Stolen. Tess Gerritsen
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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 like a thief.”
“I’m not a thief.” She sagged back wearily against a tree trunk. “Are you?”
“Of course not!” he snapped.
“What do you mean, of course not? Is it beneath your precious dignity or something?”
“Not at all. That is—I mean—” He stopped and shook his head in confusion. “What do I mean?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” she said innocently.
“I’m not a thief,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I was…playing a bit of a practical joke. That’s all.”
“I see.” She tilted her head up to look at him, and her expression was plainly skeptical in the moonlight. Now that they weren’t grappling like savages, he realized she was quite petite. And, without a doubt, female. He remembered how snugly her sweet curves had fit beneath him, and suddenly desire flooded through his body, a desire so intense it left him aching. All he had to do was step close to this woman and those blasted hormones kicked in.
He stepped back and forced himself to focus on her face. He couldn’t quite make it out under all that camouflage paint, but it would be easy to remember her voice. It was low and throaty, almost like a cat’s growl. Definitely not English, he thought. American?
She was still eyeing him with a skeptical look. “What did you take out of the wardrobe?” she asked. “Was that part of the practical joke?”
“You…saw that?”
“I did.” Her chin came up squarely in challenge. “Now convince me it was all a prank.”
Sighing, he reached under his jacket. At once she jerked back and pivoted around to flee. “No, it’s all right!” he assured her. “It’s not a gun or anything. It’s just this pouch I’m wearing. Sort of a hidden backpack.” He unzipped the pouch. She stood a few feet away, watching him warily, ready to sprint off at the first whiff of danger. “It’s a bit sophomoric, really,” he said, tugging at the pouch. “But it’s good for a laugh.” The contents suddenly flopped out and the woman gave a little squeak of fright. “See? It’s not a weapon.” He held it out to her. “It’s an inflatable doll. When you blow it up, it turns into a naked woman.”
She moved forward, eyeing the limp rubber doll. “Anatomically correct?” she inquired dryly.
“I’m not sure, really. I mean, er…” He glanced at her, and his mind suddenly veered toward her anatomy. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t checked.”
She regarded him the way one might look at an object of pity.
“But it does prove I was there on a prank,” he said, struggling to stuff the deflated doll back in the pouch.
“All it proves,” she said, “is that you had the foresight to bring an excuse should you be caught. Which, in your case, was a distinct possibility.”
“And what excuse did you bring? Should you be caught?”
“I wasn’t planning on getting caught,” she said, and started across the field. “Everything was going quite well, as a matter of fact. Until you bumbled in.”
“What was going quite well? The burglary?”
“I told you, I’m not a thief.”
He followed her through the grass. “So why did you break in?”
“To prove a point.”
“And that point was?”
“That it could be done. I’ve just proven to Mr. Delancey that he needs a security system.