Organized for Homicide (Organized Mysteries Book 2) (31 page)

"I'm so sorry…" I started to tell the duchess. But my words dropped off as whoever had bumped my arm suddenly had a hand at my waist. I froze, the hair on the back of my neck rising as I turned to face him. Mr. Rhett Wannabe.
Again.

The duchess gave me a cool smile. Then her dismissive gaze skipped over my shoulder and softened, her features donning a flirtatious mask at the man behind me. He leaned in and murmured apologies into her ear, causing her to giggle like a schoolgirl.

I didn't know which made me madder, his inescapable grip or the way this
"Southern gentleman" both restrained
and
ignored me.

"Do you mind?" I spoke to Teal Eyes between clenched teeth. Creating a scene was out of the question. This job demanded a low-key persona.

But he still ignored me, continuing to converse in perfectly accented Parisian French.

With a gay laugh, the duchess raised a sparkling hand to pat his cheek and turned away, never acknowledging I was even in the ballroom. My inner child felt extremely slighted.

Before I could twist free, his other hand vised on my right arm and steered me toward the two-story glass doors that led to an elegant stone balcony.

"Let's go out on the terrace." Teal Eyes lifted a jet eyebrow in a Clark Gable gesture. "The lights against the dark sea should be lovely. Don't you think?"

"Does it really matter what I think?"

"Glad you agree."

Nico was a step behind us. I gave him a slight shake of my head. While my Southern Charmer was clearly not what he seemed, if I ran now, too many questions would remain unanswered. Who was he? Who did he work for? Had he killed my contact? I knew I needed to get out of here before the dead man in the lavatory was found, but I didn't know how worried I should be about Mr. Teal Eyes. And this might be my best chance to get the intel I needed. It was becoming more and more obvious he was on someone's payroll. And no one in my business made himself this obvious to someone else without a reason.

Nico stood back while I obediently followed Southern Charm's lead. Strains of Isham Jones's and Gus Kahn's "It Had to Be You," my late grandfather's favorite song, wafted overhead, continuing a pattern of music for the evening as varied as the guest list. Only minutes before, the crowd had been doing its best Mick Jagger impersonations to a pounding interpretation of "Honky Tonk Woman," proving more than Maroon 5 wanted to move like Jagger.

Any other time I would have been enjoying the cosmopolitan crowd gathered to raise money for the latest Italian restoration effort. International wheeler-dealers, like my late grandfather, appreciated the historic value of the old artists. Contributing a portion of the night's "winnings" was a small price to pay for the honor of seeing family names on appropriate plaques.

Of course, the loss of said family fortune by a father who bet on anything that moved meant I had to work for a living. Something that raised eyebrows in "our crowd." Hence, getting my name on the guest list meant more than just wrangling an invitation.

The terrace was void of other patrons as we approached. Better for the inquisition I had in mind, but also easier to end up like my unfortunate contact. Not for the first time that night, I cursed the fact that my Giorgio couture was not designed to conceal a .38.

"So, is this dogged persistence the line you usually take? The only way you can get a lady to yourself?" I opened.

"A lady would have been much more diplomatic when she rejected my advances." He took me near the edge of the terrace, and as far as possible from any eavesdropping guests. Nothing like great wealth to bring out the nosiness in people.

"So you recognized the rejections for what they were, but kept advancing," I responded.

"All I did was strike up a conversation."

"And ask me to dance, and offer me drinks, and shanghai me out into the Italian night with some line that probably came out of a bad romance novel."

I jerked out of his grip and moved toward the rock wall that separated the balcony floor from a sudden trip to the beach far below us. I paced as I continued. "Besides, where did you pick up that pitiful drawl? It never really worked for Gable, and you don't have the charisma to pull it off."

He stepped closer, stopping a few feet short of the rock barrier. He grabbed my right wrist with his left hand. I continued moving, deliberately taking a couple of steps too many. The pointed heel of my shoe
accidently
landed in the middle of his Italian loafer. Hard.

I heard a quiet oath as he dropped my wrist and swung his right arm. My stiffened forearm thwarted the potential blow, and I shot a leg out, aiming for his knee.

My foot never made contact. Reflexes better honed than mine reacted even faster. He flipped my foot heavenward and I overbalanced, falling backward onto my . . .

Well, let's just say the stone floor proved every bit as uncomfortable as it looked.

He then had the nerve to reach out a hand to help me up.
Unbelievable.
Knocking it aside, I scrambled to my feet, but couldn't keep from rubbing my injured anatomy. Adding salt to the wound, he didn't even bother rubbing the foot I knew must be throbbing.

His drawl was replaced by a clipped English accent when he spoke again. "So the little lioness knows how to fight. I wonder what else she knows."

"Oh, I took self-defense courses with the rest of the ladies in my neighborhood," I said, smiling at the explanation I'd so often used. "Let's forget about me and talk about you. I notice you have a penchant for accents. First, Rhett Butler, then Maurice Chevalier, and now the Prince of Wales. What's next? Vladimir Putin? Look, I'm tired. Why don't you just tell me what you want, why you've been dogging me all night, and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you walk away without taking exception."

"I've been wondering the same thing about you," he said, only addressing the first part of my question. "You work a room quite nicely. In fact, the first time I saw such orchestrated movements was a little soiree in
Monaco about six months ago. Of course, the woman there was a graceful redhead, but . . ."

I kept my features a poker-faced mask as I waited for him to go on.

He took a deep breath and leaned against the railing. "Then, three months ago, I was at a party on a yacht anchored off Crete when I noticed a sleek brunette laughing up at a man, obviously her lover, as they drank bubbly in the moonlight. Everyone has certain movements they make over and again. A living fingerprint if you will. Your gestures are unmistakable, like the way your teeth worry your bottom lip, and remove all your lipstick."

Startled, my teeth released my errant lip. Damn. He was right.

He chuckled, then raised his right hand. "Yes, I would swear in a court of law that the redhead at the baccarat table, and the brunette with her lover were the same long-limbed blonde I'm staring at right now."

I knew that yacht party. It was the last time I'd been with Simon Babbage, my mentor and the head of European operations for the Beacham Foundation. The last time we'd been a couple. It was also when a Dutch Master slipped out of museum circulation and into "the other realm."

"You must be mistaken. I know I've never seen you before or I would have . . ."

"What? Run the other way? Grabbed me with both hands? Searched and seized me?"

I looked at my watch. Where the hell was Nico? Who the hell was this guy?

"Who the hell are you?" I voiced my thoughts aloud.

He pulled a cheroot from the inside pocket of his jacket and lit a gold Dunhill lighter. "They call me Bond. James Bond."

It took everything I had to keep from slapping him. "Look, your fairy tale was flattering. Obviously, I'm the girl of your dreams, but I've never been near
Monaco, nor has my hair ever been red. Maybe you should have your eyes checked. Or see a therapist. I'll pardon your behavior on the grounds that you thought you recognized me, so I can perhaps salvage the rest of this night. If you'll excuse me . . ."

There was a sudden a shift in atmosphere between us. I had about three seconds of "civil" left before he sprang into whatever action he'd followed me here for. I got two steps from the open French doors before his viselike grip had my elbow again.

"Excuse me,
mademoiselle
, if I may interrupt?" An unexpected voice came out of one of the terrace's dark corners.

Relief flooded through me when I recognized the indeterminate accent of our host. As the suave billionaire approached, someone fired a roman candle from the beach, briefly illuminating the man's gentle curiosity with exquisite pyrotechnics. The aging playboy directed an apologetic smile in my direction, then turned to Teal Eyes.

"Claudio is looking for you, my friend. The game is about to start, and we've been unable to find several of those who reserved seats. Will you go at once, or shall I inform them you've been delayed?"

"I'll be there shortly, Giovanni." My captor's southern drawl was back firmly in place, and his tone remained even. However, the momentary tightening of his hand on my arm told me that here was a man who hated to be questioned or have his plans altered. He dropped my arm and smoothed down his jacket, limping slightly as he reentered the ballroom.

Alone at last, I headed straight for the wall and removed my stilettos before my feet hit the sand. Nico was on his own. I declared myself officially off duty.

CHAPTER TWO

Two cabs, a plane flight, and one Tube ride later, meant that by the next morning I was at Heathrow and on my way toward a promised vacation. A week in a lovely B and B on
Lake Tahoe. One whole week of soft pillows and fluffy duvets, and the crisp, clean mountain air I remembered from childhood visits. Even white sun and millionaire beaches pall after the steady diet I'd been on. I wanted the mountains. I wanted to feel the seasons change. I wanted my first break in four years.

The Pretenders' "
Back on the Chain Gang"
ringtone echoed from my red Prada purse, and my heart sank. I debated not answering. I cursed myself for even having turned the phone on when we landed.

It had to be a new assignment. Everything else I'd worked on lately had been completed, as promised, on time. Except, of course, the last job, but the circumstances had left me no option but to abort. I squeezed the cellular, wishing the stranglehold would stop the signal.

The phone stopped ringing. For some psychotic reason I felt equally glad and fearful.

I didn't want a new assignment. I wanted the quiet vacation I'd been promised. I wanted to start writing a novel, even a silly trashy novel—anything that would be created and completed without second or third party suggestions or directives. A solitary luxury I had yet to experience. It had been four years since my last vacation!

The ringtone resumed its impatient '80s rock scream.

No one had to tell me I was good at my job. There was no one better. But I didn't care anymore. This was like one more cancelled birthday party because Daddy is drunk again. I didn't want to hear it.

With suppressed fury, I stabbed at the faceplate of the "smart" phone. If it's so smart, why did it accept this call?

"What?"

I wasn't surprised when Max's voice bellowed incoherently through the speaker.

"Calm down, Max." I held the thing out in front of me and screamed to be heard over his tirade. "I can't possibly understand a word you're saying until you bring the volume down several hundred decibels."

"Where the hell have you been?" he screamed, loudly enough that the woman standing next to me jumped. "Damn it, Laurel, you have an obligation to this organization. I should not have to listen to forty-nine rings before your phone is answered." My boss had a tendency toward hyperbole, and could chew up workers faster than George Foreman did justice to a plate of ribs.

Having survived a half-dozen years in the trenches carrying Max on my back, I knew giving excuses would do little more than fuel his volcano of self-righteous anger. But I also had no intention of becoming someone's idea of a virgin sacrifice, either—not that I even met the chief qualification.

"I'm in the middle of Heathrow. And, I might note, every person within a three foot radius of me can hear you yelling. "

This did the trick. The man valued privacy above all other things. "Laurel . . . ah, well . . . sorry . . . I ah . . ."

"You have a job, right?" Might as well cut to the chase.

"Yes, exactly. A pick-up. You have two days to retrieve the object. I've already had the instructions sent to your email."

"I'm on vacation."

"But
Laurel, I need you for this assignment—"

"There has to be someone else who can handle it."

I knew he was shaking his head even before I heard the answer. "No, this pick-up has to be done by you. I can't trust anyone else with it."

"Why? What is it?" His histrionics didn't convince me; I'd heard it all before. But until I knew the specifics I couldn't suggest an alternative courier.

"Sixth-century jeweled sword and scabbard."

The man knew I despised handling items of war! No matter the age, I could always feel the tremors of the poor victims. And it never failed. The more bejeweled the hilt, the more blood known to have been wiped from the blade.