Heart of a Thief. Gail Barrett
The thick, heavy drapes closed around them, plunging them into darkness, cocooning them in dust and heat.
Unwilling to trust her, he tightened his arm around her waist and pulled her tightly against him. He clamped his other hand over her mouth.
“Don’t move,” he warned and felt her nod.
The library door squeaked open and they both stilled. “It’s by the fireplace,” the voice said again, and Luke’s heart went numb. Antonio, his partner. The man he’d thought he could trust.
Betrayed again.
“You’d better hurry,” another man said and this time, Sofia jerked. So it was someone she recognized. No surprises there. He’d figured that she was involved.
“Claro.” Antonio again.
Footsteps tapped across the marble floor. The heat built behind the musty drapes, and sweat trickled down Luke’s jaw. Sofia stirred slightly, adjusting her position, and he inhaled the familiar spice of her hair, felt her hot breath fanning his palm, her satin-clad bottom caressing his groin.
Dumb move, Moreno. He winced, shifted to ease the sudden arousal he knew she could feel, and peered through the slit in the drapes. His partner, Antonio, was opening the safe with latex gloves while a hulking, balding man waited beside him. Luke frowned, trying to place the man, and then it clicked. Paco, don Fernando’s bodyguard. He’d seen him at don Fernando’s estate.
But what was the bodyguard doing here with Antonio? And suddenly, realization slammed through him, a sick, dizzy feeling reeling through his head. No wonder he’d gotten this job. It had nothing to do with his reputation, nothing to do with his skill or his hard work paying off. What a fool he had been. He’d been hired because Antonio had connections to don Fernando, a politically powerful man.
And now he was being set up—by Antonio, this bodyguard, don Fernando, probably even Sofia. They were all in on this plan.
And he was the perfect target—a Gypsy with a criminal background. No one would doubt his guilt.
“Ya,” Antonio said as he opened the safe. He pulled out a black velvet pouch containing ancient necklace, opened it and grinned. Even from a distance, Luke could see the triumph on his face.
But then the bodyguard stepped behind Antonio, drew his gun and pressed it against his head.
Luke’s heart stopped. Sofia turned rigid in his arms.
Across the room, Antonio’s smile froze, faded. His eyes bulged, his mouth slackened, like a fish splayed at the local mercado.
No one moved. The air settled, condensed, suddenly too thick, too hot to breathe. Silence swelled like a primal shriek.
The sharp pop exploded in the stillness. Sofia gasped, and Luke tightened his hand on her mouth—too late. The killer swiveled toward the curtains and raised his gun.
Luke stared down the barrel of the SIG, and the hairs on the nape of his neck rose. Only his heart went berserk, thundering, lunging, careening in his chest, slamming the blood through his skull.
Damn. He’d known this woman was trouble.
And now, because of her, he was going to die.
Chapter 2
Sofia’s nerves quaked. Her blood pounded through her skull with a terrified rush. She stared into the killer’s eyes—black, cold, aware—and her stomach plummeted, freefalling into hysteria.
He’d heard her gasp. He knew they were here, hiding behind the curtains.
And now he was going to kill them.
Run! The command sliced through her frenzied brain, frantic, a shriek of delirious fear. But her limbs were rigid, petrified into place.
Paco stepped toward them, and her panic swelled. Dread churned from her belly to her throat, swamping it with bile. She gasped for air, tugging in fast, ragged pants but Luke’s hand pressed against her mouth, and the drapes squeezed down, strangling the breath from her lungs. Terror reeked from her pores.
“¿Han buscado aquí?” a voice called from the hall, and the killer paused. His eyes narrowed, as if he were weighing, calculating, and then he glanced at the library door.
Sofia’s pulse stuttered, and a crazed hope spun through her head. Let him leave. Oh, God, please let him leave.
But he turned back.
They were going to die. There was no way out. Only Luke’s iron arm pinning her waist and the muscled wall of his chest kept her from collapse.
But then Paco bent and scooped the black velvet pouch from the floor. He stepped around Antonio and strode from view.
Through the thundering of her pulse she heard his footsteps recede, the snick of the door as it closed.
Nothing moved.
She didn’t breathe.
Then Luke loosened his arm and dropped his hand. And she grabbed the drape and sucked in air, gulping, heaving, while a disjointed trembling invaded her limbs. Oh, God. They’d nearly died.
“Let’s go.” Luke’s low voice rasped near her ear. He pushed her toward the curtains, and she stumbled out, hardly able to move.
Her skin felt chilled. Her heart still hammered in her chest. And her head seemed light, off-kilter, as if not quite connected to her neck.
Luke strode over to Antonio and dropped to one knee. His wide shoulders strained beneath his tuxedo. His black hair gleamed in the dim light.
He rolled the man over, loosened his tie, and held his fingers to his throat. He waited a beat, then ripped open Antonio’s shirt and bent his head.
Sofia inched closer as he looked up. His grim, cognac-colored eyes met hers. “He’s dead.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but the stench of blood made her stomach roil. She managed a nod, wrapped her arms around her waist, avoided looking at Antonio’s head. Instead, she glanced lower, to the black crescent-shaped tattoo exposed on his chest.
A weird thing to notice at a time like this. And so insignificant when the man was dead. Dead.
As if that ancient curse had come true.
She pressed her trembling hand to her lips, shuddered hard, willed that crazy thought away. The entire night had been a shock. The horrific murders, the theft. She swayed again, hugging herself harder to quell the hysteria rising inside. That beautiful, magical necklace was gone.
And seeing Luke after all this time. Luke—the man she’d once loved beyond reason. The man who’d enthralled her with his safe-cracking talent, mesmerized her with his brilliant mind.
The man who now scowled at her with rage and bitterness in his whiskey-hued eyes.
She eyed the implacable lines of his face, his unyielding jaw, that feral maleness that even now—even after all that pain—made everything primitive inside her go wild.
He rose to his feet in a powerful movement and stalked across the library to the door. Her stomach balled at the anger pounding his steps. Surely he didn’t blame her for Antonio’s death?
He pressed his ear to the door, waited, then edged it open and peeked out. “It’s clear. Come on.” His words were curt, clipped.
She forced aside the stab of hurt. His opinion of her didn’t matter right now, and neither did their past. They needed to get out of here, get to safety. Warn don Fernando about Paco. Report the murder and theft. Because if that killer came back…
She shivered, then hurried across the library to the door. Even with her high heels on, she had to look up to meet Luke’s eyes. “Which way should we go?”
He eased the door shut again. His mouth was grim, the hard, shadowed planes of his face taut. “They’ll