LITMIR.BIZ

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on things like making candles, tying bows and making ornaments. A local choir sang carols in period dress, and if it snowed, they got out the family’s sleds and let us use them on the hill out back.” She glanced around the restaurant. “Is this the kind of place you usually seek out?”

      He looked around, too. He’d been through the old house only once, when his family had stopped on their way elsewhere. He remembered exquisite woods and marble and incredibly detailed Persian rugs, heavily paneled rooms with huge fireplaces, elaborate architectural details in every room.

      Now there was bamboo, hemp and sisal. Fabric panels draped from the ceiling, covered the walls, acted as doors and curtains, and the bed linens were made from soy fabrics, cashmere and alpaca. And everything was in shades of off-white, cream and tan.

      “I usually stay at the Brown Palace, but someone suggested I try this hotel. The name should have served as a warning.”

      “You visit Denver often?”

      “Enough to have favorite places.” What was that faint emotion? Simple curiosity. Maybe a bit of pleasure. Definitely a little dismay. It was fitting that someone who’d gone to as much effort to remain anonymous as Bella Donna wouldn’t be happy with the idea that someone who’d uncovered her identity might hang out in her city.

      “I ski, hike, do some climbing.” He paused while the waiter served the most colorless salads he’d ever seen: lettuce, hearts of palm and mushrooms, all anemic. Even the avocados were paler than they should be.

      He looked up, saw the mild distaste on Lisette’s face, then at the same time they burst into laughter. Other guests in the dining room spared brief disapproving glances before returning to their own business.

      She was the first to take a bite, and she made a soft mmm sound that rippled through him, leaving awareness and pleasure and anticipation in its wake. “It’s delicious.”

      “It’s very good given that the best you can say about its presentation is that it’s totally inoffensive,” he said after a bite, then returned to the interrupted conversation. “Do you ski?”

      “If I had my way, I wouldn’t leave the house when the temperature dropped below forty.”

      “What about hiking?”

      “Sometimes. I even run and lift weights. It’s one of the requirements of letting Padma’s mom feed us.”

      “And I already know you’re not big on climbing.”

      Her brows arched. “Climbing doesn’t bother me at all. It’s the falling that scares me.”

      “You need to work on that. In a field like ours, it can be the difference between success and fifteen to life in prison.” He waited for her denial, but it didn’t come.

      Instead she ate a few more bites of salad, washed it down with water, then asked, “Does Mr. Candalaria know you’re a thief?”

      Jack shrugged.

      “Why does he continue inviting you to his parties?”

      “He likes socializing with Sinclairs more than he worries about getting robbed. Most of David’s art is an investment. He buys it, holds on to it until he meets someone who wants it more, then he sells it for a profit. The pieces he truly values, if they were stolen, he would hire someone to steal them back.”

      “Does he truly value Shepherdess?”

      “He didn’t have it on display, which suggests he acquired it under less than legal circumstances, so my guess would be yes. He’ll probably want it back.”

      Again, the waiter interrupted, bringing their entrées, taking away their salad plates. When he was gone, Lisette smiled happily at her plate: grass-fed, wood-grilled steak, baked potato and onions, and sautéed bell peppers of every color. She cut into the steak, took a small bite, savored it and swallowed. “Well, he can’t have it back.”

      “You stole it for the original owner, didn’t you?”

      She didn’t admit it. She didn’t deny it, either.

      “He had it stolen once. What makes you think he won’t do it again?”

      “He’s free to do anything he wants. But I suspect it won’t be so easy to obtain the next time.”

      Jack studied her. Was that why none of Bella’s prizes were ever heard of again? Because she wasn’t selling them to black-market collectors but returning them to their owners and instructing them on safer ways to protect them in the future?

      It was a better reason to steal than his own. He liked the challenge: researching, plotting, getting in and out, the occasional thrill. He liked the connection it gave him to his family history. And no one ever got hurt. The people he stole from had insurance if the piece had been legally acquired or had too much money to miss a few million if it hadn’t. As for the people who hired him, odds were good they would be his target someday, if they hadn’t been already. Karma was a bitch in that way.

      “What about the fancy red?”

      If he hadn’t been watching her closely, he would have missed the widening of her eyes. It happened so quickly he could have imagined it...but he didn’t.

      “What fancy red?”

      “The one you took from the Italian clothing designer. The crown jewel of his collection, excuse the pun.”

      Her expression eased, her voice sounding a shade more normal. She was a good liar, but not as good as he was. “You mean the one Bella Donna took.” When he opened his mouth to argue, she pointed her fork at him. “How long ago was that? Had you already made your career choice?”

      “Twelve years. I was on the fringes of the business.” He’d made his first big score a week later to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. Of course, he hadn’t been able to share the news with anyone besides Simon. Even now, though there were rumors, no one in the family admitted knowledge—or suspicion—of his hobby. But then, his family wasn’t the sort to do anything underhanded themselves. People had always told him he was a throwback to the pirate Sinclairs, and he’d proved them right.

      “Twelve years ago, I was fifteen and in tenth grade, dealing with mean girls, stupid boys and burned-out teachers. Do you really think I could have pulled off a job like that?”

      Jack hated when someone made a valid argument when he was already convinced of the truth. The stories about Bella Donna painted a beautiful, sophisticated woman. Could a fifteen-year-old possibly have fooled them all on the fancy red theft?

      Maybe. With help from an older, more experienced partner.

      But Bella’s other best-known hits... A dozen netsukes carved by master Tomotada in Hong Kong, the rare Wari kingdom artifacts from South America or the collection of antiquarian books that had disappeared on their way to the Library of Congress and reappeared in the home of a Dresden businessman? Could a fifteen-year-old have the poise and polish to jet around the globe, mingling with the world’s richest and greediest and carrying off their riches right under their noses? Could she have masqueraded as an elegant, cultured, sensual woman when she was really just a girl?

      If she wasn’t Bella, who was? And if she wasn’t Bella, who the hell was she? Where had she come from? How had she stayed so completely unknown for so long?

      He gave her a narrow look while chewing a piece of tender, sweet lobster. Her gaze didn’t waver from his. “If you’re not Bella, how do you know who I am?”

      Something very much like relief seeped over her, though she tried to disguise it by smiling. “There’s this wonderful invention called the internet. You’re probably so used to cameras going off nearby that you stopped noticing them, but it seems you get your picture taken a thousand times a day.”

      “Aw, now you’re exaggerating. It can’t possibly be more than five hundred.” He paused. “So it says on the internet I’m a thief?”

      “Of

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