Illegal Possession by Kay Hooper

would ever want to see her again. Probably not. And even if he did, what would be the use of going on with something that would never—could never—work? God, she was tired….
    “I don’t like it,” Jamie insisted with unusual force. “There are too many unknowns in this job. Too many—”
    “We’ll argue about it on the way,” Troy said absently.
    Jamie muttered a comical mixture of Irish, French, and purely American oaths as he followed her from the house.

    Dallas hurled the Mercedes around a turn and checked his watch for the tenth time, fragmented thoughts flashing through his mind as he searched for conscious understanding of what he’d already realized intuitively.
    Troy. A woman who could not be leashed, but only coaxed to walk by his side.
Willingly
she could be led; unwillingly she would never follow. She would give as much as she was given, take only what was taken from her. And she demanded freedom as a basic need that had nothing to do with the modern cry of equality. Troy had to be free to choose her own way, accepting the risks and the responsibilities that accompanied her choice. She could never be less than she was.
    It would take a strong man to be able to live with that. It would take a strong man to persuade this proud woman to share his life.
    Checking his watch again, Dallas smiled grimly and hurled the straining car around another corner.
             
    Over his protests Troy left Jamie to wait in the car as she approached what she knew was a beautiful Colonial mansion. The darkened house was visible only by moonlight; it was set back from the road, and the two acres of land were enclosed within high brick walls that provided reasonable security and privacy.
    She went over the west wall easily with the aid of a large oak tree, and dropped inside with a muffled thump. Crouching there for a long moment, she studied the house’s lifeless appearance, then straightened and made her way silently through the dark, peaceful yard.
    Once at the house, it took only minutes to locate the fusebox and disconnect the security system. Troy frowned briefly behind her ski mask. Sloppy. In fact, she decided, the security for this place was lax to the point of stupidity. Brushing the thought away, she uncoiled the nylon line from her belt and expertly threw the grappling hook up to catch on a third-floor balcony on the east side of the house.
    It would have been simpler, she knew, to pick a lock on one of the ground-floor doors, but Troy preferred this way. The practice never hurt, and besides, she’d found it quicker to walk through only a single unfamiliar room rather than an entire unfamiliar house.
    She “walked” up the wall, her gloved hands gripping the nylon line easily, until she reached the second-floor window that was her goal. Locking the line, she hung there long enough to check for the possibility of a second, less obvious, electronic screen, then used a thin probe to open the window far enough for her fingers to slide beneath the sash.
    Within seconds she was inside the house. She stood for a moment, listening and allowing her eyes to adjust, then unhooked her flashlight and turned it on. Keeping the light at waist height, she swept it quickly around the room. A brick fireplace, dark and cold, with a beautiful lithograph framed above the mantel. Built-in bookshelves on either side, filled with expensive leather-bound volumes. A thick, light carpet. In one corner a comfortably overstuffed wing chair and reading lamp. Several other chairs. A large, neatly bare walnut desk.
    Troy focused her attention on the bookshelves behind the desk. Crossing the room, she gripped the flashlight between her teeth and carefully shifted books from one shelf onto the desk. If she had planned a safe for this room, she would have—
    There! Behind the books was a sliding panel. She opened the panel and found the safe. A few moments work had the safe open, and Troy mentally reviewed the description of the