Heart of a Thief. Gail Barrett
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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.
She inhaled, a shaky, feeble sound that told him how rattled she really was. “But…the royal family. Who murdered them?”
Good question. “Hard to say. It might have been unrelated. Terrorists maybe.”
She frowned. “Because they wanted the necklace?”
“Maybe. Or they wanted to get rid of the king.” When the controversial necklace had surfaced in the Spanish bank vault, Spain decided to donate it to Romanistan, the reputed homeland of the Gypsy people. It was a brilliant move, not only lending support to Romanistan’s moderate leader and helping stabilize the volatile region, but gaining Spain access to Romanistan’s vast reserves of oil.
“A lot of people don’t want Romanistan stable,” he added.
“And eliminating the king could lead to war.” Even nuclear war. Which meant there would be a worldwide hunt to get that necklace back.
“I guess it’s possible they’re unrelated,” she said, her voice doubtful. “It would be an awful coincidence, though.”
“Yeah.” He grimaced, then shook his head. “My gut tells me there’s a connection between those murders and the theft. Something more than a simple distraction.”
Plus he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was somehow personal. A vendetta. But why would don Fernando want to ruin him? Luke had never met the man before working at his estate. So what did he have against him?
He rubbed the dull ache between his brows and fought off a wave of fatigue. He couldn’t worry about that now. He had to get them to safety first.
He rose while Sofia pulled on her shoes. He held out his hand, and she grabbed it, and he tugged her to her feet. “How does that feel?”
She put weight on her leg and gasped. “Better.”
“Right.” He knew better than that. He bent to pick up his jacket. But then a soft clank in the distance broke the stillness.
His pulse skipped, and he slowly straightened. That sound had come from down the tunnel. Someone was at the other end.
“Luke,” Sofia whispered.
He motioned with his hand to cut her off. The police had beaten them to the exit. Now what were they going to do?
He searched his memory of the bolt-hole, but there were no side passages branching off, no more secret doors.
They were trapped.
“Through the garderobe—the old plumbing chute,” he decided. There wasn’t another way out. “Give me the flashlight.”
She handed it over, and he knelt and aimed the light down the chute. It was a fifteen foot drop to the ground, barely wide enough to squeeze through. But they didn’t have a choice.
“You go first. Sit over here on the edge.” Despite everything, he wished he could spare her this. “Hold on to the sleeve of my jacket. I’ll lower you down as far as I can. You’ll have to drop the rest of the way, though.” And land on her injured leg.
She perched on the edge of the chute and chewed her lip. “What’s down there?”
“Just dirt.”
“Okay.” Their eyes held and, despite her fears, he knew she’d try.
He handed her the sleeve of his jacket, set the penlight down and adjusted his position, bracing himself to offset her weight. “Get a good grip, then push off.”
Footsteps pounded in the tunnel now. Sofia grabbed the jacket’s sleeve and slid off the edge.
He lowered her down the chute, inching the jacket through his burning palms to control her descent, trying to keep her from bumping the walls. His biceps throbbed. The muscles along his back wrenched. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked away the sting.
Then the jacket played out. “That’s it,” he said softly. “I can’t go any lower. As soon as you hit the ground, move out of the way.”
“All right.” Her voice quavered in the darkness below him. And then suddenly she let go. The pressure on the jacket eased. He rocked back, and she shrieked.
The sharp cry echoed up the shaft, and his gut clenched. Damn, that must have hurt.
The footsteps behind him grew louder now, drumming toward him with increasing speed. Adrenaline hammered his veins. He couldn’t wait any longer. He just hoped she’d rolled out of the way.
He dropped his jacket down the chute and lowered himself over the edge. He balanced on his forearms for a moment, braced his thighs against the sides. Then he grabbed hold of the ledge and began to work his way down. The rough stone grated his palms, shredded his clothes. His shoulders shook with fatigue.
Then footsteps pounded above him and a bright light flashed on his face.
“Policía,”