The London Deception (2 page)

“Place looks untouched, guv.”

Rowan could only thank the heavy rug that covered the floor didn’t show footprints the same way plush carpet would have, and her esteem for Lady Warrington’s decorating skills rose a notch.

“Did you search it?”

“Look. She’s not here, I tell ya. Let’s look at the safe.” The muffled sound of footsteps crossing the room, then the nearly soundless swing of the closet doors broke the silence. “Look. Safe hasn’t even been touched.”

“Maybe she cracked it.”

“Little bit of fluff like her?”

“Don’t underestimate her. Size has little to do with skill.”

A low grumble echoed from the closet and Rowan had to strain to hear the response. “She was on the roof not ten minutes ago. How’d she get in here, crack the safe and get away?”

The idea that the gunshot had happened less than ten minutes ago surprised Rowan. If she’d been asked, she’d have surely said she and the man in black had been in the closet for at least twenty minutes, yet it had been merely a quarter of that.

“What if she’s still prowling the outside? Or got away’s more like it.” The assurance dripped from the second man’s voice and Rowan could only offer thanks he was so eager to assume she’d fled the scene.

“Check the room. I’m going to work on the safe.”

The moment of good fortune—the one that had bloomed so briefly—shriveled and died as heavy footsteps thudded in the direction of her hiding place.

* * *

Finn Gallagher reached for the small, slender hand next to his and willed her to understand his intentions. The urge to flee straight-out was strong, but he knew there was the slightest chance the idiot on the other side of the room wouldn’t discover them.

Slim, but a chance.

Besides, he’d gamble on stunning the grunt with the element of surprise, leaving him to only have to deal with the one in the closet. And if there was a third, as he’d originally calculated?

Finn mentally shook his head.
Deal with it if it comes, boyo.

Wasn’t that what his old man had always said?

While not quite comforting in his current predicament, the old man had always been a wise bugger. He’d do best to take the advice and sit still, maintaining an even breath and a steady focus.

He squeezed the girl’s—could she really be more than sixteen or seventeen?—hand once, then dropped it to brace for discovery.

And had to wait the length of time it took the moron taking orders to cross the room and poke the curtain.

“Run!” Finn hollered the order as he threw a punch about where he estimated a head should be. The heavy grunt from the other side let him know he’d come relatively close as the girl streaked away from their hiding place.

Finn used the brief moment of confusion to reach down and throw the curtain over his opponent’s head, pushing forward at the same time as if in a rugby scrum. He caught the slender black form run across the room from the corner of his eye, satisfied she’d at least cleared the immediate threat.

Although her movement had turned his attention for barely a second, it had given his assailant enough time to struggle to a standing position. Finn saw the hard glint in the seasoned professional’s eye and opted for an old trick he’d learned on the playground.

He kicked first, telegraphing the motion with his eyes, and used the man’s off-kilter frame as he dodged the foot to slam another punch into his face. The heavy thud of bone on bone rang up his arm but Finn ignored it as he took off after the girl.

“Teddy! She’s headed your way. Get her!” The shout rang out from the closet as the first thug clamored out. Finn knew “Teddy” must be the third thief. A renewed sense of urgency gripped him to make sure the girl was all right, even as the thought he didn’t know her—and really shouldn’t be investing this much time in protecting her—flashed through his mind.

Then an image of her wide blue eyes, strangely guileless for the fact she had just been removing a piece of jewelry worth well over a million pounds, intruded on his waffling thoughts.

Could she really be that innocent?

Of course, if she was the age he’d assessed, the answer was quite possibly a yes. He’d only been in the game a few years himself, but he’d lost his own innocence a hell of a long time ago.

Which made it that much more puzzling she’d be so immediately appealing.

Finn kept moving, the heavy bracelet he’d shoved in his fake pocket—inside an interior pouch he kept wrapped around his leg—took a bit of getting used to as he straggled his way across the room. The cuff of the bracelet was awkward against his flesh and he fought to adjust the wrap around his thigh.

As he hit the back servants’ stairwell, Finn knew the few moments of hesitation to adjust the bracelet were going to cost him. A thick hand reached out and snagged his shirt, the tug enough to slow him down. Finn stopped hard and pushed toward the hallway wall, knocking the man off-balance. It was only when he felt the hard edge of a gun that Finn knew he was in real trouble.

The thick, heavy beats of his heart kept his focus sharp and he turned hard on his captor, using his body for momentum. He grabbed the weapon with one hand while executing a swift uppercut with the other. The thug gave as good as he got, his skills no doubt honed on the streets the same as Finn’s, but the movements did dislodge the gun, and the heavy piece banged against the wall and fell.

Satisfied he’d removed at least half his problem, Finn used the wall to his advantage, slamming the man into it. A painting mere inches from the guy’s head quivered with the impact, but Finn barely saw it as hands flashed up to slam him in the chin.

A scream echoed from the bottom of the stairs, effectively breaking through the ringing in his ears.

The girl.

Indecision ripped through him as he continued to struggle with the man in the hallway. The gun was a very real threat and leaving his opponent in favor of traipsing after the girl was only going to give the thug time to get the weapon—and the upper hand.

As another scream tore through the air, Finn made his decision.

With one final slam to his opponent and a brief prayer the hard wall would stun him enough to slow him down, Finn dropped his hold and raced down the stairs.

* * *

Rowan screamed as hands came over her shoulders, dragging her backward. She kicked and scrambled, desperate to get out of the hold as her racing heartbeat threatened to swamp her. Her breath was already coming in heavy pants, the urgent need to get to safety drumming through her system.

“Where you think you’re going?” The man’s breath was warm and clammy in her ear before he turned his head and hollered up the stairs, “Got her!”

Who were these guys? And what had Bethany’s father gotten himself into?

“Think you’re going to take what’s ours, did you?”

“It’s not yours.” She struggled against the tight hold, suddenly conscious of how different this man’s grip was from the man in black.

Where he’d pinned her in place to explain what was happening, this thug was all about the lascivious press of his body against hers.

And then the disgusting press of his body was gone as if it had never been as the man was literally dragged off her.

“Keep running!”

Rowan turned at the voice, a mix of relief and sudden ease swamping her.

The man in black was still fighting for her.

It was that very thought that had her defying his orders. “I can’t leave you!”

“Get out of here.” The words came out as a barely concealed grunt as he struggled with her former captor. Eyes roaming over the hallway, she caught sight of a small corner of the kitchen through an open doorway. A heavy frying pan sat on the edge of the counter.

Rowan moved at once, the pan in hand as she raced back to the hall. The two men continued to fight, each locked in a death grip, and she braced her feet, waiting until the movements of the two bodies would put the dangerous thug in the line of her swing.

Be bold, Rowan Steele.

The words flashed through her mind. They were her father’s admonishment before she ever did anything she didn’t want to do or was afraid of. First days of school. A big footy tournament. A big test.

The words—forgotten these past years in her grief—were suddenly a very real reminder of the strength inside of her.

Arms rigid, she swung the pan as hard as she could. A zing of satisfaction matched the ringing in her arms when the thug went limp midfight. The man in black took advantage immediately, pressing on her shoulder to get her moving.

At the heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs, they both turned.

The other thug—the one from the closet—shot off another round from the bottom of the stairs. The bullet went wild, but he never had a chance to get off a second shot when the frying pan was snatched from her hand, then went flying, end over end toward the man’s head.

The pan hit hard, knocking the man off his feet as another shot went wild.

“Wow.”

The man in black stared at her for the briefest moment before he shrugged and grabbed her free hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

She followed him out the same back door she’d used to enter the house. “Wait!”

The impatience was evident in those broad shoulders and the quick rocking from foot to foot, but he stopped for her. “What is it?”

“Give me a minute.” Rowan reached for the small, slim plastic bag she kept in her back pocket.

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Just wait.”

She flipped the small bag inside out as she waved him through the door with her other hand. “Go in front of me.”

“What is that?”

“Petroleum jelly.”

His low whistle echoed in her ear at the same time their felled thug let out a large roar. “Time to go, Peach.”

Rowan gave the knob one more swirl from the bag before slamming the door behind her and fled down the back steps. “Come on down here. Through the old mews.”

He reached for her hand to drag her out the back garden toward the main road. “They’ll follow us that way.”

“Not when we go up.”

“Up where?”

“The vines. All the houses back here have thick ivy. We climb it.”

“Absolutely not.”

If the situation weren’t so dire, Rowan might have laughed at his clear affront. “You’ve got a better idea?”

“We keep on and make a run for it through the alley. Same way I came in.”

“They’re going to follow us that way.”

A shout behind them confirmed the truth of that and the man shrugged. “You sure about this?”

“Positive. There’s a tree a few doors down for the descent. It’ll be more secure than the alley.”

Another bellow echoed from the direction of the kitchen, and Rowan knew the thug had found his progress stymied with the doorknob. A quick smile flashed in the man in black’s eyes as he laced his fingers and put his hand out to give her a boost up the ivy. “Real nice trick back there, Peach.”

“Thanks.” Rowan put her foot in his hands, but stopped, the question she’d wanted to ask back behind the curtain flaring up once more. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because you’re lush and ripe, like a fresh peach.”

The cavalier words—delivered with a wicked smile that was visible even through the mouth of the mask—caught her up as a flood of warmth rushed through her.

She knew it was reckless.

Pointless, really, and terribly dangerous, but like the bracelet she couldn’t resist, she could no more stop the impulse than she could stop her heart from beating. With the quick fingers she was known for, she had his mask halfway off his face and her lips against his in the span of a breath.

Whatever surprise he might have had at her move was quickly tamped down by the hard press of his lips and the quick heat of his tongue as it swept through her parted lips.

A streak of heat flooded her belly before racing to the end of her limbs, and Rowan had the very real sensation of feeling her knees go weak.

He lifted his head, his lips bright with wetness in the moonlight, but it was his eyes that truly captured her. The gaze that had teased mere moments before glinted with something else. Something elemental. Something that called to her and made all those empty places inside—the ones that clamored so loudly in their silence—still.

And for the first time in four years, Rowan Steele felt an emotion that was stronger than the emptiness.

Voice gentle, he nodded toward his still-laced fingers. “Come on, darling. Up you go.”

Rowan placed a booted foot in his hands, their eyes meeting once more. In the moonlight she saw what had only been an impression earlier when she’d thought him as gangly as her brother.

Likely because he was.

He was barely a man, no more than nineteen or twenty if she estimated correctly. The half of his face she could see—over his hard jaw and past the thin scruff of beard—held a softness. Even more than that, she had the distinct sensation that he wasn’t quite done filling out the body that would ultimately be his.

With a hard push and the determination to find out who he was when they reached safety, she launched off his laced fingers, grabbing the ivy. She worked her way up the side of the house, hand over hand. He did the same on several strands next to her, his grunts the only sounds breaking the silence.

She cleared the second floor and turned to see him still struggling on the first. “Hand over hand and use your feet on the wall.”

“Bloody vines are breaking under my weight.”

“Grab a thicker handful.”

“I’m try—”

The protest bubbling in his words never fully formed as the thug they’d left in the kitchen came into view beneath them. Rowan screamed as the pistol lifted, even as her body moved on, desperate with the urge to flee the threat.

They were so close.

And then they weren’t.

The boy who climbed next to her shook with the impact of a bullet. His fingers loosened against the ivy.

His body slid down the wall, his gloved hands barely hanging on to the vines, before collapsing in a heavy slump on the ground.

Tears burned her eyes but she climbed on, torn between going back to him and the all-consuming need to get away.