“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 didn’t answer but then he hadn’t expected her to.
In the living room, she walked to the sleek, low-slung white sofa and snatched up a tiny black shoulder bag. No wonder he hadn’t noticed it. Just big enough to carry an ID and a phone, it had slipped between the cushions with only a narrow piece of the strap showing.
She flipped it open, pulled out her phone and turned it on. A couple of quick button pushes later, she turned the screen toward him and said, “I told you I had it.”
Gianni snatched the phone from her, studied the man in the photo and felt everything inside him tighten into knots. It was his father. There was no mistaking Nick Coretti. The only good thing was, the photo was dark and so others might have a harder time identifying the man caught slipping out of a casement window.
“Scroll the screen to the next shot,” she said.
Grimly, he did just that. In the second photo he saw Nick easing over the edge of the roof to climb down. His features weren’t as clear in this shot, but he was still identifiable. At least to his son.
“This could be anyone,” he said tightly, pulling up the menu and hitting Delete on both photos.
“But it’s not and we both know it,” she countered. “And you needn’t have bothered to delete the pictures. I have more copies.”
He tossed the phone back to her. “Of course you do. It’s as if you think you’re in one of those spy movies. All cloak and dagger. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“This is more like To Catch a Thief, really,” she said and for the first time since he’d pulled her out from under his bed, her mouth curved into a half smile.
He knew which old movie she was talking about and, as it happened, it was one of his favorites. Cary Grant, starring as a jewel thief who ends up not only outwitting the police, but also getting the beautiful girl in the form of Grace Kelly.
“What is it you’re up to, Ms. O’Hara?”
“Well, Mr. Coretti,” she said, tucking her phone back into her bag, “much like in the movies...I need a thief to catch a thief.”
“Explain.”
Marie’s gaze swept over him in a wink of time. He stood there in his elegantly cut, obviously expensive gray suit, white shirt and fire-engine-red tie and looked like an investment banker. Until you looked into his eyes. That’s where the similarities ended. His eyes flashed with cunning, intelligence and a hint of danger that probably had women flocking to him in droves. Even Marie felt that flicker of awareness, of attraction. And she definitely knew better.
“Can I sit down?” she asked.
“Can I stop you?”
“Not really,” Marie murmured as she dropped onto the just-as-uncomfortable-as-it-looked sofa. “My feet hurt,” she admitted a moment later as she slipped out of her heels and reached down to rub the soles of her feet.
“Well by all means then,” he said tightly. “Do be comfortable.”
“Not really possible on this couch,” she said, running one hand across the fabric. “It has all the give of white steel.”
“Shall I fetch you a pillow?”
Marie stopped, looked directly at him and huffed out a breath. “Sorry. Okay, explanation.”
“I would appreciate that.”
He was being awfully civilized all of a sudden, but Marie wasn’t fooled. The truth of what he was feeling was in his eyes. That rich, dark chocolate seemed to be stirring with every emotion possible, all tightly controlled.
Not surprising, she told herself. She’d researched the Coretti family thoroughly over the last several months and everything she’d found on Gianni had led her to believe that he was the one most in control. The one who would go to any lengths to protect his family. The one Coretti most likely to help her. Even if he really didn’t want to.
“Okay, I told you that I used to be