Stolen

“All of it under tight security,” said Jordan. “And I mean, extremely tight.”

The hussy laughed. “I believe you, Mr. Tavistock.”

“I certainly hope you do.”

“I’d like to see Chetwynd some day.”

“Hang around with me, darling,” said Guy, “and we might wangle an invitation.”

With a last squeeze of the woman’s hand, Guy rose to his feet. “I’ll have the car sent ‘round, how about it? If we leave now, we’ll avoid the jam in the parking lot.”

“I’ll come with you,” she offered.

“No, no. Do stay and finish your drink. I’ll be back as soon as the car’s ready.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

The woman sat back down. No shrinking violet, this one; brazenly she faced Jordan. And she smiled.

FROM ACROSS the refreshment tent Charles Ogilvie spotted the woman. He knew it had to be her; there was no mistaking the hair color. “Cinnamon red” was precisely how one would describe that glorious mane of hers. A superb job, courtesy of Clairol. Ogilvie had found the discarded hair-color box in the bathroom rubbish can when he’d searched her hotel room this morning, had confirmed its effect when he’d pulled a few silky strands from her hairbrush. Miss Clea Rice, it appeared, had done another quick-change job. She was getting better at this. Twice she’d metamorphosed into a different woman. Twice he’d almost lost her.

But she wasn’t good enough to shake him entirely. He still had the advantage of experience. And she had the disadvantage of not knowing what he looked like.

Casually he strolled a few feet along the tent perimeter, to get a better look at her profile, to confirm it was indeed Clea Rice. She’d gone heavy with the lipstick and rouge, but he still recognized those superb cheekbones, that ivory skin. He also had no trouble recognizing Guy Delancey, who had just risen to his feet and was now moving away through the crowd, leaving Clea at the table.

It was the other man he didn’t recognize.

He was a blond chap, long and lean as a whippet, impeccably attired. The man slid into the chair where Delancey had been sitting and faced the Rice woman across the table. It was apparent, just by the intensity of their gazes, that they were not strangers to each other. This was troubling. Where did this blond man fit in? No mention of him had appeared in the woman’s dossier, yet there they were, deep in conversation.

Ogilvie took the lens cap off his telephoto. Moving behind the wine bar, he found a convenient vantage point from which to shoot his photos, unobserved. He focused on the blond man’s profile and clicked off a few shots, then took a few shots of Clea Rice, as well. A new partner? he wondered. My, she was resourceful. Three weeks of tailing the woman had left him with a grudging sense of admiration for her cleverness.

But was she clever enough to stay alive?

He reloaded his camera and began to shoot a second roll.

“I LIKE THE HAIR,” said Jordan.

“Thank you,” the woman answered.

“A bit flashy, though, don’t you think? Attracts an awful lot of attention.”

“That was the whole idea.”

“Ah, I see. Guy Delancey.”

She inclined her head. “Some men are so predictable.”

“It’s almost unfair, isn’t it? The advantage you have over the poor dumb beasts.”

“Why shouldn’t I capitalize on my Godgiven talents?”

“I don’t think you’re putting those talents quite to the use He intended.” Jordan sat back in his chair and returned her steady gaze. “There’s no such company as Nimrod Associates. I’ve checked. Who are you? Is Diana Lamb your real name?”

“Is Jordan Tavistock yours?”

“Yes, and you didn’t answer my question.”

“Because I find you so much more interesting.” She leaned forward, and he couldn’t help but glance down at the deeply cut neckline of her flowered dress.

“So you own Chetwynd,” she said.

He forced himself to focus on her face. “My uncle Hugh does.”

“And that fabulous art collection? Also your uncle’s?”

“The family’s. Collected over the years.”

“Collected?” She smiled. “Obviously I’ve underestimated you, Mr. Tavistock. Not the rank amateur I thought you were.”

“What?”

“Quite the professional. A thief and a gentleman.”

“I’m nothing of the kind!” He shot forward in his chair and inhaled such an intoxicating whiff of her perfume he felt dizzy. “The art has been in my family for generations!”

“Ah. One in a long line of professionals?”

“This is absurd—”

“Or are you the first in the family?”

Gripping the table in frustration, he counted slowly to five and let out a breath. “I am not, and have never been, a thief.”

“But I saw you, remember? Rooting around in the wardrobe. You took something out—papers, I believe. So you are a thief.”

“Not in the same sense you are.”

“If your conscience is so clear, why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Perhaps I will.”

“I don’t think so.” She flashed him that maddening grin of triumph. “I think when it comes to thievery, you’re the more despicable one. Because you make victims of your friends.”

“Whereas you make friends of your victims?”

“Guy Delancey’s not a friend.”

“Astonishing how I misinterpreted that scene between you two! So what’s the plan, little Miss Lamb? Seduction followed by a bit of larceny?”

“Trade secrets,” she answered calmly.