The Fiancée Caper. Maureen Child
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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