Hot Ice by Cherry Adair Page B

fluttered and a tweak at the corners of his lips could've been the start of a smile.
    Taylor did not want him smiling at her.
    She kept one arm extended as though she was still cuffed to the headboard, and put her palm across his eyes. "Keep 'em closed," she purred.
    "Yes, ma'am." His voice was thick with desire as he shifted his hips beneath hers. His willpower wasn't quite as rock solid when he was half asleep. She sat up slowly to straddle his narrow hips with her knees.
    You are going to be so sorry you messed with me , Taylor thought, touching his face as she shifted up his body to sit lightly on his chest. She slid her knees into position over his biceps. His jaw was prickly with stubble. She wanted to run her mouth— Damn it. Concentrate ! Every second counted.
    Still stroking his face, she snatched up the lamp on the bedside table, at the same time pressing her weight onto his chest and pinning his upper arms with her knees. He froze beneath her, alerted to the movement.
    Damn . With a hard swing, Taylor brought the heavy lamp down at the same time he jerked upright. Assisted by his own momentum, the heavy base of the lamp struck his temple with a dull thud.
    The sound of ceramic on skull made her sick to her stomach, and she jumped off his limp body as if jet-propelled. She hoped to hell he'd been completely knocked out, because if he wasn't, she feared for her life.
    He wasn't moving, and the blow to his temple had already formed a darkening knot, and bled sluggishly.
    Heart in her throat, and feeling the urgency to get the hell out of there before he opened those pitiless eyes and looked at her, Taylor felt for a pulse under his jaw. Still steady. Still vibrant. He'd live.
    Taylor swiftly handcuffed Mr. Huntington St. John to the bed, yanked the phone cord from the wall, and carried the lamp across the room to the table. She paused on her way out, then returned to the bed to look down at him.
    He appeared no less menacing unconscious.
    She brushed a finger across his straight lower lip. "Bastard," she said softly.

----
    Chapter Eight

     
    August 11
    London
     
    José Morales ensconced himself in his ornate London office. It was less than a day after the burglary, and his wife, Maria, was not happy she'd been left alone to deal with the polícia .
    She reported they'd claimed to have captured a woman they believed to be part of the gang who had robbed him. But when José had demanded to interrogate the woman himself, they'd informed him that she had escaped. Tontos estúpidos ! The bumbling idiots hadn't caught anyone . They'd made the claim to save face.
    José opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a bottle of prescription antacids, and shook four into his palm. He tossed them into his mouth all at the same time and swallowed them down with vitamin-enriched springwater. He twisted the crystal glass between his fingers, watching the light play on the precise leaded cuts.
    When he'd discovered the empty, open safe in the upstairs den the night of the party, he'd excused himself and gone into his bathroom to vomit.
    He'd been guaranteed, unequivocally, by both the safe's inventor and the manufacturer, that the new safe was impossible to crack. It was everything -proof. Fire. Chemicals. Mechanical devices. The only way to open the thing was with an intricate combination of both numerals and letters.
    He'd never have trusted something as invaluable as the codes to the safe in San Cristóbal if he'd had a second's thought about the veracity of the men who had designed and built it.
    They had sworn on their lives—and those of their families—that what they said was true. Only he had the combination, and he hadn't opened the safe.
    Somebody had helped the thief get into the safe.
    Worse, somebody he trusted implicitly must have told the thief to take the disks, which had the codes on them. And there were only a handful of people who knew of the codes' existence.
    This thief had not only eluded his top