Stolen. Tess Gerritsen

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СКАЧАТЬ swiveled around to face the balcony windows. Something bizarre was going on. Outside, on the railing, the wisteria vines quaked violently. A silhouette suddenly popped up above the tangle of leaves. Clea caught one glimpse of the man’s head, of his blond hair gleaming in the moonlight, and she ducked back behind the wardrobe.

      This was just wonderful. They’d have to take numbers to see whose turn it was to break in next. This was one hazard she hadn’t anticipated—an encounter with a rival thief. An incompetent one, too, she thought in disgust as she heard the sharp clatter of outdoor pottery, quickly stilled. There was an intervening silence. The burglar was listening for sounds of discovery. Old Whitmore must be deaf, thought Clea, if he didn’t hear that racket.

      The balcony door squealed open.

      Clea retreated farther behind the wardrobe. What if he discovered her? Would he attack? She’d brought nothing with which to defend herself.

      She winced as she heard a thump, followed by an irritated mutter of “Damn it all!”

      Oh, Lord. This guy was more dangerous to himself than to her.

      Footsteps creaked closer.

      Clea shrank back, pressing hard against the wall. The wardrobe door swung open, coming to a stop just inches from her face. She heard the clink of hangers as clothes were shoved aside, then the hiss of a drawer sliding out. A flashlight flicked on, its glow spilling through the crack of the wardrobe door. The man muttered to himself as he rifled through the drawer, irritated grumblings in the queen’s best English.

      “Must be mad. That’s what I am, stark raving. Don’t know how she talked me into this…”

      Clea couldn’t help it; curiosity got the better of her. She eased forward and peered through the crack between the hinges of the door. The man was frowning down at an open drawer. His profile was sharply cut, cleanly aristocratic. His hair was wheat blond and still a bit ruffled from all that wrestling with the wisteria vine. He wasn’t dressed at all like a burglar. In his tuxedo jacket and black bow tie, he looked more like some cocktail-party refugee.

      He dug deeper into the drawer and suddenly gave a murmur of satisfaction. She couldn’t see what he was removing from the drawer. Please, she thought. Let it not be the Eye of Kashmir. To have come so close and then to lose it…

      She leaned even closer to the crack and strained to see over his shoulder, to find out what he was now sliding into his jacket pocket. So intently was she staring, she scarcely had time to react when he unexpectedly grasped the wardrobe door and swung it shut. She jerked back into the shadows and her shoulder thudded against the wall.

      There was a silence. A very long silence.

      Slowly the beam of the flashlight slid around the edge of the wardrobe, followed cautiously by the silhouette of the man’s head.

      Clea blinked as the light focused fully on her face. Against the glare she couldn’t see him, but he could see her. For an eternity neither of them moved, neither of them made a sound.

      Then he said, “Who the hell are you?”

      The figure coiled up against the wardrobe didn’t answer. Slowly Jordan played his torchlight down the length of the intruder, noting the stocking cap pulled low to the eyebrows, the face obscured by camouflage paint, the black turtleneck shirt and pants.

      “I’m going to ask you one last time,” Jordan said. “Who are you?”

      He was answered with a mysterious smile. The sight of it surprised him. That’s when the figure in black sprang like a cat. The impact sent Jordan staggering backward against the bedpost. At once the figure scrambled toward the balcony. Jordan lunged and managed to grab a handful of pant leg. They both tumbled to the floor and collided with the writing desk, letting loose a cascade of pens and pencils. His opponent squirmed beneath him and rammed a knee into Jordan’s groin. In the onrush of pain and nausea, Jordan almost let go. His opponent got one hand free and was scrabbling about on the floor. Almost too late Jordan saw the pointed tip of a letter opener stabbing toward him.

      He grabbed his opponent’s wrist and savagely wrestled away the letter opener. The other man struck back just as savagely, arms flailing, body twisting like an eel. As Jordan fought to control those pummeling fists, he snagged his opponent’s stocking cap.

      A luxurious fountain of blond hair suddenly tumbled out across the floor, to ripple in a shimmering pool under the moonlight. Jordan stared in astonishment.

       A woman.

      For an endless moment they stared at each other, their breaths coming hard and fast, their hearts thudding against each other’s chests.

       A woman.

      Without warning his body responded in a way that was both automatic and unsuppressibly male. She was too warm, too close. And very, very female. Even through their clothes, those soft curves were all too apparent. Just as the state of his arousal must be firmly apparent to her.

      “Get off me,” she whispered.

      “First tell me who you are.”

      “Or what?”

      “Or I’ll—I’ll—”

      She smiled up at him, her mouth so close, so tempting he completely lost his train of thought.

      It was the creak of approaching footsteps that made his brain snap back into function. Light suddenly spilled under the doorway and a man’s voice called, “What’s this, now? Who’s in there?”

      In a flash both Jordan and the woman were on their feet and dashing to the balcony. The woman was first over the railing. She scrambled like a monkey down the wisteria vine. By the time Jordan hit the ground, she was already sprinting across the lawn.

      At the yew hedge he finally caught up with her and pulled her to a halt. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded.

      “What were you doing in there?” she countered.

      Back at the house the bedroom lights came on, and a voice yelled from the balcony, “Thieves! Don’t you come back! I’ve called the police!”

      “I’m not hanging around here,” said the woman, and made a beeline for the woods.

      Jordan sighed. “She does have a point.” And he took off after her.

      For a mile they slogged it out together, dodging brambles, ducking beneath branches. It was rough terrain, but she seemed tireless, moving at the steady pace of someone in superb condition. Only when they’d reached the far edge of the woods did he notice that her breathing had turned ragged.

      He was ready to collapse.

      They stopped to rest at the edge of a field. The sky was cloudless, the moonlight thick as milk. Wind blew, warm and fragrant with the smell of fallen leaves.

      “So tell me,” he managed to say between gulps of air, “do you do this sort of thing for a living?”

      “I’m not a thief. If that’s what you’re asking.”

      “You act like a thief. You dress СКАЧАТЬ