escape him.
A very small part of her wondered if she had to escape him right this very moment.
Considering that last thought, she paid little attention to his movements—stripping off his gloves, stuffing them into his pockets, straightening his jacket, smoothing a wrinkle from her dress.
“Stay here.” He ducked behind the tree before disappearing around the corner of the building.
This would be the perfect time for her to run, and she even took a few stumbling steps before leaning against the wall again. She’d known better than to wear four-inch heels on a job, especially ones that could fall off so easily, but she’d been swayed by the fact that they made her legs look damn good. But slipping out of the party like this would raise the question of how she’d managed to lose a shoe, and the last thing she wanted was questions.
Especially given that, before long, both the grappling hook’s presence and the Shepherdess’s disappearance would be discovered.
With the faintest of rustles, Jack returned, her shoe seeming delicate and small in his hand. Prince Charming, she thought again, at exactly the instant he whispered, “Your slipper, Cinderella.”
“Thank you.” She took the shoe, wiggled her foot into it, straightened, and...
* * *
...leaned to the side and puked.
Jack took a hasty step back even as his hand went automatically to the handkerchief in his pocket. Bella Donna, the most famous thief in his rather elite circle, was throwing up after a relatively simple job. It didn’t fit the cool, mysterious persona.
She really was beautiful, even as she dabbed her mouth with the handkerchief. The skin exposed by her dress was a lovely bronze; her body was long, lean and muscular; her breasts were nicely rounded; and her hair was thick with curls. Her eyes were brown—at least for tonight—and her facial structure was classical: smooth forehead, high cheekbones, the kind of nose plastic surgeons offered their less fortunate patients, the kind of mouth made for kissing.
That face momentarily wore a chagrined look.
“You have a place to put those gloves? Because it’s time for us to say our goodbyes.”
She pulled off the climbing gloves, tugged her dress high enough that a slit exposed a length of long thigh and some kind of black rig vaguely reminiscent of a thigh holster, where she stuffed the gloves. He regretted watching the fabric slide back into place. He wouldn’t have thought that second skin of a dress could conceal anything, but when she stepped away from the wall, his scrutiny gave no hint that she was hiding anything more than a breath beneath the gown.
So what had she stolen? he wondered as he followed her, easing out of the darkness between starbursts, murmuring excuse me as they wove their way to the doors. Something small enough to conceal, maybe even brazenly wear. Maybe he could persuade her to go to his hotel with him, to let him take down her hair and run his fingers through the curls. To undo the zipper of her dress and slide the fabric down her body, to discover what, besides gloves, was underneath it. Maybe...
Once inside the ballroom, where guests bored by fireworks chatted in small groups, she faced him, all calm and composed. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Sinclair.”
He wasn’t surprised she knew his name. He’d stopped being modest about his reputation—both of them—years ago. He was sure she realized that his assistance had been unnecessary. She might have balked at taking that first step off the balcony, but she would have found the courage.
“I appreciate your not throwing up on my favorite tux.”
The corners of her mouth twitched to avoid a smile. His gaze skimmed from that lovely sight to her ears—bare—then her throat, wrists, fingers, also bare. If she’d stolen one of David’s countless jewels, she wasn’t bold enough to walk out with it on.
“What were you doing up there?”
“Following you. They chose well when they named you Bella Donna. Most of us shorten it to just Bella.”
Nothing passed through her eyes—no recognition, surprise, admission. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
He leaned closer, realizing she wore no perfume, either. Scents lingered, created memories, caused downfalls. “There aren’t so many of us that we aren’t familiar with one another. The stories about you, Bella...”
An older woman, notoriously passionate for gossip, gave them a curious look as she approached. The diamond studs twinkling in her ears were worth easily twenty grand, and he’d received three requests to relieve her of the gaudy ruby bracelet around her wrist so the stones could be put into a setting that did them justice.
“Are those—”
“Real? Yes. Burmese. Ten stones of ten carats each. Worth somewhere around eight million dollars.”
“Where are her bodyguards?”
“Around.” When the woman stopped in front of them, he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Aunt Gloria, I didn’t realize you were here.”
He caught the widening of Bella’s eyes, along with the gleam in Gloria’s expression.
“I imagine you were otherwise preoccupied. I saw you two disappearing from the ballroom. Our host didn’t, though. David was regaling a small group of us with stories of his adventures. Do you know how it feels to have every bit of air slowly sucked out of your body to the point you can’t think, can’t move, can’t even try to escape?”
She directed the question to Bella, who mutely nodded her head. Gloria smiled. “That’s our David. He has millions of millions, and in spite of that, he is undoubtedly the dullest and most boring man on earth.” Then she turned her smile to include Jack. “Of course, we only love him for his money, don’t we?”
Jack murmured a noncommittal response, then silence fell. His aunt was waiting for an introduction. Apparently, Bella figured it out and began to take tiny steps like a drunken crab, sideways and backward at the same time. When she put enough distance between them, her intent, no doubt, was to ditch him. His intent was to not let that happen.
He took hold of her arm, her skin warm and silken, her muscles tightening at his touch. “Aunt Gloria, this is my friend—”
“Lisette Malone. Of course,” Gloria said. “Someone pointed you out earlier. The gentleman you work with at the museum, I believe. The one with the damp palms.”
Lisette Malone. Most likely not her real name, but one these people would be much more comfortable with than Bella Donna.
Once more the corners of Bella’s—Lisette’s mouth twitched. “Mr. Chen.”
“Yes, that’s the one. I’m Gloria Mantegna. Even though I’m his great-aunt, Jack calls me aunt to my face and old bat behind my back.”
“Aunt Gloria,” he protested, but she patted his hand.
“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Mantegna,” Lisette said dutifully.
“My friends call me Gloria. My men friends call me Glory. Most of ’em are standin’ at
