The Fiancée Caper Page 3

“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 the rest of his family was still living. But she knew how these things worked, too. No doubt Gianni had made some sort of deal with the international authorities—maybe immunity in exchange for his assistance. It wouldn’t be the first time that a thief switched sides to save his own hide.

  “Well then, go ahead and call the police,” she said. “I’m sure they would be very interested in the photo I have of Dominick Coretti slipping out the window of a palazzo in Italy the day before the Van Court family renting that palazzo reported a burglary.”

  * * *

  Damn it. It was only through sheer force of will that Gianni managed to keep his features blank and not allow this woman to see what he was feeling. The Van Court emeralds. If this were a bluff, Gianni told himself, it was a damned good one. He knew the Van Court heist was last week. He knew his father had done it. And if she knew it, too, then she no doubt did have a picture of Nick Coretti—which would be enough to land his father in jail.

  Gianni looked into the woman’s summer green eyes and wished her anywhere but there. For a solid year he had been working on building a new, walking-the-straight-and-narrow life and this one small, curvy woman was flushing it down the drain. Feeling a sharp stab of desire for her was one thing. Allowing her to screw up his and his family’s lives was another.

  “Let’s see it.” He walked to the wall switch, impatiently hitting it. Light spilled into the room, scattering the gathered shadows.

  “What?”

  In the moonlit darkness, Marie O’Hara had been attractive. With the lights on she was amazing. Her eyes were greener, her auburn hair shone like dark fire and the curves beneath the red silk blouse and black skirt were lush and tempting. Everything in him stirred. Didn’t seem to matter to his body that this woman was threatening everything he knew. A flash of heat shot through him and settled in his groin.

  Ex-cop, he reminded himself and the thought was as good as a dose of ice water. Ex or not, in his experience, once a cop always a cop.

  “The picture you claim to have of my father,” he said shortly. “I want to see it. Now.”

  “It’s in my purse.”

  His gaze slid over her quickly. “Which is where?”

  “On your couch in the front room.”

  His eyebrows lifted. Gianni hadn’t noticed a woman’s purse on the couch. But then the moment he’d stepped into his flat, he’d sensed another’s presence and had been focused on discovering the intruder. “Made yourself at home, did you?”

  “I was going to pick it up on my way out.” She gave him a hard look. “You were supposed to be gone for hours yet.”

  “Are you expecting an apology for interrupting you?”

  She inhaled sharply. “Do you want to see the photo or not?”

  Oh, he really didn’t. Once he saw the photo, he would have to deal with her. Find a way to shut her up and protect his father. First things first, though. Did she really hold evidence that could be used against his family?

  “Let’s go.”

  Stepping back to allow her to walk in front of him—where he could keep an eye on her—he also took advantage of the view. Cop or no cop, she had a great butt, and thief or no thief, he was still a guy.

  He followed her through his house, her high heels clicking against the marble floor like a too-fast heartbeat. Gianni flipped light switches as they went and the house lit up, displaying the clear, cold white walls and furnishings.

  “Would it kill you to have some color in here?” she muttered.

  Frowning, he glanced around. He’d paid a hell of a lot of money for the desi
gner who had put his place together. It might be stark, but— Scowling now, he snapped, “Would-be thief and an interior decorator? Is that what’s known as multitasking?”

  She didn’t answer but then he hadn’t expected her to.

  In the living room, she walked to the sleek, low-slung white sofa and snatched up a tiny black shoulder bag. No wonder he hadn’t noticed it. Just big enough to carry an ID and a phone, it had slipped between the cushions with only a narrow piece of the strap showing.

  She flipped it open, pulled out her phone and turned it on. A couple of quick button pushes later, she turned the screen toward him and said, “I told you I had it.”

  Gianni snatched the phone from her, studied the man in the photo and felt everything inside him tighten into knots. It was his father. There was no mistaking Nick Coretti. The only good thing was, the photo was dark and so others might have a harder time identifying the man caught slipping out of a casement window.

  “Scroll the screen to the next shot,” she said.

  Grimly, he did just that. In the second photo he saw Nick easing over the edge of the roof to climb down. His features weren’t as clear in this shot, but he was still identifiable. At least to his son.

  “This could be anyone,” he said tightly, pulling up the menu and hitting Delete on both photos.

  “But it’s not and we both know it,” she countered. “And you needn’t have bothered to delete the pictures. I have more copies.”

  He tossed the phone back to her. “Of course you do. It’s as if you think you’re in one of those spy movies. All cloak and dagger. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “This is more like To Catch a Thief, really,” she said and for the first time since he’d pulled her out from under his bed, her mouth curved into a half smile.

  He knew which old movie she was talking about and, as it happened, it was one of his favorites. Cary Grant, starring as a jewel thief who ends up not only outwitting the police, but also getting the beautiful girl in the form of Grace Kelly.

  “What is it you’re up to, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “Well, Mr. Coretti,” she said, tucking her phone back into her bag, “much like in the movies...I need a thief to catch a thief.”

  Three

  “Explain.”

  Marie’s gaze swept over him in a wink of time. He stood there in his elegantly cut, obviously expensive gray suit, white shirt and fire-engine-red tie and looked like an investment banker. Until you looked into his eyes. That’s where the similarities ended. His eyes flashed with cunning, intelligence and a hint of danger that probably had women flocking to him in droves. Even Marie felt that flicker of awareness, of attraction. And she definitely knew better.

  “Can I sit down?” she asked.

  “Can I stop you?”

  “Not really,” Marie murmured as she dropped onto the just-as-uncomfortable-as-it-looked sofa. “My feet hurt,” she admitted a moment later as she slipped out of her heels and reached down to rub the soles of her feet.

  “Well by all means then,” he said tightly. “Do be comfortable.”

  “Not really possible on this couch,” she said, running one hand across the fabric. “It has all the give of white steel.”

  “Shall I fetch you a pillow?”

  Marie stopped, looked directly at him and huffed out a breath. “Sorry. Okay, explanation.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  He was being awfully civilized all of a sudden, but Marie wasn’t fooled. The truth of what he was feeling was in his eyes. That rich, dark chocolate seemed to be stirring with every emotion possible, all tightly controlled.

  Not surprising, she told herself. She’d researched the Coretti family thoroughly over the last several months and everything she’d found on Gianni had led her to believe that he was the one most in control. The one who would go to any lengths to protect his family. The one Coretti most likely to help her. Even if he really didn’t want to.

  “Okay, I told you that I used to be a cop.”

  “You did.”

  Did he just shudder?

  “I come from a long line of cops,” she said. “My father, uncles, cousins, they all wore the uniform at one time or another.”

  “Fascinating,” he said dryly, that Italian accent of his flavoring the sarcasm. “And how does this affect me and my family?”

  “I’m getting to it.”

  But she was really thirsty. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe she just needed to move around. Maybe it was sitting on the sofa with him perched on the stupid glass coffee table, so close his knees were practically brushing against hers. There was a near electric buzz of heat bouncing between the two of them and it was distracting enough that Marie felt her insides bubble in anticipation.

  Irritated at the thought, she jumped to her feet suddenly, jolting a flash of surprise onto Gianni’s features. Well, good. She’d hate to think that he was all rigid control when she herself was starting to babble. She only babbled when she was nervous and tonight her nerves were jangling wildly.

  “I could use a cup of tea. Do you have tea?”

  “I do beg your pardon for being a thoughtless host,” he murmured and stood up as well. “And of course I have tea. We’re in London.”

  “Good. Good,” she said and started for the kitchen, clutching her phone and tiny bag as if they were lifelines. The awful white marble felt cold against her feet, but at least she was out of the heels that had made her toes ache. He was right behind her. And she couldn’t just hear him—she felt him.

  “Sit down and talk,” Gianni said as they walked into the kitchen.

  Marie took a seat in one of the ghost chairs, frowning at the clear Plexiglass as she did. “These are really hideous chairs, you know.”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” he assured her and filled an electric teakettle—white, of course—at the sink before setting it on the counter and plugging it in to heat. “You’re not talking about what I want to hear.”

  “Right.” She took a breath and idly watched him move around the room, getting down mugs and a small white teapot. He scooped loose tea into the pot and then leaned both hands onto the white granite countertop and fixed his gaze on her. Waiting.

  “I was offered a job as head of security at the Wainwright Hotel in New York several years ago,” she said, starting at the beginning in the hopes of keeping everything straight. “I left the force and took the job.”

  “Kudos,” he muttered.

  “Yeah. Anyway, everything was fine until a few months ago. That’s when Abigail Wainwright was robbed.”

  “Wainwright.” Gianni repeated the name and his brow furrowed as he flipped through what had to be a huge catalogue of information in his brain. At last though, he said, “The Contessa necklace.”

  “Exactly.” Nodding, Marie scooted in the chair, trying to get comfortable, then gave it up and folded her arms on the glass tabletop. It felt cold on her skin, like everything else in this mausoleum, she thought, but it didn’t matter. He knew what she was talking about just as she’d known he would.

  “Abigail’s in her eighties and she’s lived in the penthouse of the hotel for the last thirty years.” A pang of misery swiped at Marie as she thought of the elegant, sweet older woman. She hadn’t deserved to be robbed in her own home, of a necklace that had been in her family for generations. The fact that it had happened on Marie’s watch made a bad situation even worse.

  That it had happened because Marie had let her guard down made it untenable.

  “I didn’t steal the necklace, nor did my family,” Gianni pointed out and unplugged the teakettle when it began to shriek.

  “I didn’t say you did,” she countered stiffly. “I know who the thief was anyway.”

  “Is that right?” He poured the boiling water into the teapot, then repl
aced the lid and set the kettle back onto the counter. “Who?”

  “Jean Luc Baptiste.”

  Marie was watching him carefully so she didn’t miss his reaction. Distaste twisted his lips briefly before anger flashed in his eyes. Tugging the knot of his tie loose, he tossed the tie onto the counter, where it landed like a splash of blood against the white granite. Then he unbuttoned his collar and shrugged out of his suit jacket. “I know of him.”

  Wow. Out of that jacket, his chest looked broad and muscular and way too good. It was easier to ignore the attraction she felt for him when he was all buttoned up and stiff in that beautiful suit. But as she watched him roll up the sleeves of his shirt, baring tanned forearms dusted with dark hair, she had to swallow hard past the knot in her throat.

  “Jean Luc,” he said, “is sloppy, arrogant and usually finds a woman to dupe into helping him.”

  At that, Marie had to clench her own jaw and she knew that Gianni enjoyed seeing her irritation.

  “Anyway...” Marie said, shoving her unsettling thoughts to the back of her mind. “Jean Luc stayed at the Wainwright Hotel for a couple of weeks and he was...charming.”

  And oh, how it humiliated her to admit that she had swallowed that charm hook, line and sinker. But was it so surprising? He had been handsome and smooth and so...French. He had romanced Marie, sweeping her off her feet, dancing attendance on her, and she had stupidly bought all of it. At least, she reminded herself, she hadn’t been idiot enough to sleep with the man. Though if he’d been there another week or two, she might have.

  Gianni snorted. He carried the mugs to the table, reached back for the teapot and set it down as well before going to a cupboard and grabbing out a package of cookies. He didn’t speak until he was seated at a chair opposite her. “Jean Luc wouldn’t know real charm if it hit him over the head. And yet, he conned you.”

  Marie flushed and hated that she could feel that stain of red heat sweeping over her face. If she felt it then he could see it. Even worse, she hated admitting that Gianni was right. Marie’s entire life had been spent around cops. Her own father had raised her to have a healthy cynicism and a low, as he called it, “B.S. meter.” That meter usually clanged and gonged whenever someone was trying to pull one over on her. But Jean Luc had slid beneath her radar and left her feeling as foolish as any other victim of a con man. “He did.”