The Catspaw Collection, Page 2

  “Probably. Trace had that love struck look in his eye last time I saw him, and she’s more than the usual type.”

  “How so?”

  “I can’t really tell. Everything looks right—the Rolex watch, the suit, the discreet little gold touches. There’s something more there, but you know Trace. Everything at face value. And he sure seems to like her face.” If her voice was slightly disgruntled, Blackheart was kind enough not to notice it. He knew what was going on with Kate’s chronic bad temper, even if his obtuse associate didn›t, and he knew there was no way he could interfere.

  “Where are they?” he said, sighing.

  “Your office. You can’t miss ’em. He’s the one looking like a lovesick calf, and she’s the one that stepped out of Vogue,” Kate grumbled.

  He moved with the silence that had gained him access to a hundred hotel rooms. Kate was, as usual, right. Ferris Byrd looked as if she stepped out of Vogue, and yet there was something that wasn’t quite right. Maybe it was in the glint of humor in those incredibly green eyes, maybe in the scarcely disciplined curve of her pale mouth. Too pale, Blackheart thought critically. And the hair should be loose, flowing, a brown-black cloud around that arresting face of hers. She wasn’t really beautiful, at least not with a pink-and-white prettiness. She had something more than beauty, and he wondered whether a predictable man like Senator Phillip Merriam could appreciate that something. From the look of the diamond ring on her left hand, it appeared that he did.

  But the very last thing he expected, watching her bait Trace with the lightest of touches, was the look of hostility in her green eyes when they turned to his. Miss Ferris Byrd did not like John Patrick Blackheart one tiny bit. And despite his general indifference to the opinions of his fellow man, Blackheart found himself intrigued.

  Chapter Two

  HE WASN’T WHAT she expected. Which was silly of her, since she’d seen photographs of him, heard enough to have a fairly accurate expectation of what he was like. But it was all shot to hell the first time she looked at him.

  John Patrick Blackheart had to be somewhere in his mid to late thirties, and he’d lived every one of those years to the fullest. He was above average height, probably about five feet eleven, but next to Trace Walker he looked smaller. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him. His eyes were cool and brown and assessing, his dark brown hair a little too long, not styled, but rather like the hair of someone who hadn’t managed to get to a barber recently and didn’t give a damn. He had a light tan, and he was dressed all in black—black denims, a black turtleneck hugging his lean torso, black leather boots on his feet. He didn’t look like a world-famous criminal, but he didn’t look like an ordinary mortal, either. It might have been that genuinely amused curve to the sensual mouth, or the glint in the cool brown eyes. Or it might have been in the slightly tense way he held his lean, muscled body, poised for flight, poised for attack, poised for something. Ferris came to the unhappy conclusion that he was remarkable indeed, and she knew she was in trouble.

  “Patrick!” Trace greeted him exuberantly, with only the faintest expression of guilt marring his open features. “I didn’t know whether you would make it in this morning, so I thought I could get started . . . that is, Miss Byrd was here, and I . . .”

  Ferris watched the smaller man take pity on his partner, smiling at him with a charm that was nothing short of dangerous. She decided then and there to be prepared if he chose to use it on her. “Don’t worry about it, Trace. You know I’m always late.” He turned to Ferris, and for the first time she felt the full force of those tawny brown eyes. They weren’t cool as she had thought, they were warm and subtly caressing, even as that mobile mouth of his curved in what was definitely a mocking smile. Ferris didn’t like to be mocked.

  “I’m Ferris Byrd.” She rose, holding out her hand with determination, carefully putting this man in his place. She’d had to deal with men trying every sort of intimidation; she’d faced sexual intimidation often enough to recognize it and fight it. She waited for him to take her hand, and when he did she realized her tactical error. His hand was rough with calluses, strong and warm, and it caught hers with just the right amount of pressure. Like an equal, none of that pumping, caressing stuff that always made her skin crawl. “I’ve already explained the problem to Trace, and I—”

  “Senator Merriam spoke with me this morning,” Blackheart said gently. He had a soft, low voice that nevertheless commanded instant attention, and the quiet tones that should have been comforting were instead unnerving.

  “Senator Merriam’s been busy,” she said, unable to control her start of irritation. “Then you know the problem?”

  “The Puffin Ball, the Von Emmerling emeralds, and Carleton House? Yes, I know.”

  “Do you think we can handle it, Patrick?” Trace asked eagerly, obviously more than happy to try.

  “I’m wondering what Miss Byrd thinks,” Blackheart murmured.

  He must have sensed her disapproval. She certainly hadn’t gone to any pains to hide it, but the thought of his reading her so accurately bothered her. “I think the Carleton security staff would be just as capable,” she said coolly, meeting his dare.

  “Do you? I have the impression that Miss Byrd doesn’t approve of us, Trace.”

  “Oh, surely not, Patrick,” Trace protested, looking like a very handsome, very wounded moose. “We’ve been getting along like a house afire.”

  “I stand corrected. Miss Byrd doesn’t approve of me,” Blackheart said with a gentle smile. “Isn’t that so?”

  Damn him, he was playing with her like a cat with a mouse, a fat, succulent little mouse. Well, she wasn’t going to cower away from him. “Quite true, Mr. Blackheart,” she said in dulcet tones.

  “You’ve never heard the saying, ‘It takes a thief to catch a thief’?”

  “Certainly. The question is, what does the second thief do once he’s caught the first one?”

  Blackheart smiled. “I expect he splits up the booty, like any sensible thief. Is that what you’re afraid of? That we’ll run off with the Von Emmerling emeralds ourselves?”

  “Oh, no, Patrick!» Trace’s protest was explosive. “She wouldn’t think that we—”

  “Yes, I would,” Ferris said sharply.

  “Yes, she would, Trace,” Blackheart said, clearly amused. “So the question is, how do we get Miss Ferris Byrd to trust us enough to enable us to do our job properly?”

  “Are you taking the job?” Ferris questioned. For a moment she’d thought she’d driven him off.

  “Oh, most definitely. I never could resist a challenge,” Blackheart said, his laughing eyes running over her, and Ferris had the melancholy suspicion that he wasn’t talking about the Von Emmerling emeralds.

  “That’s just as well,” she said briskly, squashing down the strong sense of unease that washed over her. “The Puffin Ball is only a week away, and we’d have a hard time making other arrangements at this late date.”

  “In that case, why don’t I accompany Miss Byrd out to Carleton House to get a good look at the place?” Trace suggested eagerly. “I haven’t anything on for this morning, and I’d be more than happy to make the preliminary study.”

  “Have you forgotten your report on the Winslow collection? Kate’s going to have your head on a platter if you don’t let her close the files.”

  “I’ll close my own files.” It was the closest Trace ever got to sulking, and he did a credible job of it, but Blackheart was unmoved.

  “I can wait,” Ferris offered helpfully. “I have some errands to run in town. I can come back in a few hours when you’ve finished the report and take you out there, Trace.”

  Trace’s face lit up for a moment, then darkened as he cast a beseeching glance at his partner.

  Blackheart shook his head slowly. “You’re undermining discipline, Miss By
rd. Trace has got a full day’s work ahead of him. Besides, he usually concentrates on the physical side of the job, not the planning stage. He’s got too much energy to be a mastermind.”

  “I’ve got too little patience, you mean,” Trace said sheepishly. “He’s right, Ferris. Anything I did would just have to be done over by Patrick. You’re better off with him.”

  Ferris controlled her disbelieving snort, turning her gaze to Blackheart’s. She expected smug triumph, not the very real humor that lingered there. “All right,” she said, knowing it was graceless and not really caring. “I don’t suppose you’d rather go there by yourself?”

  “I don’t suppose. Senator Merriam assures me you know more than anyone about what’s going on with this benefit. He promised me you’d be invaluable.” Blackheart smiled sweetly, but Ferris wasn’t fooled.

  “Let’s go then,” she said, caving in. “We may as well get it over with.”

  “Charmingly put,” Blackheart replied, almost purring. “Let me give Kate a message and I’ll be ready. Soothe Miss Byrd’s ruffled feathers, Trace, and tell her I’m not half as bad as she thinks.”

  “Patrick’s great,” Trace said earnestly, obeying unquestioningly as Blackheart’s lean figure disappeared out the door with the same uncanny silence with which he had entered. “Really, Ferris, you have nothing to worry about. I’d trust him with my life.”

  “But would you trust him with your jewels?” she drawled.

  “If he agreed to protect them, I would.”

  “And if he didn’t agree?”

  A frown creased Trace’s broad, handsome face. “I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “But I wouldn’t work with him if I didn’t trust him, and didn’t think other people could trust him too.”

  “And I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

  “I expect you’ll have to,” Blackheart had returned, damn him, still on silent cat’s feet. He had pulled an ancient Harris tweed jacket over the black turtleneck, and Ferris remembered belatedly that he was half British. He didn’t sound it—he sounded soft and menacing and American. But the coat looked as if it had belonged to some country squire. He probably stole it, she thought cynically.

  “I expect I will.” She rose, ignoring the hand he held out to her. She couldn’t help but notice it was a well-shaped hand, with long, dexterous fingers, the better for plucking jewels out of someone’s bureau drawer; strong wrists, the better for hanging off buildings; and broad palms, the better for vaulting over rooftops. It also looked warm and strong and more than capable of caressing a bare shoulder. Damn, but the man was trouble. “Let’s go,” she said.

  Blackheart only smiled.

  “We’ll take my car.” It was a challenge, one Blackheart didn’t rise to.

  “Certainly,” he murmured. “I walked to work anyway.”

  Ferris gnashed her teeth as she yanked open the low-slung door of her vintage Mercedes 380SL. The navy blue had pleased her discerning eye, the classic lines enhanced her image—and if she had a hidden craving for a red Corvette, she suppressed it admirably. Corvettes were tacky.

  “Nice car,” Blackheart said, gripping the seat as she tore into the traffic without looking.

  “I worked hard to get it,” she snapped, tires screeching as she rounded a corner and started down one of San Francisco’s precipitous hills.

  “And I wouldn’t know anything about hard work?” Blackheart questioned softly.

  “I didn’t say that.” She yanked the wheel sharply, the tires skidding slightly as she turned another corner and headed out toward the bay.

  “The inference was clear. Tell me, do you always drive like this, or is it simply for my benefit?” He was completely unmoved, watching her with that damnable half-smile on his face.

  She pressed harder on the accelerator. “A bit of both,” she said in a disinterested tone of voice. The Mercedes had far too much power, and they were speeding full tilt down California Street when his boot-clad foot slid over to her side of the car, hooked under her ankle and pulled it back off the accelerator.

  She swerved in surprise, almost losing control of the car. Skidding to a stop, Ferris turned off the key with shaking hands. “What the hell were you trying to do?» She demanded in a rough voice. «You could have gotten us both killed.”

  “Not if you hadn’t been driving so fast. I don’t like speeding in the middle of the city. It attracts a great deal of unnecessary attention, and I have an aversion to the police.” It was all said in the most reasonable of voices, and her lip curled.

  “I just bet you do,” Ferris snarled.

  “We’re not going to get very far like this, Miss Byrd,” he said gently. “I think we should call an armed truce, at least for the next week. Senator Merriam is counting on you to give me every assistance.”

  “He is, is he?”

  Blackheart’s smile widened, opening up that dark, shuttered face. “So he told me this morning. You wouldn’t want to let him down, would you?”

  “I have no intention of letting him down,” Ferris snapped.

  “Then you’ll be giving me every assistance?”

  “To the best of my ability.” It galled her to say it, but she had no choice.

  “And I give you leave to disapprove of me all you want,” he added magnanimously, that wicked smile lighting his eyes. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with my work. I have my professional pride to consider.”

  Nobly Ferris swallowed the retort that rose to her lips. That left her with nothing to say, and she stared straight forward at the busy street ahead of them.

  She could feel Blackheart’s eyes on her, and they were far too astute. “A truce, Miss Byrd,” he said, holding out his hand. She had no choice but to take it, dropping it as quickly as she could.

  “A truce, Mr. Blackheart. And you may as well call me Ferris, since we’ll be working together.”

  “I might. But I don’t like it. Do you have any other names?”

  Ferris controlled the unexpectedly nervous start. “Frances,” she said sullenly.

  “I don’t like that, either. I’ll just have to make do with Miss Byrd until I find something that pleases me,” he murmured.

  “Do you mind if I continue driving?” she asked pointedly, but Blackheart was unruffled.

  “Please do.” Leaning back, he shut his eyes, but Ferris could see his hands clenching the leather seat as she pulled back into traffic. She drove sedately enough, and finally his eyes opened, those warm, all-knowing brown eyes that constantly unnerved her. “Are you going to tell me what you have to do with Senator Merriam? And the Committee for Saving the Bay?”

  She wasn’t quite sure if it was a peace offering, but the subject was innocuous enough. “I’m Phillip Merriam’s administrative assistant. He’s trying to move up from the state senate to the U.S. Senate, and I was working on his election campaign when he decided to lend me to the committee to help them with the Puffin Ball.” She was quite pleased at her even tone of voice. Even the observant Blackheart couldn’t guess how disgruntled she was at being out of the action, shepherding a bunch of bored debutantes and society matrons. But she couldn’t allow herself to think like that. If all went well, if things went her way, she could be one of those society matrons, safe and secure in her giant house in the heart of San Francisco.

  “Administrative assistant?” he echoed. “In my experience, administrative assistants are either people who know nothing and do nothing, or know everything and do everything. Which are you?”

  Her foot began to press down harder on the accelerator again. “Guess.”

  “Not so fast, Miss Byrd,” he said gently. “We aren’t in any hurry. We have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

  She took the corner too fast, but then made a concerted effort to slow down. She wouldn’t put it past him to p
ut that strong, rough hand on top of hers and pull her over. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said gloomily.

  Blackheart laughed.

  IN THE BRIGHT, glaring light of the small, secret workshop hidden behind the false wall of a closet in the basement of his jewelry shop on Geary Street, Hans Werdegast admired his handiwork. The Von Emmerling emeralds had to be his greatest creation, his masterpiece, his chef d’oeuvre, and there was no one to appreciate his genius, his craftsmanship.

  Sighing, he shook his head, rubbing his lined forehead with a wrinkled linen handkerchief. That was the problem with his chosen avocation, he thought. No audience.

  However, the money made up for it. He earned a comfortable amount from the small, elite jewelry store above him, supplementing it with a few custom-made pieces in the upstairs workshop where his assistants had free access, but the secrets of his hidden workshop did more than pay the bills, they bought him the luxuries and pleased his soul at the same time. He could no more give the workshop up than he could fly.

  He was getting to be an old man, though. And he wouldn’t like to be caught. There was no way he would ever submit to being imprisoned again, behind bars and barbed wire, locked away. He glanced down at the faded, almost unreadable tattoo on his wrist. Months went by without thinking about it. Maybe he should stop being such a foolish old man and think about it more carefully.

  The Von Emmerling emeralds were admittedly magnificent, the replicas so close to the real thing that anyone without a jeweler’s loupe would be fooled. Maybe it was a good place to stop. His customer was paying through the nose—the Von Emmerling emeralds were a fitting swan song.

  Sighing, the old man dropped the glittering almost-jewels into a plastic bag, sealing it with a twist tie. It wounded him to treat his prize creations so shabbily. They deserved velvet as much as their authentic counterparts. But that would make the package too bulky, and he had to be ready to pass them to his customer later that evening with a minimum of fuss. A shoddy fate for a masterpiece.