eased out a breath, but forced himself to wait, counting off several vital heartbeats in case they circled back. Then he powered up the rope in a surge of adrenaline, glad he’d kept up the brutal workouts that enabled him to make this climb even though he’d retired from a life of crime.
Until now.
He reached the medieval battlement and paused again. Still clear. His arms aching, the desperate need to hurry flogging his brain, he hoisted himself over the edge. Then he yanked up the rope, pulled the grappling hook from the wall, and ducked—just as the searchlight skimmed overhead.
Too damned close.
His heart pounding, that addictive rush of danger streaming through his veins, he crawled to the ancient watchtower, careful to keep his head under the light’s wide range. Then he coiled the rope and tucked it against the wall for his descent. The high-powered beam swept back over the cylindrical tower, past a planked oak door dotted with iron studs.
Now. He leaped up and sprinted to the door. Skidding to a stop, he whipped the lock-pick gun from his back pocket, inserted a tension wrench into the lock and applied the gun. A series of sharp, rapid clicks rent the air.
The lock gave way.
Rafe squeezed through the door, careful not to let the hinges creak, into the darkened alcove that adjoined the diplomat’s room. At this height he didn’t worry about triggering an alarm. No one got past the armed guards, surveillance cameras and intrusion detection devices on the castle’s lower floors—except a third-generation master thief like him.
But he wasn’t out of danger yet. He had to find the historic signet ring and get back down that wall— before the reception ended and the American returned to his room.
Flicking on his penlight, he padded across the antique rug to the Baroque-style bureau. He checked the drawers, peeked behind the huge gilded paintings on the medieval wall. No ring. No hidden safe. He turned toward the bedroom.
A soft, feminine laugh stopped him cold.
His pulse drummed hard. He snapped his gaze to the closed velvet drapes dividing the two rooms. The diplomat had come back early—and he wasn’t alone.
Rafe frowned, debating his options, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to get that ring tonight. The diplomat was scheduled to present it to País Vell’s king in the morning. And if that happened, Rafe’s bargain with the police chief would be void.
His nerves ratcheting higher, every sense hyperalert, he crept to the floor-length drapes and nudged the edge aside. The cool, musty room was shrouded in darkness—only the faint, golden haze from a bedside lamp penetrated the gloom. Rafe zeroed in on the couple standing across from him on the opposite side of the bed. The woman had her back to him, and the mellow light gilded her naked curves.
No, not naked, he amended, his mouth quirking up in regret. But her back was bare, her gown plunging so low on her hips he could easily imagine the rest.
He allowed his gaze to linger, taking a long, leisurely slide down the sensuous sweep of her spine to the riveting contours of her hips. He couldn’t fault the diplomat’s taste—or haste. The woman was flawless, at least from the rear. She had sleek, honeyed skin, and centerfold-worthy curves. She wore her dark hair up, exposing the tempting nape of her neck. Loose tendrils danced in the light.
And given the rapt expression on the balding diplomat’s face, her front side was better yet.
But Rafe didn’t have time to ogle the diplomat’s escort. Dragging his attention back to the room, he scanned the wingback chairs hulking in the shadows, the imposing Louis XIV armoire with its carved doors hanging ajar. That ring had to be within reach. But how could he get past the bed to search?
The diplomat tugged off his shirt and tossed it aside, then struggled to pull off a sock. He staggered and lost his balance, lurching against the woman. She steadied them both and laughed.
Rafe stilled, the low, throaty sound jarring something inside him, a memory he’d fought to erase. He whipped his gaze to her smooth velvet skin, the dip of her slender waist, and gave his head a swift shake. It couldn’t be her. There was no damned way.
Gabrielle Ferrer hadn’t set foot in País Vell in years.
“Come on, honey,” the diplomat said, enunciating his words too carefully, drawing Rafe’s eyes to the wine glasses beside the bed. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
He spun her around in a move probably meant to be debonair. Instead he tripped and sprawled back over the bed. The woman fell atop him and laughed again. “Easy there.” She pushed herself up to her elbows, bringing her face more fully into the halo of light, and Rafe’s heart slammed to a halt. So he hadn’t hallucinated that voice. It really was Gabrielle.
Hell of a place to find his ex-fiancée.
He ran his eyes down the elegant swell of her cheekbones, the seductive tilt of her lips. She hadn’t changed in the past three years. She still had those hot, sultry eyes, that X-rated mouth.
A body that still fueled his erotic dreams.
The diplomat pawed at her dress, pulling her shoulder strap down her arm, revealing the curves of her ample breasts. Curves Rafe had tasted and teased and touched.
He clenched his jaw. Resentment scorched deep in his gut. She was good, he’d give her that much. The sensual laugh, the come-hither way she tossed her head, baring the tempting skin of her throat. She was every man’s fantasy, a siren luring him to erotic bliss.
But she’d only been acting with him.
“Let me get you more wine,” she purred to the diplomat, and her husky voice scraped over Rafe’s nerves. “Then I’ll join you.”
She pushed herself off the bed. The neckline of her long gown gaped, exposing a flash of creamy flesh. Her body was perfect, all right—an attribute she used well. She wielded it like a lethal weapon, destroying any man foolish enough to care.
Good thing he was no longer that fool.
Dodging the diplomat’s groping hands, she turned to the bedside table, and bent to pour the wine. Rafe watched her in action—wriggling, making her dress tighten over her hips in a move guaranteed to snag the eye. His traitorous blood heating, he clenched his gloved hands into fists, the urge to yank that soft, yielding body against his—and make her want him again—riding him hard.
He hissed, furious at his reaction—that even after all this time, he wasn’t immune. Each sinuous move knocked his heart off course, sending blood surging straight to his groin.
He shook away the lust with effort, determined to focus on finding that ring. But suspicion swirled inside him, the same uneasy feeling he’d had from the start of this job winging back full force. Why was Gabrielle here? She hardly needed a notch on her belt, and seducing this overweight, middle-aged lothario wasn’t her style.
Trying to make sense of her presence, he tracked her suggestive movements with narrowed eyes. It didn’t surprise him that she would attend the reception. She moved in rarified social circles as one of the megarich of the world. Not only had she inherited a software conglomerate worth billions, but she’d descended from the landed aristocracy. And as cousin to the prime minister, she had political connections, as well.
