Thieves Like Us (18 page)

“He doesn’t. Not in the safe here, not in the one at work, and not in the bank. But he doesn’t appear to have the diamonds Sleazy said he bought, either. So what if he really did have the rest of the jewelry, and it went to whoever got the diamonds?”

He frowned, and she knew he’d followed her logic. To stop the attacks on her, they needed to find the rest of the jewelry, and Banner might know where it was. If Rocky looked that irritated, it must mean he agreed that she had to see Banner.

“We’ll fight about this when you feel better.”

“Fine, talking about Banner only makes my head hurt more. But I’m right.”

He raised a cautionary eyebrow, and she decided not to tell him that he was far sexier than Jingles, even when he disagreed with her. Instead, she reached up to catch a handful of his shirt, pulling him toward her. “Kiss me good-bye. Then go do something about your cat. Just don’t take her back home; I don’t trust that friend of yours not to hurt her, too.”

“Easy isn’t my friend. He isn’t anyone’s friend.” But his expression softened as he leaned close to her and laid a hand against her face. “Feel better. And call me when you wake up.”

“I will.”

His mouth touched hers. The kiss was gentle, drawing a moan from her and making her clutch his shirt like a drowning woman hanging onto a life raft. When his tongue slid slowly against hers, she nearly forgot about the hammering in her head. He finally pulled away, and she sighed. “Or you could stay.”

He chuckled. “Don’t tempt me. Just sleep.” He stroked his hand over her hair, then scratched Jingles on the cheek. “Take care of her, big guy.”

Her heart melted a little more, and not just because she was such a big sap about her cat. She liked the man, damn it. She liked the way he stroked her cheek as if it was the softest velvet, and the way he kissed with enough passion to fuel a bonfire. Like the one smoldering between her thighs. Why had she waited so long to go after this?

Because she’d made such a bad choice with the last man. She needed to be cautious. But really, how much vetting did the guy need? Jack loved Rocky. Elizabeth Westfield respected him and treated him like family. Even Ben Thatcher, the chief of police, liked him.

Ellie trusted him, too, enough to form a partnership with him. But that was a business arrangement, not a personal one, with legal papers that specified the rules. He put up half the money and did half the work. It was all very neat and tidy.

Relationships had a way of being untidy, and no one knew that better than Janet. She should have been more cautious before falling for Banner’s smooth talk and easy persuasion. Just because he’d fooled everyone else, too, didn’t mean she could excuse herself. She’d seen what she’d wanted to see—the beautiful, successful exterior—not what was real. Maybe she was doing that with Rocky, purposely overlooking his shady past in favor of the charming man with the mischievous smile.

Oh, God, she hoped not. Long-dormant parts of her throbbed and burned in anticipation of his next touch. Every instinct said she could trust Rocky. But after choosing a man who turned out to be deceptive enough to marry for opportunity, greedy enough to smuggle drugs, and evil enough to try to murder whoever got in his way, including his wife . . . well, she would be crazy not to doubt her own judgment. Following her heart had nearly gotten her killed.

She needed to know why Rocky had done what he’d done, and why he quit doing it. If Ellie and Jack were here, she could ask them. But they weren’t, so tomorrow she’d ask Rocky himself, and hope his answers didn’t douse the fire he’d kindled inside her. Because she already knew how easily he could turn that flame into a roaring inferno. After a year of no sex—and six months before that of uninspired sex with Banner—she looked forward to being with someone who knew his way around a woman’s body. Rocky Hernandez seemed to be the perfect man for the job.

Rocky slowed as he approached his car. The hard-on he’d gotten just from helping Janet into bed had disappeared, but it seemed that now he had a different problem. He’d parked in his usual spot on the apron of asphalt beside the garage, right next to Ben Thatcher’s unmarked police car. Now Elizabeth Westfield stood near the hood of his car, arguing with Ben. Dignified and imposing, even in a pert white tennis skirt and top, she stabbed a finger at Ben’s chest as she made her point.

Great.
The last thing he needed was to intrude on the private lives of the two most discreetly private people he knew.

He scraped his feet on the asphalt as he walked. Elizabeth either ignored him or didn’t hear, folding her arms over her slender frame.

This could be embarrassing. Since he couldn’t pretend to be heading anywhere else on the Westfield property, he added a tuneless whistle. Ben ignored his presence with the same indifference he showed Elizabeth’s argument, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned against his car. Rocky was close enough now to hear him say, “You already know what I want.”

Whatever it was, Elizabeth wasn’t having any of it. “You’re just being stubborn.”

Ben nodded agreeably. “Yup.”

Elizabeth straightened her already ramrod-straight back. Muscles tensed all the way down her well-toned thighs and calves. “We’re too old to play these sorts of games, Ben.”

“I’m not playing, Liz.” With barely a change in expression, his eyes shifted toward Rocky. “Afternoon, Rocky. How’s she doing?”

He’d called them from the hospital, but played down the incident, not wanting to cause unnecessary worry. With the panic over, they deserved the details. “She’s fine now, probably sound asleep. They tested her blood levels at the hospital and gave her a ton of painkillers. They thought it might have been a small dose of sarin. Very small,” he rushed to add as Ben stiffened, no doubt recognizing the favorite gas of terrorists. “She still has a headache, but they said there’d be no lasting effect.”

A plaintive sound carried through the open window of his car. Elizabeth looked past him with a frown, seeming to notice his car for the first time. “Roberto. Why is there a cat in your car?”

Rocky’s gaze went to the cat carrier in the back seat. He saw a bit of long, white fur, and heard the pitiful meows that sounded like, “Help. Help. Help.” The typical cat aversion to riding in cars. “She exaggerates. She’s fine; I left the window open.”

“I realize that. Why are you transporting a cat in your car?” He knew he was getting a bit of the anger she’d shown Ben and was glad he didn’t have to face her full fury. Everything about Elizabeth Westfield screamed breeding and elegance, traits he’d been raised to respect. He couldn’t look as unconcerned as Ben in that intimidating presence.

“I’m taking her to a kennel. It’s just a precaution. If that little practical joke with the gas was really meant for me and it happens again, I want my cat out of danger.” The suggestion that the incident with the box was a poorly executed joke was weak; he couldn’t believe Ben had bought it. The fight with Elizabeth must have put him off his game.

Good. Rocky didn’t want the police getting involved; he intended to exact his own revenge on Easy.

Elizabeth pinned him with her stern gray eyes. “You mean you’re going to make your cat live in a small cage in a strange place, with none of the people and things she’s used to, until you decide it’s safe to bring her home again? And how long will that be?”

“Uh . . . I’m not sure. But she’ll be okay.” Even though Elizabeth’s description made him feel like a horribly mean owner.

“Of course she won’t. How would you like being caged up all day?”

He couldn’t help flashing back to a time when he had been caged up, days and weeks on end. He hadn’t liked it at all. “Um . . .”

“Take her in the house and give her to Peters. She’ll be much better off here.”

His mouth opened in surprise. “I couldn’t impose like that.”

Ben brushed it off. “Oh, don’t worry. She likes moving people and animals into her house. The more the merrier.”

Elizabeth shot a furious look at him. “I have plenty of room.”

“You do,” Ben agreed. “Maybe you should go to the shelter and pick up a few more cats.”

With a final glare, she whirled away and stomped across the lawn toward the tennis court. Ben looked at Rocky and smiled. “Temperamental.”

Not in Rocky’s experience. In the year he’d known Elizabeth Westfield, he’d never seen her be anything but cool and collected. But there was definitely some tension around the subject of her taking in people and animals. And it had to do with Ben. “Do
you
have something against me leaving my cat here?”

“Nope. Doesn’t affect me one way or the other. I don’t live here.”

It was the total disinterest on Ben’s face that made him suspect he’d stumbled onto the crux of the argument, though he couldn’t imagine how
not
living here could be a problem for Ben, since Elizabeth had extended an open invitation. There was more going on here than he knew.

Best to keep it that way. Elizabeth and Ben were two of those special people who made love look easy, but even the happiest lovers were entitled to disagreements now and then. He should take his cat and leave. But the way Elizabeth was smashing tennis balls across the court, anger driving each serve, made him hesitant to cross her just now. What the hell, Fluff was adaptable. The former street cat had spent her first two years living off scraps in Detroit alleys while dodging the assholes who found helpless animals fair game. She could handle a life of extreme privilege for a few days.

Hefting the cat carrier, he left Ben to brood over Elizabeth’s foul mood and headed back toward the house. Jingles might not appreciate the company, but Fluff was scrappy enough to hold her own. He just hoped Mr. Peters had a couple more lint brushes.

J
anet had been having a lot of sex dreams lately, so she wasn’t surprised when it happened again. But sitting on a countertop with a man standing between her open thighs was new. It was pure fantasy, of course, because countertops were too tall for that in real life—weren’t they? She’d dug her fingernails into strong shoulders, muffled her low cry of joy in his neck, kissed her way toward his mouth—then recognized Banner’s smooth as sin smile and woke with a scream.

She sat up in bed, her pelvis still pulsing with heat and her heart racing with terror. There was a logical explanation. Rocky had mentioned the countertop, and she’d decided to visit Banner in jail. But putting the two of them together was just plain freaky.

At least it reminded her of the first job on her to-do list for the day—the distasteful task of arranging to meet with Banner.

Visiting a prisoner at the county jail required following a lot of procedures. Inmates submitted names of allowed visitors; if you weren’t on the list, you didn’t get in. She was probably still on Banner’s list from the one time she’d met with him to discuss their divorce. But even if she was on the list, it didn’t mean he’d agree to see her just because she put in a request. Unless they were having snowball fights in hell while pigs flew overhead, his answer to her request would be no. She had to entice him into a meeting. Fortunately, she knew his Achilles’s heel.

The fastest route was through his lawyers. Daily calls between Banner and his law firm probably weren’t necessary, but from the fast response times during the divorce it was obvious they had regular contact. She looked up the number for the law firm and punched it into the phone.

“Sterling, Seabrook, and Holden,” a woman answered. She had one of those smooth, amorphous voices like the ones in airports that announced, “The tram is approaching the station. Please exit to the right.” It sounded soulless—just like the senior law partners.

“Mr. Seabrook, please.”
The evil troll.
The senior partner was tall and imposing, with a voice that thundered in the courtroom. She would have been intimidated if she hadn’t already learned that Banner’s quiet composure was far more dangerous.

Still polite in case this impertinent request came from someone important, the receptionist asked, “Who’s calling please?”

“This is Janet Aims, calling in regard to Mr. Seabrook’s client, Banner Westfield.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Seabrook is unavailable.” She didn’t sound sorry—more like condescending. “May I take a message? Or would you care to make an appointment?”

Janet ignored the suggestions. “Please tell Mr. Seabrook that this involves an appallingly large amount of money and yet another potential criminal charge against his client. I’ll hold.”

After a few seconds of hesitation, the phone switched over to canned music interspersed with ads advising her that Sterling, Seabrook, and Holden did everything in their power to seek justice for victims of medical malpractice to dog bites.

It took him less than a minute. “Miss Aims. This is Bill Seabrook. How may I help you?”

Good old Bill. The man who claimed in a pre-trial hearing that she had not only married Banner to get her hands on the Westfield millions, but had colluded with drug runners and faked her own attempted murder in order to destroy his reputation. A man with a vivid imagination and frightening lack of moral fiber.