Tracker grinned. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
“Carlo doesn’t leave anything to chance.”
“Getting you off the estate will be the easy part. You’ve got the tough job. You’ve got to get on the estate by getting invited to the party. And you have to steal the diamond.”
Chance smiled at his old friend. “I’ve got an invite already, thanks to a contact of mine. As for stealing the diamond—that will be the fun part.”
Turning, Tracker studied his friend for a minute. “This is more than a job to you, isn’t it?”
“Carlo and I go back a long way.” Longer than Chance would ever admit to anyone. He and Carlo had lived in the same orphanage for a year—one long year when he’d been a scrawny twelve-year-old and Carlo had been seventeen and his only friend and mentor. Of course, their names had been different then. Chance had hero-worshipped the older boy. But the friendship had died the night that Carlo had robbed the orphanage and made sure that Chance got the blame for the theft. That had been twenty years ago.
Tracker shot his friend a look. “If it’s personal between you and Brancotti, that could get in your way.”
“I won’t let it.”
“Is there any chance he’ll recognize you?”
“No. I was twelve the last time we saw each other.”
Tracker frowned, then said, “Why don’t I go in with you? I could pose as your bodyguard or your personal assistant.”
Chance grinned and shook his head. “Thanks, but I already have a partner in mind, and you won’t fit into the wardrobe.”
“There’s a wardrobe?”
“An expensive one. I’ll be posing as Steven Bradford. You probably haven’t heard of him because he’s very low-key, but he’s a software genius who made his billions in the high-tech boom. And as Steven, I’ll be bringing along my latest companion, a model type who, with my backing, is hoping to jettison her career into supermodel status.”
Tracker grinned. “The nerd and his arm candy.”
“Exactly.” Chance paused, then said what he’d been thinking about ever since he’d accepted the assignment. “I’m going to ask Natalie Gibbs to work with me.”
Tracker thought for a minute. “She’s a looker all right.”
“She’s the right body type and with blond hair she’ll be a dead ringer for Catherine Weston, who now calls herself ‘Calli.’” But it wasn’t just her looks that had kept Detective Natalie Gibbs in his mind and in his dreams for three straight months.
“I did some research on her.” He’d run a thorough check on Natalie, partly to figure out why she’d gotten to him. “Her father, Harry Gibbs, was an international jewel thief. One of those legends who’s the prime suspect in every big heist, but who never got caught. He died in an accident about six years ago.”
“The father’s a jewel thief and the daughter becomes a cop. Interesting.”
Fascinating was the word Chance would have chosen. The hell of it was, the more he’d learned about Natalie Gibbs, the more intrigued by her he’d become. “She’s not the only daughter. She’s the oldest of a set of triplets.” According to one source he’d talked to, Natalie took her position as the oldest quite seriously, especially since their mother had passed away six years ago.
“She evidently inherited some of her father’s talents,” Chance continued. “She worked her way through college cracking safes for various law enforcement agencies.”
Tracker eased the boat around a curve of land that cut them off from the Brancotti estate, then turned to study his friend. “Sophie’s pretty sure that there’s something going on between the two of you. Or that there could be something. She swears that sparks fly whenever you’re in the same room together.”
Chance shrugged. “It won’t interfere with the job.”
“It could interfere with your thinking. Take it from someone who’s been there.”
“The bottom line is I need her for the job. She’s got a cool head.” Except for when she was exploding in his arms. “Plus, she has a gift for disguise and a knack for undercover work.”
Tracker hadn’t taken his eyes off Chance. “You’re sure about this?”
Chance met Tracker’s eyes steadily. “She’s exactly what I want.” That was nothing less than the truth. Even before that one night in her apartment, he’d wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever met. The mistake he’d made was to think that having her once would get her out of his system. His miscalculation about that wasn’t the only error he’d made that night. He’d never been so rough with a woman before. Hell, he’d ripped her clothes off and taken her on the floor of her foyer. And he hadn’t been much gentler later in her bed.
To top everything off, he’d left before she’d awakened and flown off to London without so much as a note or a phone call to say goodbye. Chance liked women, and he prided himself on treating them well. But he hadn’t treated Natalie very well.
Truth be told, his response to Natalie Gibbs had scared him. It hadn’t been just the lack of control he’d had over his physical response to her. No. There’d been a moment when he’d stood in the doorway of her bedroom watching her sleep when he simply hadn’t wanted to leave. Ever.
That was unprecedented. Chance Mitchell never stayed in one place, never intended to settle down. He changed his name as often as he changed locations. But something about Natalie Gibbs pulled at him. That was why he hadn’t called or sent flowers. Now, three months later, he wanted her to help him catch Brancotti. And he still wanted her, period.
“You haven’t run any of this by Natalie yet?” Tracker asked.
“No.”
Tracker grinned. “I’d say you have your work cut out for you—on more than one front. She struck me as the straight-as-an-arrow type and I don’t have to tell you that you’ve always taken the riskier approach.”
“Yeah.” Tracker was the one who’d nicknamed him “Chance” when they’d worked together in a Special Forces unit.
“Have you got a plan?”
“Not yet.” Three days ago, he’d called her department, but at the last minute, he’d asked to talk to her partner, Matt Ramsey, instead.
“She didn’t strike me as the type who could be easily conned,” Tracker said, his grin widening.
“No.” Chance bit back a sigh. If he was going to convince Natalie Gibbs to join him, he was going to have to pull off some fancy moves all right. And so far, he hadn’t come up with a plan that had a chance in hell of succeeding.
“Tell you what,” Tracker said. “Sophie’s throwing a party at her antique shop on Friday to showcase some local artists. Natalie will be there. Why don’t you come?”
Chance thought for a minute. If he ran into Natalie at a party, she couldn’t refuse to see him. She’d have no choice but to talk to him at least.
“I’ll take you up on that,” Chance said. That gave him about forty-eight hours to come up with a strategy. Deadlines always sparked his creativity.
“Good. I was sure I was going to be bored. Now, I’ll have the chance to observe a master con man at work.”
“HERE ARE THE latest acceptances to your party.”
Carlo Brancotti didn’t glance up from his computer screen as his personal assistant, Lisa McGill, placed a manila folder on his desk. He was a careful man. Some judged him to be too careful, but he hadn’t remained at the top of his profession by letting down his guard. Anything out of the