The Theft (Thornton 2)

Ashford's eyes snapped open and he stared, unseeing, at the compartment ceiling. He'd all but interrogated the woman into tears and had succeeded only in alienating her more. Leaving had seemed the best option, for now. But he had to return with a fresh and, hopefully, successful approach. Because other than Mary, he hadn't found a singe link to Baricci.

So, professionally, Ashford's frustration stemmed from his lack of headway in this investigation.

Personally, it stemmed from his internal conflict over Noelle—a conflict that could only be resolved by relegating the different components of his life to their appropriate places. Or by eliminating some of those components.

But which? And how?

He'd intended to use these past three days to decide. What he hadn't expected was to be so caught up in his feelings that he couldn't think straight. Instead, he'd spent three sleepless nights—nights filled with memories of Noelle's taste, Noelle's laughter, Noelle's fiery sensuality—trying to uncloud his reasoning and make some headway in resolving his dilemma.

Time was running out.

Another week had passed since he'd vowed to Eric and Brigitte Bromleigh that, if for whatever reason he was wrong, if Noelle didn't care for him the way he believed or if he was incapable of resolving things so he could make her happy, give her everything she wanted and needed, he would step aside and let them introduce her to the fashionable world as intended.

Well, that choice was unthinkable

. That much he knew. To begin with, Noelle did care for him. She more than cared for him. It was there in her eyes when she gazed at him, in her smile when she sparred with him, even in her fervor when she argued with him. And when she was in his arms, when she expressed the budding passion inside her—God, her body told him everything he needed to know.

As for his own feelings, he acknowledged them here and now, without permitting any of his concerns or life's complications to color their truth: he was in love with Noelle, crazily and unimaginably in love with her. Their relationship had struck him with all the impact of a boulder—crushing and unexpected. Yet somehow he'd known, at least peripherally, from the onset, that this was far more than attraction, that it's culmination was as permanent as it was inescapable.

Inescapable, hell. The truth was, he didn't want to escape it, nor did he have any problems acknowledging it. That acknowledgment had been hovering inside him for days now, perhaps weeks, waiting only to be brought to light. As for assigning the words, he had no trouble with that either. He came from a family whose foundation was rooted in love, from parents who'd want nothing less for their son—for all their children—than what they'd found in each other.

Loving Noelle, welcoming her love for him—that was the easy part. So was recognizing how right this was, how permanent. Despite his long years as a bachelor, or perhaps because of them, Ashford knew in his heart that he and Noelle were meant to be. No, that didn't concern him either.

His big concern—his only concern—was: Could he simplify his life enough to offer that life to her? Not just a portion of himself, but all of him? With Noelle there could be nothing short of totally and forever. The forever was easy. But the totally was entirely different, something he'd never contemplated and wasn't sure he had the right to.

He had a responsibility, one he'd assumed years ago. It wasn't something he could explain, nor something his father had ever asked of him. Still, it was his and his alone.

He'd carried on the legacy of the Tin Cup Bandit.

Oh, he knew his parents had never stopped fulfilling the bandit's role, leaving tin cups filled with money on the doorsteps of needy schools, churches, and orphanages. But their more exciting role—robbing the ignoble rich, righting the world's injustices—that had been relinquished years ago.

It had made him proud to carry on his father's burning cause, a cause that Ashford had adapted to fit into the patterns of his own life, his own work. The world had never guessed there was a new Tin Cup Bandit, one who practiced the same unorthodox methods as his predecessor. Nor did they ever need to know. As far as they were concerned, the bandit was a legend. He'd continued to live in their hearts and minds, never aging, never breaking stride, only changing courses, in that he now gave from some miraculous, bottomless cache of money, rather than seizing funds from those whose wealth was born in cruelty and corruption.

The image was intact, precisely as Ashford wanted it.

Thus, no one linked the disappearance of valuable art paintings to anything other than a clever burglar—no one, of course, but Baricci, who knew he had an expert and mysterious competitor out there somewhere. To everyone else, it was assumed that whoever was stealing the masterpieces was the same thief each time, perhaps several thieves over the past decade or so. But Ashford knew better. And to him, outwitting ruthless noblemen by breaking into their homes, robbing them of their treasures, and offering them to those less fortunate was a tribute to his father's childhood, his struggle for survival, his commitment to those who were needy and impoverished. By doing things this way, Ashford felt he was creating an equity that couldn't be established with mere charitable donations.

He was honest enough to admit that his cause was not completely altruistic. He was every bit his father's son. The excitement, the exhilaration of planning and executing his thefts—all while retaining his anonymity—ignited his blood as it had Pierce's. And with Baricci in the picture, as he had been for a few years now, the game had taken on a new dimension, giving Ashford a new determination to best the enemy.

But Baricci would soon be caught, and that chapter of the adventure would be over. So after that—what?

Could Ashford give up that part of his life for Noelle? Could he keep her safe if he continued? Could he separate her from it, somehow manage to have it all, do it all?

The last was a virtual impossibility. Hiding things from Noelle would be as easy as converting that cat of hers into a sedate lap pet.

So what the hell was he to do? Even if he were willing to bid good-bye to the heart-pounding excitement, the thrill of outwitting those who deserved no less, could he sever that facet of his life? Was it right or fair to place his own needs ahead of others'?

Damn. He couldn't think straight. His questions kept going around in circles, each feeding into the next, none inspiring any solutions. His only concrete thought was that he loved Noelle and he couldn't let her go, selfish or not. He needed her, he wanted her, and hell and damnation, he intended to have her.

Which led back to a quandary that, clearly, he was ill-equipped to surmount alone.

Abruptly, his head came up and he leaned forward in his seat. All right, so he couldn't surmount it alone, but with the help of someone who'd been there…

Some of the tension eased from Ashford's shoulders as he made his plans, more and more certain of what he had to do.

Immediately following the next sitting with Sardo, he'd ride to Northampton and speak with his father.

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