To Love a Thief Read online

  "Now!"

  Throwing piteous looks over his shoulder, the an­imal plopped down on his belly and inched across the tiles. He paused at the open door, gave another whine and slunk down the stairs.

  Mackenzie watched him disappear with some trepidation. She knew the stairs led down to Mag­gie's luxurious office, where her mentor had just finished revisions to her groundbreaking tome on infant phonetics. She also knew Terence the iguana considered the office his personal domain. Macken­zie only hoped the lizard wasn't currently occupy­ing his favorite perch on Maggie's desk. The horny sheepdog would go nuts trying to get at him.

  "Don't worry," Adam said, guessing the direc­tion of her thoughts. "Terence is upstairs in the girls' playroom. With the door locked. I promise you and Nick a little peace tonight. As much as you can hope for," he amended, ruffling his eldest daughter's curls, "with this demolitions expert-in-training and her sister to contend with."

  Jilly giggled at what she obviously considered a high compliment and raised only a token protest when her father firmly closed the door leading to the basement. The sheepdog was her willing slave. She'd ride his back, dress him in her parents' cloth­ing, spray paint his fur. Tonight, though, she had Kenzie to play with. And her uncle Nick.

  "Nick and Maggie are in the kitchen," Adam informed Mackenzie. "The unprincipled rogue is seducing my wife with wild mushrooms."

  "No, daddy," Jilly protested. "Uncle Nick can't seduce mommy. She's already got a baby in her tummy. You put it there, remember?"

  "As a matter of fact," he replied, grinning at his precocious child, "I do."

  Dodging doll carriages, umbrellas and the tum­bled plastic walls of a medieval castle, they made their way past an exquisite bombe chest topped by a gilt mirror that had once reflected the image of a Hungarian princess. An inch-thick Aubusson runner in rich ruby tones absorbed their footsteps.

  When they entered the kitchen at the rear of the house, laughter drifted out to greet them, along with a host of tantalizing aromas. Even Mackenzie, whose taste ran to pizza, tacos and the occasional well-done rib eye, sniffed appreciatively. Hefting Samantha higher on her hip, she paused to survey the scene.

  As always, the warmth and elegance of the kitchen/breakfast room/family area reached out to grab at her heart. It ran the whole back of the house. Tall French doors opened out on an English garden, complete with brick walks, boxwood hedges, glo­rious roses and a Victorian-style gazebo where the girls held their tea parties.

  Inside the kitchen, everything was blue, white and bright, sunshiny yellow. Delftware plates dec­orated the walls. Colorful chintz covered the seat cushions and draped the windows. Copper glinted, and a large brick fireplace made her long for cold winter nights and a bright, blazing fire.

  Someday, Mackenzie thought. Someday maybe she'd have a home like this and bright-eyed imps like Jilly and Samantha to wrap her arms and her heart around. And a completely besotted husband like Adam, whose interests did not extend to his neighbor's wife.

  Or to supermodels and movie starlets.

  A little crease formed between her brows as her glance went to the tall, broad-shouldered chef work­ing his magic at the cooking island. Nick had shed his tie and jacket, but his deep tan, monogrammed shirt and knife-pleated gray slacks screamed wealth and sophistication. It was hard to picture him bur­rowing through mud and under concertina wire to take down a gunrunner. Harder still to imagine him giving up his string of pricey restaurants and globe­trotting lifestyle to become a stay-at-home dad, as Adam Ridgeway had done the first few years after Jillian's birth.

  Mackenzie could, on the other hand, easily pic­ture him in the role he seemed so well suited for. If even half the stories in the tabloids were to be believed, Nick Jensen was a world-class lover. Every cover girl and screen goddess he'd been paired with over the years gushed about his seduc­tive charm, his generosity, his solicitous attention. In and out of bed.

  Not that she was the least interested in that par­ticular aspect of her boss. Even if she wasn't still cautious after her divorce, her years in the navy had conditioned her to avoid anything that smacked of fooling around within the ranks. She'd have to be crazy to even think about wrestling the man down to the floor and having her way with him.

  Nick looked up at that moment and caught her frown. "Don't worry, Comm. You'll like it."

  For a startled moment, she thought he'd read her mind. "Huh?"

  "The appetizer," he said, nodding to a laden sil­ver tray. "This is my own recipe for sherry mush­rooms en croute. You'll like it."

  "Don't believe him!"

  Maggie rounded the counter. Eight months preg­nant and stunning in a floor-length gown of royal blue, she held out a tooth-picked appetizer.

  "You'll love it! Here, sink your teeth into this."

  The feather light pastry melted on Mackenzie's tongue. If those were mushrooms inside, they sure fooled her. The succulent morsels had a dark, rich flavor she'd never tasted before.

  "And to think we'll be dining tonight on under­cooked prime rib and overcooked broccoli." Sigh­ing, Maggie speared another pastry and popped it into her mouth.

  Nick gave her an amused look. "You should have convinced the awards committee to hold the banquet at my restaurant, as I suggested."

  ‘‘Are you kidding? Despite your offer to feed us at cost, not even the International Monetary Fund can afford dinner for three hundred at Nick's."

  Adam glanced pointedly at his watch. "Speaking of the IMF..."

  "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

  Snagging another of the flaky tidbits, Maggie chewed, swallowed and rattled off last-minute in­structions.

  "The girls have had their supper and their baths. They'll be ready for bed about the time Nick says your dinner will finish cooking. Jilly's eardrops are on the nightstand beside her bed. One squirt in each ear. Don't let Samantha have any more apple juice. It goes right through her. If Terence gets loose..."

  "God help you," Adam muttered.

  Shooting her husband a quelling look, Maggie grabbed her evening bag. "We both have our cell phones. Call if you need us. Bye, Nick. Bye, Mac­kenzie. Bye-bye, sugar pies."

  She planted noisy, smacking kisses on the cheek of each girl. Adam waited patiently, then took his turn. A few minutes later, the garage door rumbled up, then down. Before their vehicle had cleared the front drive, a low, mournful howl drifted up from the basement. Another followed, longer and louder than the first. The third rose to an earsplitting cre­scendo.

  "Radizwell doesn't like it when Mommy and Daddy go off and leave him in the basement," Jilly informed Nick and Mackenzie between yowls. "He can go all night," she added with some pride.

  "I'd better let him up," Nick muttered. "Brace yourself."

  Nodding, Mackenzie plunked Samantha on the countertop and took a wide-legged stance. Nick made sure she was ready before he opened the hall door.

  Neither one of them could have known it at the time, but by that simple act he saved both their lives.

  Chapter 2

  The attack didn't come until almost two hours later.

  Looking back, Mackenzie would always marvel at how blissfully unaware she'd been her life was about to take a sharp turn into danger and interna­tional intrigue. Nothing in those hours leading up to the murderous assault gave any warning of what was to come.

  The time was filled with nothing but noise and laughter. Shrieks of delight as Jilly and Samantha used the family room sofa as a springboard onto Nick's prone body. Loud grunts when they landed feet first on his midsection. Earsplitting protests from Radizwell, who danced around the threesome wanting in on the fun.

  Mackenzie kept a wary eye on lamps, books and silver-framed photographs and generally stayed out of the fray. She did, however, get suckered into playing the part of Bad Bunny when Jilly dragged out a set of plush hand puppets and a folding card­board stage. With the air of a general marshaling her troops, the pint-size director issued orders to her cast and crew.

  "
You put the stage together, Uncle Nick. Fold the tabs over like this. See?"

  "Got it."

  '"Kenzie, you sit here. Samantha has to sit in your lap 'cause she's just a baby."

  Her sister's rosebud mouth puckered at the dis­paraging remark. "Nuh-uh."

  "Yes, you are. A silly little baby."

  Tears welled. A chubby fist closed over a puppet in the shape of a bear. Before Mackenzie could stop her, Samantha swung.

  Screeching, Jilly swung back. Radizwell set the windows to rattling with his bark.

  It took a moment or two for Nick and Mackenzie to separate the combatants. They emerged from their brawl with sulky expressions that melted in­stantly into happy smiles when Nick suggested ice cream after they finished their theatrical production.

  Finally—finally!—eight o'clock rolled around. Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Mackenzie rinsed out the ice-cream bowls while Nick carried Samantha upstairs on his shoulders. Jilly raced ahead to select the books she wanted to read before lights out.

  A half hour later, the girls were ear-dropped, pot-tied, story-taled and snuggled in. Nick dropped kisses on their cheeks and went downstairs to stir his pots, leaving Mackenzie to deposit their various items of discarded clothing in the hamper.

  When she opened the door to the bathroom, though, an ominous hissing sound greeted her. Ev­idently Terence the iguana had heard the sounds of the toilet flushing and decided to migrate from the playroom next door. He had now taken up occu­pancy in the bathtub.

  Radizwell, who'd plopped down beside Jilly's bed, went on full love alert. Hastily, Mackenzie yanked the door shut, separating him from the bug-eyed creature in the tub.

  "Sorry," she told the quivering sheepdog. "I don't think he's in the mood for love right now."

  She just wished she could say the same!

  Only now, with the girls tucked in and Nick downstairs, could she catch her breath and put a name to this tingling, prickly sensation she'd been experiencing for the past few hours. The sensation had intensified each time Nick grinned at the girls' antics. Or sprawled loose-limbed and feigning ex­haustion while they climbed all over him. Or sol­emnly danced his grasshopper hand puppet across the cardboard stage.

  Mackenzie had seen a different side of Nick Jen­sen tonight—gentler, funnier, more relaxed. The disconcerting glimpses of the man behind the hand­some mask had totally skewed the image she'd con­structed of him over the past years. As OMEGA's chief of communications, she'd monitored Light­ning's operations in the field. She knew how good he was. And how lethal.

  She'd also monitored his activities when not in the field. It wasn't difficult to keep up with them. The paparazzi followed him like hounds after a sleek, handsome fox. According to the tabloids' various "reliable sources," he could have his pick of the half-dozen gorgeous beauties reportedly madly in love with him.

  Although...

  Mackenzie could have sworn she'd caught a speculative gleam in his eyes when he looked at her lately. Part of her wanted to believe it telegraphed a very definite male interest. The rest of her got clammy at the thought.

  Nick Jensen was out of her league. Correction, out of her universe. And despite the fact he'd spent hours tussling with kids and their near hairless sheepdog on the floor, she'd be a fool to believe he possessed any more homing instincts than her phi­landering ex.

  Or so she tried to convince herself as she and Radizwell made their way downstairs.

  Seeing Nick in his natural habitat didn't exactly reinforce her theory. He looked right at home at the stove, darn him! Far more than Mackenzie herself did on the rare occasions she attempted anything more esoteric than nachos or microwave popcorn. He'd even set the table. Candles flickered amid the blue-and-white crockery and tall-stemmed cobalt goblets.

  "Almost ready," he assured her.

  "I know it's a little late to ask, but what can I do to help?"

  "Why don't you do the honors with the wine? I uncorked it but was waiting for you to come down before pouring."

  Extracting the bottle from the crystal ice bucket, Mackenzie gave its label a curious glance. "Mt. Blaze?"

  "It's a small vineyard on New Zealand's Gold Coast. Their late-harvest Riesling won Wine Enthu­siast's best vintage award three years running."

  "Oooh-kay."

  Detouring around the recumbent sheepdog, Mac­kenzie brought two filled goblets to the cooking is­land. "What shall we drink to?"

  Nick swirled the pale liquid, savoring its light, fruity bouquet. His glance caught hers.

  Dammit, there it was again! That indecipherable look. The message she couldn't quite interpret. Mackenzie's breath hitched and that damned jittery sensation returned with a vengeance.

  "How about our first dinner together?" he sug­gested.

  How about their last!

  She wasn't a fool. Or dead from the neck down. She could recognize healthy, old-fashioned lust when it shivered through her. She just wasn't ready to deal with it.

  "To dinner," she echoed faintly.

  He clinked her glass softly, took a sip and turned back to the stove to stir a thick, creamy sauce.

  Mackenzie blew out a slow breath. Maybe he hadn't noticed that little blip on her internal radar screen. Sliding one hip onto a cane-backed stool, she eyed the slowly bubbling froth he was stirring.

  "What's that?"

  "Bechamel."

  "And bechamel is?"

  "A seafood-based white sauce used in a number of Mediterranean dishes. I seem to remember prom­ising you the real thing a few weeks ago."

  He had, she remembered. Right after hand-delivering one of the countless pizzas she'd ordered while working late at the control center.

  "Want a taste?"

  Mackenzie studied the little blobs in the sauce with something less than enthusiasm. She wasn't averse to trying new dishes. She merely preferred to have a general idea what they were first. Still, he had gone to all this trouble to cook for her. The least she could do was be gracious.

  "Sure."

  Tearing off a crust of bread, Nick dipped it in the sauce. Mackenzie gave the lumps another doubtful look, but leaned forward to accept the of­fering.

  The bread was warm and fragrant, the sauce a heavenly blend of cream, butter, garlic and shallots. The rubbery lumps took a bit of chewing, but their delicate fish taste wasn't too bad. Not too bad at all.

  "What do you think?"

  "I think," she announced, swiping her tongue along her lower lip, "I'm better off not knowing what I just ate."

  Laughter glinted in his eyes. "Coward."

  Her stomach did a little flip that had nothing to do with fishy blobs.

  "You've got sauce on your chin."

  The glint in his eyes deepened. So did the timbre of his voice. "I'll get it."

  Before she could reach for the blue-and-white towel on the counter, he had it in hand and came around the end of the counter. She swiveled toward him, her back to the tiles, her knees bumping his thigh. Curling a knuckle under her chin, he tilted her face to his.

  The gentle swipe of the dish towel raised goose bumps on Mackenzie's skin. The brush of Nick's firm, warm hand against her chin left her fighting to remember all the reasons why she'd decided not to jump his bones.

  He was so close Mackenzie could see the gold tips to his lashes. So near she could feel his breath warm on her face. Her heart hammered. Her lips parted.

  His thumb traced a slow circle on the side of her chin. The light, lazy touch set every one of her nerves to jumping. She knew she had to pull back, laugh off this crazy moment, or she'd do something monumentally stupid. Like flinging her arms around the man's neck and attacking the mouth so tantalizingly close to her own.

  "Nick..."

  "Mmm?"

  "I, uh, don't think..."

  "What?" "This isn't..."

  Radizwell gave a low growl. The rumble barely penetrated Mackenzie's whirling senses but Nick lifted his head and glanced over her shoulder. The next instant, he threw
the dish towel aside and wrapped his right fist around her upper arm like a vise.

  "Hey!"

  "Get down!"

  With a violent tug, he yanked her off the bar stool and threw her behind the counter. He followed her down. They hit the tiles a mere second before the wall of windows overlooking the garden exploded in a burst of glass and gunfire.

  Bullets ripped into walls, cabinets, appliances. Raked the table, shattering dishes. Slammed into the stove. Sent boiling white sauce spraying.

  Crushed against the floor tile by Nick's weight, Mackenzie couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The stuttering gunfire seemed to go on for two lifetimes. Burst after burst. Deafening. Terrifying.

  Suddenly, there was silence. Blessed silence. For a heartbeat, maybe two. Then glass crunched and she heard the thud of running feet.

  Nick rolled off her, sprang up. Mackenzie scrab­bled onto her knees, trying frantically to get her feet under her. She lifted her head just in time to see Nick's arm whip forward. A long-bladed kitchen knife flew across the room.

  She heard an agonized scream. Another burst of gunfire. A feral snarl. Fangs bared, Radizwell streaked past her.

  "Arrrgh!"

  Bullets plowed into the ceiling, traced a wild pat­tern across plaster. Huge chunks rained down.

  Nick leaped over the counter. Mackenzie raced around it a second later, horrified by the sight of Radizwell savaging a screaming, writhing figure dressed all in black. She was even more horrified when she saw the bastard still gripped his Uzi with one hand. He kept firing wild bursts while he tried desperately to fight off the dog with his other arm.

  All Mackenzie could think of, all that pierced her frantic thoughts, was that the girls were asleep up­stairs. Right above them. The stream of bullets could penetrate the flooring, plow through their mattresses.

  Nick must have had the same gripping fear. His foot swung in a savage arc. The Uzi went flying. Only then did he attempt to drag Radizwell off the screaming victim. He got a fist around the dog's collar and heaved.

  Radizwell reared back, but was only gathering his muscles for another attack. Fangs bared, claws scrabbling on the tiles, he lunged forward once more. His size and fury carried Nick with him. The man on the floor frantically crabbed backward, kicking at Nick, at the dog, managing to get free of both. His hand went to his underarm holster.