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hadn’t made a damn bit of
difference once Franklin had discovered the woman’s real identity.
    Who knew a schoolteacher would be living
under an assumed identity and that her father had been one of the most elusive
thieves in the twentieth century? The son of a bitch had died without ever
spending one night behind bars. That should have been the end to Franklin’s problems…except
the schoolteacher’s sister had taken over the family business. And from what
little information he could gather about her, she took her job quite seriously.
Almost as seriously as she took her family.
    The sisters were close, as evidenced by their
phone records. No wonder the bitch had come looking for the little blonde. And
this thief had followed in her father’s footsteps when it came to the law. Now
he was left trying to figure out how he was supposed to catch a thief who had
never been caught.
    He’d have to fix this. Take care of the
situation. The thought nauseated him. If there was one thing he’d never done,
it was murder. But he didn’t see any other solution. Now that the possibility
stared him in the face he could only think of the blonde chained inside the
warehouse, the blonde who didn’t know she had only a few hours left to live.
     
    “Brandon.” Hunt snapped his name into the
cell, more annoyed with his lack of control than the caller. His muscles had
been stretched taut since Carley had left and not even a walk around the
gardens had helped.
    And that scent. Damn. It still lingered in
the air, clung to his skin.
    “We got a hit off those fingerprints.”
Dave’s voice finally registered.
    “What?” He rubbed one hand over his face,
heard the rasp of the five o’clock shadow.
    “The fingerprints on Mrs. Buttle’s door—we
got a hit off of them. Actually, we got a couple of hits, but one was a Meals
on Wheels guy whose alibi is rock-solid. The other set, however, that’s someone
you’re gonna want to talk to.”
    What Hunt really wanted to do was forget
the case for the evening and find Carley. He needed to—
    “Name’s Morgan. Carley Morgan, and in case
you don’t recognize the name, she’s on Interpol’s list of most wanted. High-end
thief, specializing in artwork, mainly. Her sister’s Mrs. Buttle’s neighbor.”
    Hunt lost track of everything Dave said
after the mention of Carley’s name. It could be just a coincidence. There were
other women named Carley. Granted, it wasn’t that common of a name but still…
    “Hey, are you listening to me?”
    “Yeah, I’m just… No. I’m not.” He blew out
a breath and leaned against the hood of his car. “The woman who broke into my
house. Her first name’s Carley.”
    “Oh shit,” Dave mumbled. “Well I don’t have
a last known address so we don’t have a door to go knock down.”
    “I know how to get in touch with her.”
    “Figures. Okay. I can meet you in twenty.
There’s nothing in her background to indicate she’s a killer but she might have
been the last one to see Mrs. Buttle alive. So going alone isn’t a good idea.”
    “Actually, it’s the best way.” He hung up
before Dave could say anything else.
    Oh yeah. He’d find Carley all right, but
she wouldn’t like it when he did.

Chapter Four
     
    The knock startled her and Carley leaped to
her feet, the glass of Chardonnay dropping from her hand. A fist pounded on the
door again just as the grandfather clock chimed 2 a.m. She cursed as the liquid
spread across the light beige carpeting.
    “Carley, it’s Detective Brandon.” He beat
the wood again, this time much more loudly.
    Her heart stopped momentarily. How had he
found her? It wasn’t possible. She’d covered her tracks too well. Her mind spun
even as she walked to the door. “I heard the first knock.” She turned the lock
and twisted the doorknob as she spoke, and when the door swung open Hunt filled
the entranceway, his broad shoulders touching each side of the frame.
    He didn’t immediately speak but the look