at him again but he was immovable, clearly determined to keep her pinned to his bed like a moth to a corkboard. With his hard body on top of her and the silky cool duvet beneath her, Marie felt both hot and cold—leaning more toward the hot, though, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
“Let’s make a deal,” she said after a second or two. “I answer one more question then you get off of me.”
“You’re not really in a position to bargain,” he reminded her.
That Italian accent of his flavored every word and when his tone dropped to deep and husky, the accent seemed to get thicker. Which just wasn’t fair. His looks? That accent? Heck, maybe he didn’t steal jewels. Women probably tossed them at him. That irritating thought helped stiffen her spine.
“I have evidence against your father,” she reminded him and was instantly sorry she had.
His features went hard and tight and the light in his eyes awakened by laughter died and dissolved into shadows that didn’t look particularly friendly.
“So you say.” He stopped, thought for a moment and said, “Fine. Tell me who you are and I’ll let you up.”
“I already did. My name’s Marie O’Hara.”
“You’re American.”
She frowned at him. “Yes.”
“And? Telling me your name doesn’t tell me who you are.”
Moonlight sifted into the room through the wall of glass on her left and shone in his eyes as he focused on her. “I used to be a cop....”
“Bloody hell.” He huffed out a breath, then narrowed his gaze on her. “Used to be?”
“I answered the one question. Let me up and I’ll tell you the rest,” she said.
“Fine.” He shifted off of her and Marie instantly inhaled deeply.
Sitting up, she adjusted the fit of her blouse then tugged the hem of her skirt as far down on her thighs as it could go. Flipping the hair out of her eyes with a toss of her head, she fixed a hard look on him.
“What’s a former cop doing in my home?” He pushed off the bed. Shoving both hands into his pockets, he watched her. “Why does she need my help and how did she get evidence against my father?”
Marie scooted off the bed, too. She felt more in control on her own two feet. Of course, that feeling only lasted until she looked into his eyes. No one would take control out of his hands. He practically oozed authority. It was, she guessed, an alpha-male quality and he was most definitely alpha.
“Explain to me why I shouldn’t be calling the police to report an intruder,” he said shortly.
She shook her head. “A world-renowned thief calling the police? Ironic.”
His lips quirked as he shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a law-abiding citizen. Matter of fact, I work for Interpol.”
Marie had known that, but it didn’t change anything. A new job for an international police force didn’t mitigate how Gianni Coretti had lived his life. How the rest of his family was still living. But she knew how these things worked, too. No doubt Gianni had made some sort of deal with the international authorities—maybe immunity in exchange for his assistance. It wouldn’t be the first time that a thief switched sides to save his own hide.
“Well then, go ahead and call the police,” she said. “I’m sure they would be very interested in the photo I have of Dominick Coretti slipping out the window of a palazzo in Italy the day before the Van Court family renting that palazzo reported a burglary.”
* * *
Damn it. It was only through sheer force of will that Gianni managed to keep his features blank and not allow this woman to see what he was feeling. The Van Court emeralds. If this were a bluff, Gianni told himself, it was a damned good one. He knew the Van Court heist was last week. He knew his father had done it. And if she knew it, too, then she no doubt did have a picture of Nick Coretti—which would be enough to land his father in jail.
Gianni looked into the woman’s summer green eyes and wished her anywhere but there. For a solid year he had been working on building a new, walking-the-straight-and-narrow life and this one small, curvy woman was flushing it down the drain. Feeling a sharp stab of desire for her was one thing. Allowing her to screw up his and his family’s lives was another.
“Let’s see it.” He walked to the wall switch, impatiently hitting it. Light spilled into the room, scattering the gathered shadows.
“What?”
In the moonlit darkness, Marie O’Hara had been attractive. With the lights on she was amazing. Her eyes were greener, her auburn hair shone like dark fire and the curves beneath the red silk blouse and black skirt were lush and tempting. Everything in him stirred. Didn’t seem to matter to his body that this woman was threatening everything he knew. A flash of heat shot through him and settled in his groin.
Ex-cop, he reminded himself and the thought was as good as a dose of ice water. Ex or not, in his experience, once a cop always a cop.
“The picture you claim to have of my father,” he said shortly. “I want to see it. Now.”
“It’s in my purse.”
His gaze slid over her quickly. “Which is where?”
“On your couch in the front room.”
His eyebrows lifted. Gianni hadn’t noticed a woman’s purse on the couch. But then the moment he’d stepped into his flat, he’d sensed another’s presence and had been focused on discovering the intruder. “Made yourself at home, did you?”
“I was going to pick it up on my way out.” She gave him a hard look. “You were supposed to be gone for hours yet.”
“Are you expecting an apology for interrupting you?”
She inhaled sharply. “Do you want to see the photo or not?”
Oh, he really didn’t. Once he saw the photo, he would have to deal with her. Find a way to shut her up and protect his father. First things first, though. Did she really hold evidence that could be used against his family?
“Let’s go.”
Stepping back to allow her to walk in front of him—where he could keep an eye on her—he also took advantage of the view. Cop or no cop, she had a great butt, and thief or no thief, he was still a guy.
He followed her through his house, her high heels clicking against the marble floor like a too-fast heartbeat. Gianni flipped light switches as they went and the house lit up, displaying the clear, cold white walls and furnishings.
“Would it kill you to have some color in here?” she muttered.
Frowning, he glanced around. He’d paid a hell of a lot of money for the designer who had put his place together. It might be stark, but— Scowling now, he snapped, “Would-be thief and an interior decorator? Is that what’s known as multitasking?”
She
