ENTRAPMENT Read online

  Anticipation thrummed. Time suspended. In the near darkness, everything else faded to insignificance. This was the moment that never failed to thrill. With near awe, a hand was slipped into the opening, carefully freeing the necklace from its bed of black velvet.

  The perfectly matched pearls shimmered like moon glow in the shadows, but it was the square-cut twenty-carat ruby hanging from the center that commanded attention. With hypnotizing brilliance it speared the darkness with shards of crimson. The Moonfire necklace. In the past five centuries, countless women had coveted it. An untold number of lives had been sacrificed for it. And now one man would be denied it.

  That knowledge brought the greatest satisfaction of all.

  Unhurriedly, the necklace was tucked away into the pouch. The cramping pain increased, and a feeling of urgency rose. Two minutes left.

  A moment was taken, and then another. Then with slow, methodical movements, the black-clad body was unbent, twisted, sinuous grace and fierce concentration evident as the pulley was reactivated, inch by excruciating inch. It wasn't until the figure was curled up against the cable that another deep breath was taken.

  Forty-five seconds.

  With a near silent hum, the mechanism carried its burden across the ceiling to the cold-air vent. As the hole grew closer, a feeling of relief was allowed. The whole operation would take less than the allotted six minutes. By the time the guard noted what had transpired, escape would already be well underway.

  Thirty seconds.

  The vent opening was within reach. The taste of impending success was sweet. A feeling of unnatural calm settled over the adrenaline. Hands braced against the wall on either side of the opening, muscles bunched.

  And then a light snapped on in the hallway outside the room, spotlighting the figure, freezing it in shock and dismay.

  "Impressive." A slow solitary clapping accompanied the admiring statement. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself. You're every bit as good as I've been led to believe."

  The words, their meaning, didn't register. The man's presence did. The figure dove forward in one streak of motion, entering the narrow vent like an arrow fired from a crossbow. Panic licked at nerve endings, was beaten back. Cool logic was called on now. Near misses had happened before. They'd been infrequent, long, long ago, but they had occurred. Precautions were always taken. Alternate escape routes planned.

  But never had this eventuality been considered.

  There would be time later for second-guessing and self-recriminations. With the ease of long practice, everything but the primary goal was pushed aside. Escape.

  The ventilation system was narrow. Movement was accomplished by wiggling forward while pushing off with the toes. Thirty feet ahead the pipes branched off into a maze of joints and tubes traveling to opposite corners of the gallery. When the time came, the figure bent an elbow, squeezed to the left. Another several feet, and a palm went up, felt along the top of the tubing for the hole that had been cut to allow entry.

  At that point a body could stand, head and torso through the hole, a sense of freedom that should have relieved. But there was no time for relief. Once free of the ventilation pipe the figure could run, stooped but surprisingly rapid, along the crisscrossing tubing, moving from memory alone. Two rights then a left and a flying leap to the wall ladder. A speedy ascent and then a shoulder applied to the utility door with enough force that the figure stumbled out onto the gallery roof. The night sky had never looked so welcoming.

  There was no time to enjoy it. It was one hundred yards to the edge of the roof. The time spent crossing it seemed interminable, but the thought of escape gave impetus. A cable was waiting on the east side, allowing descent to the alley between the gallery and the neighboring building. With the cable grasped in two hands, a body could rappel down the side of the building like a spider leaving its web.

  The edge was reached. The figure leaned over, reached for the cable.

  And found it missing.

  "Looking for this?"

  That dreaded voice came again, unbearably smug. Unbearably amused. Whirling, the black-clad figure faced the man, similarly dressed, who was already nearer than expected. The cable—that precious symbol of freedom—was looped around his wrist.

  With his free hand, the man reached up, swept the black watch cap off his head. The moonlight painted his hair golden. And his eyes, those damned wicked green eyes, gleamed. "Le petit voleur. We meet again." Carelessly he stuck the cap in his back pocket and approached. A slow, single-minded stalking that was meant to hypnotize or to panic. The figure did neither.

  "Weren't expecting company down there, huh?" Sam's voice was conversational. "I'm not surprised. You work alone, right? And you don't make mistakes often." He'd halved the distance between them with deliberate steps. Anticipation grew, was barely reined in. "The only one you made this time was in underestimating me."

  Behind the mask, the figure smiled, a grim stretch of the lips. There had been an underestimation, all right. But Sam Tremaine was the one who'd made it.

  He took a step closer. Another. And then he smiled. Slow and wide and devastating. "Whatever you're thinking, forget it. We're partners now. In case you haven't noticed, your options have just decreased dramatically." He stretched one gloved hand across the distance spanning them.

  In a blur of motion a kick was aimed at his weakened thigh, a solid blow landed. Sam's leg buckled and he cursed, but he didn't go down completely, and he didn't loosen his grasp on the cable. The figure ran several feet past him, then turned and sprinted by him again, flying through the air even as his shout sounded. "Dammit, no!"

  There was a moment of euphoria, as air whipped by, then a second of fear as the roof of the next building failed to materialize as rapidly as anticipated. Arms were outstretched, fingers flexed. When contact was made, the body scrabbled wildly, grasping for purchase, and settled on the narrow ledge edging the rooftop. It took every ounce of energy to pull up, to throw first one leg over the ledge, and then the other. Once safely on the roof, a lightning pace was set toward the other side. There was a fire escape fairly close beneath. From there, it was just a matter of…

  It was like being hit from behind by a Mack truck. The figure went down hard, rolled, a huge weight attached. Vision was blurred by a dizzying array of stars. Lungs squeezed of oxygen. Helplessly, the figure lay there, trapped beneath Sam Tremaine's hard body, capable only of the fight for breath.

  He recovered first. "Sonofabitch." His voice was grim. "You damned near killed us both."

  Air resupplied oxygen, and with it came instinct. One leg was drawn up sharply, but he shifted, removing its intended target from range. "I'd just as soon you didn't finish me off right yet. I've got plans for you, little thief. But before I get into them…" He reached out, pushed the black hood slowly up to reveal features that would be all too familiar to him.

  "Juliette." His gaze raked her form. "Your getup gives a whole new meaning to basic black."

  "Bastard."

  He caught her curled fist just before it clipped him neatly on the jaw. Drawing both of her wrists up above her head, he held them there with one hand. "It's a little early in our relationship for endearments. But if it weren't…" His teeth flashed. "I'd tell you that you look exquisite in moonlight."

  She seethed, bucking beneath him. "Get off me."

  Still grinning, he didn't move a muscle. "Your accent tends to fade when you're mad, did you know that?"

  With effort, she stopped struggling. Despite her long-standing aversion to being held against her will, it was preferable to the indignity of being unable to move him an inch.

  Dark gaze battled with green. Slowly the smile faded from his lips. For the first time she became aware of their isolation. It had to be close to two o'clock in the morning. Unlike New York, with its unending traffic and sounds of life, Copenhagen slept, at least in this business neighborhood.

  Smokey tufts of black clouds bumped and shifted across the
dark sky. Juliette had always felt at one with the night. Darkness was her accomplice. But tonight that relationship had been marred by Tremaine's appearance, and she wondered bleakly if things would ever be the same again.

  The silence around them grew thick and fraught with tension. Her senses were always heightened on a job. Surely that explained why she was so aware of the weight of him, the heat. Her legs were caught between the hard length of his, the position much too intimate. Hips to hips. Breast to breast. Even their breath mingled. She moistened her lips, saw his gaze track the action and felt a thrill flicker through her at the desire in his eyes.

  Juliette let her eyelids flutter, felt her stomach do the same. "Now that you've caught me, Sam, what are you going to do with me?"

  Her question hung heavy in the night, the answer all too apparent in his expression. She'd seen passion on a man's face often enough to identify it. His gaze was arrowed on her mouth, and the hard curve of his own drew closer. Despite the insulated suit she wore, it would be difficult to miss the signs of his growing arousal. The stillness around them hummed with chemistry and it became increasingly difficult for her to breathe.

  His eyes slitted. "First," he murmured, his voice raspy, "I'm going to relieve you of this."

  Before his words even registered, his touch did. He shifted, one hand going to the pouch at her waist. She tried to jerk away, but she was still caught securely beneath him. The necklace glittered as it dangled from his grasp.

  He gave a low tuneless whistle. "Nice." With a deft movement, he shoved it inside his shirt. "Not sure if it's worth the price you're going to pay, but I'll let you be the judge of that."

  Her gaze narrowed. Given his careless tone, she would almost think she'd imagined the moments earlier. And if there wasn't physical evidence to the contrary, perhaps she would. But they were pressed too closely together for him to hide it.

  From bitter experience Juliette knew the importance of controlling emotions. With that kind of control came power. Others could be manipulated through their feelings if one was able to remain detached. She understood that concept, embraced it.

  So it shouldn't have been so infuriating that Sam Tremaine was obviously capable of the same.

  Her tone belittling, she said, "And you call me a thief."

  "Honey, you are a thief. And from what I witnessed tonight, a damn good one." When she tried to pull her wrists free from his grip, he tightened his hold. "Easy to see how you've escaped capture for so long. That little double you had standing in for you in Paris was sheer genius."

  Since it was useless to deny it, she merely angled her jaw. "Not genius enough to fool you, apparently."

  He gave a modest shrug. "You've been under surveillance for months, Juliette." When he saw her eyes widen he said, "Does that surprise you? I have more pictures of you than your own mother probably does. Videos of you walking. Shopping. Eating. Flirting." His voice got lower, grew almost caressing. "I know the way you move. The way you tilt that little chin of yours when you're telling someone to go to hell." His index finger tapped her chin, and she flinched. She felt like she was being stripped bare by his words, his revelations leaving her exposed and vulnerable. If he were telling the truth, how could she have not known it? Been aware of it?

  And because she felt threatened, she lashed out. "Sounds perverted, Tremaine. If your pastime is stalking women, you need to find a new hobby."

  "Not women, Juliette. Just you." The single syllable of his last word reverberated between them. "It wasn't enough to learn your identity. To track you down. I had to learn to think the way you do."

  Of all the things he'd said so far, this was by far the most insulting. "Now you're telling me you know how my mind works?"

  "I'm beginning to, I think. You've got nerves of steel. You'd have to. It was possible that you'd wait me out after I approached you at the consulate party. Very possible you'd engage in a game of wits with me. So the woman who looks so very like you in your penthouse, the one who never strays too close to any of the windows, could be mistaken for you."

  Stubbornly she remained silent. Dammit, it should have worked. Had, more than once. "You followed me." The realization burned. There was no way he could have known her target. She'd deviated from the schedule, so even if he'd been privy to it, he couldn't have predicted her intention.

  He shifted his weight a little, allowing her to breathe more easily. "I was counting on the probability that the most notorious thief on the continent would have a healthy ego. Why be kept inactive when you could make a fool out of me and continue your work, right?" Because there was enough truth in his words to sting, she refused to answer. It didn't seem to bother him. "You made a fairly convincing teenage boy. I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself."

  "You couldn't have watched all the exits yourself." He didn't answer, and her stomach went queasy. How many people did Tremaine have working with him? And how was this going to impact her own plans, years in the making?

  The inner questions stilled as he rose, pulling her to her feet. "We've wasted enough time. C'mon." While her wrists were still gripped in his hand, he used the other to divest her of the pouch at her waist. "We can continue this, discussion on the way back to Paris. As a matter of fact, there's quite a bit we have to discuss."

  His arrogance was astounding. "Even supposing you could actually manage to hang on to me while we get off the roof and make our way back to Paris, what makes you think I'll be any more cooperative now than before? No one else saw me in that gallery. You have the necklace, not me." A tiny smile began to play around her mouth. "I think you overplayed your hand here, Tremaine."

  He took a step closer to her and she shivered involuntarily. Gone was the handsome charmer. His gaze was flat, his face hard. All that remained was the air of danger she'd sensed the first time she'd seen him.

  "Don't make the mistake of thinking this is a game, Juliette. Once we're back in Paris you're going to do exactly what I tell you."

  She gave an incredulous laugh. "If you believe that, you didn't research me nearly well enough. What makes you believe I'd ever agree to cooperate with you?"

  He grasped her elbow and began guiding her toward the fire escape. "Because if you don't, I'll see to it that your grandmother spends the rest of her life in prison, in a cell right next to yours."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Sam watched Juliette stalk from room to room in her luxurious Paris penthouse like a sleek feline on the prowl. And when she slammed the door of the last empty room and strode toward him, he braced himself in case she pounced.

  "Where is she, Tremaine?"

  He didn't make the mistake of underestimating the danger in her lethal purr. Not when it was coupled by that gleam in her eye. Nor did he pretend to misunderstand her.

  "Your grandmother is safe with some associates of mine."

  Juliette placed her balled-up fists on her hips, he assumed in an effort to restrain from using them on him. "I want to see her. Now."

  Sam shook his head. He'd been up for two days. The sun had risen hours ago, and it would be several more hours before he'd get any sleep. During the near silent train ride back to Paris his leg had stiffened up on him, and right now his thigh was a twisting mass of cramping muscle. Pain tended to piss him off, and she was the cause of that pain, so he wasn't in the mood to be diplomatic. What he was in the mood for was a stiff Scotch and an hour in a whirlpool. Since he was unlikely to get either any time soon, there would be no concessions granted.

  Juliette's first demand was quickly followed by another. "Then I want to talk to her."

  "You and I have to come to terms first."

  "Let me guess. You're thinking that you get to set those terms."

  He allowed himself a grim smile. "Well, I am the one holding all the cards here, aren't I, honey?" Brushing by her, he went to the phone he spotted on the eighteenth-century desk near the window. Picking up the receiver, he dialed room se
rvice and ordered a pint of their finest Scotch, and then belatedly sent her an inquiring look. "Do you want breakfast?"

  "No."

  He turned back to the phone. "And send up two orders of eggs Benedict, a couple sides of potatoes and assorted pastries." Replacing the receiver, he turned back to her. "What you don't eat, I will."

  She looked as if she were going to explode before she turned her back on him, visibly fighting for control. The close-fitting suit she'd worn earlier had been shed, along with the hood she'd used to cover her features. The black tank top she wore followed her curves faithfully and the snug-fitting black pants showcased the long line of her slender legs. Given the picture she made with her riot of long black curls and creamy skin, he imagined there were few men alive who wouldn't willingly give up some valuables in return for her company.

  Of course, he reminded himself, she didn't make those kinds of trades. She took what she wanted, without regard to anyone's wishes. Consequences were variables to be weighed only as they affected her risk assessments. People unfortunate enough to be chosen as targets were given no consideration at all.

  For a man who'd lived his life adhering to a cherished family code, her choices were reason enough to despise her.

  She was moving about the penthouse with a smooth easy grace at odds with the steel in her spine. She'd picked up an ivory carving and held it in her palm, rubbing her fingers over it rhythmically.

  He sat down on the overstuffed sofa, propped his feet on the matching hassock in front of him and barely managed to stifle a sigh of relief. The furniture was designed for both style and comfort. As a matter of fact, there'd been no expense spared in decorating the entire suite. Her career had been, to this point, quite lucrative.