Hot Ice (20 page)

Taylor drifted upward through layers of sleep like a deep-sea diver breaking the surface. Two things struck her simultaneously. One, she still had a tight knot of foreboding in her stomach. And two, she was being watched.

Without moving, she slitted her eyes open. Just enough to see him through the screen of her lashes.

He
was lounging in the seat opposite, silent and watchful as a large, sleek panther. He'd changed into black slacks and a crisply ironed shirt the color of his eyes, and looked as though he'd stepped from the pages of
GQ
. His dark hair, which was combed straight back, did nothing to soften his face.

Taylor recognized the strategy of seating himself with his back to the only light in the cabin. His face was shadowed like Phantom of the Opera. She, of course, was bathed in golden light from a wall lamp directly behind him.

Words rushed to her brain grouped in related pairs—hard and uncompromising. Humorless and ruthless.

Oh yeah.

Sexy and hot.

Lucky her.

Taylor scrutinized him the same way he dissected her with his eyes. Her sense of foreboding didn't dissipate, and now an equally disconcerting attraction had been added. No, more than that. Attraction was too mild a word for the way he made her insides feel. Call it what it was: lust. She didn't have to guess how that broad chest would feel beneath her hand, her cheek, or her
mouth
. She remembered. Vividly.

She didn't need to speculate about how it would feel if he slid his body over hers either. She remembered that vividly too.

She didn't need to wonder about the taste and texture of his mouth. Now she knew. God, did she know. Just looking at him made all her juices flow and her temperature rise. She'd never had such a visceral reaction to a man before.

But she enjoyed sex, and sometimes an appliance just didn't do the trick. She needed warm skin, and the physical contact of another human being. Closeness—

But here? Now? With
him
?

Why not? Here. Now. She was faced with a man who was turning her blood into steam—and he already
knew
her secrets. Well, most of them. Why shouldn't she enjoy a little
distraction
?

Love had never been in the cards for her. Not that she hadn't thought about it now and then over the years. She'd considered what she might be missing; the intimacy, the pleasure of lying in a man's arms with no need to have sex because you knew you'd be together tomorrow, next month, and next year.

But love required trust. And trust was a luxury Taylor couldn't afford. She didn't anguish over it. Why worry about things you can't control?

She dated occasionally. But her selection pool was somewhat limited to friends and acquaintances of the crooks she had to deal with. In her line of work, it didn't pay to get too close to anyone. Although she'd had several marriage proposals over the years, and plenty of indecent proposals as well.

She'd had only two lovers. Daniel Turner, another ex-pat in Switzerland, when she'd been a scared nineteen-year-old living in a foreign country. And Jörn Peterson, whom she'd met at a party on board Neo and Julia Konstantinopoulos's yacht three years ago. The same party where she'd been introduced to José and Maria Morales.

She'd cared deeply for both men in turn, and the sex had been pleasant, sometimes even incredible. But she'd had no expectations from either relationship. In both instances, the fire had eventually fizzled and they'd parted ways. Jörn amicably. Daniel with a small tug of heartache on both sides.

And yes, once in a while she missed the physical closeness. Although the longer she lived without it, the less she seemed to miss it. Then Huntington St. John stepped into her life to disprove
that
theory.
He
knew what she did and who she was. The thought excited her, and she felt the same sensation in her stomach now as she did when poised beside a safe. Or running across a rooftop. Half fear. Half excitement. All…
alive
.

Lids at half mast, she watched Hunt from behind her lashes. Lord,
he fascinated
her. He scared her too. His cat-watching-a-mouse-hole stillness was unnerving. He had a way of scrutinizing her with those smoky gray eyes that made her feel as though he could read her mind.

But he
couldn't
read her mind. And he didn't know any of the deep, dark secrets of her soul that she had trusted to no one. Things that wouldn't be revealed in any of those files he had on her. He was no threat to her if she kept this quick and gave him what he wanted. She had to remember that.

Unfortunately, she had to admit—if only to herself—how drawn she was to this man. His quiet strength intrigued her. His tenacity. His
aloneness
called to something deep inside her soul. She was fascinated by his intelligence and discipline. She wanted to know what made him tick.

Thank God their association was going to be short-lived. The second they landed in Zurich, she'd take him directly to the bank and her safety-deposit box. Ten miles. About twenty minutes. Half an hour tops in traffic. Then hand over whatever it was he wanted and wave bye-bye.

"What are you scheming in that agile brain of yours?" His voice was low and a little more gravelly than normal. The effect of that rough tone on her was almost physical. Little pulse points all over her body sprang to life. The delicious sensation was like happy champagne bubbles popping and dancing inside her veins.

She stopped pretending she wasn't watching him and blinked her eyes into focus. "My brain was filled with sheep jumping hurdles wearing little numbers pinned to their fleece," she said lightly as she straightened, dropping her bare feet to the floor. "How long was I asleep?" As she ran both hands through her hair, Taylor took a quick glance down to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be.

The silk of her halter dress kept everything confined but not actually covered. Nope, her erect nipples were easily outlined by the thin fabric. Great timing, she groaned inwardly. She might as well be wearing a sign around her neck with marquee lighting that proclaimed she wanted him.
Now
. She gave a mental shrug. She couldn't control her body's reaction to him.

He didn't glance at his fancy-dancy wristwatch for the time, but his short black lashes fluttered down as he too looked at her breasts. She felt the heat of his gaze on her body, and it raised her own body temperature by several sizzling degrees. Then his lashes lifted as he met her eyes without expression.
Okay, I get it. You're immune
.

"You slept two hours." He answered the question she'd almost forgotten she'd asked. Which was a good reminder, Taylor thought, to keep sharp around this guy. He never seemed to lose track or have a problem with focusing on his objective.

Great. At least another seven or eight hours cooped up in the air with him. What she wouldn't give for a parachute. "Got any cards?"

"I do. Yes."

She waited for the punch line. After a long, looong pause, she looked at him expectantly. "And?"

He raised a brow. "You asked if I had cards. I answered."

Taylor shook her head, then started looking around for her shoes. "Do you study being a pain in the ass, or is it a gift?" she asked in German.

"It's a gift," he answered fluently in the same language. "Is that where you make your home? Germany?"

"I'm a quarter German." Which of course didn't answer his question, nor was it true. Languages came easily to her, and Taylor wanted to know how much he'd understand when they reached Zurich. Now she knew. "German-Austrian, actually," she finished in English.

"Thanks for the genealogy update, but I'm more interested in what you're hiding."

Bent over, one shoe in her hand, she glanced up. "Hiding? You searched me before we boarded." And it had been an exciting if rather impersonal experience. At least for her. Because the second he'd put his hands on her, her body remembered a shadowy room in San Cristóbal.

"Hiding in Switzerland," he prodded.

Taylor blinked. She was starting to get twitchy about those damn eyes of his. The thundercloud gray seemed to probe directly into her brain. She didn't like the idea that he could read her mind one bit. Here was a man not in the least distracted by her breasts, or her smart mouth, or any of the other smoke-and-mirror tactics she usually used to hide in plain sight.

He
saw
her.

Oh, please. Get a grip
. No, he didn't. It was her overactive imagination working at full throttle. Ah.
There
was her other shoe. She slipped it on, then leaned back in her seat and slid one smooth leg over the other. She noticed a small muscle clench in his jaw. "We've already had this conversation. Remember?"

"What's in Zurich besides your lockbox?" He wasn't going to give it up.

Neither was she going to be easy to crack. My sister, my home, safety
. "Clocks? The Alps? Cheese? Watches? Unbelievable chocolate? Take your pick."

"Lax banking regulations and no extradition treaty." That slight trace of British accent clipped the words as neatly as a privet hedge.

Taylor rubbed the goose bumps on her arms and shrugged. "Well now, if you
know
that, I'm not hiding anything, am I?"

"There's more here you're not telling me."

"Well, in the vernacular,
duh
." She glanced around the room. "Where are the other two stooges?"

"Kipping in the back."

Taylor widened her eyes. "Lord, I hope that isn't as nasty as it sounds."

"Sleeping." The gray of his eyes seemed to swirl and settle as he watched her, expressionless, from hooded eyes. "What caused you to become a thief?" he asked evenly.

Daniel's Uncle Ralph had hired her to work in his Zurich company, Consolidated Underwriters. She'd been seventeen, scared, hungry, and willing to do just about anything. He started her in the mail room, and moved her up the ladder quickly. She'd had what Ralph Turner believed to be a God-given talent. She could save the company billions of dollars a year in claims by retrieving, and returning, stolen property.

"My mother is very sick," she told Hunt. The lie came easily.
Just a small quiver. Don't overdo it
.

"Still?"

"It's been protracted," she answered soberly, smoothing the thin silk over her knees and making her eyes look sad. "Yes. A very long time. Her medication is so expensive. Surgery would help, but we have no insurance." She quickly considered;
Brain tumor? A new heart? Restore her sight? What lasted a long time and was expensive
?

"Remarkable woman," he said.

Huntington St. John was the…
stillest
man she'd ever seen. He didn't fidget, or shift in his seat. He didn't cross his legs or tap his fingers. He just sat there watching her.

She forced herself to be just as still, giving him a guileless look.

"She must have amazing fortitude to hold on and suffer so… this long after her death," he said dryly. "She passed away when you were, what? Seventeen?"

Shit
. Had her mother really died when she was seventeen? She had no idea. She and Amanda had been in Zurich by then. For all she knew, he was making it up. But just in case he knew something she didn't, she said, "I was talking about my
step
mother." Who didn't exist. Taylor couldn't tell by his
Hmm
if he believed her or was giving her enough rope to hang herself. "I—It's too hard to talk about."

"I'm sure it is. You're very… athletic. Let's talk about that instead." He changed topics with ease, as if they were conversing over coffee at the park on a Sunday afternoon.

Gymnastics, ballet, and a natural ability. "My daddy trained me as an acrobat," Taylor said, suddenly feeling Southern, and adding a little lilt before she thought about it. "He was in the circus."

"Of course he was." His lips twitched. Or she thought they did. But when she looked again, his mouth was a thin, grim line. Good. She didn't want to amuse him. She wanted to snow him.

"I loved it," Taylor told him, just warming up. "Of course, I was only allowed to visit him in the summers—my parents were divorced by then—but I adored the animals, and the smell of the greasepaint—"

"Called?"

"Max Factor?"

"The name of the circus," he said patiently.

"It was small. Family owned, so it wasn't very well known…" She needed a name—quick. "Coretti. The
Coretti
Family Circus. They traveled around from town to town. Drew pretty good audiences. They had three magnificent white tigers, four African elephants, and of course the lions. Pumbaa, Mufasa, and Scar."

Oh, that was a nice touch
. It was always good to keep things simple, not
too
much detail, but just enough to give verisimilitude.

"And clearly the owner of the circus liked Disney," he inserted, voice Sahara dry.

Damn, he was quick
. She could not imagine this man sitting through
The Lion King
, but she'd do well to remember not to underestimate him. "Oh, the circus was around long before Disney stole our lions' names. Actually," she leaned toward him as if spilling a state secret, "I think Pop Coretti is getting together a lawsuit. He figures if Disney wanted to steal his lions' names, then they should have paid for it. I don't think he has a shot, but Pop is a hard man." Was he buying this? She couldn't tell. She held his gaze, her own steady as a rock. No blinking.

One heartbeat. Two. Ten.

A small muscle leapt at the corner of his mouth. "Pop sounds like a stubborn man." He was sounding more British by the minute. What did that mean? He was relaxing? Believing her? Or just the opposite?

"Oh, you have no idea. I was practically adopted by the trapeze artists," Taylor informed him. "My father was always so busy, you know? So I learned as the Coretti children learned. Being an only child, I loved being among them. Eleven kids. Meals at Mama Coretti's caravan were insane, noisy, and filled with laughter."
Lord. She could almost see it. Taste it
. "It was a wonderful life. I hated going back home in September."