The Black Sheep and The English Rose. Donna KauffmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
was no way she could hide herself away in London, as she was far too high profile there. The press would ferret out her hidey-hole in minutes. And though she spent considerable time in New York, D.C. and L.A. when she was in the States, if it was Foundation business, she was usually so heavily scheduled, with her time stretched over more than one city, that she’d have little enough time in any one place for a permanent residence to do her much good. The same could be said for Milan, Paris, and Rome.
And when she visited a city on her other business, she rarely stayed in the same spot for more than a night or two before moving on, and never in the same place twice on consecutive visits. Friends and Foundation members assumed she was on one of her many shopping sprees. And, in a fashion, she was, in fact, usually hunting for a new bauble.
The town car rolled to a stop in front of a tidily maintained but otherwise nondescript row house. “Yours?” she asked, somewhat surprised. She hadn’t known what to expect, but perhaps something a bit more elegant, something in the more fashionable Greenwich or SoHo neighborhoods.
Finn nodded. “Home away from home.”
“What made you choose this area?” They were in Chelsea, if she had her bearings right.
“Interesting neighborhood. I had some friends who lived here when I worked for the city, and I always enjoyed the energy here.”
The area was definitely a mixed bag between high brow and low brow, which, when she thought about Finn’s more rumpled elegance, perhaps made more sense than she’d originally thought.
He slid out and held the door for her. She stared up at the building in front of her, and he stepped in behind her, his hand on the small of her back, making it almost impossible to keep track of what he was saying. Something about the place being one of the few restored nineteenth-century brownstones still privately owned. All she could think about was how warm and large his palm felt against the curve of her spine.
She might have taken the steps a bit more quickly than recommended for someone with heels on, but the sooner they got into his place and did what had to be done, the sooner they’d be back in the car, back on the hunt for Reese and that Byzantine sapphire. If it wasn’t already too late.
Thoughts of the phone call she’d be forced to make to London later, explaining the details of her first failed mission, helped keep her head in the game…and out of Finn’s bed.
Finn stepped in front of her and typed a quick series into the keypad by the front door handle. She didn’t miss the fact that he’d shielded her from seeing exactly what he’d keyed in. So much for trust among thieves. Of course, if she was being honest, it had already crossed her mind that she might not need her own city oasis if she could simply find a way to access the one Finn already, so helpfully, had. Three layers of entry security later, she decided that wasn’t going to be such an easy task.
But then, she did so love a challenge.
“My, my,” she said, when they finally entered his inner sanctum. “How…bohemian of you.”
Finn laughed, not remotely put off by her less than enthusiastic reaction to his personal space. “I spent enough time in stuffy law libraries and leather-bound offices. I don’t like feeling constricted.”
She wandered into the expansive foyer and looked up. Where there would have traditionally been a crystal chandelier hanging from the second-story, open ceiling, instead there hung a huge, brightly patterned parachute, somehow lit from behind, so the colors of the billowing silk played along the foyer walls, and those of the broad staircase leading to the second and third floors. She turned back to him. “You have the whole building, then?”
He nodded. “We all make use of it from time to time, when needed, but it’s mine, yes.”
“Who is ‘we’?” She wandered into the front parlor off the foyer, half expecting to see hammocks slung rather than the more traditional settee and high-backed chairs, and so was only partially surprised to see a series of low-slung suede chairs and ottomans scattered about, with a huge brass platter balanced on a gnarl of mahogany root as a coffee table of sorts, and a pile of various types of rugs scattered about in front of the fireplace mantel. “Well, I see you’re all prepared for your next orgy.”
“I like comfortable things,” was all he said, still sounding vastly amused by her reaction. “And the ‘we’ in question are my two partners, Rafe and Mac. We sort of grew up together.”
“And your business in Virginia brings you here?”
“What do you think this is?”
She lifted a shoulder. “A personal jaunt, perhaps? After all, I’m not aware of too many charities that encourage breaking and entering, fingerprinting and stalking, as appropriate methods of philanthropy.”
“I never said I ran a charity. You did.”
That gave her pause. She might not have obsessively followed his every move, much as she’d have liked to, but she felt pretty sure of the little research she had done. “What, then, is Trinity, Inc., if not a charitable foundation?”
“We help people, just not in the traditional sense.”
She felt him enter the room behind her, but kept her focus on the series of fascinating framed photographs lining the walls.
He stopped just behind her, so close she could feel his breath stir the ends of her curls. “And what do you know of Trinity? Checking up on me, are you?”
“I’ve found it’s never a bad thing to know at least a little about my adversaries.”
He leaned a bit closer, and she stared that much harder at a matted shot of Finn in mid leap out of an airplane. “Is that what I am to you, Felicity Jane? An adversary?”
She tried not to visibly shudder in pleasure at the feel of his breath on her neck, his body heat warming her even from the slight distance there still was between them. “We certainly have been in the past.”
He moved an infinitesimal bit closer. “And now?”
She paused, long enough to draw on whatever reserves she had left, knowing she had to answer him with cool detachment if she didn’t want to end up flat on her back in his bed. Or draped across one of those sumptuous-looking ottomans. “And now we have to figure out who John is working with before our little blue quarry leaves the country for points unknown and likely far more difficult to extract it from. I’d much rather wrap this up on American soil, if you don’t mind.”
He reached past her and tapped the photograph she’d been staring at. “My first jump. It was about four years ago, right after my father died. Amazing how clearly you can see things from ten thousand feet in the air.”
“I—I can only imagine,” she managed, wondering how to shift away from him without touching him.
“And I’m sure you have a rather well developed one.” He ran his finger along the lines of the parachute in the picture, and it was as if he were touching her instead. “Have you ever?” he asked.
“Ever…what?” Could he read her mind? Did he know how hard her nipples were at this moment? How damp her panties?
“Jumped.”
“From—an airplane? A perfectly functional one? No. I rather like to stay in touch with my own sanity, thank you.” Like she would right now, she thought, wishing she felt more tightly tethered to reality than she happened to at that moment.
“Given your predilection for adrenaline-based activities, I’d think you’d find it incredibly satisfying.”
“You think I’m an adrenaline junkie?”
“I think you have to have a certain appreciation for the rush to do what you do.”
“Running the Trent Foundation is quite rewarding, but I wouldn’t exactly say it gets the adrenaline pumping.”
“I’m not talking about your charitable works.”