Stolen

“I know, I know.” He suddenly spotted Veronica’s husband, Oliver, moving toward them. At once Jordan extricated himself from her embrace. “Ollie’s coming this way,” he whispered.

“Is he?” Veronica turned and automatically beamed her thousand-watt smile at Sir Oliver. “Darling, there you are! I lost track of you.”

“You don’t seem to be missing me much,” grunted Sir Oliver. He frowned at Jordan, as though trying to divine his real intentions.

Poor fellow, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica was deserving of pity. Sir Oliver was a decent enough fellow, a descendant of the excellent Cairncross family, manufacturers of tea biscuits. Though twenty years older than his wife, and bald as a cue ball, he’d managed to win Veronica’s hand—and to keep that hand well studded with diamonds.

“It’s getting late,” said Oliver. “Really, Veronica, shouldn’t we be going home?”

“So soon? It’s just past midnight.”

“I have that meeting in the morning. And I’m quite tired.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to be going, then,” Veronica said with a sigh. She smiled slyly at Jordan. “I think I’ll sleep well tonight.”

Just see that it’s with your husband, thought Jordan with a shake of his head.

After the Cairncrosses had departed, Jordan glanced down and saw the greasy sliver of salmon clinging to his lapel. Drat, another tuxedo bites the dust. He wiped away the mess as best he could, picked up his glass of champagne and waded back into the crowd.

He cornered his future brother-in-law, Richard Wolf, near the musicians. Wolf was looking happy and dazed—just the way one expected a prospective bridegroom to look.

“So how’s our guest of honor holding up?” asked Jordan.

Richard grinned. “Giving the old handshake a rest.”

“Good idea to pace oneself.” Jordan’s gaze shifted toward the source of particularly raucous laughter. It was Guy Delancey, clearly well soused and leaning close to a buxom young thing. “Unfortunately,” Jordan observed, “not everyone here believes in pacing himself.”

“No kidding,” said Wolf, also looking at Delancey. “You know, that fellow tried to put the make on Beryl tonight. Right under my nose.”

“And did you defend her honor?”

“Didn’t have to,” said Richard with a laugh. “She does a pretty good job of defending herself.”

Delancey’s hand was now on Miss Buxom’s lower back. Slowly that hand began to slide down toward dangerous terrain.

“What do women see in a guy like that, anyway?” asked Richard.

“Sex appeal?” said Jordan. Delancey did, after all, have rather dashing Spanish looks. “Who knows what attracts women to certain men?” Lord only knew what had attracted Veronica Cairncross to Guy. But she was rid of him now. If she was sensible, she’d damn well stay on the straight and narrow.

Jordan looked at Richard. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a security firm called Nimrod Associates?”

“Is that based here or abroad?”

“I don’t know. Here, I imagine.”

“I haven’t heard of it. But I could check for you.”

“Would you? I’d appreciate it.”

“Why are you interested in this firm?”

“Oh…” Jordan shrugged. “The name came up in the course of the evening.”

Richard was looking at him thoughtfully. Damn, it was that intelligence background of his, an aspect of Richard Wolf that could be either a help or a nuisance. Richard’s antennae were out now, the questions forming in his head. Jordan would have to be careful.

Luckily, Beryl sauntered up at that moment to bestow a kiss on her intended. Any questions Richard may have entertained were quickly forgotten as he bent to press his lips to his fiancée’s upturned mouth. Another kiss, a hungry twining of arms, and poor old Richard was oblivious to the rest of the world.

Ah, young lovers, sizzling in hormones, thought Jordan and polished off his drink. His own hormones were simmering tonight as well, helped along by the pleasant buzz of champagne.

And by thoughts of that woman.

He couldn’t seem to get her out of his thick head. Not her voice, nor her laugh, nor the catlike litheness of her body twisting beneath his…

Quickly he set his glass down. No more champagne tonight. The memories were intoxicating enough. He glanced around for the tray of soda water and spotted his uncle Hugh entering the ballroom.

All evening Hugh had played genial host and proud uncle to the future bride. He’d happily guzzled champagne and flirted with ladies young enough to be his granddaughters. But at this particular moment Uncle Hugh was looking vexed.

He crossed the room, straight toward Guy Delancey. The two men exchanged a few words and Delancey’s chin shot up. An instant later an obviously upset Delancey strode out of the ballroom, calling loudly for his car.

“Now what’s going on?” said Jordan.

Beryl, her cheeks flushed and pretty from Richard’s kissing, turned to look as Uncle Hugh wandered in their direction. “He’s obviously not happy.”

“Dreadful way to finish off the evening,” Hugh was muttering.

“What happened?” asked Beryl.

“Guy Delancey’s man called to report a burglary at the house. Seems someone climbed up the balcony and walked straight into the master bedroom. Imagine the cheek! And with the butler at home, too.”

“Was anything stolen?” asked Richard.

“Don’t know yet.” Hugh shook his head. “Almost makes one feel a bit guilty, doesn’t it?”

“Guilty?” Jordan forced a laugh from his throat. “Why?”

“If we hadn’t invited Delancey here tonight, the burglar wouldn’t have had his chance.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Jordan. “The burglar—I mean, if it was a burglar—”

“Why wouldn’t it be a burglar?” asked Beryl.

“It’s just—one shouldn’t draw conclusions.”

“Of course it’s a burglar,” said Hugh. “Why else would one break into Guy’s house?”

“There could be other…explanations. Couldn’t there?”

No one answered.