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deliciously masculine face she had ever seen on a living, breathing man. Her breathing sped up, and her heart, which had already been racing faster than the lead car in the Birmingham Super Prix, thundered so hard it surely would pound its way out of her chest any moment.
    She was a thief, standing in the middle of one of the most priceless collections of gems in the entire world, and yet she wasn’t tempted to look anywhere but at him.
    Oh, yes. He was trouble.
    Trouble blinked; long, dark lashes closing over emerald-green eyes so gorgeous they had to be illegal in most of Europe. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and shivers traced a delicate pattern down her spine. His deep, rich laugh was dark chocolate and champagne and silk sheets all presented in one wickedly mouthwatering package.
    Oh, damn, it had been far too long since she’d had sex.
    Her watch beeped. Glancing down, she saw that she had twelve minutes. Declan had hacked into the security cameras and put them on a circular repeating pattern or something equally complex and brilliant, but he’d warned her a dozen times that she had exactly fifteen minutes and not a second more.
    She raised the tranq gun and used her best frosty, lady-of-the-manor voice. “I repeat, who the bloody hell are you?”
    “You’re Scottish,” he said, quite unnecessarily.
    “Give the man a gold ring. You have ten seconds to tell me who you are and why you’re here before I shoot you.” She raised the gun, hoping the first time she had to shoot a man while looking him in the eyes wouldn’t haunt her dreams for months to come. But needs must and, well, the Siren was waiting, no matter how mouthwateringly delicious this man might be.
    “The Scarlet Ninja is a woman. A Scottish woman,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe, blistering every inch of skin under her garments, as if the heat in his eyes were a palpable touch.
    Of course, the negative here was that he appeared to be a blithering idiot.
    “Yes. Ninja. Woman. Scottish. Do you have something against Scotland?”
    Her watch beeped. Eleven minutes.
    “Ninja,” he repeated, taking a step toward her. “ Nin . Ja . Have you ever cracked a history book? Scotland. Ninjas. No.”
    Fiona’s watch crackled. Declan checking in, and he was going to go mad if she didn’t respond soon. She raised her wrist and spoke softly. “Bit of a problem. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”
    The luscious bit of man candy had the nerve to flash a devilish grin at her. “You can handle me anytime. I like to play dress-up games, too. You can be the ninja, and I’ll be the pirate.”
    “Lovely. A thief and a boorish lout,” she snapped. Declan squawked from her wrist, but she lowered her hand and ignored her overprotective brother for the moment.
    Ten minutes.
    “Thief, huh. Pot, kettle? I guess we all know why you’re here, but a better question is what kind of magic were you throwing around out there?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, careful not to let her shock show in her eyes.
    “Fine. Another question, then.” He took another step toward her, all leashed power and hard-bodied male. She felt like a particularly scrumptious piece of catnip caught in the path of a tiger. “Scarlet Ninja. Today’s answer to Robin Hood. What are you here for? Not that it matters.” He waved an arm at the glass boxes filled with crowns, scepters, swords, and sundry. “Luckily, there’s plenty for both of us.”
    It was her turn to blink, but she was out of time for small talk. “You’ll never succeed. But I’m only here for one thing, so feel free to look around.”
    He smiled, and she wondered dizzily if the devil himself had a smile as seductive. “I think I’ll stick with you. I’d like to see under that mask. That lovely skin and those blue eyes are making me wonder what the rest of you looks like, not that those scarlet silks are hiding much. A man would give much to get his hands on