Cat Burglar in Training (4 page)

I don’t remember much of my journey back to the flat in Kensington. I drove on automatic pilot while my mind refused to move past the photo I’d seen.

And the memories the snapshot brought back…

The implications.

December 8, a Christmas ball six years ago. Eighteen, and fresh from boarding school in Switzerland, I was ready to party with my friends and celebrate Christmas and my nineteenth birthday, which fell on the following weekend. I remember the London ballroom with the Christmas decorations, the mistletoe, the bouquets of balloons, the huge Douglas fir tree covered with silver balls, shimmering tinsel and twinkling lights. I remember giggling with my girlfriends, flirting with the men. Snatching a kiss under the mistletoe. I even remember sipping glasses of champagne and sitting on Santa’s knee.

But that’s where my memories faded.

I woke up the next morning at a Mayfair hotel. Naked. Alone in a bed with no idea of how I’d come to be there or what had happened to me.

I crawled from the bed. My body ached, my head pounded and my mouth felt like an arid desert. The move from the bed was a bad idea. My stomach retaliated. I groaned and staggered to the bathroom, where I hurled until my throat burned and my sides ached for relief.

Shivering, I hugged the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl. Nausea coupled with inner panic and a sense of dirtiness beat me down. It was obvious what had happened, even to someone in my confused state.

I’d had sex.

Someone had taken me without my permission.

Tears burned my gritty eyes. Although I’d flirted and had numerous boyfriends, I didn’t believe in casual sex. It wasn’t that I was saving myself for Mr. Right, but I’d wanted my first time to mean something special.

I concentrated, desperate to recollect the previous night. It was a blur. I recalled nothing of leaving the ballroom, of entering this room. I had no idea who I’d been with after the party. A man. A woman. Or a combination thereof. Hysterical laughter crammed my throat.

Get a grip.
I shuffled to the shower, turned it on and stepped under the water, heedless of the fact it still ran cold. Gradually, steam filled the shower cubicle. I reached blindly for the luxurious shower gel provided by the hotel and scrubbed my skin, my hair, while the scent of citrus and olive swirled around me.

About half an hour later, my brain started to function. I needed to discover who’d done this to me. I wanted answers.

I shut off the shower and grabbed a towel. Drying myself briskly, I avoided my reflection in the myriad mirrors in the designer bathroom.

Back in the bedroom, I found the clothes I’d worn the previous night scattered over the floor—an electric-blue gown designed especially for me by one of my friends, my wispy underwear and thigh-high stockings. A shudder swept my body when I stared at them. Although I was reluctant to don the clothes, there was no option.

Fully dressed, I hunted for my shoes and bag. My bag lay by the bed. One shoe sat by the door, while the other was on top of a writing desk. I plucked the shoe off the desk and froze. The shoe had been used to weigh down a wad of money. Six crisp fifty-pound notes. If I hadn’t felt like a tramp before, I did now.

A sob of shame escaped. God, whoever I’d been with last night really wanted to rub my nose in the muck at the bottom of the gutter. The need to level the playing field burned in my gut. I hungered for payback. Somehow I’d catch the bastard who’d done this to me.

Laying aside pride, I shoved the money in my bag and let myself out of Room 210.

I marched to the lift, fury whipping my determination. When the car arrived, I stomped inside to join two women passengers. My anger must have shown because they edged back against the walls as if I harbored an insidious disease. Uncomfortable silence greeted the man who entered on the next floor down. His brows rose when he saw me in last night’s crinkled clothes.

“What are you staring at?” I snapped.

A smile hovered on his lips. “Nothing, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart,” I snarled.

We reached the ground floor. I swept out with my nose in the air and joined the line at reception. Tapping my left foot on the carpeted floor, I waited for my turn.

The receptionist was a young man. Sandy hair. Earnest face. He sported a pimple on the end of his large nose. “Are you checking out?” His tone expressed doubt as his gaze swept me from head to waist.

Sensing the high level of interest behind me, I kept my voice low and polite. At finishing school, I’d learned that manners gained more than a show of rudeness. I’d slipped earlier in the lift but had myself back in control. “Yes, please,” I said pleasantly. “Room 210.”

He tapped on his keyboard. “All the charges have been paid.”

“Yes, but by whom?”

His brows drew together. “Don’t you know?”

Behind me, someone chuckled. My cheeks burned. “No.” I swallowed my pride. Again. “I’d like to know so I can…ah…thank them.”

He tapped on the keyboard again. “They paid cash,” he said, loud enough for everyone in the growing line to hear.

“Who paid cash?” I struggled against the urge to place my hands around his scrawny neck and choke the life out of him.

“I’m sorry, miss, but we can’t give out that information. Don’t worry, the charges for the room are paid.” He looked to the next person in line. “Next please.”

“Wait a minute,” I burst out in frustration. “Why can’t you tell me who paid for the room?”

“Hotel privacy rules.”

“Are you finished?” the man behind me demanded. “I have a taxi waiting.”

I stood my ground. “But I want to know who paid for the room.”

“Lady, it’s obvious what you do for a living,” the man behind me snarled. “I presume you were paid. Why don’t you leave it at that and go home?”

My face burned afresh. I thought about telling them what had happened. I was not a woman of the night. I was an eighteen-year-old convent girl, and someone had spiked my drink. The whispers and amused contempt made my shame deepen.

“Next, please.” The young man at the desk exhibited not a shred of sympathy.

Finally, my head hung in defeat. I hailed a cab and used the money I’d been left to pay the fare home to Oakthorpe.

There I remained, mostly in seclusion, unable to talk about the party or see my friends. That should have ended the ordeal. I mean, I certainly wanted to put the whole shameful episode behind me, but the gods decided I was a wicked girl and must be punished. Two months later, I finally faced up to the fact I was pregnant with no idea of the father’s identity. It was another week before I plucked up the courage to talk to Hannah.

My father, Ben and Hannah never shouted at me or expressed their disappointment. They asked minimal questions, for which I was thankful, not that I had answers. I spent hours crying, an emotional mess. In the end, it was decided I’d go to Renee Girard, my English-born godmother who lived in France. I’d have the baby and adopt it out, then my life could move forward.

The moment of Amber’s birth was vivid and clear in my mind. One glance at the dark fuzzy head of hair, blotchy red face and a pair of unfocused blue eyes, and I fell in love. I refused to give my daughter for adoption.

I’ve learned to live with the circumstances of my daughter’s birth and try not to dwell on the method of her conception. Of course, at five, Amber’s getting to the stage where she asks the odd question. I’ve made up an acceptable story and told Amber her father died in an airplane crash. I think despite the lies, I’m a good mother.

I glanced at the photo on the passenger seat. Whoever had fathered the child in this photo was probably Amber’s father.

The brakes on my Mini squealed when I pulled up outside Alistair’s Kensington flat. Lights shone through several of the windows. Alistair and Grace had waited up for my return. No doubt Grace was concerned about the viability of her Caribbean holiday. I shoved the photo under the front seat, scooped up my backpack from the back and picked up the key Grace had given me earlier. The green door flew open before I had time to slot it into the lock.

“How did it go?” Grace’s eyes shone bright with expectation.

“Is that Evie?” Alistair called.

“No, it’s the Loch Ness Monster.”

“She made a joke. See, I told you she’d be fine,” Grace hollered back. She stepped a little closer. “What happened to you? It looks as if a vampire drained your blood. You’re pale and interesting.” Her face creased in a frown. “You okay?”

Was I okay? Had the heist gone well? Good questions and where to start?

My left butt cheek ached like the devil. I’d had no idea a frou-frou mutt could inflict such damage. I’d witnessed a murder, and my past had come back with vengeance to bite me in my uninjured buttock. Yeah, things were peachy keen.

Alistair appeared beside Grace. I noticed his gaze flickered down to study the rip in my black leggings.

“Dog bite,” I said tersely. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

“Come through to the study,” Alistair said. “We can talk there.”

“I’ll make tea,” Grace said, already heading for the kitchen. “Wait till I get there. Better yet, have a quick shower and dab some iodine on that bite.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said. “I don’t think the skin is broken too badly. It’s just bruised.”

Fifteen minutes later, we met in the study.

“Perdita Moning is dead,” I said. There was no other way to report bad news but straight out and direct.

Grace gasped. The teapot thumped to the table. “You didn’t…”

“Of course she didn’t,” Alistair snapped. “Did you?”

“No.” I limped the length of the library and back again.

Grace sighed loudly. “There goes my trip.”

“Grace,” Alistair warned. “Evie, tell us what happened.”

“I entered the house, just like we planned. Apart from the mutt—”

“The cheeseburger worked, then?”

“Grace, hush.”

“I was on the landing when I heard noises. Mrs. Moning was entertaining her lover.” I explained the rest of my close call with murder but left out the bit about the photo since that was private business. I hadn’t talked to anyone about my past, and I wasn’t about to start now.

“A gunshot,” Grace blurted.

“Are you sure she was dead?” Alistair chipped in.

“Oh yeah. I’m sure.” A person couldn’t lose that much blood and live, but the bullet hole between Perdita Moning’s eyes had been a dead giveaway. “I checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No, I figured someone would have heard the shot. I got out of there as soon as I could.”

We were all silent, contemplating the crime.

“Hopefully no one saw you leaving,” Alistair said.

I hoped so too. “There is some good news though.”

“Do tell,” Grace said. “I could do with a laugh.”

I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the jewels. The rubies, diamonds and sapphires gleamed in the light as I handed them to Alistair. Nerves simmered in the pit of my stomach when he scrutinized the earrings closely with his jeweler’s loupe. The tick of the wall clock was the only sound that broke the tense silence. If they were fake…hell, I didn’t want to even think it. He moved on to the diamond and sapphire necklace, frowned and, after more scrutiny, set it aside to check the ruby necklace. He mumbled something and finally glanced at me.

“The quality of the diamond and sapphire necklace isn’t as good as the ruby one, but it’s still genuine. I’ll be able to move this lot quickly. Good job.”

Grace’s breath eased out with a hiss and she grinned. She stood, plucking the gems from my hands and holding them aloft, stretching with a catlike grace despite her bulk. She hummed softly before bursting into triumphant song. “La, la, la, Caribbean.”

Alistair scowled. “Grace, you’re impossible.” But I saw the twinkle in his eyes and the obvious love for his wife of thirty years. For a moment, envy kicked me in the gut, the intensity of it stealing my breath.

Kahu Williams came to mind—briefly—before I thrust his image away. A cop and a cat burglar. Nope. Didn’t exactly go together, not like fish and chips or gin and tonic. My lips curved in a rueful grin.
A cop and a cat burglar
. I didn’t think so.

Saturday night, almost two weeks later, London

The Gibson costume ball was one of the highlights of the social calendar. Invitations were highly sought after with many wannabes experiencing disappointment. I had one since I’d attended school with Selena Gibson.

I showed my pastel pink invitation to the security men on the door and stepped inside the flower-bedecked ballroom with Seth at my side.

“Nice,” I said to Seth, referring to the decor.

He snorted, showing his contempt in a way only a male can, even a gay one. “A bit pink.”

I grinned. “And what’s wrong with pink? You don’t think it goes with our costumes?” Seth was a debonair vampire. I was dressed in black with orange accessories. I fingered one of the ugly orange warts dotting my face and smoothed the black skirts of my witch costume. “Is my wig straight?” I asked, remembering my blonde-bimbo persona—the one that lay under the dark wig.

Seth studied me. “Yeah. I’m going to skip out and leave you on your own.” His blue eyes held a trace of nervous excitement. I’d already noticed how fidgety he was tonight. “Will you be all right on your own? Do you want me to come back to collect you?”

Not likely. Being a lone ranger suited me fine tonight. I wanted to learn all I could about the Moning family. There’d be gossip aplenty now that the police had released more details. I wanted to hear everything, from the discussion of the lengthy delay in the funeral to the bitchy tidbits discussed in the ladies’ room. They say revenge is a dish best served cold. My dish had cooled for six years, and now that I’d found a clue after all this time, I was champing at the bit.

The bastard who’d drugged and raped me was on a countdown.

“No, I’ll see you in the morning at your flat.” We often stayed overnight and drove back to the village together the next day. Or rather I stayed there while Seth visited with friends. “How about a dance first? Best not look too eager.”

Seth grimaced. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

We stepped onto the floor and moved into a slow dance.

I leaned into Seth so we could talk without being overheard. “What do you think about the murder?” I’d purposely not discussed it during the drive. Although Seth was my best friend, he didn’t know of my extracurricular activities, and I didn’t want him to learn the truth about my family. Here at the ball, with Seth distracted, was the perfect time to gather information.

“Perdita Moning?”

“Yeah. On the radio they said it was a robbery gone wrong. It’s creepy. I spoke to Perdita on the night of the ball. Now she’s dead.” I tensed, hoping I hadn’t overdone my spiel. Seth knew me better than most.

“I didn’t really know them. I know of them. You know what it’s like.”

I did. The grapevine worked efficiently and frequently in our world. “I presume they had kids?” I tossed the important question in casually. My heart thumped so loudly I was sure Seth would notice.

“No children. Rumor was Moning shot blanks.”

I stumbled in my shock, one stiletto heel landing squarely on Seth’s toes.

“Bloody hell, Eve.” He let go of me to gingerly touch his foot. “I think you’ve broken something.”

Blanks? That couldn’t be right. I moved, barely missing Seth’s other foot.

“Eve, watch where you’re putting your feet!”

“Sorry.”

“Just don’t do it again. I’d like my body in perfect working order for later tonight.”

I batted my lashes at him. “Ooh, sounds kinky.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Seth said, glancing about to see if anyone was listening.

By this time, we were creating a traffic hazard in the middle of the busy floor. Disgusted sounds equivalent to tooting car horns were directed our way.

“Shall we adjourn to the bar?” I asked.

“Sounds safer than the dance floor.” Seth took my arm and escorted me to the bar, his exaggerated hobble making me laugh.

I grabbed his shoulders and planted a kiss smack on his lips. “I love you.”

He grinned and squeezed me gently. “Love you too, pumpkin.” He pulled out a barstool for me. “What will your poison be? Champagne? A fruity little Sauvignon Blanc? Or the usual soft drink?”

“Coke, please.” From the corner of my eye, I noticed a man watching us intently. For an instant, I thought it might be Seth’s special friend, then he moved. Well, well. Kahu Williams.

I smiled. Probably not a bright move since Kahu and I were on opposite sides of the law. But something about the man goaded me to outrageousness.

Kahu sauntered along the bar toward us, obviously taking my smile as encouragement. He was dressed as a cowboy, and a very fine one he made too.

“We meet again,” I said. “This is Seth Winthrop. Seth, this is Kahu Williams. Why aren’t you dressed as a cop?”

The two men shook hands.

“He’s a cop,” I added.

“Oh?” Seth asked. “Are you working the Moning case?”

“Yes,” Kahu said.

He left it at a one-word answer, and straightaway I wanted to needle him.

“Going to give us any inside information?” I asked. “Like why the funeral is taking so long?”

“No.” Unperturbed, he scanned my face, his gaze coming to a halt on the orange wart to the right of my mouth.

Lots of tingles resulted from his scrutiny. It was as if he’d touched me physically, and I shrugged, uneasy with the foreign sensation.

“Pity.” I caught Seth watching me with narrowed eyes. Damn, I’d given away my interest in Kahu. Good thing Seth had a hot date so I’d escape an interrogation. “Didn’t you want to catch up with that friend from work?”

“Yeah,” Seth drawled. “I did.” He bent close to kiss me. “He looks like a keeper.”

“I’ll catch up with you later,” I said to Seth, not deigning to reply. As Seth walked away, I turned to Kahu. “How many cases do you work at once?”

His dark eyes dissected my witchy appearance. A grin flickered briefly. “Several unless there’s a high-profile one that comes along. Your boyfriend is very trusting.”

“We’ve known each other for a long time. I heard on the radio that it was a robbery. Is that true?”

“Seems that way.”

“What did they take?”

His gaze sharpened. “The usual. Jewelry. Stuff.”

And that was as many questions as I dared ask. The man was no slouch in the brain department. “I talked to her at the Spring Ball.” I held my breath while I waited to see if he’d bite.

“Did you know her?”

Bingo. “A little.” Meeting in the ladies’ cloakroom counted, right?

“Now’s not the time to talk. I’ll call you.” He set his drink on the bar and held out his hand. “Let’s dance.”

A trifle bemused, I accepted the hand he offered. It engulfed my smaller one, his firm clasp sending a tiny zap akin to a mild electrical current surging up my arm. I managed not to wince. Just. The shocky thing happened every time he touched me, but my response still took me by surprise. Not that I hated men. Only the one—him, I’d castrate and throw to hungry wolves without pausing a beat.

The upbeat song finished as we reached the dance floor and the band commenced a ballad. Kahu drew me close, and I stumbled.

“Relax,” he murmured.

Chagrined, I sucked in a deep breath and willed my traitorous body to relax.

The singer crooned of a faithless lover. We stood so close I felt Kahu’s steady heartbeat. Our legs brushed, and his breath ruffled the tiny hairs at my temple. One hand trailed down my back and pressed me close. To my astonishment, tiny goose bumps surfaced in the wake of his touch. I shivered.

This wasn’t dancing.

This was torture.

“Should we dance so close?” I blurted out, throwing my head back to scan his face. An orange wart dislodged and dropped to the floor.

He smiled. “Relax. We look the same as the others.”

He was right. The small, crowded dance floor made real dancing impossible. It was difficult to do more than shuffle.
Concentrate on his top button and keep out of trouble
. For all of two seconds my plan worked. As close as we were, I couldn’t help but notice his scent. It distracted me, reminding me of France, of long walks along the secluded beach near my godmother’s house, the clean sea air and lazy summer days.

My tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. I caught myself in the act and cursed under my breath, but couldn’t help moving on in the thought department. From smell to the other senses. We were already touching. I had the smell, sight and hearing thing covered. That left taste. My gaze shot to his mouth. As I watched, his lips curved in a gentle smile.

“Eve?” Humor lurked in my name.

My heart thumped with an alarming loudness. I had a desperate need for air. Oh, man. This was like…like lovemaking in a public place. What the hell was I thinking?

Just then, with a flourish of drums, the song ended. My sigh held huge relief. Finished. I was outta here. Time for me to mingle and find the answers I sought.

“Stay,” Kahu murmured. “Dance with me again.”

“No, I—”

“Beauchamp is heading this way in his Henry disguise.”

Beauchamp as Henry the Eighth? The mind boggled. This I had to see.

“No, don’t look now.” Kahu’s chuckle emerged low and intimate as he pressed me close. “He’s still heading this way. Looks eager. Like a dog scenting game.”

“Charming.” I wasn’t sure I should believe him, but remained in his arms anyway.

The band rocked into a number with a strong Latin beat. Several couples left the floor. Not many men were willing to attempt a Latin dance. We had a perfect excuse to exit the dance floor. Even knowing this, my right foot tapped to the beat. I enjoyed dancing and was good at it, although my recent partners might not agree. Their fault for saying things to throw me off balance. I glanced at Kahu and knew my gaze expressed doubt. “Still want to dance?”

“I think I can manage.” One brown eye closed in a lazy wink and, with a conspiratorial grin, he fell into step. His hands skimmed my body, moving down to grasp swaying hips.

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said dryly.

Was that a challenge? Exhilaration raced through me. I wasn’t one to back away from a dare. The music pulsed through my blood, dredging up primitive needs, primitive wants. I smiled at Kahu, my breath catching on witnessing his return grin. The rat-a-tat thud of my heels meeting the wooden floor, the singer’s vocals, and the swish of my black skirt added to the spell the dance wove. The people dancing around us blurred to the background as we twirled and circled, each flirting move from me counteracted by one from Kahu. Gazes touched and held as the pulsing music and sensuous dance drew us into a private world of two.

Hot blood roared through my veins; my breasts heaved in exertion. I clicked my heels and flung back my head as I anticipated Kahu’s next move. His lean body spun away then strutted back toward me until we were so close we almost touched. Almost. His broad grin flashed pleasure; his avid gaze moved down my body. I felt every touch of his gaze on my heated skin.

I shouldn’t dance like this, not so flamboyantly and full of passion and not in public. I licked my lips again and his eyes, dark and smoldering, lingered on the moist curves of my mouth. He wore a look I’d seen before, one that told me he wanted to take me to bed and not surface for days.

A full-fledged ache sprang to life deep in my chest. I was out of my element, and I knew it. The sexual tension I associated with his presence leapt to new, heady heights as we taunted each other, circling on the dance floor the Latin way.

The song ended in a bold fanfare of drums. I flinched, ripped rudely from the sensual spell. We froze in position, sides heaving, gazes meshed together.

“Folks, give them a hand. That was some floorshow!” The singer’s breathy voice grounded me back in the present, as did the ripple of enthusiastic applause and rousing catcalls from friends.

“Drink?” Kahu asked.

“Sure.” I matched him for coolness, but I suspected the intense undercurrents had rattled us both.

At the bar, Kahu ordered fresh drinks, despite our glasses being half full and sitting where we’d left them. I approved, having learned the hard way about unscrupulous people who thought it was funny to spike drinks.

Kahu handed me my Coke. The ice tinkled when I rolled the glass against my cheek.

“Are you engaged to Seth?”

Cola splashed over the rim of my glass. “No.”

“Good.” Kahu tipped his head back to drink his beer. His tanned throat worked as he swallowed. He set his empty glass on the bar. “Seth seems like a decent man. I wouldn’t want to step on his toes.” He brushed a kiss across my lips and stepped back. “I’ll be in touch.”

He strutted away before my brain engaged enough to formulate a smartass answer. I stared after him in real consternation. What the hell had he meant by that?

Richard Beauchamp popped up beside me with the suddenness of a jack-in-a-box, resplendent in his navy blue satin. A gingery beard covered his weak chin. I sighed and stowed my questions about Kahu to drag out later when I was alone. One glance at Beauchamp’s bloated red face told me I was in for a proposition.

I sipped my drink while debating how to handle him. No time like the present to start on my investigation. “Did you hear about the murder?”

“Perdita Moning.” There was a break in his voice that made me study him carefully.

“Did you know her?” I asked.

“We were old family friends. I went to Eton with Perdita’s older brother.”

“Hell of a way to go,” I observed, watching him carefully over the rim of my glass. “I feel sorry for her husband and children.”

“They didn’t have children.”

“Oh?” So why did they have all the photos in the bedroom? I arched one brow while I waited impatiently for him to answer.

He gazed off into the distance, seemingly far away. I wanted to shake him. Demand answers.

“Perdita didn’t mention children,” he said finally.

Because she didn’t like them? No, that didn’t make much sense either. If I didn’t like children, I wouldn’t keep kids’ photos on my bedroom dresser. None of the rumors gelled. Didn’t like children. Shot blanks. The answer probably lay somewhere in the middle. I needed to dig deeper in the gossip garden.