Free ItTakesaThief by Dee Brice

and unpleasant
memories, she headed left, down a wide corridor filled with the same lovely
flowers and scents as the entryway. She stopped before she reached the open
double doors of the blue salon and used the Rococo hallway mirror to peer into
the room. An enormous Georgian crystal chandelier reflected back at her,
hinting at the size of the room it graced. Below the mantel-less fireplace, a
blue marble bolection framed the hob where a cheery fire burned. Pale blue
velvet chairs and couches beckoned her to enter, to sit or join the twins, now
shoeless, on the thick carpet where they played some board game or other.
    Butterflies swirled in TC’s belly. She fought down the
impulse to turn on her heel and run like hell, as far away from Ian Soria and
his loving family as she could get.
    Ian’s mirrored image stopped her. No, it wasn’t Ian who
stood looking down at the twins with such obvious affection it made her heart
hurt. This man had silver streaks at his temples and deep lines around his
crystal blue eyes. Smile lines, she bet herself, not scowls like Charles
perpetually wore. He looked up and smiled at her in the mirror. She couldn’t
tell if he really saw her or was simply sharing his love of his children with
his reflection. In a curious way, she was trapped, obligated to share the love
within these walls that encompassed his family.
    She wiped damp, shaking hands down trim chocolate-brown
slacks and checked the tag on her beige cowl-necked sweater to make sure it lay
flat against her nape. Out of excuses, she forced a smile and stepped into the
room.
    “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, an
overwhelming sense of relief blooming in her when Ian stood, came to her side
and wrapped his arm around her waist. He still wore the University of Barcelona
sweatshirt, faded jeans and deck shoes he’d worn on the drive down. TC resisted
snuggling against him and inhaling his scent.
    “Mamacita,” Ian said to the striking dark-haired, dark-eyed
woman who studied her face for a long moment and then smiled up at her. “This
is Tiffany dar—Tiffany Foster.”
    The twins sniggered behind their hands. Ian shot them a
warning glare.
    “Tiffany, my mother, Margreta Maria Esperanza—”
    “Kindly refrain from boring Tiffany, and me, with all my
multisyllabic names. Margreta is sufficiently difficult as it is.” She held out
her hand—a delicate, elegant hand, its nails unpolished, but buffed to a
mirror-like shine TC envied. She also envied the woman’s elegant clothes, a
pale pink pantsuit, low-heeled sling-back shoes in hot pink leather and an opal
necklace with matching earrings.
    “TC prefers TC, Mama,” Adeen said as TC took Margreta
Hunter’s hand in hers, her abraded fingertips barely brushing the other woman’s
fingers before curling around her hand.
    “Hush,” Peace said, grinning wickedly at her big brother.
    Ignoring both siblings, Ian said, “And this is my father,
Marcus Hunter, Baron—”
    “Of beef,” the twins chorused, earning a chuckle from their
father and mother.
    “And Mark is sufficient for me, Miss TC,” he said in a
resonant basso surely capable of vibrating crystal glasses into shards. He wore
casual brown slacks, a de rigueur tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and a
pale yellow shirt, open at the neck. Like the twins, he was shoeless.
    “Would you like an aperitif before we go in to luncheon?”
Margreta asked, her lovely voice bearing witness to her son’s intriguing accent.
“Please, sit here next to me.”
    “A small sherry would be lovely,” TC said straight-faced, a
laugh at Ian’s red cheeks threatening to erupt any second. Did he really
believe she would tell his parents that she and Ian had shared a lovely wine while making love? She might distrust Ian Soria, but she would never
embarrass him in front of his family.
    “Did you enjoy the play last night?” Mark asked, then turned
beet red at his gaffe.
    “Up to a point,” TC said ruefully, gently