Donna Kauffman
ISBN 978-0758217295
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Finn Dalton is the black sheep of his privileged family—because he’s always trying to do the right thing. But do good guys let bad girls go free? Ask British heiress Felicity Trent. Finn should have called the cops when he caught Felicity with a fortune in stolen jewels. But after the hot night they’d shared, betraying her meant he’d never have her again. Two years later, he discovers Felicity scantily clad and handcuffed to a bed in a posh Manhattan hotel room. Finn has three choices. Turn Felicity in. Turn her loose. Or turn her on…
Finn Dalton is bad boy personified. Felicity Trent should know; she’s a bad girl herself. But for Felicity, life as a jewel thief is almost as seductive as Finn is—and that’s dangerous. Because for a girl like her one night is all she needs to get what she wants, anything more means trouble. Now, with both of them after the same thing—the rarest of treasures—who gets there first might be the last thing they want…
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Chapter One
Someone else had gotten to her first.
It. Someone else had gotten to it first. She had nothing to do with it. Or shouldn’t have. But then, he could be forgiven for being slightly distracted. He’d just broken into one of New York City’s finer five star hotel suites expecting to be dazzled by a sapphire sparkler . . . only he’d thought the gorgeous gem would come in the form of a priceless Byzantine necklace. Not a stunning redhead tied to a bed in little more than midnight blue satin and lace.
If she was surprised to see him, her scowl didn’t let on.
The last time Finn Dalton had laid eyes on Felicity Jane Trent, she’d been dripping in diamonds. Someone else’s diamonds. Two years had passed since that stormy winter night in Prague. Her penchant for hot gemstones, however, apparently had not.
The only difference was that this time, someone else had gotten to her first. So, rather than rescuing a priceless antiquity, Finn was left with the option of rescuing Felicity Jane.
He leaned against the doorway of the elegantly appointed bedroom and folded his arms. “Hello, Jane.” He smiled when she bristled. He was certain she felt that was far too common a name for a woman like her, which was mostly why he’d used it. Jane was a strong, no-nonsense moniker, much like its owner. Felicity, on the other hand, was a name that conjured up images of a beautiful, innocent sprite whose most pressing problem was attempting to find the heels she’d kicked off the night before.
The only resemblance Felicity Jane bore to a beautiful, innocent sprite was the beautiful part.
“I didn’t steal it,” she informed him, her crisp English accent reflecting both her Oxford education and a pedigree that would make even the royals gush in approval. Not that they would approve of her if they knew. Knew what only Finn knew.
“Well, not to state the obvious,” he said, “but whatever it was you didn’t steal is clearly no longer in your possession, so it’s rather a moot point now, isn’t it?”
“Whatever it was?” She all but spat his words back at him.
But then, he already knew from personal experience how much she hated to lose.
“You’re honestly going to stand there and pretend that we aren’t here for the same purpose?” She laughed then, but there was little humor in it.
“Actually, I’m standing here wondering why he didn’t gag you. And why you aren’t screaming bloody murder. Given that, you know, you weren’t here to steal anything.”
“Rather a sexist observation, don’t you think?”
“What, that I assumed you were outsmarted by a man?” He smiled. “Again?”
“Not outsmarted. Everything was perfectly planned. I merely turned my attention away for a single moment and—” She’d instantly leapt to defend herself, then, realizing the trap, wisely clammed up.
“Not sexist,” he went on, nodding at her clothing. Or lack thereof. And enjoying the moment far more than he knew was wise. “I simply deduced that it wasn’t likely you’d been entertaining someone of the same sex.” He cocked his head. “But I’ve been wrong before.”
She sniffed. “Pig.”
“Just a man. I hope you don’t mind if I take a brief moment to imagine . . .” He closed his eyes and let his smile slowly spread to a grin.
“A pig and a scoundrel, but then I learned as much in Prague.”
He opened his eyes, his smile not wavering so much as a tic. He wondered if she’d noted his heightened awareness, though. She didn’t miss much. “Funny, I don’t recall you using either of those terms to describe me that night. In fact, as I remember it, the terms you used were more along the lines of life-altering and—”
“Nothing more than an ego stroke, I assure you. Men like to hear what they want to hear, after all.” Her tone had become quite clipped, but her skin tone had warmed. And she couldn’t seem to keep her gaze from dipping below his chin. Possibly recalling, as was he, that last night they’d been together. It had been rather . . . memorable. And for far more reasons than the manner in which it had unfortunately ended.
“Had it only been my ego you were stroking at the time, perhaps I’d agree, but that kind of sincerity—and, well, the word ‘awe’ comes to mind—really can’t be faked.”
Her gaze jerked to his. This time she looked him up and down quite insolently. “You’d be amazed by what can be faked.”
He gave her the same once-over. “Perhaps.” He smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the opportunity to learn much about that, however.”
“So certain of your prowess, are you? Or is it simply a lack of experience?”
He pushed away from the door frame. “Why don’t I let you be the judge of that.”
She didn’t so much as squirm when he walked into the room, despite being at a very distinct disadvantage. In fact, she easily held his gaze as he approached, her own demeanor far more that of someone conducting a boardroom coup than a woman presently shackled to a bed with little more than an ounce of silk keeping her dignity intact. Hell, Felicity Jane could have been completely naked, and somehow she’d still manage to appear as unruffled and in control as if she were the one doing the interrogating.
He should know.
It was one of the many complexities about her that he used as his excuse for acting so completely out of character whenever he got within five feet of her. He paused at the foot of the bed.
“I would be happy to recite the terms of endearment I used after we parted,” she informed him. “Nothing you haven’t heard before, I’m certain.”
He sighed then. “At least I had the foresight to gag you. Although your uses for that bow tie from my tux were certainly more creative, I must say. Still, I’d thought myself so original, leaving you as I did.” He let his gaze slide slowly down her body, then just as slowly back up again. He was rewarded with a gleam in her green eyes that was only partially homicidal. “I do believe I left you with a little less modesty, though. Of course, given, well . . . everything, I suppose I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Oh, it was quite amusing, indeed. The poor bellman almost had heart failure when he came to collect my luggage. Gallant of you to send him, by the way.” The corners of her mouth twitched, and a real smile threatened.
And that was it. Right there. The reason Finn got himself into trouble whenever Felicity Jane was involved. She was the only woman he’d ever met who viewed the world with the same sort of detached amusement he did. The only difference—and it was a hefty one—was that his detachment came in handy in his line of work. Well, he supposed hers did, too. It was just, in his line of work, he had a vested interest in making sure the good guys won. As far as he could tell, in Felicity Jane’s world, it was only important that Felicity Jane won.
“Yes, well, I had thought, perhaps, you could use a hand.”
“I’d forgotten what a charming bastard you could be.” She did smile now, and the warmth of it reached her eyes. But he was smart enough to know that all was not forgiven. Nor would it ever be. That was the other thing he liked about prowling around Felicity Jane. She kept him on his toes. Even when she was keeping him on his back. Maybe especially then.
“I’m wounded,” he said. “I’d hoped you hadn’t forgotten a single thing about me.” He sat on the corner of the bed, by her feet. Her ankles had been bound with what looked like a man’s silk tie. He fingered the edge of the silk without touching her skin. She didn’t flinch or shift away from his touch. Not that she could have escaped him completely, but she could have made her feelings on the matter clear if she’d wanted to. He kept his gaze casually fixed on her ankles, though there was nothing remotely casual about the way his body was responding to her barely clad proximity.
Seeing her bound, even if it was with a monogrammed, designer silk tie, wasn’t helping matters much, either. He wasn’t normally into such things, but then, where the two of them were concerned, normal didn’t often come into play. If ever. Play, however . . . that was something they knew more than a little about. And playing with Felicity Jane was as intoxicating as it was dangerous.
He flipped the end of the tie over her toes. “I see you still have a penchant for men’s neckwear.” There was a slight roughness to his tone, one he knew damn well she would pick up on. Just as he knew she’d use every advantage she had with him. And she had more than a few.
He wished like hell that knowledge perturbed him a bit more than it did. Because, right at that very moment, he should have been interrogating her in order to figure out how best to continue tracking down the Byzantine piece.
Not entangling himself once again in Felicity Jane’s very enticing web.
As if reading his mind—and he wasn’t too certain she couldn’t; it would go a long way toward explaining her uncanny ability to keep herself one step ahead of him—she lifted her foot and lightly stroked her perfectly painted toes along the inside of his wrist.
