Propositioned?. Kristin Gabriel

what he truly believed to be her rightful legacy.

      But Sarah couldn’t keep the necklace. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it and her grandfather’s growing bitterness over the years simply blinded him to that fact. He was so certain that the necklace could change her future. That it could have changed the past. That it could have saved her grandmother.

      Sarah knew she could never convince him otherwise. So she had given up trying. And if her grandfather ever asked her about the diamond necklace, she’d simply tell him she’d put it in safekeeping. That would be the truth. The Wolff safe was the only place secure enough to keep Bertram Hewitt out of prison.

      Her wandering thoughts made her forget about the small marble table in her path. She bumped her knee against it, causing the lamp on top of it to teeter precariously. She caught it just in time to prevent it from crashing to the floor.

      She could just picture shattered glass on the carpet, a sure indication that someone had been in here. Sarah would prefer the Wolffs never suspected an intruder had entered this room. She didn’t want anything possibly leading the police to either her or her grandfather. Bertram had assured her that he hadn’t left any fingerprints behind a week ago, but with the sophistication of DNA testing, she couldn’t be certain he hadn’t left some identifying physical evidence in this room.

      Carefully setting the lamp upright again, Sarah heaved an impatient sigh. The room was too big and she simply didn’t want to take the chance of bumping into something else. Despite the risks, she had to turn on the lamp to get her bearings.

      Running her fingers along the lead crystal base, she found the switch and turned it on. Soft light spilled across the room and she saw now what she hadn’t the time to see before. It was a bedroom. The tent was actually a round canopy bed with heavy gold drapes concealing everything but the ornate sandalwood headboard.

      The room resembled a desert oasis, with the thick carpet the color of sand and a trickling limestone fountain in one corner. Potted palm trees lined the far wall and the ceiling was painted a serene sky blue. The walls themselves were made of bleached pine paneling, with hieroglyphics painted on various portions. It truly was the oddest bedroom she’d ever seen.

      Turning back to the wall once more, she moved her hand swiftly along the paneling until her fingers finally detected a grainy pattern in the crevice of the wood different from the rest.

      Sarah pressed hard on the crease and the secret wall panel popped open, revealing the safe underneath. She set the picnic basket on the floor, then took a deep breath, preparing to disconnect the alarm wire. This was the trickiest part of the whole process. If she tripped the alarm…

      “Don’t go there,” Sarah chastised herself. Just as in any other profession, to be successful, a safecracker had to think positively.

      A moment later, she breathed a sigh of relief. The alarm wire was disconnected. All she had to do now was open the safe, place the diamond necklace back inside, then leave by the back entrance of the mansion. No doubt the party would still be in full swing, so no one would be the wiser.

      Was Michael still waiting for her? Or had he already moved onto someone else?

      Sarah turned the dial, grateful her grandfather had revealed the combination when he’d bragged about his heist. He’d taught her how to crack a safe, a skill he’d learned from some of his more unsavory customers at the pawnshop. But that would take time that she simply didn’t have.

      “Fifty-four,” she murmured under her breath, her voice sounding odd to her ears.

      She reversed the direction of the dial. “Thirteen.”

      So far, so good. But at the sound of heavy footsteps out in the hallway, she hesitated, her entire body tensing. They stopped right outside the door.

      She silently closed the secret wall panel, her heart beating so fast she thought she might pass out. But the sound of someone jiggling the brass doorknob shocked her enough to remain conscious. She looked desperately around the room, wondering where she could possibly hide. The sound of keys jingling told her she didn’t have much time to decide.

      Someone was coming in.

      3

      MICHAEL JAMMED the key into the lock, the incessant itching almost driving him to the point of madness. He slammed the door open, then tore off the top half of the costume before he even turned on the light. Buttons popped and hit the wall, but he didn’t care. He flung the furry shirt halfway across his bedroom.

      Frustration roiled inside of him. He’d looked everywhere for her—combed every inch of the ballroom, then broadened his search to include the entire first floor. He’d even interrogated the doorman. But it was no use.

      She was gone.

      It was these stupid costumes. Never again. He didn’t care if it was tradition for the host of the Wolff Ball to dress as a wolf. If Seamus didn’t want the role next New Year’s Eve, they could damn well forego the costumes and dress in tuxedos like normal people. He’d always thought the masquerade part of the ball was ridiculous anyway.

      He never should have let her go. Now he had no way of identifying his Little Red Riding Hood. His only option was to go over the guest list tomorrow and try to establish her identity by process of elimination.

      But that wouldn’t change the fact that she’d stood him up for their midnight rendezvous. Michael wasn’t used to chasing women. They usually came to him.

      Until tonight.

      Maybe she wasn’t even on the guest list. Had she come with someone? Another man? That possibility hadn’t occurred to him until now. It didn’t quite fit, though, since no man had objected when Michael had kissed her on the dance floor. If he’d seen his woman mauled by a wolf, he sure as hell would have made his presence known.

      He reached out to turn on the light, then realized he could already see. The lamp was on. Odd, since he never used it. One of the maids must have left it on.

      Michael sat down on the chaise lounge and stripped off his boots, socks and furry pants, tossing them all into a heap on the floor. Relief at last. Tomorrow the entire costume would go straight into the trash.

      He stood up and walked over to the dresser, reaching for the centuries-old bronze spear hanging on the wall above it. Blair had purchased the spear in her latest redecorating binge. She was into Egyptian decor this month and his bedroom had suffered the consequences.

      In his opinion, she’d gone overboard with the depraved sheik look. Another not-so-subtle message that she didn’t approve of him. Or perhaps an attempt to finally drive him out of the house. Blair had mentioned more than once that a twenty-nine-year-old man should not be living with his grandfather.

      Neither should a thirty-four-year-old woman, but he mostly kept that opinion to himself. He also ignored Blair’s hints that he move into the city. Someone had to stay and watch over his grandfather.

      Seamus Wolff had raised Michael since he was almost thirteen years old, helping him to care about life again after his father’s private jet crashed during an impulsive weekend ski trip to Vail. Seamus was the only family Michael had left in the world—the only family that counted, anyway. And he damn well intended to do whatever it took to protect the old man.

      Michael raked the end of the bronze spear across his back, moaning aloud with pleasure as he satisfied the itch that had plagued him all evening. The spear had brought close to two thousand dollars at a Sotheby’s auction—one hell of an expensive back scratcher.

      Music floated up from the ballroom two floors below and he knew he should return to the party until the last guest walked out the door. But he just couldn’t stand the thought of putting that suffocating wolf costume back on. Or making small talk. Or parrying the flirtations of the inebriated women downstairs.

      There was only one woman he wanted.

      Smoothing one hand over his bare chest, he wished like hell he’d never