The Theft (Thornton 2)

"And body?" Noelle added with an impish grin.

"Most definitely, yes—and body," he agreed, his breath caressing her fingertips. "Given all that, you know I'd move mountains for you."

"But this only allows you one day in which to move them," Noelle murmured with an anxious frown.

"Actually, I've already done some preliminary checking into the origin of the earrings, by way of my less orthodox contacts."

"When?" Noelle demanded. "When did you have time?"

"Earlier last evening—before my eleven o'clock rendezvous," Ashford qualified with a twinkle. "I got nowhere. Then I did some official investigating this morning with the reputable London jewelers. Again, nothing."

He stroked away the pucker between Noelle's brows. "Don't look so distressed, sweetheart. I expected this avenue might produce a brick wall. Remember, those earrings could have been bought anywhere, either elsewhere in England or, most likely, abroad. I'll continue exploring the various avenues. In the meantime, I'll visit the Detective Department at Scotland Yard this afternoon. I have several influential contacts there—contacts with whom I've worked on numer

ous occasions and who are, therefore, familiar with my success ratio and with the reliability of my instincts. I'll meet with them, stress the other points we have in our favor: the timing of Baricci's affair with Lady Mannering, the fear Mary perceived in her mistress on the night she died."

Ashford's brows lifted in ironic amusement. "Besides, I won't have to twist their arms to incite them into action. Have you forgotten the Goya I helped myself to last night? Vanley must have reported it missing by now. Scotland Yard will be under immense pressure to recover it, and they'll be relieved as hell if they can wrap up two cases at once: arresting the thief who stole the Goya and determining that that same thief also stole the Rembrandt and killed Lady Mannering in the process."

"But Baricci didn't steal the Goya," Noelle hissed, casting a swift glance about to ensure they were alone. "You did."

"Ah, but the police don't know that," Ashford pointed out smugly. "Don't worry, tempête. I'll make a good enough case to convince them to interrogate Baricci again. Expect them at the Franco Gallery at half after two tomorrow—them and me. I won't leave you alone with Sardo—not for an instant. Not even under the watchful eye of your sentry, Grace."

Noelle smiled, sighed with relief. "You're like a knight in shining armor. Thank you for riding to my rescue."

"As you did to mine," he reminded her in a hushed tone. He pressed a heated kiss to her open palm, his eyes darkening with emotion. "This is not the way I intended to greet you, not after last night."

His voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper. "Let me begin again. Good morning, my beautiful love. The past five hours away from you were sheer hell. I spent every one of them reliving what happened between us: your taste, your scent, the wonder in your eyes as I made you mine. The hot, tight clasp of you all around me, the way you shivered when I moved inside you, the way you came apart in my arms. Every exquisite detail. Then, as I rode here this morning to speak with your father, I began envisioning you walking down the aisle to become my wife. And I realized, yet again, how truly blessed I am. I love you, Noelle. More now than I did last night."

Noelle's breath caught. "That was a much lovelier greeting than your original one," she managed.

"And it pales in comparison to the way I'd truly like to greet you." Ashford glanced about, and seeing that the hallway was temporarily deserted, he drew Noelle close, covered her mouth with his. "Which is like this."

His lips moved over hers poignantly, possessively, the intimate kiss of a man who, scant hours earlier, had made this woman his.

Noelle gripped the lapels of his coat in tight, trembling fists, her mouth opening under his, welcoming his tongue.

"I'd better stop," Ashford muttered thickly, raising his head with a visible effort. "Or instead of going to your father's study to ask for your hand, I'll be anticipating our wedding night and carrying you of to bed."

Reluctantly, Noelle nodded. "I told Mama and Chloe about our plans to be wed."

"And?"

"They were thrilled."

A corner of Ashford's mouth lifted. "But you left the most skeptical family member for me." Seeing uneasiness flicker in Noelle's eyes, he shook his head. "Don't worry. Your father will be equally as pleased as the rest of your family. I promise." His forefinger caressed her cheek. "Let me speak with him alone."

Another nod. "All right. I'll tell him you're here."

Smoothing her skirts, Noelle marched down the hall to the study, wondering why in God's name she felt so nervous. It took a great deal to intimidate her. Least of all her father, who had never tried to squelch her spirit—not even when that spirit bordered on audacity. He accepted her and loved her as she was. Not only that, he was a reasonable and objective man.

Except when it came to his daughters.

At which time, reason and objectivity were cast to the wind.

So need she wonder why she was nervous—especially this time, when she wanted so much more than just her father's acceptance? She wanted his approval, his blessing.

She wanted him to feel the same sense of joy, of rightness, as she.

Taking a deep breath, Noelle knocked on the study door.