The Black Sheep and The English Rose. Donna Kauffman
Because then she might be forced to reconcile herself to the fact that she could want other things, too.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked, his gaze dropping briefly to her mouth as he tipped her face closer to his.
Every shred of common sense, every flicker of rational thought she possessed screamed at her to turn him down flat. To walk away, run if necessary, and never look back. But she did neither of those things and was already damning herself even as she nodded. Barely more than a dip of her chin. But that was all it took. Her deal with the devil had been made.
“Good. Then let’s seal it, shall we?”
She didn’t have to respond this time. His mouth was already on hers.
Chapter 3
So much for playing it safe.
She tasted better than he’d remembered. And he’d remembered her tasting pretty damn sweet. “You know,” he said, moving his lips to the corner of her mouth, “for someone with a tart tongue—”
The rest of his sentiment was lost as she turned ever-so-slightly and slid that tart tongue of hers along his own, making him groan as he accepted her deep into his mouth. God, what in the hell had he gotten himself into here?
She lifted her head first. “Deal sealed, I’d say.”
His response was more along the lines of a hoarse grunt, which was all he could manage. That made her smile.
Serious trouble, that’s what.
“So,” he began, paused to clear his throat, then said, “let’s order up an early dinner and discuss our strategy.”
She walked across the room, paused in front of the mirror to apply fresh lipstick, then continued to the door leading to the penthouse suite’s private elevator. “Why don’t we go to Antoine’s, have his chef prepare us something perfect, perhaps add a bottle from his wine cellar as an accompaniment, and let the rest take care of itself?”
She didn’t wait for his response. She merely pressed the button to summon the elevator.
Finn didn’t bother with a debate on the pros and cons of their being seen together in a high profile spot like Antoine’s, which was the latest on the list of Manhattan’s hot spots. Instead, he crossed the room, paused in front of the same mirror, decided there was no hope for his now crumpled linen shirt and somewhat wrinkled trousers, raked his fingers through his thick blond mess instead, then gave up altogether and followed her into the elevator. “Why Antoine’s?” He knew she hadn’t just picked that one at random.
“If we want to snag the attention of one Mr. John Reese, then having dinner at his favorite spot could be the perfect place to start.”
Already two steps past him in planning. Hell, she’d probably had this all figured out while still shackled to the bed, with him on top of her. It shouldn’t have surprised him. From what he knew of Felicity Jane, which, admittedly, wasn’t nearly as much as he wanted to, she rarely did anything that wasn’t directly related to benefiting her bottom line. Dinner at a five star restaurant was nice, but she could do that any night of the week. Beating an international artifact dealer—reputed to work deals on both sides of the law—at his own game while enjoying mouth-watering chicken marsala and a wonderful sauvignon? Far more satisfying.
He should be picking her brain on what else she knew about Reese besides his dining habits. He’d researched all the possible players in this game, Reese being the prime one, but hadn’t stumbled across that little fact. Which was, arguably, why he wanted to team up with Felicity in the first place. But didn’t explain why just the thought of how she’d conducted her personal research made him want to put a fist through a wall. Or square into John Reese’s smug, smiling bastard of a face.
Quite the revelation for a man who prided himself on relying on quick thinking and fast reflexes rather than the use of brutality when it came to problem solving in tricky situations.
And he’d been back in her presence for an hour.
Once inside the elevator, he stabbed the button for the private parking lot level, then folded his arms. He didn’t dare so much as look at her, much less touch her. He wasn’t sure he could be responsible for his actions if she were to look at him with even a hint of that self-satisfied smile of hers. They’d be back behind locked doors and on the bed, the floor, or up against the nearest wall before either one of them could blink. By the time they came up for air, that satisfied smile would be there for an entirely different reason.
And Mr. John Reese could go fuck himself.
The doors slid open, and she stepped past him without pause, walking into the parking garage as if she owned the place. Which, for all he knew, she did. As could he, frankly, had he wanted to. But acquiring things for the sheer sake of ownership had been more his father’s style.
“Let me call for a car,” he told her. “I have a service we use when we’re in the city that’s quite—”
He stopped when a long, sleek black limo purred up to the elevator landing. She glanced over her shoulder. “I brought my own.”
“Of course you did,” he murmured, waving the driver back into the car and opening her door himself. “Convenient,” he said.
“I always thought so. The Foundation prefers that I use private transportation when conducting business, so we’ve set up our own drivers in the cities we frequent most often.”
He wanted to ask her if stealing priceless gemstones could be considered Foundation business, but managed to refrain.
The Foundation was the Trent Foundation, started by a duke-of-something ancestor of hers over a century before. Finn had done a little digging after their initial introduction and had learned that it mostly funded charitable trusts and various other philanthropic endeavors around the globe, but also maintained the Trent family holdings, of which there were many. He’d had some experience with managing a global-scale family inheritance and didn’t envy her position as the sole remaining Trent descendant. He knew what an immense responsibility that was.
It had taken him several years of intense, and often elaborate, planning to dismantle and disseminate what his father had spent half a lifetime building. Of course, had he built it honestly and with some benefit to someone other than himself, Finn might have seen fit to find some way to keep the empire intact, even if run by someone other than himself.
Felicity had opted to run hers. To be fair, there had been far more public attention paid to the choices she’d made upon inheriting, as the British loved nothing more than lavishing media attention on their more highly pedigreed subjects. At least Finn had stirred things up only in the business world with his decision to break apart the billion-dollar industries his father had assembled.
What he didn’t understand was, given her rather high-scale global profile, how it was no one had ever discovered what he’d discovered within the first twenty-fours he’d spent with her. Which was that Felicity Jane Trent, media princess, heiress to billions, benefactor to thousands, was also a very talented, very dedicated, and very successful jewel thief.
He had no idea what she did with her loot, or how long she’d been in that particular line of work. He was fairly certain it was the thrill of the hunt, not the prize itself, that was the lure. It had to be. More wealth she didn’t need. He’d looked into that after Bogota, wondering if perhaps her inheritance was more burden than actual asset. But her wealth rivaled, if not outdid, that of the queen, so she wasn’t in it for the money.
He didn’t need more wealth either, but then he wasn’t acting in his own best interests. He was in it for the benefit of others. His own benevolent foundation of sorts, he supposed. He didn’t charge his clients for the services provided to them by either himself or his two partners, as their goals were tied to righting wrongs for those who couldn’t do it themselves, not increasing his bottom line. He’d retained enough wealth that his company supported itself in the form of a vast array of investments.