Stolen Nights Read online

  Stolen Nights

  Rea Thomas

  He’s fast. She’s faster.

  Lisabeth Baker is the best professional thief in the business and she’s just acquired a mythical golden flute—the same golden flute her rival, Vikram Singh, desperately needs.

  Life in their business is a lonely one and Lisabeth has been struggling to find a man who can satisfy her needs. Vikram is everything she could want in a bed-mate and she’s willing to cut him a deal—two nights of no-strings sex, during which Vikram must satisfy her every whim and desire, no questions asked. He’s the only man who’s ever been able to match her wit and handle her acerbic attitude, and Lisabeth discovers that with each sexual encounter, her feelings for Vikram deepen further, leaving her far outside her comfort zone.

  For Vikram, Lisabeth is the most infuriating woman he’s ever met, which makes it difficult to understand why he wants her. The occasional glimpses of her softer side have him contemplating what a life with Lisabeth Baker would be like, and he soon realizes two nights won’t be enough.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Stolen Nights

  ISBN 9781419938351

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Stolen Nights Copyright © 2011 Rea Thomas

  Edited by April Chapman

  Photography and cover design by Syneca

  Models: Georgio & Shannon

  Electronic book publication December 2011

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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  STOLEN NIGHTS

  Rea Thomas

  Chapter One

  The armed soldiers had been arriving and departing the temple for the past hour, bewildered by the media frenzy that had ensued following the startling discovery made by Professor Bennett. First local reporters had arrived, stumbling through the foliage, laden down by cameras and microphones once their all-terrain vehicles had taken them as far as possible. It hadn’t been long before local journalists became national and about an hour ago the BBC foreign correspondent finally arrived, hot on the heels of a frustrated CNN reporter who looked largely out of her depth, irritated by the stifling jungle heat. She’d been bitching endlessly to her cameraman, bemoaning the necessity to trek three miles through the Indian jungle.

  The appointed temple representative looked no less perplexed, having been dragged from his bed at sunrise, unable to understand how William Bennett, the eccentric archaeologist he had dismissed as crazy not four weeks ago, had been right all along. Somewhat shamefaced, he had addressed the press twenty minutes ago. Stuttering, he announced there would be no immediate statement as to the validity of Professor Bennett’s claims that there was unprecedented wealth contained inside the temple.

  Bringing a pair of binoculars to her eyes, Lisabeth scanned the excavation site, watching proceedings unfold as the journalists talked among themselves, soldiers tried to look important and Bennett’s team of eager graduates struggled to contain their excitement. There were at least forty people at the temple site, twenty of whom were tasked with guarding the entrances to what had been an undiscovered ruin up until two weeks ago.

  While much progress had been made in excavating the three-thousand-year-old homage to Lord Krishna, at least seventy percent remained hidden behind a few millennia worth of plant growth.

  It pleased Lisabeth to learn how the old man had been right. Despite great odds in favor of failure, and having only an estimated location and a group of six students willing to trek aimlessly through the jungle until they happened to find a rumored site, Bennett had accomplished what he had set out to do. It pleased her even more to see the temple representative, an egocentric and patronizing troll of a man called Mohan, unable to look Bennett in the eye as he babbled his way through numerous satellite calls, the pressure of which was making his armpits sweat.

  Soon he would have to announce the contents of the temple to the hounding press and the site would be crawling with those claiming to have sole ownership of the treasures. Bennett would leave Andhra Pradesh with recognition for his exemplary work but he would return to Britain with nothing else once the state government took inventory and rubbed its hands together in delight. It was not uncommon for such treasures to be estimated in billions.

  Lisabeth had been reading the texts that hypothesized what lay inside the temple, which until a few weeks ago had been only a theory. The textbooks documented myths that spoke of ancient statues made of gold, coins, bags of emeralds and rubies and even the mythical weaponry of the gods—a regular Aladdin’s cave of wonders. It was also said a near-perfect, rose-cut pink diamond of more than thirty carats was nestled within the handle of a sword. The diamond was referred to as “The Lotus Star”. The government could have everything else; it was The Lotus Star she wanted.

  It would be foolish to make any attempts to get into the temple during daylight, when the soldiers’ vigilance was peaking. By nightfall any noises she made would be attributed to the nocturnal scourging of wild animals, mythical beasts—anything but theft. The guards would be lulled by the darkness, their senses nowhere near as sharp as what sunlight afforded them.

  As much as she wanted to have the stone in her hands, she would have to wait.

  At the opposite side of the site, Vikram Singh kept his own binoculars trained on the slender figure in the depths of the jungle. He had recognized her the very moment he had glimpsed her through the lenses ten minutes ago. He would have known the very shape of her shadow, having committed her to memory. It wasn’t often anyone in this business, least of all a woman, got the better of him. After the raid in Rajasthan five weeks ago, Vikram was still smarting. He had been minutes—seconds, even—away from obtaining the dagger, but when he’d entered the museum’s exhibit room it had already gone and he had been the one to trigger the alarm. Escaping the group of armed guards had been a nightmare.

  He scowled at her departing figure, at her dark hair swinging in a ponytail as she disappeared into the trees. It bothered him immensely to find her here, preparing to swoop. Vikram had heard through various channels about a new woman who had turned up on the scene, more agile and resourceful than anyone they’d met before. Quite a few of the women had taken a dislike to her, calling her The Bimbo. Vikram had no doubt it was jealousy spawning and nurturing their contempt, for in the past six months twelve of the biggest raids had had her hallmark all over
them. The dagger in Rajasthan had been his first encounter with her, and one he wouldn’t forget. For a few reasons, none of them good.

  She’d almost collided with him in the museum, slinking through corridors in her own attempt to escape. He cursed himself for not relieving her of the dagger, but even in shadows she had been a sight to behold—supple curves in all the right places, feline-like agility and footfalls like a mere apparition as she had disappeared into the night. Vikram would have been lying to himself if he said he hadn’t thought about her once or twice.

  He wondered whether she intended on stealing any one thing from the temple or whether she would take everything she could carry. If she had any ideas about running off into the night with the Flute of Immortality, she’d be finding herself waking up on the floor of the temple with a nasty concussion, because he would be prepared this time.

  Vikram did not believe the golden flute, rumored to have belonged to Lord Krishna, had the capability to make anyone immortal, but the item itself would be worth millions and he knew just the collector who would fall over himself to give Vikram the asking price. He quite liked the idea of settling down in a private island in Polynesia, so as long as the woman had her eye on a different piece of treasure—or several different pieces of treasure—they would pass once more as shadows in the darkness and with any luck it would be the last time she would turn up at a site he had his eye on.

  Presently he was preoccupied with the heat, moist and humid, making him sweat. The jungle climate was a challenge, dulling his instincts and distracting him as he tried to make plans. Even for a native such as himself, the south Indian humidity was cloying, making it difficult to breathe. He felt tired and irritable, longing for daylight to fade and nightfall to offer a modicum of respite.

  He retreated from the temple site, heading for the abandoned caves two miles away where he had set up camp. He would bathe in the cool waterfall, revise his strategy and come back when it was dark. With any luck he’d be stretched out on a bed in an air-conditioned room at The Oberoi in Mumbai by tomorrow.

  Chapter Two

  The stone was magnificent, almost the size of her palm and practically flawless.

  Lisabeth turned on the desk lamp and tilted The Lotus Star, dazzled by the fiery flamingo pinks and brilliant orange hues, glinting and sparkling, flecked with purple and blue—like a kaleidoscope. A very expensive kaleidoscope, she thought with a smile. The diamond was everything she had imagined it to be. Selling it would be easy too, for there were already a number of bidders waiting in the wings, prepared to battle it out for the most perfect diamond of its kind. Of course they would have a dozen experts verify its majesty, but Lisabeth was certain of its phenomenal value.

  Finding it had been easy and going at dusk instead of nightfall had been a stroke of genius; once the sun had gone down, a horde of extra security had arrived to guard the inner chambers.

  Lisabeth smoothed her thumb over the cool, glassy diamond and grinned at her reflection in the hotel mirror. Three days had passed since she’d raided the temple and the media had gone crazy over the theft. An NDTV news bulletin flashed up on the television screen mounted on the wall facing her—the excavation site was now crawling with police who were desperate to capture the bold thief who had stolen treasure worth an estimated sixty million dollars.

  Setting aside the diamond, Lisabeth turned to the long, slender parcel wrapped in a piece of linen. The flute had caught her eye as she’d been leaving the chamber. Sitting on a pedestal with such celestial beauty, the ancient instrument had left Lisabeth breathless with wonder. None of the temple’s other treasures, each worth an unfathomable amount of money, had been given such importance. She had snatched it on a whim and bolted from the chamber before the military could capture her.

  It had been only now, in the private sanctum of her hotel room, she’d had a chance to look at it properly. Getting out of the jungle had been her first priority. Getting out of Andhra Pradesh, her second. Flying across India was out of the question with security as tight as it was. The train to Tamil Nadu had taken forever and she was exhausted from staying awake to guard her baggage. If she had lost the diamond to a petty thief, Lisabeth wouldn’t have been able to forgive her stupidity.

  The flute was made of gold, ringed on both ends with bands of diamonds and rubies, each one probably a carat in weight. The gold was burnished slightly, but its magnificence was no less impressive. Lisabeth wondered at it, wondered why the temple officials had treated it with such respect, all those years ago. She wished to possess the ability to play it, for something about its ancient beauty was almost ethereal.

  Next week she would take it to be valued and if it was not worth much she might even keep it as a souvenir of her efforts and triumph.

  Wrapping it up and depositing it along with the diamond in the hotel safe, Lisabeth turned her attention back to the television as she changed into a T-shirt and slipped into bed. The sensation of the soft, malleable mattress beneath her body was tantamount to euphoria after the days she’d spent sleeping in a tent. Within mere minutes, she was asleep.

  * * * * *

  At breakfast the next morning, Lisabeth read about her own exploits in the newspaper while she ate cereal. Another guest at the hotel, staying in Chennai for business, had discussed the robbery with his colleague over coffee. Lisabeth had listened, imagining what their reactions would be had they known the temple thief was sitting at the next table.

  As she finished her second cup of tea, a hulking man pulled back the chair facing her and sat down. She looked up, weary.

  “I’m not interested in a companion, thank you,” she announced stonily. The man’s rakish features knotted in annoyance, dark brow coming down as his full lips thinned to a tight line. She glimpsed his eyes—their irises glinted like copper, a burnished yellow. National Geographic eyes, she thought. Admittedly, he was attractive—like more than the dozen or so others who had attempted to woo her with some inane chat-up line since she’d been in India. He leaned forward, close enough for her to see minuscule flecks of green in his eyes, as though the copper was beginning to oxidize.

  “Lisabeth,” he said slowly, as though testing her name. That he knew it in the first place rattled her and she was instantly alert, scanning the breakfast room for an exit. He didn’t look like a cop, but she was taking no chances. “There is a gun pointed at you under this table—don’t feel it necessary to look.” She heard the familiar click of the hammer cocking. “I want you to take me to your room and give me the flute you stole from Andhra Pradesh. Do you understand?”

  Lisabeth swallowed and nodded slowly.

  As she pushed her chair back, the gunman’s hand flew out from beneath the table and grasped hers. She froze, furious with herself for trembling, furious with him for thinking he could threaten her with a gun and take what she had risked her freedom for.

  “If you try to run or call for help, I will shoot you. Clear?”

  She nodded again, a single sharp jerk of her chin.

  “Good. Get up.”

  As they stood he tucked the small handgun into his jacket pocket, but she sensed the barrel pointed at her and she didn’t want to test his promise to gun her down if she tried to run. Besides, with legs as long as his, no doubt he would catch her before she could reach the end of the hotel garden.

  Resigned, Lisabeth led him through the foyer and along the corridor to the elevator. She glanced sideways at him, taking in his chiseled features, the curve of his jaw, a slender Roman nose, arched cheekbones and finally those unique eyes as he watched the steadily decreasing numbers on the elevator display unit. He wore faded blue jeans that clung to his thighs and hips, a black tank and a khaki green jacket presently housing a loaded weapon. It was only now that Lisabeth realized how tall he was. At more than six feet, he towered far above her.

  “Who are you?” she asked after clearing her throat, concerned her voice would betray the collected composure she sought to display. He glanced at her quickly
and then away.

  “We run in similar circles,” was all he said.

  The elevator chimed and he nudged her into the cramped car. Lisabeth felt a moment of panic as the doors slid closed, sealing her inside a narrow square cubicle with a man who could, at his whim, shoot her dead. She thought briefly about launching into a combative attack before he knew what had happened, but his sheer physical power—the fact he seemed to be composed of solid muscle—put a stop to any notion of escape.

  In the hallway they passed a chambermaid who ignored them as she replenished her cart with towels and sheets. Lisabeth didn’t try to catch her eye either, for alerting the police would inevitably result in her capture. If she cooperated, he might be gone in minutes.

  Once inside the bedroom, the gunman wasted no time in removing his weapon, allowing her to glimpse the compact firearm fully. It looked tiny in his large hand but its deadliness was in no way diminished. Lisabeth knew a single wrong move would result in the general manager of the small colonial establishment finding her corpse in a day or so.

  “The flute,” he said, brusque.

  “What’s so special about this flute?” Lisabeth asked, crossing the room to the safe. Her instincts had been right—the instrument had been placed on the pedestal for a reason. Reason enough for this madman to go to extreme measures to find it.

  “Really, Lisabeth?” He tilted his head, appraising her. “Like you don’t know.” The safe beeped its approval at the code she punched in and as she withdrew the linen-wrapped package from within, she was certain she heard a small hitch of anticipation in his breathing.

  Carrying it as though it might burn her, Lisabeth returned to the foot of the bed where he stood, eyes fixated on the sliver of gold peeking through a gap in the material. She extended her hands, as if to give it to him. The gun wavered a fraction off target as she stepped back, throwing him a kick so fierce the weapon flew across the room and smashed into the glass door containing the mini-bar. He staggered, bewildered, as Lisabeth tossed aside the flute and took the gun in both hands. For a fleeting millisecond while he caught his bearings, she saw a glimmer of fear in his amber eyes.