The Moonfire necklace. In the past five centuries, countless women had coveted it. An untold number of lives had been sacrificed for it. And now one man would be denied it.
That knowledge brought the greatest satisfaction of all.
Unhurriedly, the necklace was tucked away into the pouch. The cramping pain increased, and a feeling of urgency rose. Two minutes left.
A moment was taken, and then another. Then with slow, methodical movements, the black-clad body was unbent, twisted, sinuous grace and fierce concentration evident as the pulley was reactivated, inch by excruciating inch. It wasn’t until the figure was curled up against the cable that another deep breath was taken.
Forty-five seconds.
With a near silent hum, the mechanism carried its burden across the ceiling to the cold-air vent. As the hole grew closer, a feeling of relief was allowed. The whole operation would take less than the allotted six minutes. By the time the guard noted what had transpired, escape would already be well underway.
Thirty seconds.
The vent opening was within reach. The taste of impending success was sweet. A feeling of unnatural calm settled over the adrenaline. Hands braced against the wall on either side of the opening, muscles bunched.
And then a light snapped on in the hallway outside the room, spotlighting the figure, freezing it in shock and dismay.
“Impressive.” A slow solitary clapping accompanied the admiring statement. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. You’re every bit as good as I’ve been led to believe.”
The words, their meaning, didn’t register. The man’s presence did. The figure dove forward in one streak of motion, entering the narrow vent like an arrow fired from a crossbow. Panic licked at nerve endings, was beaten back. Cool logic was called on now. Near misses had happened before. They’d been infrequent, long, long ago, but they had occurred. Precautions were always taken. Alternate escape routes planned.
But never had this eventuality been considered.
There would be time later for second-guessing and self-recriminations. With the ease of long practice, everything but the primary goal was pushed aside. Escape.
The ventilation system was narrow. Movement was accomplished by wiggling forward while pushing off with the toes. Thirty feet ahead the pipes branched off into a maze of joints and tubes traveling to opposite corners of the gallery. When the time came, the figure bent an elbow, squeezed to the left. Another several feet, and a palm went up, felt along the top of the tubing for the hole that had been cut to allow entry.
At that point a body could stand, head and torso through the hole, a sense of freedom that should have relieved. But there was no time for relief. Once free of the ventilation pipe the figure could run, stooped but surprisingly rapid, along the crisscrossing tubing, moving from memory alone. Two rights then a left and a flying leap to the wall ladder. A speedy ascent and then a shoulder applied to the utility door with enough force that the figure stumbled out onto the gallery roof. The night sky had never looked so welcoming.
There was no time to enjoy it. It was one hundred yards to the edge of the roof. The time spent crossing it seemed interminable, but the thought of escape gave impetus. A cable was waiting on the east side, allowing descent to the alley between the gallery and the neighboring building. With the cable grasped in two hands, a body could rappel down the side of the building like a spider leaving its web.
The edge was reached. The figure leaned over, reached for the cable.
And found it missing.
“Looking for this?”
That dreaded voice came again, unbearably smug. Unbearably amused. Whirling, the black-clad figure faced the man, similarly dressed, who was already nearer than expected. The cable—that precious symbol of freedom—was looped around his wrist.
With his free hand, the man reached up, swept the black watch cap off his head. The moonlight painted his hair golden. And his eyes, those damned wicked green eyes, gleamed. “Le petit voleur. We meet again.” Carelessly he stuck the cap in his back pocket and approached. A slow, single-minded stalking that was meant to hypnotize or to panic. The figure did neither.
“Weren’t expecting company down there, huh?” Sam’s voice was conversational. “I’m not surprised. You work alone, right? And you don’t make mistakes often.” He’d halved the distance between them with deliberate steps. Anticipation grew, was barely reined in. “The only one you made this time was in underestimating me.”
Behind the mask, the figure smiled, a grim stretch of the lips. There had been an underestimation, all right. But Sam Tremaine was the one who’d made it.
He took a step closer. Another. And then he smiled. Slow and wide and devastating. “Whatever you’re thinking, forget it. We’re partners now. In case you haven’t noticed, your options have just decreased dramatically.” He stretched one gloved hand across the distance spanning them.
In a blur of motion a kick was aimed at his weakened thigh, a solid blow landed. Sam’s leg buckled and he cursed, but he didn’t go down completely, and he didn’t loosen his grasp on the cable. The figure ran several feet past him, then turned and sprinted by him again, flying through the air even as his shout sounded. “Dammit, no!”
There was a moment of euphoria, as air whipped by, then a second of fear as the roof of the next building failed to materialize as rapidly as anticipated. Arms were outstretched, fingers flexed. When contact was made, the body scrabbled wildly, grasping for purchase, and settled on the narrow ledge edging the rooftop. It took every ounce of energy to pull up, to throw first one leg over the ledge, and then the other. Once safely on the roof, a lightning pace was set toward the other side. There was a fire escape fairly close beneath. From there, it was just a matter of…
It was like being hit from behind by a Mack truck. The figure went down hard, rolled, a huge weight attached. Vision was blurred by a dizzying array of stars. Lungs squeezed of oxygen. Helplessly, the figure lay there, trapped beneath Sam Tremaine’s hard body, capable only of the fight for breath.
He recovered first. “Sonofbitch.” His voice was grim. “You damned near killed us both.”
Air resupplied oxygen, and with it came instinct. One leg was drawn up sharply, but he shifted, removing its intended target from range. “I’d just as soon you didn’t finish me off right yet. I’ve got plans for you, little thief. But before I get into them…” He reached out, pushed the black hood slowly up to reveal features that would be all too familiar to him.
“Juliette.” His gaze raked her form. “Your getup gives a whole new meaning to basic black.”
“Bastard.”
He caught her curled fist just before it clipped him neatly on the jaw. Drawing both of her wrists up above her head, he held them there with one hand. “It’s a little early in our relationship for endearments. But if it weren’t…” His teeth flashed. “I’d tell you that you look exquisite in moonlight.”
She seethed, bucking beneath him. “Get off me.”
Still grinning, he didn’t move a muscle. “Your accent tends to fade when you’re mad, did you know that?”
With effort, she stopped struggling. Despite her long-standing aversion to being held against her will, it was preferable to the indignity of being unable to move him an inch.
Dark gaze battled with green. Slowly the smile faded from his lips. For the first time she became aware of their isolation. It had to be close to two o’clock in the morning. Unlike New York, with its unending traffic and sounds of life, Copenhagen slept, at least in this business neighborhood.
Smokey tufts of black clouds bumped and shifted across the dark sky. Juliette had always felt at one with the night. Darkness was her accomplice. But tonight that relationship had been marred by Tremaine’s appearance, and she wondered bleakly if things would ever be the same again.
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