The Fiancée Caper

His eyebrows lifted. Gianni hadn’t noticed a woman’s purse on the couch. But then the moment he’d stepped into his flat, he’d sensed another’s presence and had been focused on discovering the intruder. “Made yourself at home, did you?”

“I was going to pick it up on my way out.” She gave him a hard look. “You were supposed to be gone for hours yet.”

“Are you expecting an apology for interrupting you?”

She inhaled sharply. “Do you want to see the photo or not?”

Oh, he really didn’t. Once he saw the photo, he would have to deal with her. Find a way to shut her up and protect his father. First things first, though. Did she really hold evidence that could be used against his family?

“Let’s go.”

Stepping back to allow her to walk in front of him—where he could keep an eye on her—he also took advantage of the view. Cop or no cop, she had a great butt, and thief or no thief, he was still a guy.

He followed her through his house, her high heels clicking against the marble floor like a too-fast heartbeat. Gianni flipped light switches as they went and the house lit up, displaying the clear, cold white walls and furnishings.

“Would it kill you to have some color in here?” she muttered.

Frowning, he glanced around. He’d paid a hell of a lot of money for the designer who had put his place together. It might be stark, but— Scowling now, he snapped, “Would-be thief and an interior decorator? Is that what’s known as multitasking?”

She didn’t answer but then he hadn’t expected her to.

In the living room, she walked to the sleek, low-slung white sofa and snatched up a tiny black shoulder bag. No wonder he hadn’t noticed it. Just big enough to carry an ID and a phone, it had slipped between the cushions with only a narrow piece of the strap showing.

She flipped it open, pulled out her phone and turned it on. A couple of quick button pushes later, she turned the screen toward him and said, “I told you I had it.”

Gianni snatched the phone from her, studied the man in the photo and felt everything inside him tighten into knots. It was his father. There was no mistaking Nick Coretti. The only good thing was, the photo was dark and so others might have a harder time identifying the man caught slipping out of a casement window.

“Scroll the screen to the next shot,” she said.

Grimly, he did just that. In the second photo he saw Nick easing over the edge of the roof to climb down. His features weren’t as clear in this shot, but he was still identifiable. At least to his son.

“This could be anyone,” he said tightly, pulling up the menu and hitting Delete on both photos.

“But it’s not and we both know it,” she countered. “And you needn’t have bothered to delete the pictures. I have more copies.”

He tossed the phone back to her. “Of course you do. It’s as if you think you’re in one of those spy movies. All cloak and dagger. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“This is more like To Catch a Thief, really,” she said and for the first time since he’d pulled her out from under his bed, her mouth curved into a half smile.

He knew which old movie she was talking about and, as it happened, it was one of his favorites. Cary Grant, starring as a jewel thief who ends up not only outwitting the police, but also getting the beautiful girl in the form of Grace Kelly.

“What is it you’re up to, Ms. O’Hara?”

“Well, Mr. Coretti,” she said, tucking her phone back into her bag, “much like in the movies...I need a thief to catch a thief.”

Three (#u7571f912-203c-580d-96c0-fc94e308a684)

“Explain.”

Marie’s gaze swept over him in a wink of time. He stood there in his elegantly cut, obviously expensive gray suit, white shirt and fire-engine-red tie and looked like an investment banker. Until you looked into his eyes. That’s where the similarities ended. His eyes flashed with cunning, intelligence and a hint of danger that probably had women flocking to him in droves. Even Marie felt that flicker of awareness, of attraction. And she definitely knew better.

“Can I sit down?” she asked.

“Can I stop you?”

“Not really,” Marie murmured as she dropped onto the just-as-uncomfortable-as-it-looked sofa. “My feet hurt,” she admitted a moment later as she slipped out of her heels and reached down to rub the soles of her feet.

“Well by all means then,” he said tightly. “Do be comfortable.”

“Not really possible on this couch,” she said, running one hand across the fabric. “It has all the give of white steel.”

“Shall I fetch you a pillow?”

Marie stopped, looked directly at him and huffed out a breath. “Sorry. Okay, explanation.”

“I would appreciate that.”

He was being awfully civilized all of a sudden, but Marie wasn’t fooled. The truth of what he was feeling was in his eyes. That rich, dark chocolate seemed to be stirring with every emotion possible, all tightly controlled.

Not surprising, she told herself. She’d researched the Coretti family thoroughly over the last several months and everything she’d found on Gianni had led her to believe that he was the one most in control. The one who would go to any lengths to protect his family. The one Coretti most likely to help her. Even if he really didn’t want to.

“Okay, I told you that I used to be a cop.”

“You did.”

Did he just shudder?

“I come from a long line of cops,” she said. “My father, uncles, cousins, they all wore the uniform at one time or another.”

“Fascinating,” he said dryly, that Italian accent of his flavoring the sarcasm. “And how does this affect me and my family?”

“I’m getting to it.”

But she was really thirsty. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe she just needed to move around. Maybe it was sitting on the sofa with him perched on the stupid glass coffee table, so close his knees were practically brushing against hers. There was a near electric buzz of heat bouncing between the two of them and it was distracting enough that Marie felt her insides bubble in anticipation.

Irritated at the thought, she jumped to her feet suddenly, jolting a flash of surprise onto Gianni’s features. Well, good. She’d hate to think that he was all rigid control when she herself was starting to babble. She only babbled when she was nervous and tonight her nerves were jangling wildly.

“I could use a cup of tea. Do you have tea?”

“I do beg your pardon for being a thoughtless host,” he murmured and stood up as well. “And of course I have tea. We’re in London.”

“Good. Good,” she said and started for the kitchen, clutching her phone and tiny bag as if they were lifelines. The awful white marble felt cold against her feet, but at least she was out of the heels that had made her toes ache. He was right behind her. And she couldn’t just hear him—she felt him.

“Sit down and talk,” Gianni said as they walked into the kitchen.

Marie took a seat in one of the ghost chairs, frowning at the clear Plexiglass as she did. “These are really hideous chairs, you know.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” he assured her and filled an electric teakettle—white, of course—at the sink before setting it on the counter and plugging it in to heat. “You’re not talking about what I want to hear.”