ItTakesaThief by Dee Brice Read Free Book Online Page B

guard Sir James and his privacy.
    The carpet was an ugly gray, but serviceable, as if Sir
James, or Mrs. Paddington, expected the room would be used frequently. The
long, oval conference table looked like mahogany, but upon closer inspection
turned out to be laminate, not real wood. The chairs were covered in some sort
of worsted material. He sat in one and banged his knees on the underside of the
table. Leaning back in the chair made his back ache.
    When Tiffany returned with paper plates and napkins—no
Limoges today—he poured coffee into Styrofoam cups and eyed the yellow legal
pads and mechanical pencils she laid on the table.
    “There has been a new development in the case.”
    She glanced up at him, but continued laying out plastic
utensils. “Are you going to tell me or make me guess?”
    “Two staff members were discovered in the bank’s vault. They
had been murdered.”
    Her trembling hand flew to her slender throat and her face
paled, turning so white he thought she might faint.
    He stared at her hands and remembered how strong a grip she
had. Once she had accepted the inevitability of doing so, she had shaken his
hand with firmness. Had she strength enough in those slender fingers to murder
not one man but two? But he also remembered how gently she had touched him when
they made love.
    “H-how were they killed?”
    He shrugged and lied. “I do not know. The French police and
Interpol are keeping that information to themselves.” But you know, do you
not? he asked silently, remembering how her hand had gone to her throat.
    “Are we going to use the whiteboard?” he asked, willing to
move on now that he had seen her reaction. Just something to add to his list of
things he knew about her.
    “No. No matter how well it’s erased, it retains shadows. If
someone wanted to, and had enough time, he could figure out what had been
written. And, yes, I’m paranoid.”
    “So long as you admit it,” he said in a flippant voice that
brought her gaze to his face.
    “Which is more than you’ll admit,” she muttered under her
breath.
    “What shall we work on first? Our suspect list or what we
can construct of the timeline?”
    She stared at him as if trying to make sense of what he had
said. Then, with a sly smile, she sat in the one leather-bound high-backed
chair. She slid a legal pad and pencil toward him.
    “Let’s start with the suspect list,” she said in a
take-charge voice. “At this point, it’s short.”
    In a world where women were relegated to secretarial duties
regardless of their own rank or competence, Damian could forgive her the
obvious power play. Besides, he found it easier to think when he put pen to
paper. Something about seeing words on foolscap lubricated his mind.
    “All right,” he said in a cheerful tone that made her frown.
Perhaps he had capitulated too soon, had relinquished his manly status too
easily. “Top of the list— Person or persons unknown.”
    “Followed by Emilio Santana and his wife. And add a couple
of columns while you’re at it. ‘Motive’ and ‘Alibi.’ And don’t get your
knickers in a twist about your godparents. We—at least I—have to list them for
now.”
    He grumbled, but did as she asked. “Right. The motive for
person or persons unknown is money.”
    “As it is for the Santanas.” She held up her hand before he
began to tell her how wealthy his godparents were. “There are probably better
reasons, but we’ll go with the obvious first.”
    “Next? Oh yes, you. By your own admission,” he added when
she stabbed him with a glare.
    “Right,” she said from between her teeth. “Motive, money.”
    “Sir James Foster. Same-ol’, same-ol’. Although I cannot
imagine him robbing the hand that feeds him.”
    “Charles Cartierri,” she added as if conflicted, but willing
to do her duty come fire or flood.
    “Why?” He made a mental note to take a deeper look at Sir
James’ friend.
    “Money, of course. But… Charles has always loved