In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (33 page)

“Well, did you, Jordie?” asked Guy.

“No,” muttered Jordan, staring fiercely at the woman.

“Not a one.”

At his capitulation, the woman’s smile broadened to dazzling. He had to concede she’d beaten him this round; next round she’d not be so lucky. He’d have the right words ready, his strategy figured out….

“…dreadful shambles. Pitiful, really. Don’t you agree?” said Guy.

Suddenly aware that he was being addressed, Jordan looked at Guy. “Pardon?”

“All the estates that have fallen on hard times. Did you know the Middletons have decided to open Greystones to public tours?”

“I hadn’t heard,” said Jordan.

“Lord, can you imagine how humiliating that must be?

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To have all those strangers tramping through one’s house, snapping photos of your loo. I’d never sink so low.”

“Sometimes one has no choice,” said Jordan.

“Certainly one has the choice! You’re not saying you’d ever let the tourists into Chetwynd, would you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Neither would I let them into Underhill. Plus, there’s the problem of security, something I’m acutely tuned in to after that robbery attempt last night. People may
claim
they’re tourists. But what if they’re really thieves, come to check the layout of the place?”

“I agree with you on that point,” said Jordan, looking straight at the woman. “One can’t be too careful.” The little thief didn’t bat an eyelash. She merely smiled back, those brown eyes wide and innocent.

“One certainly can’t,” said Guy. “And that goes triply for you. When I think of the fortune in art hanging on your walls…”

“Fortune?” said the woman, her gaze narrowing.

“I wouldn’t call it a fortune,” Jordan said quickly.

“He’s being modest,” said Guy. “Chetwynd has a collection any museum would kill for.”

“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.” 310

Tess Gerritsen

“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
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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 God-given 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?”

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Tess Gerritsen

“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.”

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“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.

“And why on earth are you so fixated on Delancey?

Isn’t it a bit risky to stick with the same victim?”

“Who said
he’s
the victim?” She lifted the glass to her lips and took a delicate sip. He found her every movement oddly fascinating. The way her lips parted, the way the liquid slid into that moist, red mouth. He found himself swallowing as well, felt his own throat suddenly go parched.

“What is it Delancey has that you want so very badly?” he asked.

“What were those papers you took?” she countered.

“It won’t work, you know.”

“What won’t work?”

“Trying to lump me in your category.
You’re
the thief.”

“And you’re not?”

“What I lifted from that wardrobe has no intrinsic value.

It was a personal matter.”

“So is this for me,” she answered tightly. “A personal matter.”

Jordan frowned as a thought suddenly struck him. Guy Delancey had romanced Veronica Cairncross, and then had threatened to use her letters against her. Had he done 314

Tess Gerritsen

the same to other women? Was Diana Lamb, or someone close to her, also a victim of Guy’s?

Or am I trying to talk myself out of the obvious?
he thought. The obvious being, this woman was a garden-variety burglar, out for loot. She’d already proven herself adept at housebreaking. What else could she be?

Such a pity, he thought, eyeing that face with its ala-baster cheeks and nut brown eyes. Sooner or later those intelligent eyes would be gazing out of a jail cell.

“Is there any way I can talk you out of this?” he asked.

“Why would you?”

“I just think it’s a waste of your apparent…talents. Plus there’s the matter of it being morally wrong, to boot.”

“Right, wrong.” She gave an unconcerned wave of her hand. “Sometimes it isn’t clear which is which.” This woman was beyond reform! And the fact he knew she was a thief, knew what she had planned, made him almost as guilty if she succeeded.

Which, he decided, she would not.

He said, “I won’t let you, you know. While I’m not particularly fond of Guy Delancey, I won’t let him be robbed blind.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell him how we met?” she asked. Not a flicker of anxiety was in her eyes.

“No. But I’m going to warn him.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“Suspicions.”

“I’d be careful if I were you.” She took another sip of her drink and placidly set the glass down. “Suspicions can go in more than one direction.”

She had him there, and they both knew it. He couldn’t warn Delancey without implicating himself as a thief. If
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Delancey chose to raise a fuss about it to the police, not only would Jordan’s reputation be irreparably tarnished, Veronica’s, too, would suffer.

No, he’d prefer not to take that risk.

He met Diana’s calm gaze with one just as steady. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” he said, and smiled.

“Meaning what, pray tell?”

“Meaning I plan to make it bloody difficult for you to so much as lift a teaspoon from the man and get away with it.”

For the first time he saw a ripple of anxiety in her eyes.

Her brightly painted red lips drew tight. “You don’t understand. This is not your concern—”

“Of course it is. I plan to watch you like a hawk. I’m going to follow you and Delancey everywhere. Pop up when you least expect it. Make a royal nuisance of myself. In short, Miss Lamb, I’ve adopted you as my crusade. And if you make one false move, I’m going to cry wolf.” He sat back, smiling. “Think about it.” She
was
thinking about it, and none too happily, judging by her expression.

“You can’t do this,” she whispered.

“I can. I have to.”

“There’s too much at stake! I won’t let you ruin it—”

“Ruin
what?
”

She was about to answer when a hand closed over her shoulder. She glanced up sharply at Guy Delancey, who’d just returned and now stood behind her.

“Sorry if I startled you,” he said cheerily. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Yes, everything’s fine.” Though the color had 316

Tess Gerritsen

drained from her face, she still managed to smile, to flash Delancey a look of coquettish promise. “Is the car ready?”

“Waiting at the gate, my lady.” Guy helped her from her chair. Then he gave Jordan a careless nod of farewell.

“See you around, Jordan.”

Jordan caught a last glimpse of the woman’s face, looking back at him in smothered anger. Then, with shoulders squared, she followed Delancey into the crowd.

You’ve been warned, Diana Lamb, thought Jordan.

Now he’d see if she heeded that warning. And just in case she didn’t…

Jordan pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket.

Gingerly he picked up the woman’s champagne glass by the lower stem and peered at the smudge of ruby red lipstick.

He smiled. There, crystal clear on the surface of the glass, was what he’d been looking for.

Fingerprints.

Ogilvie finished shooting his third roll of film and clipped the lens cap back on his telephoto. He had more than enough shots of the blond man. By tonight he’d have the images transmitted to London and, with any luck, an ID would be forthcoming. The fact Clea Rice had apparently picked up an unknown associate disturbed him, if only because he’d had no inkling of it. As far as he knew, the woman traveled alone, and always had.

He’d have to find out more about the blond chap.

The woman rose from her chair and departed with Guy Delancey. Ogilvie tucked his camera in his bag and left the tent to follow them. He kept a discreet distance, far enough back so that he would blend in with the crowd. She was an easy subject to tail, with all that red hair shimmering in
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the sunlight. The worst possible choice for anyone trying to avoid detection. But that was Clea Rice, always doing the unexpected.

The couple headed for the gate.

Ogilvie picked up his pace. He slipped through the gates just in time to see that head of red hair duck into a waiting Bentley.

Frantically Ogilvie glanced around the parking lot and spotted his black MG socked in three rows deep. By the time he could extricate it from that sea of Jaguars and Mercedes, Delancey and the woman could be miles away.

In frustration he watched Delancey’s Bentley drive off.

So much for following them; he’d have to catch up with her later. No problem. He knew which hotel she was staying at, knew that she’d paid for the next three nights in advance.