importance of controlling emotions. With that kind of control came power. Others could be manipulated through their feelings if one was able to remain detached. She understood that concept, embraced it.

So it shouldn’t have been so infuriating that Sam Tremaine was obviously capable of the same.

Her tone belittling, she said, “And you call me a thief.”

“Honey, you are a thief. And from what I witnessed tonight, a damn good one.” When she tried to pull her wrists free from his grip, he tightened his hold. “Easy to see how you’ve escaped capture for so long. That little double you had standing in for you in Paris was sheer genius.”

Since it was useless to deny it, she merely angled her jaw. “Not genius enough to fool you, apparently.”

He gave a modest shrug. “You’ve been under surveillance for months, Juliette.” When he saw her eyes widen he said, “Does that surprise you? I have more pictures of you than your own mother probably does. Videos of you walking. Shopping. Eating. Flirting.” His voice got lower, grew almost caressing. “I know the way you move. The way you tilt that little chin of yours when you’re telling someone to go to hell.” His index finger tapped her chin, and she flinched. She felt like she was being stripped bare by his words, his revelations leaving her exposed and vulnerable. If he were telling the truth, how could she have not known it? Been aware of it?

And because she felt threatened, she lashed out. “Sounds perverted, Tremaine. If your pastime is stalking women, you need to find a new hobby.”

“Not women, Juliette. Just you.” The single syllable of his last word reverberated between them. “It wasn’t enough to learn your identity. To track you down. I had to learn to think the way you do.”

Of all the things he’d said so far, this was by far the most insulting. “Now you’re telling me you know how my mind works?”

“I’m beginning to, I think. You’ve got nerves of steel. You’d have to. It was possible that you’d wait me out after I approached you at the consulate party. Very possible you’d engage in a game of wits with me. So the woman who looks so very like you in your penthouse, the one who never strays too close to any of the windows, could be mistaken for you.”

Stubbornly she remained silent. Dammit, it should have worked. Had, more than once. “You followed me.” The realization burned. There was no way he could have known her target. She’d deviated from the schedule, so even if he’d been privy to it, he couldn’t have predicted her intention.

He shifted his weight a little, allowing her to breathe more easily. “I was counting on the probability that the most notorious thief on the continent would have a healthy ego. Why be kept inactive when you could make a fool out of me and continue your work, right?” Because there was enough truth in his words to sting, she refused to answer. It didn’t seem to bother him. “You made a fairly convincing teenage boy. I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”

“You couldn’t have watched all the exits yourself.” He didn’t answer, and her stomach went queasy. How many people did Tremaine have working with him? And how was this going to impact her own plans, years in the making?

The inner questions stilled as he rose, pulling her to her feet. “We’ve wasted enough time. C’mon.” While her wrists were still gripped in his hand, he used the other to divest her of the pouch at her waist. “We can continue this discussion on the way back to Paris. As a matter of fact, there’s quite a bit we have to discuss.”

His arrogance was astounding. “Even supposing you could actually manage to hang on to me while we get off the roof and make our way back to Paris, what makes you think I’ll be any more cooperative now than before? No one else saw me in that gallery. You have the necklace, not me.” A tiny smile began to play around her mouth. “I think you overplayed your hand here, Tremaine.”

He took a step closer to her and she shivered involuntarily. Gone was the handsome charmer. His gaze was flat, his face hard. All that remained was the air of danger she’d sensed the first time she’d seen him.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking this is a game, Juliette. Once we’re back in Paris you’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”

She gave an incredulous laugh. “If you believe that, you didn’t research me nearly well enough. What makes you believe I’d ever agree to cooperate with you?”

He grasped her elbow and began guiding her toward the fire escape. “Because if you don’t, I’ll see to it that your grandmother spends the rest of her life in prison, in a cell right next to yours.”

Chapter 3

Sam watched Juliette stalk from room to room in her luxurious Paris penthouse like a sleek feline on the prowl. And when she slammed the door of the last empty room and strode toward him, he braced himself in case she pounced.

“Where is she, Tremaine?”

He didn’t make the mistake of underestimating the danger in her lethal purr. Not when it was coupled by that gleam in her eye. Nor did he pretend to misunderstand her.

“Your grandmother is safe with some associates of mine.”

Juliette placed her balled-up fists on her hips, he assumed in an effort to restrain from using them on him. “I want to see her. Now.”

Sam shook his head. He’d been up for two days. The sun had risen hours ago, and it would be several more hours before he’d get any sleep. During the near silent train ride back to Paris his leg had stiffened up on him, and right now his thigh was a twisting mass of cramping muscle. Pain tended to piss him off, and she was the cause of that pain, so he wasn’t in the mood to be diplomatic. What he was in the mood for was a stiff Scotch and an hour in a whirlpool. Since he was unlikely to get either any time soon, there would be no concessions granted.

Juliette’s first demand was quickly followed by another. “Then I want to talk to her.”

“You and I have to come to terms first.”

“Let me guess. You’re thinking that you get to set those terms.”

He allowed himself a grim smile. “Well, I am the one holding all the cards here, aren’t I, honey?” Brushing by her, he went to the phone he spotted on the eighteenth-century desk near the window. Picking up the receiver, he dialed room service and ordered a pint of their finest Scotch, and then belatedly sent her an inquiring look. “Do you want breakfast?”

“No.”

He turned back to the phone. “And send up two orders of eggs Benedict, a couple sides of potatoes and assorted pastries.” Replacing the receiver, he turned back to her. “What you don’t eat, I will.”

She looked as if she were going to explode before she turned her back on him, visibly fighting for control. The close-fitting suit she’d worn earlier had been shed, along with the hood she’d used to cover her features. The black tank top she wore followed her curves faithfully and the snug-fitting black pants showcased the long line of her slender legs. Given the picture she made with her riot of long black curls and creamy skin, he imagined there were few men alive who wouldn’t willingly give up some valuables in return for her company.

Of course, he reminded himself, she didn’t make those kinds of trades. She took what she wanted, without regard to anyone’s wishes. Consequences were variables to be weighed only as they affected her risk assessments. People unfortunate enough to be chosen as targets were given no consideration at all.

For a man who’d lived his life adhering to a cherished family code, her choices were reason enough to despise her.

She was moving about the penthouse with a smooth easy grace at odds with the steel in her spine. She’d picked up an ivory carving and held it in her palm, rubbing her fingers over it rhythmically.

He sat down on the overstuffed sofa, propped his feet on the matching hassock in front of him and barely managed to stifle a sigh of relief. The furniture was designed for both style and comfort. As a matter of fact, there’d been no expense spared in decorating the entire suite. Her career had been, to this point, quite lucrative.

“I have money.”

Her bald statement could have been plucked from his thoughts. Rubbing his thigh with one hand, he cocked a brow at her. “I’m not surprised.”

“I mean I can pay you. A reasonable price, at least.” Apparently having reached a decision, she crossed toward him, her face stamped with determination. “All you have to do is release my grandmother. And turn over this file you claim to have.”

He waited until she stood next to him before saying, “No.” Taking her hand, he pulled her down next to him. He’d have to be dead from the neck down not to appreciate the way her dark eyes flashed. He was tired, not dead. “There’s only one way for you to get your grandmother released.”

“And that is?”

“To do exactly as I tell you.” He could have been more persuasive, he could have been smoother. But where charm could be misconstrued as weakness, he knew she’d understand control. She was too used to wielding it herself to mistake it. And the sooner she learned that she was no longer calling the shots, the sooner the operation could commence.

She tugged at her hand. He didn’t release it. “Tell me what you want.”

It was, he knew, a concession of sorts. The first step toward admitting her options had narrowed dramatically. “I need something that someone else has.”

“And you want me to steal it for you,” she said flatly.

He inclined his head. “You have to admit that you’re uniquely qualified. This job will be challenging, and secrecy is imperative. There are maybe ten people in the world capable of pulling it off. Three of them are in prison. Le petit voleur is one of the five top remaining candidates.”

If his assessment of her ranking annoyed her, she didn’t let it show. “If any of the five would have done as well, why go to the trouble of tracking my identity?”

“Because my target is Hans Oppenheimer.”

Her face remained expressionless, her gaze steady on his. “Again…why me?”

He felt a flicker of admiration. She was a cool one, he’d give her that. “How do you think I discovered your identity, Juliette? It was Oppenheimer I was interested in all along. He’s suspected of insurance fraud, did you know that?” Sam thought he saw a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, there and gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure he’d seen it at all. “He’s sustained so many losses over the last several years that I’m told his insurance premiums are astronomical. He had to buy an insurance company himself because no one else would underwrite him.”

“Life can be tragic for the rich.”

“Can’t it, though? Especially when you’ve been targeting him almost exclusively for the last five years. That’s what led me to you. Law enforcement focuses on the individual thefts, or a pattern of them. That line of inquiry gets murky quickly, especially since they can’t be sure which jobs to credit le petit voleur with, and which are the work of others. But my focus was Oppenheimer. He’s a man who collects enemies. If he wasn’t running an insurance scam, and was suffering real losses, that meant someone had singled him out. I followed that possibility and it led me to you.”

She succeeded in pulling her hand away from him and with a studied movement shifted away, curling her feet under her. “Did he send you after me?”

Now it was his turn to be offended. “No, although I understand he’s given several investigators that particular assignment. He seems to believe that a ring of thieves is responsible, hired by one of his rivals to deplete his resources.”

She gave a little smile. “He sounds like a fool.”

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him. The price he has on your head is one million American dollars.”

Cocking her head, she seemed to consider his words. “So he raised the reward. It’s still rather low, given the value of everything he’s lost, but he always was a man to want something for nothing.”

There was a tinge of bitterness in her tone. He wondered what Oppenheimer had done to cause it. Sam knew exactly just what the man was capable of. “You sound like you know him well.”

The words, quietly spoken, had her expression turning cautious. “You’re not the only one who does research. So you’re not representing Oppenheimer and your methods are too unorthodox for me to believe that you work for an insurance agency…” Her words trailed off as she raised her brows questioningly. When Sam didn’t respond, she asked, “Exactly who are you working for?”

There was that flash of admiration again. He really was going to have to curb it, given the circumstances. But her instincts were, once again, right on the mark. “What makes you think I’m working for anyone? Maybe Oppenheimer has something of mine that I want back.”

She was shaking her head before he even finished the words. “You’ve expended too much time, effort and manpower for that to be true. That translates into money. Lots of it. You may be independently wealthy, but most people with a grudge wouldn’t go to these lengths to strike at their enemy.”

“The details don’t matter, my goal does. If that requires unorthodox methods, unorthodox allies…” He shrugged. “It’s the end result I’m interested in.” That much, at least was true. With the renewed interest in antiterrorist activities, executive orders had changed to allow for more latitude. An agent was no longer prohibited from recruiting criminals to further the country’s goals.

Which only meant that now he could do so openly.

The discreet door buzzer sounded. “Must be room service. Check for sure before you let them in.” If he tried to get up again, he was afraid his damn leg would give out on him completely. And he knew enough not to expose that kind of weakness to the woman beside him.

Woodenly, Juliette obeyed. She crossed to the door and looked out the peephole, saw the white-jacketed waiter in the hallway. She got some bills from her purse, opened the door and exchanged the tip for the food-laden tray.

“Put it here.” He patted the cushion beside him, and she did as he bid. He studied the label on the Scotch with satisfaction. The French knew their liquor. Handing the bottle to Juliette, he asked this time, politely, he thought, “Can you pour me three fingers over ice?”

The civil phrasing of the request was obviously lost on her. She fairly snatched the bottle from his hand as she turned and marched to the galley kitchen. When she returned, he already had a plate balanced on his lap. He took the glass she thrust toward him and indicated the other plate. “You should eat something.”

“I don’t think so. There’s something about blackmail that affects my appetite.”

He considered her words as he tipped the glass to his lips. That first scalding slide of Scotch burned a path down his throat and pooled warmly in his belly. The second dimmed the throbbing in his thigh, just a fraction. “Blackmail? That’s an ugly word for a mutually beneficial business arrangement.”

She gave a sharp laugh. “Is that what it’s called these days? You kidnap my grandmother—yes,” she stabbed a finger toward him when he opened his mouth to protest. “You can’t pretty it up. You threaten her well-being in exchange for my cooperation. Not to mention the fact that you still have something that belongs to me.”

That last statement had him choking on his first forkful of eggs. “If you’re talking about the necklace, need I remind you that you stole it?”

“That’s right, I stole it. I did the research, paid the expenses, figured the risks. Do you have any idea of the hours of practice I put in on that job?”

Color had risen in her cheeks. Sam watched her as he bit into a piece of bacon. Chauvinistically, he decided she was a woman who looked good with a storm in her eyes. He was intelligent enough not to tell her so. “I could see that. As a matter of fact, I’ve never watched anything like it.” There had been something sensuous about the graceful contortions she’d undergone to dodge the laser beams. Just the memory was enough to heat his system much the way the Scotch had.

Deliberately, he pushed the mental picture aside. “It’s that kind of attention to detail that we’ll need on this effort.”

She was silent for a moment, contemplating the ivory piece she’d set down on a nearby Chippendale table. Even from this distance he could tell the figure was quite old, a carving of some sort of pagan god. He wondered if it meant something special to her. It was useless to consider. It had nothing to do with his assignment. But after months of putting this job together, months of piecing together the puzzle that was Juliette Morrow, it was difficult to turn off that level of inquiry. He knew what she was, how she operated. It was natural to question why she chose the life she did.

But it was dangerous to begin caring about the answers.

“Before we go any further, we need to get some terms clear.”

His brow raised at her cool tone. After taking another bite of eggs and washing it down with Scotch, he said, “And they are?”

“You threatened to send my grandmother to prison. That’s ludicrous. She’s an eighty-year-old woman with a heart condition. My cooperation depends upon her immediate release. She’ll leave the country if you want. I can’t concentrate if I’m worrying about her, as well.”

“I’ll alleviate that worry in any way I can, but she’s going to remain in Paris. Somehow I think her presence nearby will ensure your cooperation, rather than provide a distraction. And as it happens, I believe we can build a strong case that your grandmother has been your accomplice all these years.”

If he hadn’t been watching her so carefully, he would have missed her reaction to his words. Her mouth trembled for an instant, just one, before she firmed it.

Sam took another sip of Scotch and pushed aside a niggling feeling that felt suspiciously like guilt. He’d done worse things during his years on the job than to play on a woman’s love for her grandmother. And God knew, Juliette had done worse things herself. So he wasn’t going to regret the actions he’d taken to ensure her cooperation. Not any of them.

At any rate, she bounced back admirably. With an edge to her voice she demanded, “Then I demand that I be able to see her. Talk to her.”

That he could grant her. “I’ll take you to her later. What else?”

Juliette’s gaze turned speculative. “If I’m successful with this job you have in mind, I want the necklace back.”

“Most would think my destroying the file on you would be reward enough.”

“Oh, you’ll do that, too.” Her tone was grim.

“Yes.” He looked her squarely in the eye. “I will.” She couldn’t be certain that he’d do any such thing, and she’d be a fool to trust him. He knew she wasn’t a fool. But he hoped during their time together she’d discover that he was a man of his word. He had every intention of doing exactly as he promised.

Sam looked down, half-surprised to find that he’d finished the eggs and both sides of bacon. He leaned forward and found a plate of potatoes and started in on them. Some might have a problem with the messy deals that were required in order to preserve national security. It had always seemed simple enough to him. Life was a series of tradeoffs. In return for the landing of Oppenheimer, a threat of international magnitude, Juliette Morrow would be free to adopt a new identity. To continue her life selecting targets and robbing them of their valuables until she was inevitably caught. Inevitably tried. Inevitably found guilty. The ends justified these particular means.

But it was telling that it wasn’t the choices he made that bothered him at the moment. It was the thought of Juliette spending a couple of decades in prison.

“The necklace,” she prompted.

“Yes, the necklace.” Her words served to jolt him back to reality in a way nothing else could. It was the prize that was important to her. He needed to remember that, rather than wasting any regret over her eventual end. They all made their choices. She’d have to live with hers.

“As it happens, that necklace is insured by Oppenheimer’s own insurance company.” He spoke in between bites of potatoes. “It suits my purposes to have one of his holdings take a hit this large. And it doesn’t much matter to me that he’s lost another prized possession. So it’s possible that I could be persuaded to part with it. We’ll call it a bonus, if I’m satisfied with this job’s outcome.”

Juliette said nothing in reply. She’d seen the way his eyes had cooled, heard the censure in his words. An explanation was on the tip of her tongue, and stubbornly she swallowed it. She didn’t owe this man anything, especially the divulging of long-kept secrets. He’d crashed into her carefully planned life and wreaked havoc on it. Disrupted her schedule and set her time line back by weeks, if not months.

Yes, he could believe what he wanted of her. Draw conclusions based upon the illusion she’d created. As long as she was free at the end to finish what she’d started ten years ago. “Well, then, that’s all that’s important, isn’t it?” Nonchalantly she began stacking the dishes he’d emptied onto the tray.

“Apparently.” He handed her the plate he held. “I need a shower. Or better yet, a hot bath.”

She stilled in the act of accepting the dish. “I’m sure if you call the front desk, they can find you a room.”

“No need. I’m staying with you.” He gave her a thin smile. “I trust you exactly as much as you trust me. That’s to say, not at all. You and I are going to be joined at the hip for the duration of this assignment. Best get used to it.”

She stood frozen, his words swirling around her. Slowly, with a care that didn’t escape her, he rose. “But…there’s no need. I’ve already agreed to cooperate.” A feeling of desperation rose that owed nothing to their deal. “You can’t stay. I don’t want you here.”

She was talking to his broad back. He was walking in the direction of the bedrooms. “It’s not what I want either. But it’s the way it has to be.”

Setting the plate down on the tray she hurried in his wake and nearly bumped into him as he ducked back out of the first bathroom he’d come to. “This isn’t acceptable.” She made her voice as implacable as his had been. “You’d better get used to the fact that you aren’t going to have everything your way. You can’t…”

He turned around so suddenly that this time she did run into him. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he lowered his face to hers. “I am going to have everything my way, Juliette.” There was a hint of a drawl in the way he pronounced her name that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. “I’m in charge. Do you understand that? You are going to do exactly what I say, when I say it. And in return you get your life back eventually. You’re in no position to bargain, or to make demands. The sooner you learn that the better for both of us.”

Their gazes did battle, but if he thought she was going to agree with his outrageous statements, he was doomed to disappointment. He released her and turned, heading down the hallway. When he ducked into her bedroom, she was compelled to follow. “No, not that one…”

“A whirlpool.” His tone was practically reverent. By the time she entered the adjoining bathroom behind him he’d already started the jets.

“Absolutely not. You aren’t using my bathroom. There have to be some boundaries, Tremaine. And this is…what are you doing?”

He already had his shirt half-unbuttoned. “This is really your fault, you know.”

Try as she might, Juliette couldn’t tear her eyes away from the wedge of broad chest he was baring. “How do you figure that?”

“Your kick on the roof caught me in a bad spot.” His voice was sardonic as he dropped the shirt on the floor. “But I kinda figure you knew that at the time.”

Dammit, he wasn’t going to make her feel guilty. She forced her gaze off his heavily muscled torso, wide shoulders, impressive biceps. She’d known the night they met on the dance floor that he was favoring one leg. It had been instinct that had driven her to strike at his vulnerability, and she wouldn’t apologize for it now. As a matter of fact, given a chance, she’d kick him again.

Her gaze fell to his dark shirt on the floor, with the necklace spilling out of the inner pocket. The temptation to grab it and run, fast and far, was nearly dizzying. She was familiar with the layout of the hotel. It was possible she could outrun him. But it wouldn’t change anything. Even if she could get away from Tremaine, get a new identity, start a new life, her grandmother would remain behind.

And there was no way she would abandon the only person in the world who loved her.

The sound of his zipper shattered her thoughts. Her gaze bounced back to him incredulously. He’d already kicked off his shoes and socks and his loosened dark pants were clinging precariously to his narrow hips. “This is a little more togetherness than I have in mind.”

“Really? There’s plenty of room for two in that tub.” There was a devilish look in his eyes. He knew exactly how uncomfortable he was making her. That realization alone forced her to stay her ground, school her expression to polite boredom.

“I know exactly how much room there is in that tub.” She manufactured a throaty laugh. “As a matter of fact, I can also tell you how long the hot water holds out. In case you’re interested.”

“I’m interested in anything you have to say, Juliette.” The pants slid down long hard legs. He was left wearing only form-fitting black boxers, the sort that left little—very little—to the imagination. Something told her that after this scene her imagination was going to be very active indeed.

He grabbed the towel bar with one hand and stepped into the tub. Her gaze went to his injured leg and she nearly gasped aloud. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the jagged angry-looking scar that traced down his thigh. It started just beneath his hip and was at least eight inches long. Still red, it looked to be fairly recent. And as close as it was to a major artery, it had to have been a life-threatening injury.

Throat dry, she could only stare as he stepped the rest of the way into the tub, hissing out a breath at the temperature, before easing himself down to a sitting position. Then he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the picture of a healthy, blissful male animal.

“You know what would make this perfect?”

Somehow, she managed to swallow. Not trusting her voice, she merely shook her head.

“If you’d refill that glass of Scotch and bring it in here to me.” He opened his eyes long enough to aim a coaxing look at her.

Without a word, she turned and went to fetch his glass, using the opportunity to draw a deep breath. She’d always prided herself on her ability to think on her feet. Instinct had driven her for so long, it was the primary sense she relied on. But right now she felt like she were standing on quicksand, with the earth constantly shifting and moving beneath her.

Her hand was not quite steady as she poured the Scotch. Crossing to the freezer, she withdrew some ice cubes and dropped them into the glass. Had it not been for her grandmother, she’d take her chances and make her escape right now. But Tremaine held the trump card, and he knew it. Her head was whirling, but try as she might, she couldn’t think of one other way out of the surreal situation she found herself in.

She stood in the kitchen a moment longer, her hand clasping and releasing around the glass. When cornered, her instincts were to evade, bluff or parry. She didn’t capitulate to trouble, she punched her way out. There were options here; there had to be. And once she had more information, those options would become apparent to her.

She took a breath. Right now, however, much as she hated to admit it, her choices were depressingly limited. The realization, dismal as it was, was unavoidable. With reluctance weighing every muscle, she squared her shoulders, turned and retraced her steps, returning with the freshened drink to the half-naked man lounging in her whirlpool.

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