The blonde sauntered into view on the security monitor, looking like every erotic dream he'd ever had—sultry, seductive, sin on heels sensuous. Luke Moreno's pulse hitched, and a wild laugh rose in his throat. Oh, yeah. This woman was his fantasy, all right. His Delilah. His Mata Hari. His Eve in the Garden of Eden.
Too bad she was just as corrupt.
He watched, riveted, as she approached the glass display case cordoned off with velvet ropes. She played the elegant guest role to perfection, bending close to admire the primeval amber, the meticulously hammered gold. As if she'd never seen the ancient necklace before. As if she hadn't come here to steal it. As if she weren't setting him up to take the blame—again.
Damn her conniving soul.
"Who let her in here?" he demanded, still not pulling his eyes from the screen.
"Who?" Luke's partner in his security business, Antonio Flores, leaned across the crowded console toward the monitor.
"La americana. Sofia ...
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