Heart of a Thief. Gail Barrett
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fiasco, a total debacle—Antonio’s deception, his death. He blinked away that gruesome image. No one, no matter how treacherous, deserved to die that way.
And his own stupidity appalled him. How could he have let his partner fool him? He’d never had a clue that he was being set up.
And then there was Sofia. He clamped his gaze on those satin hips, the seductive sweep of her back. A tumult of emotions swirled through him—bitterness, resentment. Lust.
He hissed out his breath. He’d never met a woman who both infuriated and aroused him.
Especially one he couldn’t trust.
And now he was stuck with her, at least until that killer was caught.
Suddenly aware that she was listing oddly, he narrowed his gaze on her legs. She held the penlight in her right hand, clutched the hem of her gown and her shoes in the left.
“What happened to your shoes?” he asked.
“I took them off.” She sounded winded, but she didn’t stop.
“I didn’t want to make any noise until I knew for sure who was in the hall.”
He grunted. So maybe she hadn’t been trying to betray him back there. At least that was something.
But even walking barefoot on the uneven stones wouldn’t cause that limp. He studied the awkward way she moved, listened to her breath wheeze. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” Her tight tone contradicted her words.
His frown deepened. What could have happened to her? Then the light swung down, and a shadow gleamed on her calf. His heart thumped. “Wait a minute.”
She stopped and braced her hand against the wall. “What?”
“Hand me the light.” He grabbed it from her and squatted on his heels. “Turn around and hold up your dress. There’s something on your leg.”
“Luke, it doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” He aimed the penlight at her leg and his pulse plunged. A raw gash marred her calf and oozed with blood.
He hissed. That had to hurt. “What happened?”
“I got shot.”
“Shot?” He yanked his gaze up to hers. “Why didn’t you say something?”
She lifted her shoulder in a defeated motion and looked away. He dropped his gaze to the wound again, then angled the light to the dark splotches staining the stones.
He muttered a curse. She was losing too much blood. He had to get her to a doctor, fast. But where could he find one that wouldn’t report them to the cops?
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, we need to bandage this and stop the bleeding.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Bad enough.” As raw as that gash looked, he was surprised she could even walk. “And we’ve got a few minutes. It’ll take the guards that long to find the latch.”
“You think they know where the door is?”
“They’d have to be blind not to see it.” He raised his brows.
“You’re leaving a nice trail of blood for them to follow, querida.”
“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