Thieves In The Night by Tara Janzen Page B

“Until I die.”
    She was balanced on the edge of the glossy black bathtub, her face hidden in her hands, her toes stretched to the floor.
    “Okay. It’s noon now. If she’s not gone by nightfall, we’ll make a run for it.”
    “Don’t make me laugh.”
    Jaz seriously doubted he was in any danger of making her laugh. He pulled the vanity bench in front of the bathtub and sat down facing her. Sliding his arms around her waist, he rested his forehead on hers, feeling the satiny texture of her skin against his, the silkiness of her hair falling next to his face.
    “Aren’t you a little old to be explaining your love life?” he asked, confusion apparent in every word.
    “I don’t have a love life,” she mumbled.
    Now they were getting somewhere. “What a coincidence. Me neither. Maybe we should team up.”
    “Oh, Jaz.” She slowly wound her arms around his neck, burrowing her face into his good shoulder. Her soft breath blew across his nape and sent a heated shiver down his spine. “What am I going to do?”
    A few possibilities crossed Jaz’s mind, all but one of them unmentionable in her current state of distress. Controlling some very strong instincts he said only, “Come with me.”
    Her fingers tunneled into his hair, and his control melted. He opened his mouth low on her neck, under the collar of her shirt, and nuzzled the tender skin there. “Come with me, Chantal,” he murmured.
    She gently forced his head back, her eyes luminous and sad. “I’m never going to be able to explain you.” The words were whispered urgently, as if they held more importance than he could possibly imagine. Which they did.
    “That wasn’t the question, babe,” he said dryly, a self-mocking grin twitching his mouth. She definitely wasn’t with him on this latest merger attempt.
    “Elise is going to expect an explanation, and I can’t tell her the truth.”
    “Yeah, because you’re a lousy liar. Why don’t you comb your hair and fix your clothes and let me explain myself? I’ve had a lot of practice.” Years of it, he thought ruefully, explaining himself to tougher numbers than the divine Ms. Stahl.
    “Trust me,” he continued when she looked doubtful. “I can handle this problem. Then, later, you can tell me what the problem is. Okay?” His eyebrows rose hopefully.
    He was darn-near irresistible when he looked at her like that, Chantal thought. A hint of a smile curved her mouth. How was she ever going to explain Elise to Jaz, let alone Jaz to Elise? He didn’t know the weak-willed, subservient Chantal, and she’d just as soon not have told him. It took her an instant to realize how strange the thought was. Jaz was leaving. She wouldn’t be explaining anything to him—except a good-bye he wouldn’t accept. Along came another one of those pangs of regret, tightening her heart and refusing to be ignored.
    “Just keep it simple, Jaz. I’ll be out in a minute.” Her natural survival instincts were reasserting themselves. If she couldn’t lie her way out of this faux pas, she’d try bluffing, but not without some serious preparation.
    “That’s the spirit,” he said. “Now, about this sweater . . .”
    She slipped off the bathtub and hustled up some safety pins, putting him back together with a recommendation that he wear his jacket for a more respectable look.
    “I don’t think she’s going to be impressed by my jean jacket, even if it does have a sheepskin collar,” he said wryly.
    “I can guarantee it.” Chantal gave his sweater one last tug before surveying her handiwork. He looked like what he was, a refugee from disaster. “But wear it anyway.”
    “You got it, partner.” He rose slowly from the bench, his hands trailing up either side of her body, a broad grin crinkling his eyes. “How about a little fooling around before I throw myself to the lions? Might be your last chance,” he warned in a low, teasing voice.
    Once again, without any bidding, the image of Jaz lying on her bed