The Theft (Thornton 2)

Noelle gave him one.

The instant André turned, she brought her knee up—hard—slamming it into his groin with all the strength she possessed.

He shouted with agony, doubling up as every fiber of his being focused on the pain in his loins.

Noelle acted while he was off balance, shoving him off her, wriggling away and stumbling to her feet.

Realizing she was on the verge of escaping him, André lunged for her. He grabbed her arm a split second before she eluded his reach, clutching her wrist as his other hand groped for, and found, the knife. "Bitch!" he screamed, pulling her towards him, that wildness raging in his eyes as he dragged her towards her death. "Lying, wanton bitch!"

Ashford's shot rang out.

André jolted, his head lurching sideways as the bullet penetrated just above his ear.

For the space of a heartbeat, time stood still.

Then, André's eyes widened, the madness transforming to astonishment, then glazed nonreality. A stream of blood flowed from his wound, trickling down his neck and onto his bare shoulder.

Slowly, he collapsed, slumping over onto the bed, his fingers going lax around Noelle's wrist before falling away entirely. He dropped heavily onto the sheets and went utterly still, his body twisted in an unnatural, distorted form.

Shocked and dazed, Noelle stared at him, watching the stream of blood ooze onto the sheets, its red stain spreading out across the stark whiteness of the linen.

He was dead. She knew it, and yet she felt unable to truly grasp that fact. Actually, she felt unable to fully fathom the entirety of what had transpired this past hour, wondering in some detached part of her mind if, in fact, it had been some heinous nightmare.

The shock abated when Ashford's arms closed around her.

"It's over, sweetheart." He turned her away from Sardo's body, gently drawing the sides of her gown together and gathering her against him. "He'll never hurt you—or anyone—again." His arms trembled, and a harsh sound vibrated from his chest. "God, I was so terrified, so afraid I wouldn't reach you in time." He sucked in his breath. "You have no idea how much I love you."

With a choked sob, Noelle buried her face against Ashford's coat, wanting to lose herself in his love, to warm away the chill that seemed to permeate her body, inside and out. "I love you, too." She began to tremble with reaction. "You found me," she whispered inanely. "You saved my life."

"You're the one who ensured that." Her father's unsteady voice came from behind her, and she felt his reassuring hand as it stroked her hair. "If it hadn't been for what you said in your note … if Chloe hadn't recognized your message…"

His voice broke, and Noelle eased away from Ashford long enough to give her father a fierce hug. "I'm all right, Papa," she murmured. "Thanks to you and Ashford—and not surprisingly, Chloe." She leaned back, summoning enough strength to try to ease the torment she saw on her father's face. "He didn't hurt me," she said, smoothing away the grim lines around his mouth. "You got here in time."

"Thank God," he managed, kissing her brow before returning her to Ashford's waiting arms.

Ashford enfolded her against him, caressed the nape of her neck, her face, her hands—needing to touch her, to assure himself she was unharmed. He threaded his fingers through her hair, brought strands of it to his lips.

For the first time, Eric voiced not even a token protest at the intimate contact. He simply met Ashford's gaze over his daughter's head and said, "Tremlett, there aren't words enough to thank you."

"None are necessary," Ashford replied simply.

Flanked by these two men she loved, Noelle felt a resurgence of strength, a sense of rightness and well-being. The past hour's ordeal was over, as was the investigation that had bound them to the past. Finally, finally, all would be as it was meant to be.

From the corner of her eye, she spied the detective as he crossed over, pistol in hand, to examine Sardo's lifeless body. She leaned back and glanced at Ashford, her brows knit in question.

"Detective Conyers, I'd like you to meet my fiancée." Ashford supplied the introduction.

Satisfied that Sardo was indeed dead, Conyers looked up, bowing slightly and giving Noelle an amused, admiring look. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady. And forgive me for sounding too familiar, but you're quicker and smarter than any woman I've ever known. Not to mention the fact that you're more courageous than most men. If you decide not to marry this rogue, Scotland Yard could use you."

For the first time t

hat night, Noelle felt herself smile. "Thank you, Detective Conyers. But I happen to be looking forward to marrying this particular rogue." She gazed up at Ashford, love shining in her eyes. "Very, very much."

"Not nearly as much as this rogue is looking forward to marrying you," Ashford assured her, bringing her fingers to his lips. "The first week of April can't come fast enough for me."

The future—at last they could plan for it.

Which brought to mind the crux of their investigation, the man whose apprehension Ashford had staged so masterfully.