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  It Takes a Thief

  Dee Brice

  Sometimes a woman has to take a flying leap of faith—even if it’s into the arms of a man hell-bent on her destruction.

  When Tiffany Cartierri succumbs to a night of lust in the arms of a handsome, dark-eyed stranger, she has no idea their paths will cross again a week later. Nor can she stop herself from craving Ian Soria’s lovemaking.

  But the theft of Isabella’s Belt—an emerald-encrusted artifact—places them on opposing sides in a desperate attempt to recover the priceless treasure. From Austria to England to Colombia, Tiffany and Ian race to discover who stole the Belt and who is trying to frame her for both the theft and for murder.

  It Takes a Thief

  Dee Brice

  Dedication

  To Tina E for giving this story a second chance. To April C for her patience and insight. And, as always, to my DH for showing me the article on emeralds that led to the what ifs and the book.

  Chapter One

  St. Anton, Austria

  Damian Hunter awoke with a jerk, harmlessly cradled in a leather wingback chair, his stocking-clad feet still resting on the matching ottoman. His nightmare about his brother’s murder lingering, he opened his eyes and grabbed a woman’s wrist.

  “You!” he growled, knowing she looked nothing like the treacherous bitch in his dream, but knowing he had seen her before. Common sense ordered him to let her go, that his fingers could snap her fragile bones and bring more pain into her eyes. He expected her to fight, wanted her to fight, to pull against his implacable grip. He could feel her pulse beating frantically under his fingers, could see her need to escape him or to scream for help. Instead, she remained half-bent over him, her free hand on the arm of his chair for balance, her eyes now calm.

  She leaned into him and for a moment he thought she would kiss him. She brought her free hand to his cheek, feathered her cool fingers over his jaw and down his neck until she found his carotid artery.

  Shit, he thought a second before he passed out, done in by a masterfully administered sleeper’s hold.

  When he came to, she was standing with her back to the fire and considering him like she might a particularly disgusting specimen under her microscope. She also had closed the oak doors between the library and the reception area filled with noisy skiers returning from a day on the slopes.

  Given what he had done to her, he was surprised she had not called for Security to throw him out on his ass. That she had stayed, had even closed them in a cocoon of privacy in this remote, exclusive ski resort made him wonder about her sanity. Maybe, like his brother, she thrived on danger. Not that Damian would hurt her—not intentionally.

  “You scared me,” she said in a husky voice that went straight to his groin. “I thought you were dead.”

  Rubbing his neck where she had applied her deft touch, he eased out of his chair and countered, “So did I.”

  Her dark eyebrows knitting into a warning scowl, she reached behind her, then revealed the fireplace poker in her hands.

  His penis pulsed. He shifted the book he had been reading when he’d fallen asleep to cover his erection. Ski pants were damned uncomfortable in his condition. He wondered just when he had decided he wanted to have sex with a woman he did not know. He had not decided at all. The only part of him that seemed the least bit interested in thinking lay south of his waistband. He began to appreciate his brother’s craving for deep cover and dangerous women.

  He eyed the woman. If she would let him closer he was pretty sure he could disarm her. Pretty sure, he thought again when she shifted her weight and tightened her grip on the poker. He retreated a half step. Discretion being the better part of valor, he tossed his book aside and held up his hands, palms out.

  “I apologize if I hurt you.”

  She rubbed her right wrist, then returned the poker to its stand. “I’ll survive. Want to talk about it?”

  “It?”

  “You seemed to be having a nightmare.” She took a limping few steps toward him, giving him the perfect opportunity to change the subject.

  “Your first day on the slopes?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted, running her hands down her baggy sweatpants and massaging her thighs.

  Chuckling, wanting to replace her hands with his own, he challenged, “Too proud to admit you are sore, eh?”

  With a look that was pure mischief, she laughed with him. “No prouder than you,” she observed when he limped toward her.

  Not knowing why—she was the antithesis of everything he usually found appealing in a woman—he offered, “I have a hot tub in my suite. We could suffer together.”

  “I don’t get into hot tubs with strange men.”

  “I am not strange, I am—”

  “Or familiar ones either.”

  Delighted by her quick wit, he raised his hands in protest and schooled his expression to innocence. “It is a very large tub. We would not even have to touch. And it is on the balcony, in full sight of the night ski run.”

  She considered him with a cool green gaze reminiscent of a forest glade after a rainstorm. “Okay. White or red?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ll bring the wine if you’ll tell me which you prefer.”

  It had been too long since he had visited the States, he decided bemusedly. He had grown unaccustomed to the straightforwardness of American women. “Actually, I have a lovely white wine, a Malvasia Bianca, if that is agreeable?”

  “Lovely,” she echoed, her low voice bland but her eyes merry, leaving him with the distinct impression she was laughing at him, albeit gently.

  Unable to recall the last time a woman had teased him, he grinned. Women normally avoided him entirely. Or, like the women at this exclusive Austrian ski resort, they came on to him as if he were their favorite dessert. This woman, with her lanky body, droll humor and mischievous eyes, intrigued him.

  Oh yes, he remembered her eyes. For more than a blizzard-ridden week they had studied him, challenged him, dismissed him. Always, before now, from across rooms filled with lodge guests.

  “Half an hour?” he suggested when they continued to stare at each other in silence.

  “Love—fine,” she corrected while a faint, becoming blush stained her high cheekbones.

  Confounded by the contradiction of innocence and sophistication, he barely found his voice when, at the door, she turned back. “Penthouse four.” He would have told her sooner, but her walk quite literally had stolen his breath. She moved with the slow, boneless grace of the women of the Caribbean, as if she balanced a jug on her head and time did not exist.

  Then she vanished.

  * * * * *

  When she reappeared at his balcony doors precisely thirty minutes later, she wore a full-length fake fur coat and carried a wicker basket adorned with a silk paisley bow. She entered on a cool breeze, wafting warmth and an elusive scent he could not identify, but liked.

  Gripping the basket handle so hard he knew she’d have the pattern embossed in her palm, she went to the small dining table. Setting out food seemed to help her settle. The nervousness in her eyes returned as she glanced around as if looking for the hot tub. She must know it was an excuse to get her to his suite, that neither of them intended to go outside.

  She stared at him, the bulge in his silky sweatpants jerking her startled gaze to his face. His eyes remained on hers. Smiling, he hoped his expression assured her the decision to stay or leave was hers. Her breath caught on a soft gasp before she straightened, the calm, confident woman of the library reappearing.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m starving,” she apologized in her husky voice. She rummaged in the basket and produced a series of small containers and swan-shaped, foil-wrapped, aromatic goodies.

/>   Reminding him he had not eaten since early that morning and it had now gone six, Damian’s stomach growled. “I also am hungry.”

  “Good.” She shed her coat with a careless shrug reminiscent of the subtly sensuous femme française. Under the madcap raccoon she wore a silk jumpsuit that matched the color of her eyes and outlined curves her sweat suit had concealed. “Do you mind?” she asked, already sliding slender feet out of impractical open-toed, high-heeled sandals.

  “Good Lord, woman,” he scolded, “you will catch your death.”

  She flashed him a wry look. “I’m just next door. Twenty feet tops.”

  “The balconies are ankle-deep in snow. You will get frostbite if you leave that way.”

  Another Gallic shrug accompanied her offering of warm, crusty French bread smothered in fragrant pâté. He took a bite and watched as she nibbled from the same slice. Wishing he were that fortunate tidbit dissolving on her tongue, sliding down her throat, he smothered the urge to strip off her clothes and take her without any foreplay.

  He had not expected her to engage in casual sex, but he had prepared for it—for her—with more care than he had ever done before.

  “It is too cold to be outside. I thought we could enjoy the wine,” and each other, “in the Jacuzzi. Or here,” he amended quickly when she headed for the door. “Please, do not leave.”

  Poised for flight, she stared at him for a long moment. Her gaze shifted from his face to trace his body. Apparently the tent his erection had created in his pants did not offend her. He watched her eyes, saw them change from wariness to indecision to surrender.

  Gracias, Dios, he thought as she came toward him, her stride that slow, sinuous pace that made him hard and past ready to have her. Burnished by firelight, her skin shone like gold and her eyes glowed a feline green. Her sensuous lips parted slightly. Her breath came in soft puffs that caressed his taut cheeks.

  “Do you want to undress me?” she murmured.

  Heat flared in her eyes. His cock twitched. His knees went weak and shaky. Anticipation held him captive, unable to move as she freed her hair. Ebony curls cascaded like a blue-black waterfall over her shoulders and chest.

  “Do you want to undress me?” she whispered again, her throaty voice sending hot shivers coursing through him.

  “Yes.”

  He hooked a finger in the big brass ring resting between her breasts and held her wonder-filled gaze. Her dark lashes drifted downward, hiding her emotions, but her breathing betrayed her. Soft sighs came with increasing rapidity. Her hands trembled as she raised them to his shoulders.

  Forcing himself not to rush, fighting the urges of his own body, he traced her collarbone and eased the silky fabric off her shoulders. Firm, satiny flesh warmed his palms. Perfection. The thought flooded his brain and raised his heart rate.

  His eyes still focused on her face, now flushed and dewy, he let his fingers learn the contours of her body. He touched her nipples and felt them furl like newborn rosebuds blindly seeking the sun. On a gasp her eyes flew open, revealing a flowering rapture in their emerald depths. He drifted his hands lower and discovered a narrow waist, slender hips and heat between her thighs.

  “Take it off,” he ordered in a hoarse whisper. He stepped back and watched her skim the light fabric from her body, then let it slide like a lover’s caress down her long, slender legs.

  A low growl expressed his appreciation. He slid his hands under the silky blanket of her hair and hauled her to him. A purr deep in her throat told him of her need as they collided like two beasts in heat. Mouths parting, their lips met with brutal demand. Their tongues twined in an intimate duel that neither would win nor lose, a duel that would end in beautiful moments of dying.

  Their first kiss left him breathless. So feral, so full of need, he feared they would devour each other. She fumbled with the zipper on his sweatshirt. Stilling her hands, he tightened his arms around her until he held her so close he crushed her breasts against his chest. Her flesh felt hot, her heat, life-giving. Life-affirming.

  Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bathroom. There, votive candles cast a soft glow over the room. The ice bucket sweated on the wide ledge surrounding the bubbling water. He settled her there, on the ledge where, anticipating this moment, he had placed a thick, warm towel.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” he whispered in her ear, and then gently laved its shell with his tongue. She shivered and a soft moan escaped her kiss-reddened lips. Every muscle in his body tightened and his cock swelled, urging him to take her now. To plunge fast and deep and never mind that he had not prepared her for his size or his need.

  “Yes, please,” she said in a throaty murmur that made him want to bury himself in her mouth, in her cunt.

  He filled a chilled glass, held it to her lips for a small sip and spilled the remainder down her chest.

  “I shall clean you,” he muttered, his tongue lapping at first one swollen nipple, then the other. Her moans sounded like equal parts pleasure and pain. Her hands pressing down on his head assured him she felt mostly pleasure. “You like that, yes?”

  “God, yes.”

  He needed no more encouragement. He suckled. She moaned louder and, digging her fingers into his scalp, pressed his face tighter to her. Laving and sucking, he eased his hand down her ribs, over her hip to her knees. Exerting a light pressure, he celebrated when her legs opened, giving him free access to her.

  With a patience he had not known he possessed, he rubbed her clit, felt her jerk and try to close her legs. He stilled his hand, sucked her nipple harder until her knees again opened, wider this time, inviting him to stroke her. Rubbing her with his thumb, he eased his thick middle finger into her.

  “Dios, you are tight.” His cock throbbed, needing him to bury himself in her. Now!

  Using his tongue, he cleaned her nipples. Hunger growing, he used his hands, his lips, his teeth and tongue everywhere at once. Her moans and quivering flesh urged him on. Kneeling between her spread legs, he plunged his tongue into her cunt.

  Dios, she tasted good—like nectar from the gods.

  She mewed and arched her hips upward. Grinding her mons against his face, she murmured words of encouragement. “Like that, yes. Oh yes. More…please, give me more.” Her entire body shaking, her juices flooded his tongue and his moans echoed hers until they both quieted.

  Surprise shone in her eyes. He eased away while she tugged his pants down his legs. His cock curved against his belly, rigid and proud. She gulped as a shiver dotted her flesh with goose bumps. His cock was thick and long. Did she wonder how she could possibly take that mass inside her body without it tearing her apart?

  She pulled him down, shifting until his cock rested in her slick folds. They pulsed as if to draw him inside her. Unable to wait a second longer, he drove into her velvet heat.

  He was buried to his balls, and her gasp of pain or surprise stilled him. His own harsh gulps filled his ears until, finally quieting, he heard her breathing steady. He began the ancient rhythm and she matched him, withdrawal for withdrawal, lunge for lunge. He increased his pace, his breath wheezing in and out like a locomotive on a steep uphill climb. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing exquisite pleasure as it built, higher and higher until she climaxed again. Still pulsing around his cock, she moved with him. Arching away when he withdrew, gliding up when his hips descended. The friction was almost more than he could bear. Every thrust brought him closer and closer. She shook her head, but her body betrayed her.

  “Not again,” she pleaded. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. We will,” he promised, spewing into her pulsing cunt. He yelled in triumph, then swallowed her scream of release.

  “Look at me,” he demanded. She tossed her head and squeezed her eyelids even tighter. He withdrew until he was barely inside her.

  “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

  “Then look at me.” She slit her eyes open. “Look at us.”


  Propping himself on one elbow, he directed her gaze downward. She gasped and tried to toss him aside. When he inched deeper, she stopped struggling, sighed and arched her hips to take him completely into welcoming, wet heat.

  “I can’t,” she murmured even as her inner muscles began to quiver once more. Her eyes widened as he rocked his hips, barely moving his cock. “Oh my…I-I guess I can.”

  “I know we can.” What little cum he had, he left in her. He collapsed on her, panting. She sighed and nuzzled his neck.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, brushing damp, silky tendrils away from her flushed cheeks and forehead.

  “I’m starving.”

  Laughing, he stood with her still wrapped around him, her arms wreathed around his neck, her legs around his waist. He got as far as the bedroom door before her trembling aroused him again.

  “Are you very hungry?” he demanded, losing himself in the pools of her shimmering eyes.

  “Ravenous.”

  “Truly?”

  “Can’t you feel how hungry I am?” she whispered just before her lips claimed his and her body began again its sensuous, sinuous dance.

  In spite of his efforts to remain inside her, his cock slipped free. Covering his embarrassment with a laugh, he put her on her feet. She sent him a smile as she took his hand, then led him back to the Jacuzzi.

  “This seems like the perfect time to use the tub,” she said, leaning over to fill the deep vessel.

  “The lodge provides bath salts if you would like to use them,” he said. Unable to resist, he stroked the firm globes of her buttocks, arousing once more when she wiggled into his hands.

  “You won’t mind smelling like perfume?”

  “I can shower later.”

  She eyed his recovering cock then turned off the bath water. “We can both shower now, bathe later.”

  In the small enclosure, Damian discovered she was ticklish. She discovered that tickling his testicles had immediate benefits in renewing his cock’s hardness. Lip-locked, they made their way to his bed.