My Timeswept Heart Read online

  A SENSUAL SPRITE SPRUNG FROM THE SEA

  Street-smart, Olympic-trained gymnast Tess Renfrew

  was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Pursued

  by a gang of hoods, forced to choose between a bullet and

  a watery death, she leapt over the rail of a Bahama-bound

  cruiser... only to be swept into a thundering wall of mist.

  Carried to safety on the back of a dolphin, Tess awoke

  in the arms oj a ravishingly handsome 18th-century pirate!

  A BOLD BUCCANEER BATTLING DANGER AND DESIRE Captain Dane Blackwell was intrigued by the woman he'd

  fished from the briny depths... enflamed by her fiery

  spirit and bold sensuality. His prisoner, his prize, she would

  sail with him on his quest for vengeance—and the treasure

  that was rightfully his. Though his seaswept enchantress

  came from a place be could never know, he'd risk life itself

  to keep her with him always, defying the past, the future...

  and time itself!

  ONLY BY HIS TOUCH

  Tess reached out, her fingertips trailing across Dane's cheek. "It's really sweet of you to want to de­fend my honor."

  His face was still creased in a deep frown. "Can you forgive me for putting you through this, Tess?"

  "Sure." She shrugged, her eyes dancing with mis­chief. "But will you now demand satisfaction for me seducing you?"

  Dane blinked, shocked, then his chiseled lips slowly stretched into a wide grin. "God's teeth, but you're a bold wench."

  "Yeah, and you love it," she quipped, struggling in the heavy skirts to rise. Instantly he gathered her in his arms, pulling her across his lap and kissing her slowly, erotically, a lesson in pure torture to her senses.

  "Aye," he breathed against her lips. "I admit I do enjoy your saucy ways, witch."

  She pressed her mouth to his, her tongue snaking out to slowly lick his lips, and his deep shudder steamed all around her like warm velvet. She met his ice-mint gaze, and Dane was jolted to his boots with what he saw there. "Last night, Dane," she smoothed the lines of his face, "I discovered what I've been missing out on for five very long years."

  Her fingers tunneled into his hair, and she captured his mouth once more, letting her emotions spill over onto him. God, she loved kissing him. He was so damn good at it! Dane Blackwell was a man she couldn't resist, lie to, or walk on, and Tess was sud­denly thankful she'd been tossed into his world.

  Coral Key, Florida 1989

  Tess Renfrew turned off the motor of her '65 Mus­tang and stared at the steering wheel.

  She was scared.

  This was really stupid.

  If she got caught, she'd be arrested. Even if Penny backed her up, even if Sloane came off her mighty horse and admitted to her blackmail threat, she'd have a record. No mother in her right mind would allow her to coach a child again. Her career would be over.

  "Simple," she told the charging horse emblem. "Don't get caught."

  She looked up the tree-lined block to the Rothmere Building, the white fortress reminiscent of the Cita­del. It was old, an architect's dream in eighteenth-century design: cracking Spanish stucco, scrolling iron rails, slightly Gothic in flavor with the wide

  ledges and decorative crenelation around the win­dows and along the roof.

  Good for footholds.

  It would be easy except for the fact that it had an alarm system. She could tell that by the little silver shield on the stone column near the iron gate. Noth­ing like advertising to a thief what to expect.

  Shoving a stick of Juicy Fruit in her mouth, she checked her pinned-up hair and slipped a wool cap over the ebony mass. Locking her oversized bag in the glove box, she taped the key to her leg along with a pick set. She smiled. Dad had actually given her the set. She'd been called on more than once to open cars or homes with the keys locked inside. Her adoptive father was famous for that. She picked locks as a hobby, for the challenge, not to steal. That part of her life was long over.

  But tonight it was stealing. It didn't matter that it was damaging evidence that could destroy a friend's career, didn't matter that Sloane, in her gloating glory over her revenge, let valuable information slip, and Tess knew in which room, which drawer to search. Penny was right. It wasn't a college prank. Not this time, she gnashed, furious at what Sloane Rothmere's games would cost her and Penny if she failed.

  In college Tess had lifted a crystal-ball paperweight from the dean's desk. Dean Whingate was noted for caressing the clear-glass globe just before he con­demned you to a life on the cafeteria staff, or expelled your butt. She'd scaled the admin building, stolen the globe, then waited until the entire campus discovered its absence, for the Dean to turn the loveliest shade of purple, before she returned it. Only the sisters of

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  Delta Pi knew who'd actually taken it, and they were sworn to secrecy. That was over six years ago.

  Let's see if I still got it, she challenged, climbing out of the vintage car. She secured the convertible top, locked it, then slipped into the shadows. For half an hour she watched for movement around the old building. Silent. Dark. God, it was unnerving. Not even a cat, dog, bug. Nothing. She could feel her body perspire beneath the snug cotton Lycra. Finally gathering her nerve, she rosined her hands, ap­proached the fence, and grasped the iron poles. Pull­ing with the strength of her arms, she raised her body until the top spikes were at her waist. Slowly she spread her legs, hovering lengthwise over the points, then twisted, swept up into a handstand, and re­leased. Dropping silently to the ground, she quickly crouched. Ten points for difficulty, ten for execution and landing, Renfrew. She ran across the Astroturf lawn to the structure, flattening herself against the cool stone. Calmly she located the room and planned her route. Porch, window, flagpole, window.

  Piece of Danish. Drawing her arms back past her sides, knees bent, she leapt, strong fingers catching the edge of the porch roof. Curling around the edge, she climbed. Just like when I was eight, she thought, and Dad caught me. Standing atop the porch, she turned, faced the wall, and balanced along the deco­rative ledge toward the window above. Four inches, how convenient. Using her fingers and bare toes in the crenelation design, she worked her way up and caught the lip. Seconds later she was above the win­dow on the scalloped overhang. Concentrate. Deep breaths. Smoke gray eyes

  trained on the flagpole a few feet out and above her, perpendicular to the wall. The only sound was her body whispering through the air as she dove out, caught the pole, and swung around it full circle into a handstand. Inch by inch her hands moved toward the wall. Spine straight, she eased her legs down until they touched the bolts and brackets securing the pole. God, it was dark. If not for the silver sheen of the pole, Tess wouldn't know where her feet were touch­ing. Ten points. No. Eight and a half. One more level, she thought as she carefully straightened and looked above her head. The room was about five feet away and just as far up. No ledge. Now what? Her face plastered against the stone wall, Tess stretched her muscles to the max, feeling for gouges large enough for her hands to grasp securely. She smiled, finding the little niches.

  "Spiderman, Spiderman. Does whatever a spider can," she mumbled the tune as she chewed and climbed. "Can he spin? Yes, he does." Fingers and toes caught in the ancient cracks.

  Tess was agile, very strong, yet graceful. It's what made her a champion gymnast. Her specialty was the balance beam and unevens. She wasn't afraid of heights; the street urchin in her thrived on a little ad­venture in her otherwise dull life. But the adopted daughter of a Marine Sergeant-Major, who'd raised her with a strict code of honor, rebelled at what she was doing. Dad wouldn't like this a bit. Mom either. A silent jab of guil
t pierced her heart. They're gone and Penny needs me. Adapt and overcome, Tess, she told herself, shoving the thought aside as she faced the window. Perched on her knees, she ripped off

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  four strips of metallic tape she'd wrapped around her wrists, and taped them to the pane below the window locks. Alarm conductors and she hoped they worked. If not, she'd find her butt in jail within the hour.

  Removing the glass cutter tucked in the pick set, she cut a small circle in the pane, the sound grating like nails on a chalkboard. Then she stuck her chewed gum to the glass, tapped the cut line, and pulled. It popped out easily. She set it on the sill to her right. Cautiously she slipped her hand in the hole with what looked like a long, thin, metal toothpick and began to work the keylock. Sweat formed on her upper lip; she licked it. Almost there. She wriggled the pick. My knees hurt. Don't think about it.

  Hearing a noise, Tess froze. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Her heart pounded so hard she thought whoever it was would hear it. Terror blended cruelly with adrenaline, her blood coursing through her veins like arctic seawater.

  Balancing on her knees, one hand grasping the brick window frame, the other about to be sliced to ribbons, she waited, breath trapped, muscles clenched, until the sound faded, then worked the lock with record speed. Enough is enough! Nothing was worth this fear. Two twists and three grunts later, it sprang. She eased the window up, slipped into the room, and James Bond would have been proud as she cracked the desk lock and opened the bottom right-hand drawer. It was there. A bulky plain Manila enve­lope. She started to stuff the packet down the back of her leotard but halted, her conscience prodding her to open it to see if what Sloane claimed was true. I'm risking everything for this, she mused, hefting the evi-

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  dence. The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood at attention when her gaze caught on a portrait hung high on the wall behind the desk, a viewing lamp perched beneath. The seconds wasted were her biggest mistake. The thud of footsteps jolted her. She jammed the package down the back of her top, jerked her sleeve down over her hand, swiped at the fingerprints, then raced to the window and climbed out. She was just sealing the window when the door burst open. Light flooded the room and, no doubt, her shocked face. A figure pointed at her.

  "There she is!" she heard, and two stocky shadows ran toward her.

  "Ohh, shit!" She straightened and without a thought, twisted and dove the ten feet downward to the flagpole. She caught it, thank God, the momen­tum sending her around it twice.

  "Hey! You! Stop, or I'll shoot!"

  Shoot? Holy Christ! This only happens in movies, lan Fleming, write me out of this one, she thought as her supine body spun around the pole. She released. Her body was like a slim black dart as she sailed through the air and caught the porch roof. Her un­usual speed propelled her further, and she lost her grip, crashing painfully into clay pots of fake rhodo­dendrons and ferns, sprawling like a ragdoll in the far corner. It seemed all Rothmeres are fakes, she decided as she spat artificial moss and scrambled to her feet. She sped toward the fence, odd noises penetrating her panic. It sounded like thumps, soft and airy, with a faint whine. Her eyes widened, and her bare feet chewed Astroturf. A damn silencer! Her body slammed into the sharp spiked fence but she couldn't

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  wait for the pain to subside. Pulling up, she clumsily swung both legs over and pushed off just as a pack of Dobermans was unleashed. Two and a half execution. Ten points difficulty.

  She ran. Her lungs burned. Her knees bled. Her cap fell off, sending shiny black hair spilling down her back. Bare feet slapped the concrete. Oh, Tess. Big guns. Big trouble! Her hands shook as she ripped the car key from her leg and jammed it into the lock. Dogs barked, metal screeched, engines revved.

  Don't look. Don't look.

  She opened the door and literally became the driv­er's seat. She breathed deeply so she wouldn't do something stupid like flood the engine, and the twenty-four-year-old cherry red classic started on the first try. Tess burned rubber for a block. Encroaching headlights reflected in her rear-view mirror, retreated, then grew larger, brighter, so close she could see the chrome around the lights. They rammed her classic Mustang, her face nearly colliding with the steering wheel before she swerved. The dark car started to move alongside her, and she gunned the engine, but not before she heard a sharp pop. Instinctively she ducked, and in the same instant the seat beside her jolted, followed by a sound like weak ice fracturing on a pond. Her gaze darted to the mirror and her heart jumped to her throat. There was a clean hole in her rear window, the glass a crackling maze of spidery veins about to shatter.

  Jesus! Who was I fooling, trying this? she thought, terrified.

  She didn't chance a look at the car seat, knowing it would have a bullet buried in the old leather. Her foot

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  squashed down on the pedal as another silent torpedo plunked somewhere in the car's metal shell. Tires squealed.

  Recklessly Tess drove down every side street she could remember from her college days, and some she didn't, until she was certain she'd lost them. Pulling behind a Seven-Eleven, she shut the motor off, her heart pounding in every pore of her body. Reaching down her back for the packet, she tossed the sweat-stained evidence on the seat. She glared at it for a few moments, then snatched it up, shakily broke the wax seal, and dumped the contents in her lap.

  "That little bitch!" Tess Renfrew knew, without a doubt, she'd been set up tonight. To die.

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  CHAPTER TWO

  Tess slammed the door, frantically flipped and closed a series of locks, then plastered herself against the wood as another barrier. She squeezed her eyes shut. This can't be happening, she thought wildly.

  "Did you get it?"

  She gasped, eyes snapping open. "God, Pen, you scared the hell out of me! I forgot you were here!" Penny stood in the middle of her tiny living room, committing murder on a hanky, her face bearing the marks of a good cry. "Get back from that window," Tess commanded, moving around the love seat that separated them.

  "Why?" Penny briefly glanced behind her. "You did get it, didn't you?"

  "I did." And more, she thought, unzipping the bag and taking out the envelope.

  "Oh, thank you!" Immediately Penny went for it, but Tess held it out of her reach. "You going to black­mail me, too?" Instantly she regretted that. "God,

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  Tess. I'm sorry. It's just that-"

  "I know, bud." Tess opened the packet and with­drew the negatives and photos. "Burn them. Now." When Penny simply stared at the scandalous photos, Tess picked up the crystal lighter from the coffee table, lit the flame beneath the corners, and waited for them to catch. She dropped them into a pewter ashtray and went to the window, brushing back the curtain. The streets were empty. Waves crashed, the calming sound reaching out to her from the beach beyond the avenue. I'm safe, she thought, glancing back over her shoulder.

  Her former college roomie continued to watch the flames consume what was left of her past. Penelope Hamilton was an extraordinary actress, copper-haired and slim and sexy. And Liz Claiborne would have been proud of the justice Penny did to her white linen design. To her growing public she was worldly, so­phisticated, and in control. Tess knew better. Though aggressive when it came to her craft, Penny was basi­cally a vulnerable, gentle spirit. And those burning photos could have ruined her unblemished career be­cause of something stupid she'd done when she was hungry and homeless. Tess understood what that was like.

  She turned back to the window and sucked in her breath, gaining Penny's attention.

  "What is it?"

  "Leave, Pen." Her Lycra-covered legs were already moving across the studio apartment, her slim hands snatching up the oversized bag and the envelope as she went. She was never far from her survival kit filled with an assortment of clothing, cosmetics, ace

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  bandages, ointments, medicines, toothbrush—every­thing. It was habit left over from her days as a com­peting
gymnast traveling to meets. Ready for anything and always on the move. As she was now, in her closet, jamming garments into the duffle.

  "Christ, Tess, will you talk to me?"

  "Penelope she warned without looking up.

  Penny raced to the window, drawing back the curtain to see two average-looking men with above-average muscles climb out of a dark Mer­cedes.

  "Jesus, you were followed!"

  "Get back!" Tess shouted and Penny did, green eyes demanding an explanation. "I was nearly caught, Pen. They saw my face and—" She waved at the obvi­ous.

  "And?" No answer. "And?"

  Tess didn't look up from filling her duffle. "They took a couple shots at me."

  "Oh, God!" Penny dropped into a chair, stunned, then her eyes narrowed on her friend. "What else is in that envelope, Renfrew?"

  "Let's just say I've a feeling the IRS doesn't know exactly how rich Daddy Rothmere really is or they'd have called the police by now."

  "Let me see it." Penny's manicured fingers wiggled beneath her nose.

  "You don't want to know." She flipped black hair over her shoulder and continued to stuff. "So don't ask."

  Penny recognized that determined tone and tried another tactic. "Change clothes with me." She unbut­toned her cuffs.

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  "No!" Tess straightened abruptly. "It's over for

  you!"

  "Don't argue! We have to do something," she said, wiggling out of the dress. "My car's out back. I'll take yours and lead them away."

  Tess shook her head. "It's too dangerous, bigger than we imagined." Penny lifted the dress. "Damn it, they—have—guns," Tess enunciated, grabbing Pen­ny's arms and making her listen. "And they like using them."

  "I know, bud," Penny whispered. "I have to do

  this."

  Tess briefly closed her eyes, her arms falling loosely at her sides. "Why does Sloane hate us so much? What did we ever do to her?"

  "We worked hard and got famous, Renfrew. You know how us no-background types succeeding always rubbed her raw."