"Thief," she murmured. "Had to have been. You're too damn good at that."
He slipped the pick back into his pocket. "Could have been a cop, you know. Cops learn all sorts of things."
She gave him a knowing look. "Yeah, right."
He grinned and slipped past her, moving to the end of the balcony. The shared wall between the two terraces jutted out several feet and would make climbing onto the next balcony awkward. At least all the windows in the next terrace were still wrapped in darkness.
He glanced at her. "We'll have to climb around the wall to the next balcony. You ready?"
She glanced down at the ground, then back at him. Fear flickered in her eyes. Afraid of heights, he realized. "I won't let you fall," he added.
He held out his hand. She hesitated, then took it and climbed up onto the wrought iron. It wobbled under her weight, and she made a small sound of fear, grabbing for his shoulders.
He reached for her waist with his free hand, steadying her. "Look at me, not the ground," he said. Her gaze darted to his, wide and uncertain. "I won't let you fall. Believe that, if nothing else. Now, reach around the wall and pull yourself across to the next balcony."
Though she was shaking, she did as he asked, and was quickly on the other side. He followed and pushed her into the shadows as headlights speared the darkness.
"Crawl toward the next terrace," he murmured, as the blue and red lights of the police car washed through the shadows.
"We can't climb across the balcony," she protested. "They'll see us."
"Maybe. Just go."
She did. He followed her, somehow managing to keep his gaze on the police car more than the rather fetching sight of her jeans-clad rear. The cops climbed out of the car, putting on their hats as they walked across the road and disappeared under the balcony. He moved past Kirby and checked the next terrace.
Lights were on, but he couldn't see anyone in the windows, and no one was moving around—not upstairs, anyway.
"Go," he said, catching her hand again. "Duck down under the windows when you get there."
Her expression was doubtful, but she climbed onto the railing and edged across. He followed her and pushed her forward again. They repeated the process until they reached the end terrace.
"Now what?" she murmured "Now we lie down in the shadows and wait for the hubbub to die down."
She gave him another long look. "You're kidding, right?"
He shook his head and somehow managed to restrain his grin. He could certainly think of worse fates than lying down with her—even if it was for something as innocent as waiting out the cops. "Sorry, no.
We try to leave now, someone will definitely stop us. So we wait."
She crossed her arms and didn't move. "Why can't we just sit here? Why do we have to lie down?"
"Because there's less of us to notice. By lying down and lying still, we're a part of the shadows. Believe me, it works." He'd had many a narrow escape by doing precisely that.
"I just bet you have," she muttered. "And not all of them narrow escapes from thieving jobs, either."
She was reading his mind as easily as he was hers. Odd. He grinned and didn't refute her inference, though he'd never been a womanizer. Far from it.
"I suppose," she continued softly. "We have to stretch out beside each other, not lie toe to head, for the same reason?"
"Afraid so." Her raised eyebrow suggested she knew he was lying. Smiling, he stretched out along the wall, then patted the boards in front of him. "Come along. I don't bite."
"I'll reserve judgement on that," she muttered, but lay down beside him—facing him, rather than the road.
To keep an eye on him, he thought with amusement. Or rather, what he was doing. Not that he could do much with the cops five doors down and the owners of this terrace moving around downstairs.
He reached for his phone. She tensed, then relaxed when she saw it. He smiled and dialed Camille.
"Don't you be hassling an old woman," she said, voice tart. "I'm almost there."
"I'm calling to say don't bother. When the murderer departed she left a rather large zombie to cover her tracks. I'm afraid we only just managed to escape, and the cops are crawling all over the place."
"Where are you?"
"Stuck on a balcony five doors down. We can't really move until either the cops or the owners of this house leave, and I've a bad feeling we should check on Russ before it gets too light."
"I'll head over there, then. Meet you there unless you hear from me in the meantime."
"Will do." He shoved the phone away and glanced past the curve of Kirby's hip to the road. More cops were arriving. It was going to be quite a while before they could move.
He met her gaze. In the warm green depths of her eyes he saw wariness and something else—longing.
Desire.
Without really thinking about the consequences, he leaned forward and kissed her.
Chapter Eight
His kiss wasn't what she'd expected. She wasn't entirely sure what she had expected, but it wasn't this.
There was a tenderness in his touch that was more than just passion, more than just desire. His lips burned heat through her heart, her soul, and sent common sense flying. All she could do, all she wanted to do, was respond.
He whispered her name, his breath warm across her skin, then wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her close. She could feel the strength of his arousal, feel the wild beat of his heart. Knew they were an echo of her own. She touched his face, his neck, then ran her hand down to his hip. Lord help her, she wanted him, as she'd wanted no other—right here, right now on the balcony. No matter how dangerous that might be or how much she might regret it later.
Seize the moment, enjoy the danger, Helen had often preached. But until this moment, she'd never truly understood what Helen had meant.
His lips left hers and moved to her neck, branding her skin with his kisses. She sighed and slipped her hand from his hip, down the outside of his jeans until she touched the hard length of him. She caressed him, teased him through the material, until she felt him quiver with need. She moved her hand away, slipping it inside his shirt, reveling in the hard, flat planes of his chest and stomach. He groaned softly, then his lips seized hers again, and he kissed her urgently. He pushed up her sweater, thrust a hand under her bra, catching her nipple, teasing it, teasing her. Heat pulsed through her, and deep down the ache increased. God, it felt so good…
Downstairs, a door slammed and voices rose. She froze. He pulled away, his breathing harsh and fast, staring past her, his body tense as he held her close.
Footsteps clattered on concrete, moving away. A man and a woman, from their voices. Another voice broke the silence, calling them in an authoritative tone. A cop, she thought, and hoped Doyle was right—that the shadows would indeed hide them. She doubted the police would believe they were just an oversexed couple who couldn't wait to get home. Especially seeing they couldn't exactly explain how they got up here without admitting they'd been near Rachel Grant's.
After five minutes or so, doors slammed and a car started up. Doyle relaxed and glanced down at her, a chagrined look touching his features. "Sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen."
She studied him for a moment. "Liar."
A smile touched his lips. "While I don't mind making love outdoors, believe me, I'm not an exhibitionist.
Especially when cops are among those who could spot us."
With his dark hair tumbling across his forehead and his smile crinkling the corners of his blue eyes, he looked so darned sexy she just wanted to kiss him again. She pushed away instead. Now that the heat between them had died a little, common sense was returning. She wasn't an exhibitionist either, but somewhere in the last few moments, both of them had almost become just that. Thank God the owners of the house had come out and stopped them.