Heart of a Thief

“Oh, God.” Her voice quivered, and she placed her hand on her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to lead them here.”

He exhaled, rose and handed back the penlight. And for the first time, he noticed the strain etching her face, the taut grooves bracketing her mouth. She had to be in tremendous pain.

“Look.” He gentled his voice. “There’s a spot just ahead where the tunnel widens. We can bandage your leg there if you think you can make it that far.”

She searched his eyes. “You’ve been in here before?”

“A few months ago when I was doing a security check.” Not that it had done any good. The royal Roma couple had still died.

“I’ll make it,” she said, and he had to admire her pluck. She was determined, if nothing else.

She limped off again, slower now, and he mulled over this new twist. Why would they shoot Sofia if she’d been involved in the theft?

Unless they’d intended to eliminate her all along. A chill struck his nerves at the thought, but it made sense. With Antonio gone, she was the only one who could prove Luke hadn’t stolen that necklace. Worse, she’d seen Paco kill Antonio—which doubled their reasons to want her dead.

Which meant it was up to Luke to protect her—whether she was guilty, believed him about her patron, or not.

A minute later, the tunnel widened slightly. Part of one wall had crumbled, scattering stones and exposing the ancient garderobe, the palace’s primitive plumbing chute that dropped to the ground below. The result was an alcove—tiny, but wider than the narrow passage they’d just crept through.

“Stop here,” he said. “Let’s get that leg wrapped.” But they needed to do it fast. They didn’t have more than a few minutes’ lead on the police.

Sofia paused and turned back to face him, shivered and rubbed her bare arms. He pulled his car key from his pocket, then lifted the hem of her dress.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Cutting up your dress. Unless you’ve got something else we can use for a bandage?”

“No.” She sighed. “Go ahead.”

He used the key to punch a hole in the satin, then tore off several long strips, while Sofia held the dress up and helped. Then he removed his tuxedo jacket, kicked aside the loose stones and spread it out. “Here, sit on this.”

He moved in close to help her. She grabbed his shoulder for balance, and her body curved into his. Her soft, very feminine body. Their eyes met. A sudden tension hovered between them. And they both went perfectly still.

The shadowy light cocooned them, making the embrace seductive, intimate, tempting. His pulse began to batter his skull.

She felt good in his arms. Too good. And it had been so long.

But this was wrong. The wrong woman, the wrong time.

He grasped her waist, felt her heat sear his hand through the satin gown, while his pulse rocked loud in his ears. He helped her to the ground, aware of her soft, lush body molded to his, the weight of her breast brushing his arm, the compelling scent of her skin.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice breathy, and he had to force himself to let go.

She tugged the dress above her knee, and he cleared his throat. “Shine the light on your leg.” He lowered himself to one knee and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. “You’ll have to help hold this in place.”

He bent forward just as she did and, despite his intentions, he paused. She was so close, her face just inches from his, and the urge to tilt up her chin, to slant his lips over hers in a deep, hot kiss nearly did him in.

Instead, he pressed the handkerchief to her calf. Her hand covered his, and desire shuddered through him, a hot jolt scalding his veins.

Their gazes collided again, and memories slashed through him—her feverish lips, her slick, velvet skin. That delirious moment when sanity ceased and their bodies exploded in bliss.

He dropped his gaze to her parted lips, hauled it back up. Their gazes held and he saw the desire in her eyes, the same stunning need he knew she’d see reflected in his.

Damn, she’d been hot. So hot that he’d dreamed of her, fantasized about her, every day for five long years, despite the betrayal and lies.

But this woman was treacherous, unreliable. And no way would he relive the pain she’d dragged him through. No matter how much he craved that exquisite body, he couldn’t forget the past.

He ripped his gaze from hers and leaned back. “Hold this in place while I wrap it.”

He started wrapping the strip of cloth around her leg, far too conscious of where his hands touched, of the silky gleam of her thigh. And the faint trembling of her hands, the tug of her breath told him she felt that pull, too.

But he forged on, forcing himself to ignore the insistent pulsing in his groin, to concentrate on the problem at hand. “So who shot you?”

She exhaled and the soft sound rent the still air. “I don’t know. There was a guardia civil there—he tried to arrest me, just like you said—but then Paco drew his gun.”

His hands jerked. “The bodyguard was there?” How could she have put herself in danger like that?

“I didn’t see him at first. I thought it was don Fernando. But then he pulled out his gun, and I ran. That’s when I got shot.”

She shivered, her eyes vulnerable again, and he pulled his gaze away. For a moment, neither spoke. “Do you really think you’re being framed?” she finally asked.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Here, hold this.” While she held the end of the cloth in place, he picked up another piece and wrapped it on top. “Look, you said Antonio hired you to make that replica.”

“So?”

“So if he only wanted to steal the necklace, why go to all this trouble? Why didn’t he just swap the replica for the original? I never would have known.”

Because no matter what he thought about Sofia, he couldn’t deny her talent. She was the foremost restorer of ancient amber, the best in the world. Her passion, her nearly magical ability to understand the living stone had brought her worldwide acclaim.

And she made flawless reproductions, copies nearly as priceless as the originals and coveted by celebrities, museums…Hell, with her skill, even other experts wouldn’t have known that necklace was fake—at least not without running tests.

“I would have known what he’d done,” she pointed out.

“Not necessarily. You would have assumed that after the ceremony he’d switched the original back. And once the necklace went to Romanistan, you never would have seen it again.”

“Maybe.” She frowned. “But why would Paco kill Antonio if they were partners?”

He reached for the last strip of cloth. “To eliminate a witness, probably. They want everyone to think I’m guilty. So they can’t risk letting someone who knows the truth live.”

Even in the dim light, he saw her face pale. “You mean like me?”

“Like both of us, querida. We both know the truth.” Their gazes held. She raised her hand to her throat.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

Oh, God was right. They were in a hell of a mess.

He pulled his attention back to the bandage, tied a knot to secure it, then rested back on his heels.