Heart of a Thief. Gail Barrett
And where was don Fernando?
Paco stopped beside the policeman, and his black eyes settled on hers. Her palms turned moist. Fear coursed through her, flooding her cells, blanking her mind.
For an eternity, his eyes stayed on hers—brittle, cold, deadly. Then recognition flared.
He knew.
Her stomach pitched. The walls pushed down. A dull ringing clanged in her skull.
He drew his gun. The gun he’d used to kill Antonio. Her mind flashed to Antonio’s terrified eyes, the blood oozing from his flesh.
The bodyguard raised his gun, squinted one eye. And she knew he was going to shoot.
Her nerves zapped; adrenaline blazed through her blood. She whirled, raced around the corner toward the room where Luke had gone. “Alto!” the guardia shouted, and her panic surged.
A gun went off. Fierce fire scorched through her calf. She gasped, staggered, nearly fell. She’d been shot!
Her leg buckled and burned. She cried out at the vicious pain. But footsteps hammered behind her, and she forced herself to rush on.
Mercifully, the door Luke had gone through hung open, and she dashed inside. She glanced around frantically, but he wasn’t there. A wild sob formed in her throat. “Luke! Luke!” Where on earth had he gone?
Panicking, she raced through the room to the opposite door, then tore down another long hall. Her lungs seared. Her heart went wild. The agony in her leg blurred her sight. And she knew she couldn’t last. They were going to catch her. She was going to die.
Then a man stepped out from a doorway, and she shrieked. Luke. He grabbed her arm, jerked her into the room, then slammed and locked the door.
His face looked dangerous, the angles more rigid than she’d ever seen. He didn’t pause. He yanked her along, crossing to the far wall, muttering a stream of obscenities in Spanish.
At the wall, he released her arm. She heaved in air. Her body shook. Blazing heat flamed through her calf.
He pulled back an ancient tapestry and shoved it toward her. “Hold this out of the way.” It wasn’t a request.
Her heart still ramming against her rib cage, she grabbed the tapestry and pulled it back. He ran his hands over the wooden panels on the wall, searching, glowering.
She heard a sound in the hall and glanced back. The doorknob rattled. Someone banged on the wood. Fear plucked at her nerves, constricted her throat. They had to get out of here—fast.
Luke pulled one of the panels, and her gaze swung back. A small door opened, exposing a dark passage carved through the stone. The ancient bolt-hole. Cold, musty air wafted out.
“Get in,” he said.
Knowing she had no choice, she ducked and stepped inside. The freezing stones were a shock on her bare feet, and she realized she still clutched her shoes. But the shoes would have to wait; there was no room to maneuver inside the passage, barely enough to creep through. The dank, clammy space had obviously been chiseled from the stone for a desperate escape if disaster loomed.
She shuddered. This night had been a disaster, all right. She’d been chased. Nearly arrested. Shot.
Luke crouched and followed her into the passage. His broad shoulders brushed against the walls. He dug a penlight out of his pocket and held it out. “Hold this.”
She took it, and he closed the door.
They were instantly plunged into darkness. She twisted the pen, and the narrow light came on, gleaming off the uneven stones.
Still shivering, she looked at Luke. He loomed close in the too-small space. The heat from his powerful body radiated to hers. In the faint light, the shadows blackened the hollows of his cheeks, turning the grim planes stark.
Her gaze met his, and her breath shriveled up. Her heart made a feeble throb.
She’d never seen him so enraged.
Could this night get any worse?
Chapter 3
Luke wanted to plow his fist through the wall.
Twice now Sofia had blitzed into his life, and each time she’d wreaked total disaster. She’d demolished everything he’d ever worked for—his reputation, his honor, his pride.
He glowered at her, his face hot, the muscles of his neck stiff. Hell. This time she’d done far worse than ruin his reputation. She’d put the police on his tail—and not just for the theft of a legendary antiquity but for murder. And now she’d led them to where he hid.
“Just what were you thinking back there?” he demanded.
Her eyes looked hurt in the faint light, and she tugged on a loose strand of hair. “I thought it was don Fernando. I wanted to warn him about Paco.”
“I told you not to trust him.”
“But he could be in danger. And I owe him so much. What do you expect me to do? Just…abandon him?”
The words crashed through him, kicking the breath from his lungs. “Right.” Of course she couldn’t abandon her patron.
But five years ago, she’d had no trouble abandoning him.
He jerked his gaze away, inhaled. And he struggled to hold on to his anger, to cling to the safety of rage. But that dead, hollowed-out feeling still surged through him, that emptiness that mauled him inside. As if she’d gutted him and bled him dry.
Shut it down. Shut it down. He didn’t care. He refused to care.
He sucked in more air and hitched it back out. And gradually, thankfully, he felt the bitterness creep back. He embraced it, letting it edge out the ache, letting his gaze turn hard and caress her eyes, her sultry mouth, that body he’d once revered. Letting the anger swell until the muscles along his cheeks ticked and his voice deepened like a quarry stripped bare. “You’ll have to forgive me, querida, if I can’t see you as the loyal type.”
She flinched back against the wall as if he’d struck her. Her lips parted, then closed. Her eyes looked wounded, flayed. “I’m telling the truth.” She turned away and crossed her arms, making the penlight bounce crazily over the stones.
And damned if he didn’t feel guilty.
How could she still get to him like this?
“Forget it.” He shoved his hand through his hair, rubbed the knotted cords on the back of his neck. There was no point dredging up the past, reliving the pain. It was history; it didn’t matter. He’d been over her for years.
And they needed to get out of here fast. “Just get moving,” he said.
She chewed her lip, her eyes uncertain in the wobbling light, then glanced behind her at the darkened tunnel. “Through here?”
“There’s only one way to go.” And the way this night was turning out, it probably led straight to hell.
She turned around and hobbled off. He trailed her, still ducking to keep from knocking his head, his shoulders grazing the jagged walls. He sucked the fetid air through his teeth and exhaled, while the misery of the long night piled up in his mind.
What a fiasco, a total debacle—Antonio’s deception, his death. He blinked away that gruesome image. No one, no matter how treacherous, deserved to die that way.
And his own stupidity appalled him. How could he have let his partner fool him? He’d never had a clue that he was being set up.
And then there was Sofia. He clamped his gaze on those satin hips, the seductive sweep of her back. A tumult of emotions swirled through him—bitterness, resentment. Lust.
He hissed out his breath. He’d never met a woman who both infuriated and aroused him.
Especially