Her throat works. Her hands shake. I fight the urge to cross to her and take her into my arms and gesture to the corridor beyond the kitchen instead.
“There’s a guest room at the end of the hall. You can stay there. I won’t disturb you.”
When she doesn’t move, I add, “The door locks from the inside. The frame is reinforced with steel. No one can get in unless you let them in.”
“Are there cameras?”
“No.”
She licks her lips, shifting her weight from foot to foot, trying to decide whether or not to believe me.
“There’s also a gun in the nightstand. It’s loaded.” I add mildly, “Judging by how you held that rifle, I’m guessing you’re familiar with firearms.”
She narrows her eyes at me. She’s probably wishing she had a gun in hand right now.
Then she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “How long do you think it will take you to find out what you need to know?”
“A few hours, at most.”
She blinks. I hope it’s because she’s impressed.
“So I could…maybe just…relax for a while until you’re done?”
I incline my head, watching her try to maintain her composure and fight against the urge to run screaming to the front door. Except there is no front door, which she’s already well aware of.
I take a few steps toward her. When she backs up, startled, I stop and hold up a hand, feeling pained. “Please. Trust me.”
Her laugh is small and dry. “Can you appreciate how crazy that request sounds, coming from you?”
“I did save your life.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She looks sheepish for a moment, then glances down at her feet. “Sorry. And, um…thank you.”
Fuck, she’s adorable. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”
She glances up from her feet, her mouth quirked. She studies me from under lowered brows for a moment, then sighs and throws her hands in the air.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Fine. I’ll stay here for a few hours. I don’t want to believe you’ll keep your word, but I do. Mostly. Against my better judgment.”
Then she props her hands on her hips and sends me her signature glare. “So don’t screw it up, okay?”
I say solemnly, “I’d rather die than disappoint you.”
It was an attempt at dry humor, but I surprise myself by meaning it.
She rolls her eyes. “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”
She turns on her heel and stalks off through the kitchen, toward the guest room down the hall. I hear a door slam and smile.
Then I take a plastic Ziploc bag from a drawer, put my hand inside it, pick up her whiskey glass with the same hand and pour the contents into the sink, and head whistling to my office to discover who my beautiful thief really is.
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“No.”
“C’mon, Killian. Seriously. You’re joking.”
“I’m not, Declan. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Really?”
“Aye. Fingerprints don’t lie.”
Silence crackles on the other end of the line for a moment, then I hear a low, disbelieving laugh. “Well, fuck. What are the odds?”
“Approximately seven billion to one.”
“Christ on a cracker. Antonio Moretti’s daughter?” More laughter. “That’s some serious shit right there.”
I say drily, “You don’t say?”
“So what’s your next move?”
“Good question.”
I gaze at the FBI report on my computer screen, my state of shock having only recently dulled to a more manageable amazement.
It isn’t every day I discover that the most interesting and attractive woman I’ve ever met is none other than the only child of the head of an infamous New York Italian crime family.
A man so vicious his breath is probably toxic.
A man whom, inconveniently, has been trying to kill me for quite some time.
“You think he set her up on the job?”
The diaper theft, Declan means. “No. I can’t find any evidence of contact between her and her father.”
I don’t tell him that her mother was killed in a car bomb explosion when Juliet was a child. I have a feeling that’s not something she’d want me to share. I also don’t share her years of homeschooling or her intensely sheltered lifestyle before she was sent away at thirteen to a boarding school in Vermont for the children of the ultra-rich. It seems her rebellious streak kicked in then, because as soon as she left her father’s household, she got into near constant trouble.
Immediately after graduating at eighteen, she was arrested for shoplifting. The charges were dropped—daddy’s influence, no doubt—but whoever was in charge of daddy’s security team neglected to scrub her fingerprints from the police database.
A mistake I’d never make, but a lucky one for me.
After her arrest, the FBI file ends. They don’t have her alias listed, or any current known address. Neither does Interpol or the NSA, and they know everyone. Which means she did an excellent job of covering her tracks.
Which means she’s even more impressive than I thought she was.
“Huh. So why she’d target you for the diaper job, then?”
My lips lift into a smile. “Apparently, she and her two sidekicks only steal from bad guys. Somehow, I ended up on their list.”
After a moment of silence, Declan says, “That explains it.”
“What?”
“Why you like her.”
“I don’t follow.”
“She’s a do-gooder. That’s your particular brand of Kryptonite.”
“How the hell would you know? You haven’t seen me with a woman since I took over for Liam.”
“He told me.”
I grit my teeth. This should be interesting. Annoying, but interesting. “What exactly did he say?”
“That the only time you’ve ever lowered your guard in your life was for a woman who was so in love with someone else, she died to save him.”
“She didn’t die,” I say through a clenched jaw. “And I saved him.”
I can’t see it, but I know right now he’s blowing smoke rings and waving a hand dismissively in the air. “Details. The point is, she was a do-gooder. Selfless. Generous. This one’s the same.”
“She’s a thief.”
“A philanthropist thief,” he corrects, sounding smug. “Who only steals from bad guys and donates the take to charity. I mean, if that’s not the definition of a do-gooder, I don’t know what is.”
When I stay silent too long, Declan says, “I know you’re sitting there trying to figure out how to argue with me, which is a problem because you also know that I’m right.”
“Actually, I was just picturing your slow and painful death by poisoning.”
“Psh. Poison’s a woman’s weapon. You’d just shoot me point-blank in the face.”
“A tempting thought. I’m hanging up now.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me you’re glad I survived our little run-in with the Serbians?”