Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
Catspaw 1
A reformed cat burglar. Can he be trusted?
Self-made socialite Francesca "Ferris” Byrd is too sharp to be fooled by even the smartest—and sexiest—man, even when he’s notorious ex-thief Patrick Blackheart, now one of San Francisco’s most eligible bachelors. Blackheart runs a respectable security business these days, and seems like the perfect man to protect the fabulous Von Emmerling emeralds. All he has to do is make certain the jewels get back to their owner after an elite charity ball.
And all Ferris has to do is make sure he isn’t tempted to keep them. The problem is, temptation is Blackheart’s specialty, and from the moment they meet it’s clear that he’d love to steal Ferris away from her stodgy life.
When the emeralds disappear, Blackheart is a top suspect. His reputation—and Ferris’s hard-won social standing—are at stake. What’s a woman to do when she’s got to kick off her high heels and follow her heart?
Catspaw 2
He won her love. But is it enough to keep him out of trouble? Being engaged to sexy-hot reformed cat burglar Patrick Blackheart, now a legit security expert, is thrilling, but a challenge. Ferris Byrd has loosened up, but she’s still a law-abiding socialite, and Blackheart promised to steer clear of his old habits. If he doesn’t, the wedding is off.
When a string of jewel heists in Europe matches Blackheart’s recent travel itinerary, Ferris fears he’s succumbed to his old ways. Why was he secretive about his whereabouts? She wants to believe that someone’s setting him up,
but . . .
An exhibit of Faberge eggs at the San Francisco Museum is the ultimate catnip for a jewel thief, and Ferris is in charge of them. She’ll be ready and waiting to unmask this cat burglar.
Anne Stuart is currently celebrating forty-five years as a published novelist. She has won every major award in the romance field and appeared on the NYT Bestseller List, Publisher's Weekly, and USA Today. Anne Stuart currently lives in northern Vermont.
"Blackheart is pure Stuart Bad Boy, so sexy he will knock your socks off." —The Best Reviews
"Stuart proves it takes a thief to steal your heart!" —The Best Reviews
Chapter One
FERRIS BYRD DIDN’T want to be in that plush, silent elevator
carrying her inexorably toward the top floor of the San Francisco town house
that held Blackheart, Inc. She’d argued—oh, so gently—manipulated, dragged her
heels and flat-out refused. And still she was here.
The elevator doors whooshed open, exposing a
small, charming hallway with white plastered walls, stripped oak woodwork and
several doors. All belonging to Blackheart, Inc. and they were all closed. No
one had seen her arrive—she could turn around and head back down to street
level and tell Phillip Merriam and the Committee for Saving the Bay that
someone else could deal with their chosen security firm. God knows why everyone
had insisted on Blackheart, Inc.
No, Ferris knew very well why everyone had
insisted on Blackheart. He had cachet, he had charm, he had a sly sort of fame
that most people found irresistible and
Ferris found offensive. She hated feeling judgmental, disapproving,stiff and pompous. But she also hated what Blackheart represented.
What she hated most of all, however, was
cowardice, particularly her own. Phillip had talked her into it; the committee
had insisted and here she was. She had no choice but to carry through.
"May I help you?” The office was a perfect
example of San Francisco remodeled, with antique oak furniture, masses of
plants and the obligatory stained-glass window. The only thing that didn’t
quite jibe was the receptionist. She was young, in her mid-twenties at the
latest, with short-cropped red hair, distrustful blue eyes, a pugnacious tilt
to her chin and a small, compact body dressed in modified army-navy surplus.
The polite greeting had been uttered in a surprisingly hostile tone, and the
look she passed over Ferris left little doubt as to her opinion. As if to
emphasize it, the receptionist, whose desk plate identified her as Kate
Christiansen, sniffed disapprovingly.
Ferris had no doubt what the woman would see
through her flinty blue eyes. She’d see a woman of elegance, her custom-made
leather shoes worth more than Kate Christiansen’s entire wardrobe. Ferris’s
soft wool suit was Liz Claiborne, and it draped artfully to conceal the rounder
parts of her figure. Her long legs were encased in real silk, her dark hair
was clasped in a loose bun at the nape of her neck in a style that showed off
her elegant bone structure. And the face itself wasn’t bad, Ferris thought
dispassionately. She knew her green eyes were cool and assessing, her mouth,
with its pale-peach lip gloss, had curved in a polite smile, and the discreet
gold hoops in her ears added just enough color to her warm skin tones. She
looked rich, understated and well cared for, from generations of such pampered
elegance. And only she knew how hard it was to come by that look.
The thought pleased her into widening her smile.
She could afford to be generous; she was so close to her goals. "I’m Ferris
Byrd,” she said, her pleasant, well-modulated voice another triumph. Its
slightly husky note was the only part she’d left of her original mid-western
twang. Now she sounded bored, upper class and slightly naughty—and it was this
voice, over the telephone, that had first charmed Phillip Merriam. "I have an
appointment to see Mr. Blackheart.”
Kate Christiansen did not look pleased, and
Ferris wondered whether it was jealousy that caused that glower, or something
else. She was almost tempted to inform the pugnacious young lady that John
Patrick Blackheart was the last person she wished to entice, but then she
controlled herself. That had been her worst trial, overcoming the sudden, unbidden
urges to do something outrageous, but she had conquered the temptation, and
now it was only a passing fantasy, quickly dismissed.
Kate Christiansen scowled. "He’ll be with you
shortly. You can go on in.” With a jerk of her head she indicated the door on
the left, then turned back to the sheaf of papers on the oak desk in front of
her, effectively dismissing the upstart.
Ferris allowed herself her first real smile of
the morning as she settled in a low-slung chair by John Patrick Blackheart’s
empty desk, her long, slender legs stretched out in front of her. Here she’d
arrived, determined to disapprove, and instead she’d been made to feel the
outcast. It served her right, but it didn’t make her any more comfortable. Why
hadn’t she been able to talk them into hiring someone less...
less unorthodox?
There was nothing about the office to suggest the
history of the man who ran it. The walls were the ubiquitous white plaster, the
woodwork and oriental rugs as discreet and tastefully anonymous as Ferris herself
and probably manufactured with as much care. The only sign of personality was
in the choice of paintings. They were a strange mélange: a romantic watercolor
of the bay, a passionate oil of a storm at sea, a rigidly logical geometric
painting that just might be a Mondrian. And most surprising of all, a Roy
Lichtenstein silk-screen comic strip, with a cigarette-smoking, beret-clad lady
holding a machine gun that went, according to the balloon, "crak-crak-crak.”
Ferris looked at it for a moment, a reluctant smile curving her deliberately
pale mouth. It was an odd, jarring combination of artistic styles that somehow
worked.
"Ferris Byrd?” The smooth, friendly voice made
her jump, and the body that went with it was just as much of a shock. He was an
immensely tall, almost ridiculously handsome man, with a mop of blond curls
atop his high forehead, steely blue eyes, a thousand teeth shining in a tanned
face, and the broadest shoulders Ferris had ever seen. He held out a hand the
size of a small turkey that easily enveloped hers. "I’m Trace Walker, Patrick’s
associate. How can I help you?”
Ferris immediately decided that the toothy smile
was charming, the steely-blue gaze warm and friendly. It was only Blackheart
himself that she distrusted. With luck maybe she could deal with this affable
giant entirely. "I represent the Committee for Saving the Bay, and we’re in
need of security consultants.”
He smiled that dazzling smile of his. "How
convenient. We just happen to be security consultants. I talked with Senator
Merriam yesterday—he said it has to do with the Puffin Ball?”
Ferris controlled the little spurt of irritation
that sped through her. Phillip never did trust anyone else to get a job done.
His hands-on approach aided him immeasurably in his political career, but it
irritated the hell out of his administrative assistant and brand-new fiancée.
She smiled again, a little more tightly. "Exactly. We’ve added a new touch this
year. The Von Emmerling emeralds, to be exact. The raffle last year was such an
astonishing success...”
"You’re raffling off the Von Emmerling emeralds?”
Trace Walker echoed, aghast.
"No, of course not. They’re not ours to
raffle—they’re only in San Francisco on loan. We’re raffling off the chance to
wear them at the Puffin Ball. The first prize winner gets to wear them for two
hours, second prize one hour, third prize half an hour.”
"Oh, Lord,” Walker groaned. "And you want us to
protect them? The most famous emeralds in the world, and you’re going to be
handing them out to just anybody to wear in a crowded ballroom?”
Ferris smiled. "Crazy, isn’t it? But people seem
to be going wild about it. We’ve already sold a huge amount of tickets, and the
committee’s had to order up another printing. It was an absolute brainstorm.”
"Yours?” he questioned glumly.
She shook her head. "I’m too conservative. I’d be
just as afraid as you are that someone might decide to keep them. Originally we
were thinking of auctioning off the wearing time, then decided against it. If
someone knew ahead of time, they could have copies made, and it would be simple
enough to make an exchange in the bathroom or something. We thought with a
raffle it would be safer—the winners won’t know until they arrive at the ball.”
"You’re going to end up with a lot of women dressed
for emeralds,” Walker pointed out. "You realize this is going to be practically
impossible?”
"I imagine it will be difficult,” Ferris allowed.
"But not impossible. At a thousand dollars per guest the list will naturally be
limited, and we’ll have our own security there to make sure there are no
gate-crashers. Your only worry will be the emeralds. As long as Carleton House
is secure and someone’s on the scene, I expect it will be all right.”
"Carleton House!” Walker groaned. "On the point?
That rambling old mansion will take weeks to burglar-proof.”
Ferris smiled sweetly. "You have one week. The
Puffin Ball is next Friday. I’m afraid we only just decided we’d need extra
help for the jewels themselves. Of course, if you don’t think you can handle
it...” She was no longer certain she wanted him to give up.
On the one hand, it would certainly make things easier for her, dealing with
the firm that handled the regular security for Carleton House. On the other
hand, Blackheart, Inc. had a certain appeal. Fortunately, it didn’t seem as if
John Patrick Blackheart busied himself with the mundane details of the workaday
world, and Trace Walker had a puppy-dog charm that even a securely engaged
woman like Ferris could appreciate. It really might work out very well indeed.
"Don’t browbeat him, Miss Byrd.” Another voice
entered the fray, and Ferris cursed the silent doorways and the even quieter
footsteps of the man walking toward her. Obviously her hope had been in vain.
The man walking toward her with that amused expression on his face could only
be the heretofore absent John Patrick Blackheart. The most famous living cat
burglar in the world.
BLACKHEART HAD been cursing quietly under his breath as he
climbed the steep hill toward the town house that held his offices. Not that
the hill was bad for the dull ache in his leg, but the dampness of the San
Francisco weather certainly didn’t do it any good. The knee had tightened up
again, and it took all his willpower not to favor it. It had been three years
since he’d conquered the limp, three years since the last operation and the
physical therapy and rigorous exercises. And now his right leg was as good as
anybody else’s, could do what anyone else’s could do. He could dance, if it was
a slow one and he had a nice rounded body to hold onto, he could walk briskly
without any sign of strain, and he could even manage a sedate run along the
beach south of the city when the mood hit him. The one thing he couldn’t do was
scramble up the side of buildings and over rooftops, couldn’t cling like
Spiderman to the back walls and sneak into fifteenth-floor windows. Not
anymore.
He paused long enough to admire the discreet
brass plate on the brick front of the town house, a wry smile lighting his
face. It still amused him, two years later, that he’d be making his living from
the same people who’d served him in the past. He’d taken his considerable
experience and talent in the field of breaking and entering and used it to keep
other people from following in his footsteps, and he did a damned fine job of
it. Unlike the more traditional security firms in the city, he understood the
mind of the thief, knew how his thought processes would work and how to
circumvent him. If his job didn’t net any disappointed felons for the city
jails, neither did it come up with any valuables missing. Blackheart was never
completely sure if it was his ability or honor among thieves that kept his jobs
successful. He imagined it was a little of both.
He was late for his appointment, and Kate would
give him hell. He viewed that certainty with not the slightest chagrin. From
the very beginning he had been deliberately lax about appointments. His change
in lifestyle was too radical as it was—he couldn’t be expected to be punctual
on top of everything else. Most of his wealthy clientele viewed it as a
lovable foible, one they’d never accept in any other employee.
It was a woman, a friend of Senator Merriam’s,
who was coming in. From his knowledge of Merriam, he knew the woman was bound
to be good-looking, so there really was no need to hurry. Trace would be
sniffing at her heels, all but drooling over her. He’d be just as happy if
Blackheart didn’t show up too promptly.
They made good partners, Trace Walker with his
handsome, open face and friendly manners, Blackheart so much the opposite. He
had no illusions about the image he presented to the world. Just slightly
devious, with secrets lurking in his shadowed face. Women seemed to find him
irresistible, which was an added bonus, and the ones who didn’t lean toward him
were just as entranced with Trace’s beefy good looks.
Trace would have never made it as a cat burglar,
or in any form of breaking and entering. For one thing, he was too big, for
another, he was too good-hearted. He could never hear the tales of Blackheart’s
illustrious career without worrying about the victims.
He’d been one of the victims himself, long ago.
The one attempt Blackheart had made after his fall was Trace’s apartment, and
it had been a fiasco all around. Blackheart had made it a practice only to prey
on the extremely wealthy and well-insured. Trace put up a good front as an
antique jewelry dealer, but his openness and good-heartedness had proved bad
for business, so that by the time Blackheart fell clumsily in his bathroom window
he was on the far edge of bankruptcy. There were no jewels in the large
apartment with its rent overdue by three months; there were no expensive
artifacts. There wasn’t even a camera or some portable stereo equipment, not
that Blackheart would have stooped so low. There was only Trace Walker, glowering
at him, more than happy to have someone on whom to take out his financial
frustrations.
In retrospect Blackheart realized he hadn’t
needed to be so rough with him. Sure, Trace outweighed him by forty pounds at
least, towered over him by five inches, and had fists the size of hams. But he
would never have gone far in such an uneven fight. Unfortunately, he didn’t
realize that the fight was uneven in Blackheart’s favor. Blackheart had some
frustrations of his own—not the least being the sloppy attempt at burgling
Trace Walker’s apartment and his nagging feeling of guilt—so in less than a
minute Trace was flat on his back, breathing heavily, staring up at
Blackheart’s fierce face with an expression of complete amazement on his open
features. And then, slowly, that amazement had broadened into a grin, and he’d
held out one of those hamlike hands to his would-be thief.
They’d been friends ever since. Trace seemed to
think Blackheart needed looking after, and Blackheart felt the same about
Trace. The two of them had an uneasy alliance that had served them well in the
last two years, both professionally and financially. Blackheart was more than
willing to let all the pretty young debutantes of San Francisco end up in
Trace’s office and eventually Trace’s bed. He’d gotten tired of perfect bodies
and empty souls.
"There you are,” Kate grumbled. "Trace beat you
to it.”
"Any need for me to go in?” He gave the proffered
mail a cursory glance before attempting a winning smile in Kate’s direction. As
usual, it failed to get any response.
"Probably. Trace had that love struck look in his
eye last time I saw him, and she’s more than the usual type.”
"How so?”
"I can’t really tell. Everything looks right—the
Rolex watch, the suit, the discreet little gold touches. There’s something more
there, but you know Trace. Everything at face value. And he sure seems to like
her face.” If her voice was slightly disgruntled, Blackheart was kind enough
not to notice it. He knew what was going on with Kate’s chronic bad temper,
even if his obtuse associate didn't, and he knew there was no way he could
interfere.
"Where are they?” he said, sighing.
"Your office. You can’t miss ’em. He’s the one
looking like a lovesick calf, and she’s the one that stepped out of Vogue,”Kate grumbled.
He moved with the silence that had gained him
access to a hundred hotel rooms. Kate was, as usual, right. Ferris Byrd looked
as if she stepped out of Vogue, and yet there was something that wasn’t
quite right. Maybe it was in the glint of
humor in those incredibly green eyes, maybe in the scarcely disciplinedcurve of her pale mouth. Too pale, Blackheart thought critically. And the hair
should be loose, flowing, a brown-black cloud around that arresting face of
hers. She wasn’t really beautiful, at least not with a pink-and-white
prettiness. She had something more than beauty, and he wondered whether a
predictable man like Senator Phillip Merriam could appreciate that something.
From the look of the diamond ring on her left hand, it appeared that he did.
But the very last thing he expected, watching her
bait Trace with the lightest of touches, was the look of hostility in her
green eyes when they turned to his. Miss Ferris Byrd did not like John Patrick
Blackheart one tiny bit. And despite his general indifference to the opinions
of his fellow man, Blackheart found himself intrigued.
Chapter Two
HE WASN’T WHAT she expected. Which was silly of
her, since she’d seen photographs of him, heard enough to have a fairly
accurate expectation of what he was like. But it was all shot to hell the first
time she looked at him.
John Patrick Blackheart had to be somewhere in
his mid to late thirties, and he’d lived every one of those years to the
fullest. He was above average height, probably about five feet eleven, but next
to Trace Walker he looked smaller. There was nothing particularly remarkable
about him. His eyes were cool and brown and assessing, his dark brown hair a
little too long, not styled, but rather like the hair of someone who hadn’t
managed to get to a barber recently and didn’t give a damn. He had a light tan,
and he was dressed all in black—black denims, a black turtleneck hugging his
lean torso, black leather boots on his feet. He didn’t look like a world-famous
criminal, but he didn’t look like an ordinary mortal, either. It might have
been that genuinely amused curve to the sensual mouth, or the glint in the cool
brown eyes. Or it might have been in the slightly tense way he held his lean,
muscled body, poised for flight, poised for attack, poised for something.
Ferris came to the unhappy conclusion that he was remarkable indeed, and she
knew she was in trouble.
"Patrick!” Trace greeted him exuberantly, with
only the faintest expression of guilt marring his open features. "I didn’t
know whether you would make it in this morning, so I thought I could get
started... that is, Miss Byrd was here, and
I...”
Ferris watched the smaller man take pity on his
partner, smiling at him with a charm that was nothing short of dangerous. She
decided then and there to be prepared if he chose to use it on her. "Don’t
worry about it, Trace. You know I’m always late.” He turned to Ferris, and for
the first time she felt the full force of those tawny brown eyes. They weren’t
cool as she had thought, they were warm and subtly caressing, even as that
mobile mouth of his curved in what was definitely a mocking smile. Ferris
didn’t like to be mocked.
"I’m Ferris Byrd.” She rose, holding out her hand
with determination, carefully putting this man in his place. She’d had to deal
with men trying every sort of intimidation; she’d faced sexual intimidation
often enough to recognize it and fight it. She waited for him to take her hand,
and when he did she realized her tactical error. His hand was rough with
calluses, strong and warm, and it caught hers with just the right amount of
pressure. Like an equal, none of that pumping, caressing stuff that always made
her skin crawl. "I’ve already explained the problem to Trace, and I—”
"Senator Merriam spoke with me this morning,”
Blackheart said gently. He had a soft, low voice that nevertheless commanded
instant attention, and the quiet tones that should have been comforting were
instead unnerving.
"Senator Merriam’s been busy,” she said, unable
to control her start of irritation. "Then you know the problem?”
"The Puffin Ball, the Von Emmerling emeralds, and
Carleton House? Yes, I know.”
"Do you think we can handle it, Patrick?” Trace
asked eagerly, obviously more than happy to try.
"I’m wondering what Miss Byrd thinks,” Blackheart
murmured.
He must have sensed her disapproval. She
certainly hadn’t gone to any pains to hide it, but the thought of his reading
her so accurately bothered her. "I think the Carleton security staff would be
just as capable,” she said coolly, meeting his dare.
"Do you? I have the impression that Miss Byrd
doesn’t approve of us, Trace.”
"Oh, surely not, Patrick,” Trace protested,
looking like a very handsome, very wounded moose. "We’ve been getting along
like a house afire.”
"I stand corrected. Miss Byrd doesn’t approve of
me,” Blackheart said with a gentle smile. "Isn’t that so?”
Damn him, he was playing with her like a cat with
a mouse, a fat, succulent little mouse. Well, she wasn’t going to cower away
from him. "Quite true, Mr. Blackheart,” she said in dulcet tones.
"You’ve never heard the saying, ‘It takes a thief
to catch a thief’?”
"Certainly. The question is, what does the second
thief do once he’s caught the first one?”
Blackheart smiled. "I expect he splits up the
booty, like any sensible thief. Is that what you’re afraid of? That we’ll run
off with the Von Emmerling emeralds ourselves?”
"Oh, no, Patrick!" Trace’s protest was
explosive. "She wouldn’t think that we—”
"Yes, I would,” Ferris said sharply.
"Yes, she would, Trace,” Blackheart said, clearly
amused. "So the question is, how do we get Miss Ferris Byrd to trust us enough
to enable us to do our job properly?”
"Are you taking the job?” Ferris questioned. For
a moment she’d thought she’d driven him off.
"Oh, most definitely. I never could resist a
challenge,” Blackheart said, his laughing eyes running over her, and Ferris had
the melancholy suspicion that he wasn’t talking about the Von Emmerling emeralds.
"That’s just as well,” she said briskly,
squashing down the strong sense of unease that washed over her. "The Puffin
Ball is only a week away, and we’d have a hard time making other arrangements
at this late date.”
"In that case, why don’t I accompany Miss Byrd
out to Carleton House to get a good look at the place?” Trace suggested
eagerly. "I haven’t anything on for this morning, and I’d be more than happy to
make the preliminary study.”
"Have you forgotten your report on the Winslow
collection? Kate’s going to have your head on a platter if you don’t let her
close the files.”
"I’ll close my own files.” It was the closest
Trace ever got to sulking, and he did a credible job of it, but Blackheart was
unmoved.
"I can wait,” Ferris offered helpfully. "I have
some errands to run in town. I can come back in a few hours when you’ve
finished the report and take you out there, Trace.”
Trace’s face lit up for a moment, then darkened
as he cast a beseeching glance at his partner.
Blackheart shook his head slowly. "You’re
undermining discipline, Miss Byrd. Trace has got a full day’s work ahead of
him. Besides, he usually concentrates on the physical side of the job, not the
planning stage. He’s got too much energy to be a mastermind.”
"I’ve got too little patience, you mean,” Trace
said sheepishly. "He’s right, Ferris. Anything I did would just have to be done
over by Patrick. You’re better off with him.”
Ferris controlled her disbelieving snort, turning
her gaze to Blackheart’s. She expected smug triumph, not the very real humor
that lingered there. "All right,” she said, knowing it was graceless and not
really caring. "I don’t suppose you’d rather go there by yourself?”
"I don’t suppose. Senator Merriam assures me you
know more than anyone about what’s going on with this benefit. He promised me
you’d be invaluable.” Blackheart smiled sweetly, but Ferris wasn’t fooled.
"Let’s go then,” she said, caving in. "We may as
well get it over with.”
"Charmingly put,” Blackheart replied, almost
purring. "Let me give Kate a message and I’ll be ready. Soothe Miss Byrd’s
ruffled feathers, Trace, and tell her I’m not half as bad as she thinks.”
"Patrick’s great,” Trace said earnestly, obeying
unquestioningly as Blackheart’s lean figure disappeared out the door with the
same uncanny silence with which he had entered. "Really, Ferris, you have
nothing to worry about. I’d trust him with my life.”
"But would you trust him with your jewels?” she
drawled.
"If he agreed to protect them, I would.”
"And if he didn’t agree?”
A frown creased Trace’s broad, handsome face.
"I’m not sure,” he said honestly. "But I wouldn’t work with him if I didn’t
trust him, and didn’t think other people could trust him too.”
"And I’ll just have to take your word for it.”
"I expect you’ll have to,” Blackheart had
returned, damn him, still on silent cat’s feet. He had pulled an ancient
Harris tweed jacket over the black turtleneck, and Ferris remembered belatedly
that he was half British. He didn’t sound it—he sounded soft and menacing and
American. But the coat looked as if it had belonged to some country squire. He
probably stole it, she thought cynically.
"I expect I will.” She rose,
ignoring the hand he held out to her. She couldn’t help but notice it was a
well-shaped hand, with long, dexterous fingers, the better for plucking jewels
out of someone’s bureau drawer; strong wrists, the better for hanging off
buildings; and broad palms, the better for vaulting over rooftops. It also
looked warm and strong and more than capable of caressing a bare shoulder.
Damn, but the man was trouble. "Let’s go,” she said.
Blackheart only smiled.
"We’ll take my car.” It was a challenge, one
Blackheart didn’t rise to.
"Certainly,” he murmured. "I walked to work
anyway.”
Ferris gnashed her teeth as she yanked open the
low-slung door of her vintage Mercedes 380SL. The navy blue had pleased her
discerning eye, the classic lines enhanced her image—and if she had a hidden
craving for a red Corvette, she suppressed it admirably. Corvettes were tacky.
"Nice car,” Blackheart said, gripping the seat as
she tore into the traffic without looking.
"I worked hard to get it,” she snapped, tires
screeching as she rounded a corner and started down one of San Francisco’s
precipitous hills.
"And I wouldn’t know anything about hard work?”
Blackheart questioned softly.
"I didn’t say that.” She yanked the wheel
sharply, the tires skidding slightly as she turned another corner and headed
out toward the bay.
"The inference was clear. Tell me, do you always
drive like this, or is it simply for my benefit?” He was completely unmoved,
watching her with that damnable half-smile on his face.
She pressed harder on the accelerator. "A bit of
both,” she said in a disinterested tone of voice. The Mercedes had far too
much power, and they were speeding full tilt down California Street when his
boot-clad foot slid over to her side of the car, hooked under her ankle and
pulled it back off the accelerator.
She swerved in surprise, almost losing control of
the car. Skidding to a stop, Ferris turned off the key with shaking hands.
"What the hell were you trying to do?" She demanded in a rough voice.
"You could have gotten us both killed.”
"Not if you hadn’t been driving so fast. I don’t
like speeding in the middle of the city. It attracts a great deal of unnecessary
attention, and I have an aversion to the police.” It was all said in the most
reasonable of voices, and her lip curled.
"I just bet you do,” Ferris snarled.
"We’re not going to get very far like this, Miss
Byrd,” he said gently. "I think we should call an armed truce, at least for the
next week. Senator Merriam is counting on you to give me every assistance.”
"He is, is he?”
Blackheart’s smile widened, opening up that dark,
shuttered face. "So he told me this morning. You wouldn’t want to let him down,
would you?”
"I have no intention of letting him down,” Ferris
snapped.
"Then you’ll be giving me every assistance?”
"To the best of my ability.” It galled her to say
it, but she had no choice.
"And I give you leave to disapprove of me all you
want,” he added magnanimously, that wicked smile lighting his eyes. "As long
as it doesn’t interfere with my work. I have my professional pride to
consider.”
Nobly Ferris swallowed the retort that rose to
her lips. That left her with nothing to say, and she stared straight forward at
the busy street ahead of them.
She could feel Blackheart’s eyes on her, and they
were far too astute. "A truce, Miss Byrd,” he said, holding out his hand. She
had no choice but to take it, dropping it as quickly as she could.
"A truce, Mr. Blackheart. And you may as well
call me Ferris, since we’ll be working together.”
"I might. But I don’t like it. Do you have any
other names?”
Ferris controlled the unexpectedly nervous start.
"Frances,” she said sullenly.
"I don’t like that, either. I’ll just have to
make do with Miss Byrd until I find something that pleases me,” he murmured.
"Do you mind if I continue driving?” she asked
pointedly, but Blackheart was unruffled.
"Please do.” Leaning back, he shut his eyes, but
Ferris could see his hands clenching the leather seat as she pulled back into
traffic. She drove sedately enough, and finally his eyes opened, those warm,
all-knowing brown eyes that constantly unnerved her. "Are you going to tell me
what you have to do with Senator Merriam? And the Committee for Saving the
Bay?”
She wasn’t quite sure if it was a peace offering,
but the subject was innocuous enough. "I’m Phillip Merriam’s administrative
assistant. He’s trying to move up from the state senate to the U.S. Senate, and
I was working on his election campaign when he decided to lend me to the
committee to help them with the Puffin Ball.” She was quite pleased at her even
tone of voice. Even the observant Blackheart couldn’t guess how disgruntled she
was at being out of the action, shepherding a bunch of bored debutantes and
society matrons. But she couldn’t allow herself to think like that. If all went
well, if things went her way, she could be one of those society matrons, safe
and secure in her giant house in the heart of San Francisco.
"Administrative assistant?” he echoed. "In my
experience, administrative assistants are either people who know nothing and do
nothing, or know everything and do everything. Which are you?”
Her foot began to press down harder on the
accelerator again. "Guess.”
"Not so fast, Miss Byrd,” he said gently. "We
aren’t in any hurry. We have plenty of time to get to know each other.”
She took the corner too fast, but then made a
concerted effort to slow down. She wouldn’t put it past him to put that strong,
rough hand on top of hers and pull her over. "That’s what I’m afraid of,” she
said gloomily.
Blackheart laughed.
IN THE BRIGHT, glaring light of the small, secret workshop
hidden behind the false wall of a closet in the basement of his jewelry shop on
Geary Street, Hans Werdegast admired his handiwork. The Von Emmerling emeralds
had to be his greatest creation, his masterpiece, his chef d’oeuvre, and there
was no one to appreciate his genius, his craftsmanship.
Sighing, he shook his head, rubbing his lined forehead
with a wrinkled linen handkerchief. That was the problem with his chosen
avocation, he thought. No audience.
However, the money made up for it. He earned a
comfortable amount from the small, elite jewelry store above him, supplementing
it with a few custom-made pieces in the upstairs workshop where his assistants
had free access, but the secrets of his hidden workshop did more than pay the
bills, they bought him the luxuries and pleased his soul at the same time. He
could no more give the workshop up than he could fly.
He was getting to be an old man, though. And he
wouldn’t like to be caught. There was no way he would ever submit to being
imprisoned again, behind bars and barbed wire, locked away. He glanced down at
the faded, almost unreadable tattoo on his wrist. Months went by without
thinking about it. Maybe he should stop being such a foolish old man and think
about it more carefully.
The Von Emmerling emeralds were admittedly
magnificent, the replicas so close to the real thing that anyone without a
jeweler’s loupe would be fooled. Maybe it was a good place to stop. His
customer was paying through the nose—the Von Emmerling emeralds were a fitting
swan song.
Sighing, the old man dropped the glittering
almost-jewels into a plastic bag, sealing it with a twist tie. It wounded him
to treat his prize creations so shabbily. They deserved velvet as much as their
authentic counterparts. But that would make the package too bulky, and he had
to be ready to pass them to his customer later that evening with a minimum of
fuss. A shoddy fate for a masterpiece.
He climbed down off the stool and shuffled back
toward the hidden doorway to his storeroom closet. He’d miss his workshop,
miss his secrets. But it was time to retire, and best to retire at the top of
the game. For a moment he wondered what had possessed his customer to tackle
such a monumental job. But he knew. As enamored as he was of the phony
emeralds, he knew the real ones would be far more enticing, particularly once
you held them in your hands. No, he didn’t blame his customer. And he would
make sure that he profited by them, just in case the elaborate scheme didn’t
succeed. Elaborate schemes had a high risk factor, and Hans Werdegast had
almost been burned too many times.
Yes, he thought with a sigh, shutting the back
wall of the closet behind him and shuffling into the deserted storeroom. It was
time to retire. He’d spend his time in the upstairs workshop from now on, and
look back with satisfaction on his memories. Particularly the Von Emmerling
emeralds.
