Chapter One

 

Caitlin cursed silently as her long brown hair caught on something; a loose screw, it seemed. She tugged it free, and continued squirming along the air duct as silently as she could.

Having long hair could be a drawback for a cat burglar. If she was back in Britain she'd have cut it, but she was in America, the land of guns and crazy people. Being a fairly obvious 'girl' had often caused itchy trigger fingers to pause, especially when she had started out and been a little more clumsy at things.

She wore a tight black leather catsuit. It served two purposes, well, three. It moved fairly easily through the vent, with nothing loose to catch. It would help hide her in dim light, and, again, it was tight enough to show that despite her slender body, she had womanly curves in all the right places.

Girl! Don't shoot! Girl! No danger! Nothing to be afraid of!

At least, that was the hope. But if she did things right, and didn't have unusually bad luck, no one would catch sight of her and she'd be gone with her prize long before anyone noticed she'd been here.

She slid forward a little further, rounded a corner, and slowed way down. There was a grille there, and light coming through. That didn't mean anyone was below, and even if there was, they shouldn't hear a thing. This was a mansion, not a bare bones museum. The vent was firmly dry-walled away out of sight. Well, except for the grille.

She eased up to it, raised her light amplifying glasses, and peered down.

The floor was fifteen feet below. It was a bedroom, a very luxuriously appointed bedroom, with rich, dark wood furniture. Fortunately, it wasn't the one she was aiming for, because there was a man in it. He was wearing nothing but boxer shorts, kneeling on the floor, doing exercises.

Caitlin paused. Music was coming through the grill, rich bassy classical music. Certainly not her style, which ran more to electropop and metal. But the man, now that was certainly something to be admired. He was probably thirty or so, maybe a few years older. And he had a nearly perfect body, as far as she was concerned.

He was doing pushups now, doing them smoothly and easily without much apparent difficulty. She watched the play of muscles with a soft hum low in her stomach. He had longish hair, longer than normal on a man his age, broad shoulders, and the kind of muscled build which managed to widen her eyes, but didn't fall prey to the ridiculous bulging of the crazy steroid and weightlifter set.

Wow, she thought, brown eyes taking in all that lovely male nakedness. She only wished he'd have exercised naked. But then, that would probably have spoiled things. She'd rarely seen a man naked who didn't look better clothed. It wasn't that she didn't like men, of course. She most certainly did. And it wasn't like a naked man didn't excite her either.

It was just that for sheer beauty, few men had a naked body which could match hers, or that of other attractive young women. They didn't have the smooth skin and soft curves. And where they failed the most was usually below the waistband.

Though she would have liked to see how this one turned out.

She eased back a bit as he pushed himself up onto his knees. What was he doing now? He knelt on one knee now, and extended the other foot, balancing like that as he drew his arms up high and pushed his hips forward. She licked her lips as her eyes devoured his upper torso, at the firm lines of muscles over his stomach and chest.

What was he, she wondered? Some kind of stock broker with lots of time to hit the gym? That was unusual. Or maybe he'd inherited his money and was just a playboy. He certainly wasn't the guy who owned this place, a fat old guy who owned a string of supermarkets and pharmacies.

She shrugged. She gave herself a mental kick to get moving. She couldn't stay peeping at this guy all evening or she'd miss her window of opportunity.

She slid slowly, very slowly forward across the grille, being as silent as possible, which for Caitlin was very silent. A hundred feet further along she came to a turning, moved left, and kept going.

It wasn't easy squirming forward such a distance, but she was in excellent shape herself. She needed to be in her job.

Job? She laughed silently at the thought. If she'd been able to get a job she'd not be here! But despite getting a scholarship to Cambridge and excelling in her studies as an architect, she hadn't been able to find a decent job in the miserable economy back home. Her fellow classmates, of course, all had no problems because they were rich and had connections. Family friends found ways for them to be hired.

Caitlin was an orphan, and so she was screwed. The best she'd found was a waitress at a cocktail bar where her best assets were her short skirts. That had led to a lot of resentment towards rich people, and ultimately to her decision to help herself to some of the baubles those rich people thoughtlessly poured their money out on.

She moved a little further, found the spot she was aiming for, and peered through the grille. The room was dark, but her light-amplifying glasses told her it was also empty. She smiled contentedly and drew out a screwdriver.

 It was a curious looking tool, curved, meant to be used in awkward places. In fact, she was able to bend the slender shaft almost double. On the end, she had fixed a small sliver of a mirror. Slipping the tool through the grille took some effort, and she had to use a small metal bar to widen the grille first. But once through, she unscrewed the grille, drew it into the room, then slowly let herself down through the opening.

It wasn't much of an opening, but she was a slender girl, and the tight leather allowed her hips to narrowly scrape through. She was able to let herself through until her entire body was dangling below her arms, then slid lower, until her gloved hands gripped the edge of the grille.

It was still almost a ten foot drop. But she'd been a promising gymnast until a growth spurt had made her a little too tall. She dropped lightly to the floor, with hardly a sound, and pushed herself almost immediately to her feet.

Someone grabbed her arm, spun her about, yanked the glasses off her and then pushed her – hard. She went flying a half dozen feet to land sprawling on a large bed as the lights snapped on.

It was Mr. Underwear!

She gaped at him in disbelief! How could her luck be this bad! And if not, how had he possibly known to be here! He couldn't have heard or seen her! Her eyes darted instantly to the door, unfortunately, on the other side of him, then back to him, where he stood rather comfortably, arms folded across his impressive chest.

“And what have we here?” he asked in a surprisingly deep voice.

She rolled off the bed, off the other side, away from him, licking her lips nervously.

“Take off the mask,” he ordered.

There was something about that voice which made her instantly want to comply. In fact, her hand reached or the mask before her mind even caught up to it. Removing the mask was a good idea under the circumstances. She was young and very attractive. Men tended to be quite merciful to young, attractive women, especially if she could work up some water for her eyes and tell him a sad story.

With a little luck he'd send her on her way with a stern lecture.

Sometimes, it was very good to be a girl.

She slipped off the mask, and combed her fingers nervously through her hair.

“How did you get in?” he demanded, still surprisingly casual in his underwear.

She doubted he'd be as casual if she weren't a girl.

Honesty, in this case, was the best policy. She wanted him on her side, after all, and believing the story she'd give him in a moment.

“Uhm, there's an opening where the old air conditioner used to be,” she said, sounding as contrite as she could.

“I was just looking for some little thing I could sell,” she said apologetically, “Nothing big. Just something to pay the rent on my flat, you know.”

She saw his flicker of attention at her voice, at her accent. Americans loved British accents. She couldn't count how many men had told her how sexy her accent was. It was an upper class accent, one her old friends had called 'posh'. She'd learned it at Cambridge, doing away with her old lower class drawl and slang.

“I-I haven't been able to find a job,” she said, her voice quavering a little.

Her eyes flicked down his chest. His boxers were low on his hips, and his abdomen was firm, with a very thin line just beginning above the waistband. Her eyes wanted to follow it lower, and those boxers appeared to be … well occupied too.

But this was business, and she mentally smacked herself for being distracted. The goal here, the urgent goal, was to gain his sympathy and get the hell out.

“Really?” he said. “You seem very healthy and attractive. Healthy, attractive girls have a lot of options for making money in this country.”

What did THAT mean!?

“I'm sure you could get a job as a waitress in any number of pubs and clubs,” he said.

Well, that was better. She'd thought for a moment he was suggesting something else.

“And there's always strip clubs. You look like you have a dancer's body.”

She let herself scowl.

“I'm not a bleeding stripper, okay!” she exclaimed, allowing some of her lower class accent to push aside the cultured voice she'd learned.

Sexist bastard!

“Stripping doesn't tend to have a high level of status here, it's true, but it does pay well, and at least you're not stealing from other people.”

She reminded herself that confrontation was not her goal here, and dropped her eyes.

“My mum would roll over in her grave if I did that sort of thing,” she said, allowing that quaver to appear again.

In fact, her mother was a prostitute for whom stripping would have been a step up. If she'd been able to do more than stumble drunkenly across a stage, that was.

“Besides, I-I don't have a work permit,” she confessed.

“Ah, an illegal immigrant, hmm? I suppose I should call the immigration service.”

“Oh please don't! Please, sir!' she begged, raising her head, letting her eyes go wide and making her lower lip quiver.

“Fine. I'll let you go... this time. And I'll make sure that vent is blocked firmly.”

He jerked his head towards the door and then opened it.

“Thank you! Thank you!” she said gratefully.

She scooted forward, bending to grab her night glasses. He snatched them instead.

“Your fine for the night's illegal activities,” he said.

She started to protest, thought better of it, and scurried past.

Arrogant bastard!

He followed her down the hall, down the stairs, and out to the rear door.

“You’re a lovely girl,” he said. “You can find work. Even without a green card there are any number of places that would hire someone with your looks.”

Easy for you to say, rich boy, she wanted to growl resentfully.

It wasn't something she put a lot of thought into as he pushed open the door. It was... instinct. He had been guiding her along with a firm grip on her upper arm. He had to lean past her a little to push open the door, and his grip on her arm loosened as he prepared to see her out. She spun and let her leg kick him in the rear as her hands shoved hard.

There was one step down, enough to stumble before he caught himself, and then she had the door yanked closed and locked.

He certainly didn't have a key in those boxers!

She spun and raced up the stairs and down the hall, then back into the room. It was still lit. She grabbed her night glasses, then darted to the dresser and flung open the jewelry box. It was crammed with baubles of every description. Her practiced eye snatched up a handful of jeweled rings, slipped several bracelets over her wrist along with a pair of Rolex watches, then raced out into the hall again.

Her attempt to make a sharp turn failed at the rug laying on the polished floor, and she went stumbling into a table, sending a porcelain statue crashing to the floor. She ignored it, racing down the hall and across the house to an opposite window.

She flung it open, popped out the screen, and drew the hook from her belt, slipping it over the ledge as she climbed through. She heard noises in the house now and wondered if it was him or someone else. No matter. He wouldn't catch her now! She dropped, and the tight spring in the line within the belt unwound.

She dropped quickly, if not nearly as much as if she'd fallen, landed lightly, and flicked her wrist, twisting the cord so the hook came free. It began to rewind rapidly and she turned and darted into the dark woods, free and clear!

She slowed as soon as she passed the tree line, picking her way carefully around bushes and through undergrowth. The glasses helped enormously, and it didn't take long to reach the car she'd left on the trail a few hundred yards off.

The zipper on the catsuit ran straight down almost to her crotch, and she quickly peeled off the leather. It was many things, but not breathable, and she'd been working hard. Her skin was sweating underneath, and she wore only a thin black bra and thong. No matter, it was dark, and she had a pair of sweatpants and a loose tank top in the car.

Then something came out of the dark and she screamed as it grabbed her and lifted her bodily into the air. She had no time to even swing at it as she was twirled around and dropped belly-down across someone's shoulder.

His shoulder.

And he still wasn't wearing anything but boxer shorts!

“Shit! Let me go! Let me go!” she cried, kicking her feet.

Momentarily.

A sharp hand slapped against her bottom with stinging force and she yelped in pain. Then an arm clamped tight around her legs, pinning them to his torso.

“You are starting to annoy me,” he said.

“Well you're not making me happy either!' she cried, her head hanging upside down, staring at the small of his back.

She slapped at his back as he carried her away from the car, and when that didn't draw a reaction punched him. It didn't accomplish much. His back seemed as well-muscled as his front.

Crack! His hand slapped against her bottom even harder, and she squealed in pain.