Thieves In The Night by Tara Janzen Page A

sleeping on the couch last night,” he informed her with a quick wink before disappearing into the bathroom.
    How did he do it? she wondered. His body was bruised, beaten, and had to hurt like hell, but he’d awakened with a smile. She hung over the sink without a smile in sight. She let the water run over her fingers, ignoring the stiffness and pain in her palms from the rope burns. When the water reached a bearable temperature, she pulled a clean dish towel off the shelf, wet one end, and buried her face into the steaming warmth. What else could possibly go wrong with her life?
    A knock sounded on the door. What was this? Grand Central Station?
    “Go away, Mrs. Palmer,” she mumbled into the towel. She wasn’t going to put her fight-or-flight system into gear again until she knew it was absolutely necessary. Her heart couldn’t take it. The knock came again, and with a heavy groan Chantal dragged herself back across the cabin to open the door.
    The quintessence of dark-eyed, blond beauty waited on the other side.
    Dumbfounded, Chantal had a hard time finding her voice. “Elise,” she finally croaked out. “What are you doing here?”
    With a practiced air of sophisticated nonchalance, Elise breezed into the room. “I was showing the Fullers the Laurance listing. It’s just over the hill. She pirouetted in front of the fireplace, slipping out of her voluminous Russian sable fur. One finely arched brow lifted in question as she spotted the pile of bed linen on the couch. “Guests?” she asked coolly.
    Before Chantal could get out a single word of explanation, the “guest” strode out of the bathroom.
    “Chantal?” Struggling with his sweater, Jaz failed to notice the other woman watching his entrance. “You’re going to have to pin this thing, or something. You really did a job . . . Hello,” he greeted Elise easily. Chantal decided right then and there that she was going to leave the country and spend the rest of her days learning how to cope with embarrassment. She’d start in the bathroom, just in case she threw up during the first lesson.
    “Excuse me.” She smiled wanly and turned on her heel.
    Slightly perplexed, Jaz watched her retreat. Something was going on, something he didn’t understand. Chantal had scaled the Sandhurst mansion, faced gunfire, and held her own with him all night, but this lady had her running. Covering his confusion, he gracefully picked up the pieces of her ignominious retreat, stepping forward and extending his hand to Elise.
    “I’m Jaz Peterson. You must be Chantal’s aunt.” The resemblance was remarkable, he thought, but where his lady was all sweetness and light, this lady was not. She was beautiful, very beautiful. Her face was a study in artful design, natural and applied, especially applied. High-boned cheeks were blushed with copper color. Her chocolate-brown eyes were outlined with layers of careful makeup, highlighting the contrast with her bluntly cut pale gold hair and lightly tanned face. What Jaz knew about clothes could be summed up in two words—not much. But this lady was dressed to kill, in leather and gold, real gold. The yards of fur draped over her arm spoke for themselves. He’d seen that slightly jaded look in her eyes many times on the beaches of the Caribbean, women who controlled their world with wealth and enough beauty to hold back the years.
    The older, more calculated version of Chantal accepted his hand, albeit lightly. “Elise Stahl.” Her shadowed eyes measured him shrewdly, from his bare feet, up his wrinkled pants, to the mangled sweater falling off his bandaged shoulder.
    Jaz knew without asking that he’d been found lacking. “Excuse me.” His own smile felt a little wan under her canny gaze. He also felt like a fool for mimicking Chantal’s retreat, but he did it anyway.
    He closed the bathroom door behind him, and the first words out of his mouth were, “How long are we going to hide out in here?”
    Chantal moaned.