Читать книгу The Fiancée Caper - Maureen Child - Страница 8

Two

The amused glint in his dark brown eyes disappeared in a flash. Marie took a breath and tried to get her heartbeat to stop racing. Not an easy thing to do now that her “plan” was shot. She hadn’t counted on him coming home early and catching her while she snooped. Hadn’t planned on him dragging her out from under his bed, then tossing her onto the mattress and taking a seat across her midsection, either. And, she was forced to admit that having his hard, oh-so muscular body pressing down on top of hers felt much better than it should have.

He was taller than she’d thought he would be and boy he smelled good—a subtle blend of spice and man that made her want to take a long deep breath and hold on to it, just to keep that scent inside her. But she wasn’t here to be seduced or to allow her own hormones to take over and fan the fires that were flickering within.

Because, she reminded herself, she’d already made that mistake once. She’d allowed a thief to distract her—and she wouldn’t do that again.

Damn it. How had this all gone so wrong?

The plan had been to confront him in her own time, in a place of her choosing so that she had the upper hand. Now, she was pretty much at his mercy. And judging by the hard light in his eyes, mercy was going to be in short supply.

So, Marie did what she always did when she was the underdog. She jumped in and went on the offensive. “Get off of me and we’ll talk.”

“You start talking and I’ll get off of you,” he countered.

So much for that attempt. Moonlight poured through the wall of windows and slashed across his hard features like a silvery warning light. What should have been soft and romantic instead looked somehow ominous, throwing his eyes and the grim slash of his mouth into shadow.

Marie took a breath—shallow though it was—and braced herself for the confrontation she’d been working toward for months. All of her careful plans had crumbled underneath her simply because he’d come home early for probably the first time in his entire life. If you thought about it, this was really all his fault.

Her attitude slapped back into place at that thought and she shifted beneath him, shooting him an angry glare. “It’s hard to breathe with you sitting on me.”

He didn’t budge. “Then you should speak quickly. What evidence do you have against my father?”

Clearly, she’d lost this round.

“A photo.”

He snorted. “A photograph? Please, Ms. Whoever-you-are. You’ll have to do better than that. Everyone knows photos are too easily digitally retouched these days to mean anything.”

“This one hasn’t been,” she assured him. She hadn’t had to retouch anything. “It’s a little dark maybe, but you can see your father clearly enough.”

She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his features went even colder and more remote than they had been. And if possible, he became even more good-looking. “I’m supposed to take your word for this? I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Marie. Marie O’Hara.”

He eased up on her diaphragm just enough to allow her a deep breath and Marie appreciated it.

“That’s a start,” he said tightly. “Keep talking. How do you know me? My family?”

“You’re not serious, right?” she asked, stunned that he could even ask that question.

The Coretti family had been the focus of speculation for decades. Catching one of them in the act of relieving someone of their jewels was a recurring dream of police officers around the globe. That he could even ask that question was ridiculous.

“You’re the Corettis. The most infamous family of jewel thieves in the world.”

His jaw flexed as though he were grinding his teeth. Good thing? Bad? Didn’t matter.

“Alleged jewel thieves,” he corrected, gaze fixed with hers. “We’ve never been charged with a crime.”

“Because there was never any evidence,” she said. “Until now.”

That muscle in his jaw ticked continuously now. “You’re bluffing.”

She met his gaze. “I don’t bluff.”

He studied her for so long, Marie was sure he could have given a pore-by-pore description of her. But finally, he shook his head and asked, “Why should I believe anything a woman I caught breaking and entering has to say?”

“I didn’t break,” she reminded him. “I just entered.”

Fascinating really, to watch his eyes narrow until they were slits even as the muscle in his jaw twitched furiously.

His next question addressed the anger obviously churning inside him. “What do you mean you just entered? How did you get in here?”

She snorted at the seriousness of his expression. “Seriously? All it took was a short skirt and very high heels and your doorman practically bowed me into the elevator.” Marie remembered the lascivious glint in the man’s eyes and she knew that she wasn’t the first of Gianni Coretti’s women to be given that special treatment. “He didn’t even ask for ID. He assured me no key was required to let myself in since he keyed me in to the one elevator that goes only to your penthouse apartment. He wasn’t even surprised to find I was there when you weren’t home. Apparently there’s a constant stream of women running in and out of this apartment.”

He frowned a little at that and she had the satisfaction of knowing that she’d scored a point—however small—against him. She needed that. For what she had to do, it was necessary to have Gianni Coretti on board. Marie hated knowing that she required a thief’s assistance, but without him, she would never be able to do what she’d come to Europe to do.

“Clearly,” he said, “I’m going to have to speak to the doorman.”

Seeing the irritation on his face, she smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Seemed to me like you already have him very well trained—escorting your ‘companions’ to the elevator and allowing them into your apartment—whether you’re home or not.”

His mouth worked as if he were chewing on words that tasted too bitter to swallow. “Fine. You’ve made your point. Now explain why you’re here. I rarely find a guest in my home searching under my bed. So what is it you were looking for?”

“More evidence.”

A short, sharp laugh shot from his throat. “More evidence?”

She scowled at him. “I have one picture. I wanted more.”

His frown deepened. “Why?”

“I need your help.”

He laughed.

Still sitting astride her, he threw his head back and roared with laughter. Marie was so stunned, she could only stare up at him and think wildly, he’s even more gorgeous with that wide smile on his face. She wasn’t here to notice the man’s obvious attractions, though, so she tried not to notice that his eyes were the rich brown of melted dark chocolate. Or that his mouth was enticing, his jaw was square and freshly shaven. She did not want to touch his thick black hair, which was just long enough to curl seductively over his shirt collar.

The heat from his body was sliding down into hers and as he laughed, her body shook in time with his. Her brain fuzzed out a little, but she fought for clarity. No doubt any woman would have felt a little...unsteady with Gianni Coretti planted firmly on top of her.

Finally the rolling thunder of his laughter died away and, still shaking his head, he looked down at her. “You need my help. That’s brilliant. You invade my home, threaten my family and expect me to help you?”

“If you think I’m happy about this, you’re wrong,” she assured him. Marie hated needing him. But, she told herself, to catch a thief, it was going to take a thief.

“And to ensure that I grant you this favor—you, what? Plan a bit of blackmail?”

“You wouldn’t have invited me in if I’d simply come to speak to you.”

“I don’t know,” he mused, gaze moving over her face and down to where the tiny buttons on her silk blouse strained against the fabric. “I might have.”

She flushed with both irritation and insult. “Despite the way I’m dressed at the moment, I am not one of your bimbos.”

One dark eyebrow winged up. “Bimbos?”

“Why so confused?” she asked. “You should know the word since the women you ‘date’ are walking, sometimes talking—but never at the same time—examples of the word.”

His mouth quirked and Marie had another chance to appreciate how a smile affected his features. Really, though, it didn’t matter that he was especially gorgeous, or that the heat from his body was absolutely hotter than anything she’d ever felt before. She just had to get past all of that—push it into the darkest corners of her mind, where she would never have to look at it or think about it again.

Because he was a thief.

And she wasn’t here to be attracted to the man she needed to help clear her reputation. That would just muddy up a situation that was already plenty murky.

When he started speaking again, she gratefully stopped thinking and concentrated on the moment at hand.

“Fine. You’re not a bimbo. You’re not a burglar. What exactly are you then?”

She shoved at him again but he was immovable, clearly determined to keep her pinned to his bed like a moth to a corkboard. With his hard body on top of her and the silky cool duvet beneath her, Marie felt both hot and cold—leaning more toward the hot, though, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

“Let’s make a deal,” she said after a second or two. “I answer one more question then you get off of me.”

“You’re not really in a position to bargain,” he reminded her.

That Italian accent of his flavored every word and when his tone dropped to deep and husky, the accent seemed to get thicker. Which just wasn’t fair. His looks? That accent? Heck, maybe he didn’t steal jewels. Women probably tossed them at him. That irritating thought helped stiffen her spine.

“I have evidence against your father,” she reminded him and was instantly sorry she had.

His features went hard and tight and the light in his eyes awakened by laughter died and dissolved into shadows that didn’t look particularly friendly.

“So you say.” He stopped, thought for a moment and said, “Fine. Tell me who you are and I’ll let you up.”

“I already did. My name’s Marie O’Hara.”

“You’re American.”

She frowned at him. “Yes.”

“And? Telling me your name doesn’t tell me who you are.”

Moonlight sifted into the room through the wall of glass on her left and shone in his eyes as he focused on her. “I used to be a cop....”

“Bloody hell.” He huffed out a breath, then narrowed his gaze on her. “Used to be?”

“I answered the one question. Let me up and I’ll tell you the rest,” she said.

“Fine.” He shifted off of her and Marie instantly inhaled deeply.

Sitting up, she adjusted the fit of her blouse then tugged the hem of her skirt as far down on her thighs as it could go. Flipping the hair out of her eyes with a toss of her head, she fixed a hard look on him.

“What’s a former cop doing in my home?” He pushed off the bed. Shoving both hands into his pockets, he watched her. “Why does she need my help and how did she get evidence against my father?”

Marie scooted off the bed, too. She felt more in control on her own two feet. Of course, that feeling only lasted until she looked into his eyes. No one would take control out of his hands. He practically oozed authority. It was, she guessed, an alpha-male quality and he was most definitely alpha.

“Explain to me why I shouldn’t be calling the police to report an intruder,” he said shortly.

She shook her head. “A world-renowned thief calling the police? Ironic.”

His lips quirked as he shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a law-abiding citizen. Matter of fact, I work for Interpol.”

Marie had known that, but it didn’t change anything. A new job for an international police force didn’t mitigate how Gianni Coretti had lived his life. How the rest of his family was still living. But she knew how these things worked, too. No doubt Gianni had made some sort of deal with the international authorities—maybe immunity in exchange for his assistance. It wouldn’t be the first time that a thief switched sides to save his own hide.

“Well then, go ahead and call the police,” she said. “I’m sure they would be very interested in the photo I have of Dominick Coretti slipping out the window of a palazzo in Italy the day before the Van Court family renting that palazzo reported a burglary.”

* * *

Damn it. It was only through sheer force of will that Gianni managed to keep his features blank and not allow this woman to see what he was feeling. The Van Court emeralds. If this were a bluff, Gianni told himself, it was a damned good one. He knew the Van Court heist was last week. He knew his father had done it. And if she knew it, too, then she no doubt did have a picture of Nick Coretti—which would be enough to land his father in jail.

Gianni looked into the woman’s summer green eyes and wished her anywhere but there. For a solid year he had been working on building a new, walking-the-straight-and-narrow life and this one small, curvy woman was flushing it down the drain. Feeling a sharp stab of desire for her was one thing. Allowing her to screw up his and his family’s lives was another.

“Let’s see it.” He walked to the wall switch, impatiently hitting it. Light spilled into the room, scattering the gathered shadows.

“What?”

In the moonlit darkness, Marie O’Hara had been attractive. With the lights on she was amazing. Her eyes were greener, her auburn hair shone like dark fire and the curves beneath the red silk blouse and black skirt were lush and tempting. Everything in him stirred. Didn’t seem to matter to his body that this woman was threatening everything he knew. A flash of heat shot through him and settled in his groin.

Ex-cop, he reminded himself and the thought was as good as a dose of ice water. Ex or not, in his experience, once a cop always a cop.

“The picture you claim to have of my father,” he said shortly. “I want to see it. Now.”

“It’s in my purse.”

His gaze slid over her quickly. “Which is where?”

“On your couch in the front room.”

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.”