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the authorities. He was certainly big enough to have overwhelmed her and done hideous things to her with his hard-muscled body.
    Lovely, dirty things. Or at least naked things.
    She stifled another laugh. Clearly panic and adrenaline had combined to drive her mad. The man was a thief, she reminded herself, acknowledging and then proceeding to ignore the obvious irony.
    She could almost hear Hopkins’s voice in her head. Lady Fiona Campbell did not kiss common criminals.
    She allowed her gaze to travel the length of his hard, muscled, and quite decidedly male body. Well. She shouldn’t kiss uncommon criminals, either.
    Declan’s tinny voice squawked from her wrist, and she tapped the button to silence it. Time was up. She gathered the shadows around herself and stepped into the corner behind the door. The guards would be joining them any moment. Unfortunate, that. She rather hoped the man didn’t face too much trouble, but the stakes were too high to let him interfere with her plans.
    This job was too dear. The Siren was on the auction block; that absolutely flawless and enormous square-cut aquamarine centered on Vanquish’s hilt was meant to be hers. The anonymous buyer who’d put the word out had also said those magic words: Money is not an object.
    There was no possible way to even cost it out. The sword itself was priceless and the Siren was as well known as Vanquish. According to history, William had always claimed it came from his own many-times-great-grandmother, and she was an actual siren. The kind who sang sailors to their deaths. Apparently old Grandma the Conqueror had kept at least one sailor alive long enough to get a little frisky with him.
    Fiona figured she’d start high and negotiate her way down. She wasn’t planning to steal the sword, after all. She wasn’t irretrievably destroying a national treasure. Just defacing it a little. They could put a different jewel in the hilt. A paste one. Fakes were brilliant these days; nobody would even be able to tell without a jeweler’s eye.
    Guilt whimpered and tried to raise its ugly little head in her conscience, but she firmly pushed it back down. Vampires didn’t feel guilty, so why should she?
    The man on the floor—the man she’d just shot, for Saint George’s sake—stirred and groaned. Guilt didn’t just whimper, this time. It jumped up and down and sang an aria. She’d never shot anyone before.
    She didn’t want to ever shoot anyone again. She was not her grandfather’s child.
    The warning gong clanged as the security door began to rise, and she swung her attention to the glimmer of light that slowly widened between the floor and the bottom of the steel door. Right on schedule. Time to make her way home and decide what to do next. She focused with all of her concentration on shadowing her presence—sight, sound, and scent—from even the shifters and their ultrasensitive noses and ears, then cast one last regretful glance over her shoulder at the ever-so-gallant thief.
    Atlantis Betrayed – Warriors of Poseidon 06
    Page 22 of 188
    It was quite fortunate that her shadows dispersed the sound of her gasp even as it left her mouth, because the floor was empty.
    The man was gone.
    Christophe made it as far as the roof of the White Tower before he collapsed out of mist form and fell heavily to the stone. The drug had left him weak, barely able to reach for and channel the magic that had helped him escape before the Tower Guard found him lying helpless as a mewling babe on the floor.
    Wicked little wench. She was going to be very, very sorry she’d ever shot an Atlantean warrior. He might have to tie her up and take a considerable amount of time teaching her a lesson.
    With his lips.
    And his cock.
    The thought of her warm, willing body underneath his flashed a sizzle of heat through him that got him up and moving. Now was not the time to be caught on the grounds. He’d come back for the Siren; he’d seen enough to know she hadn’t taken it.