ItTakesaThief by Dee Brice Read Free Book Online Page A

she hung up and headed for the shower.
    She thought about calling Sir James and reading him the riot
act, but he might construe her tirade as overreaction. Ian’s relationship to
the Santanas was a double threat. Either he would dog her every step to ensure
she was doing her job…or he knew more about the theft than he’d told Sir James.
Either way, she needed to be careful. And she could hear her father-in-law say
in that calm, crisp, upper-upper-British-class voice, “Keep your friends close
and your enemies closer.”
    Twenty minutes later, having showered and dressed in worn
jeans, a dull, light blue sweatshirt and sneakers, she noticed the message-waiting
light on her telephone. Hoping Tony Trust had called, she dialed the retrieval
code and listened with growing horror.
    An unknown voice whispered, “Ian Soria is not what he
seems.”
    * * * * *
    “I didn’t realize you were staying at the Savoy.”
    Damian had expected anger when she discovered him literally
loitering outside the entrance, not this dull indifference. He opened the
passenger door to his sleek English racing-green Jaguar, then closed it once
she had settled.
    “My flat is being painted,” he lied, starting the engine and
easing the powerful car down narrow Savoy Way Place that led to the Strand and
Trafalgar Square.
    Having limited his visits to London in the summer, he found
it strange to see the Square virtually empty. Only a few brave souls, rushing
through the heavy rain for the underground, shared the sidewalks with the
ubiquitous pigeons searching for one more handout. High atop his colonnade,
Admiral Lord Nelson seemed to smile at his solitude. The verdigris lions looked
grateful for the lack of sticky-fingered children who, during fair weather,
clambered over them.
    “Did you sleep well?” he asked, glancing at her from the
corner of his eye and noting the dark circles under hers.
    “Not particularly.” Her tone was sullen, conveying her
desire not to talk. At least not to him.
    Dios , she must really be pissed if even politeness
kept her from asking how he had slept. “I thought Sir James’ offices would be
closed today, it being Saturday.”
    “I have a key.”
    “Good.” He had thought to drive along the Mall to Buckingham
Palace, then up to Regent’s Park. One look at Tiffany’s set chin and
straight-ahead stare ruined that idea.
    What, he wondered, had happened between their telephone
conversation and now? Something must have occurred, because he would have sworn
he had wrung a laugh from her before she hung up on him.
    She probably had called Sir James to complain about
Damian’s—Ian’s—demand that they work together. Well, tough ! He had a job
to do and so did she. If she did in fact work for Sir James. Unless she needed
time alone to dispose of Isabella’s Belt. After all, she had invited him to
consider her a suspect. He slanted an appraising look in Tiffany’s direction
and decided she was simply pissed at him.
    He took a more direct route, along The Mall to Constitution
Hill, by the Wellington, passing many of the foreign embassies. They completed
the ride in silence, mounted the steps to Sir James’ offices and settled in the
conference room. In silence. He put the scones and clotted cream he had ordered
from the Savoy kitchens on the conference table.
    “We’ll need supplies,” Tiffany said and left him.
    Looking around, he spotted the coffee pot and made himself
useful. Unlike the outer office and Sir James’ opulent lair, the conference
room was sparse, utilitarian. Still, it was far more luxurious than any room in
any police station he had ever seen. Books of various sizes and contents lined
three walls while the fourth gave way to more practical matters. A computer
station, a whiteboard and markers. Whatever got posted to the whiteboard could
be photocopied by pushing a button. Damian suspected the redoubtable Mrs.
Paddington had a lot to say about this particular technology, since it freed
her to