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.