Stolen. Tess Gerritsen

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      Clea paused. The thought of actually making love to that oily Guy Delancey was enough to nauseate her. With any luck, it would never get that far.

      She’d see to it it never got that far.

      “I’ll handle it,” she said. “You just keep your ear to the ground. Find out if anything else has come up for sale. And stay out of sight.”

      After she’d hung up, Clea sat on the bed, thinking about the last time she’d seen Tony. It had been in Brussels. They’d both been happy, so very happy! Tony had had a brand-new wheelchair, a sporty edition, he called it, for upper-body athletes. He had just received a fabulous commission for the sale of four medieval tapestries to an Italian industrialist. Clea had been about to leave for Naples, to finalize the purchase. Together they had celebrated not just their good fortune but the fact they’d finally found their way out of the darkness of their youth. The darkness of their shared past. They’d laughed and drunk wine and talked about the men in her life, the women in his, and about the peculiar hazards of courting from a wheelchair. Then they’d parted.

      What a difference a month made.

      She reached for her glass and drained the last of the brandy. Then she went to her suitcase and dug around in her clothes until she found what she was looking for: the box of Miss Clairol. She stared at the model’s hair on the box, wondering if perhaps she should have chosen something more subtle. No, Guy Delancey wasn’t the type to go for subtle. Brazen was more his style.

      And “cinnamon red” should do the trick. “I’VE CHECKED THE NAME Nimrod Associates,” said Richard. “There’s no such security firm. At least, not in England.”

      The three of them were sitting on the terrace, enjoying a late breakfast. As usual, Beryl and Richard were snuggling cheek to cheek, laughing and darting amorous glances at each other. In short, behaving precisely as one would expect a newly engaged couple to behave. Some of that snuggling might be due to the unexpected chill in the air. Summer was definitely over, Jordan thought with regret. But the sun was shining, the gardens still clung stubbornly to their blossoms and a bracing breakfast on the terrace was just the thing to clear the fog of last night’s champagne from his head.

      Now, after two cups of coffee, Jordan’s brain was finally starting to function. It wasn’t just the champagne that had left him feeling muddled this morning; it was the lack of sleep. Several times in the night he’d awakened, sweating, from the same dream.

      About the woman. Though her face had been obscured by darkness, her hair was a vivid halo of silvery ripples. She had reached up to him, her fingers caressing his face, her flesh hot and welcoming. As their lips had met, as his hands had slid into those silvery coils of hair, he’d felt her body move against his in that sweet and ancient dance. He’d gazed into her eyes. The eyes of a panther.

      Now, by the light of morning, the symbolism of that nightmare was all too clear. Panthers. Dangerous women.

      He shook off the image and poured himself another cup of coffee.

      Beryl took a nibble of toast and marmalade, the whole time watching him. “Tell me, Jordie,” she said. “Where did you hear about Nimrod Associates?”

      “What?” Jordan glanced guiltily at his sister. “Oh, I don’t know. A while ago.”

      “I thought it came up last night,” said Richard.

      Jordan reached automatically for a slice of toast. “Yes, I suppose that’s when I heard it. Veronica must have mentioned the name.”

      Beryl was still watching him. This was the downside of being so close to one’s sister; she could tell when he was being evasive.

      “I notice you’re rather chummy with Veronica Cairncross these days,” she observed.

      “Oh, well.” He laughed. “We try to keep up the friendship.”

      “At one time, I recall, it was more than friendship.”

      “That was ages ago.”

      “Yes. Before she was married.”

      Jordan looked at her with feigned astonishment. “You’re not thinking…good Lord, you can’t possibly imagine…”

      “You’ve been acting so odd lately. I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

      “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Save for the fact I’ve recently taken up a life of crime, he thought.

      He took a sip of tepid coffee and almost choked on it when Richard said, “Look. It’s the police.”

      An official car had turned onto Chetwynd’s private road. It pulled into the gravel driveway and out stepped Constable Glenn, looking trim and snappy in uniform. He waved to the trio on the terrace.

      As the policeman came up the steps, Jordan thought, This is it, then. I’ll be ignominiously hauled off to prison. My face in the papers, my name disgraced…

      “Good morning to you all,” said Constable Glenn cheerily. “May I inquire if Lord Lovat’s about?”

      “You’ve just missed him,” said Beryl. “Uncle Hugh’s gone off to London for the week.”

      “Oh. Well, perhaps I should speak with you, then.”

      “Do sit down.” Beryl smiled and indicated a chair. “Join us for some breakfast.”

      Oh, lovely, thought Jordan. What would she offer him next? Tea? Coffee? My brother, the thief?

      Constable Glenn sat down and smiled primly at the cup of coffee set before him. He took a sip, careful not to let his mustache get wet. “I suppose,” he said, setting his cup down, “that you know about the robbery at Mr. Delancey’s residence.”

      “We heard about it last night,” said Beryl. “Have you any leads?”

      “Yes, as a matter of fact. We have a pretty good idea what we’re dealing with here.” Constable Glenn looked at Jordan and smiled.

      Weakly, Jordan smiled back.

      “A matter of excellent police work, I’m sure,” said Beryl.

      “Well, not exactly,” admitted the constable. “More a case of carelessness on the burglar’s part. You see, she dropped her stocking cap. We found it in Mr. Delancey’s bedroom.”

      “She?” said Richard. “You mean the burglar’s a woman?”

      “We’re going on that assumption, though we could be wrong. There was a very long strand of hair in the cap. Blond. It would’ve reached well below her—or his—shoulders. Does that sound like anyone you might know?” Again he looked at Jordan.

      “No one I can think of,” Jordan said quickly. “That is—there are some blondes in our circle of acquaintances. But not a burglar among them.”

      “It could be anyone. Anyone at all. It’s not the first break-in we’ve had in this neighborhood. Three just this year. And the culprit might СКАЧАТЬ