Raiders of the Lost Corset (24 page)

She found that she wanted to tell him everything. Perhaps the wine was helping, but the thought suddenly struck her that she trusted him. Lacey trusted few people, probably a side effect of being a journalist, even a lowly fashion reporter. The code of cynicism was deeply ingrained in her instincts.

But this new version of Vic proved not to be judgmental about Lacey’s role in the story of Magda and the supposed Romanov corset and the duplicitous Griffin and Kepelov, though he occasionally raised a dark eyebrow in disbelief.

“Let me get this straight.” He set his wineglass down. “You were mugged in a dark cellar in a farmhouse in Normandy? By a Russian thug looking for a Fabergé egg? And this thug is in league with that nitwit Nigel? And all you found is a dead dog and a torn note in Latvian? I don’t know who’s crazier in this story.”

“Probably me. But it’s not a Fabergé egg. At least, Magda was looking for a corset. She only said she used to
think
it was a Fabergé egg, before she inherited the diary.”

“So you said. But a phantom corset full of Romanov jewels?

Wow. Even for you, Lacey, this is a wild and woolly tale.” He shook his head and downed his wine. “And darling, you have a peculiar habit of making dangerous promises to dead people.”

“Technically, they’re usually still alive when I make the promise. This is the last time, Vic, I promise. Really.”

“Promises, promises. I should have been there with you in that cellar.”

“You want to beat up the big bad Russian for me? I’m flattered, but I’d like a chance at him first.”

“You never wait for me,” Vic complained. “You’re always in the front line with bayonets fixed.”

“There are no appointments for self-defense, Vic. It happens when it happens.”

“Fair enough.” He cocked an eyebrow again and smiled. “I don’t think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell this corset thing still exists. If it ever did.”

“But just imagine if it did.” Lacey gazed at the sidewalk scene.

A blond woman in tight blue jeans decorated with rhinestones running up the seams teetered precariously on impossibly high heels with pointed toes. Fake jewels were everywhere. The woman staggered on, loaded down with designer shopping bags and a little dog in her purse. “A front page story around the world. History in the raw.”

“Or a hoax on the hoof. How did Griffin get involved?”

She wrinkled her forehead in concentration. “He showed up at Magda’s memorial service, demanding information. Wanted me to collaborate with him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing! I thought he was a phony, maybe another reporter.

And I have enough trouble with Damon Newhouse poaching my stories and turning them into science fiction.”

“Nice to see you reporters trust your own kind.”

“Not one whit.” That sounded sharp, so she amended it.

“Maybe on a case-by-case basis. I occasionally trust Trujillo, but not always even him.” Lacey pulled her notebook out of her jacket pocket and flipped through it. “Griffin says he’s a ‘jewel retriever.’

What can you tell me?”

“His name pops up once in awhile in certain circles where I travel.”

Vic rarely talked about his world, those circles rife with private investigators, Pentagon contracts, and classified intrigue. Lacey leaned in to him. “You two go back a long way together.”

“Unfortunately. About twenty years.”

“You met when you were sixteen?”

“About that.” Vic rubbed his face. He looked sleepy. “This information is off the record.”

“Off the record! I can’t believe you would say that to me!” But then she remembered how often she used the “off the record”

phrase when talking with Trujillo and Mac at
The Eye.
“Okay, so tell me. Off the record. For now.” She poised her pen to write.

“Nigel Griffin was a British embassy brat at St. Albans. And a thief. Couldn’t keep his hands off other people’s stuff. I learned pretty quickly you had to lock up everything with him around.

Young Master Griffin was a delinquent in training. Always in trouble, but with the family connections to get out of it. Officially. Although he used to get beaten up a lot. Unofficially.”

“So you were in prep school together. I thought you went to a regular high school, in Alexandria.”

“I thought we covered that. I transferred to St. Albans from T.

C. Williams.”

“And why? We covered why Griffin was there, not why you

were there. But we’ll pick up on it later.”

“I may have to plead the Fifth. May I continue?” She nodded.

“Nigel developed quite a reputation at school. His room was known as Griffin’s Lift-a-Gift, Nigel’s Five-Finger-Discount Store. You could usually recover most of your stuff if you threatened to put his lights out. He didn’t mess with me much.” Vic sipped his wine, pausing to watch the sidewalk crowd. “His repertoire included forgery and car theft. I heard he furthered his criminal education at Oxford before they kicked him out. Never went to class, stole valuable pearls from a girlfriend and hocked them.

Eventually he stole something from a professor’s wife, which was too much.”

“Wait a minute, he went to St. Albans? And Oxford? He doesn’t sound that bright.”

“Actually, Nigel’s always been smart, too smart for his own good. He can be very clever. But he has a bad habit of tripping himself up. A clever fool.”

“Maybe he has some kind of mental problem. Like kleptomania.”

“My heart bleeds. The guy’s a liar and a thief, and I don’t want some sort of mumbo jumbo about a bad childhood excusing him.”

Vic leaned back in his chair and stretched. He yawned deeply.

Lacey felt sorry for him.
He must be as jet-lagged as I was on my
first day in Paris.
“Nigel didn’t learn his lesson, though, till he came back to the U.S. and tried to fence the goods from a big jewelry heist. Over a million in diamonds and watches. Only a complicated plea bargain let him stay out of prison.”

“So what does he actually do now?”

“As part of the deal, he works for the insurance company that busted him. As a fraud investigator.”

“What? Griffin’s a good guy? They figured it takes a thief to catch a thief?”

“Something like that. And the jury is still out on Nigel being a good guy.”

“They really pay him to do this?”

“Yep. On top of his salary, he gets a percentage of what he recovers.”

“Hence the ‘jewel retriever’ tag. So that part is true?”

“According to his boss, a friend of mine, he likes figuring out how other thieves do it almost as much as he liked being a thief himself. But I imagine he’s probably working both sides. A little for the boss, a little for Nigel. That’s much more his style.”

“Why jewels?” Lacey glanced down at the small emerald ring on her right hand that Aunt Mimi had given her when she gradu-ated from college.

“They’re the perfect thing to steal. Small, valuable, portable, easy to sell. He started stealing jewels from his mom when he was a kid and pawing through purses at his folks’ parties.”

“What a little creep. How do you know all this?”

“It’s the kind of thing you talk about in prep school. Very educational environment. And his folks are rich. He didn’t even have to steal. Just a natural-born thief.”

“So, speaking of rich kids, Vic, are your folks rich?”

He shook his head. “We’re comfortable.”

“Oh, my God. You
are
rich. That’s what rich people always say.

‘Comfortable,’ huh? You’re picking up the check, rich kid.”

Vic smiled. He pulled money from an inside pocket of his black leather jacket and tossed it on the table. “Can we get out of here?

I need some sleep. I’m jet-lagged beyond belief.”

Lacey couldn’t contain a sigh.
And I thought tonight was the
night.

Chapter 23

Vic pleaded jet lag to escape the café, but he seemed to catch a second wind in the cab ride down the sunny Champs Elysées and across the Seine. At the hotel he stowed his bags in her room.

There had been no discussion of his getting a second room, even though they had just established that as a rich kid, he could probably afford it. Lacey had carefully avoided the subject, half afraid he might do just that. He threw himself down on her bed and made room for her next to him.

“Why don’t you join me? Just a little shut-eye, then maybe we’ll get up and go out on the town. It’s not even prime time yet by Paris standards.”

Lacey had wanted this man for so long, and now here he was, in her hotel room in the City of Light. She could hardly believe it.

Her reactions seemed to be splintered: She felt alternately too shy and too bold. She sat primly on the edge of the bed, unsure what to do next.

He kicked off his boots and pulled off his black turtleneck, revealing his tautly muscled body, still tan from the summer he had spent in Colorado.

Oh, my God, you’re gorgeous, Vic Donovan.
She filled her eyes with the sight of him. Lacey had longed to see Vic just like this.

His chest had dark curly hair, which she had often imagined but seldom glimpsed. She slid over next to him, fingered his curls, and admired the rest of him. His shoulders were broad and his hips were narrow. She could imagine him as a Greek statue come to life. “I’ve thought about this moment for a long time, Vic.”
Ever
since Sagebrush.

“And you kept it to yourself? You could have said something, sweetheart.” He sat up and hugged her. “I would have been right there if you so much as snapped your fingers. From that first day you walked into my life. How many times did I ask you out, and you kept saying no? You didn’t have to go to Paris to get my attention.” He reached out for her, caressing her back with his warm, strong hands and peeling her sweater off. “This is very nice, very pretty, very alluring,” Vic said, nuzzling her hair.

She laughed. She could feel herself blush. She was glad she was wearing her sexiest black lace underwear. Paris — and Vic — deserved her very best. They embraced, kissing, hugging, laughing. “Let me look at you,” he said. “What a small waist you have.

You don’t need any Romanov corset, do you?” He put his arms around her waist and massaged her lower back, moving his fingers slowly upward. “You feel delicious.”

Lacey turned and kissed him hard as they sank down on the bed. She found it difficult to believe this moment was actually happening. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she was dreaming. She didn’t care. She didn’t want to think, analyze, doubt, shy away from him.

She was tired of saying no to her feelings and tired of saying no to Vic Donovan.

“Please, Lacey, say yes. Tell me the answer is yes this time.”

This time she said yes.

“Oh, Lacey,” he sighed into her hair. “Say it again.” She whispered yes yes yes. He kissed her lips, her eyes, her lips again.

“You have a great bottom,” she said.

“You’re stealing my lines. Come here, beautiful, let me see it.”

He fondled her while he kissed her again. “No, you have the great bottom. It’s so cute.”

She loved the scent of him, so male it made her mouth water.

She traced her fingers up his arms and down his chest. He did like-wise, and it sent shivers all over her skin.

The rest of their clothes came off in a heartbeat and suddenly they were a tangle of bare arms and legs and skin as he lifted her onto the bed. They were rolling on the fresh sheets. They made love for the first time, and she decided she wasn’t dreaming; this was too substantial to be a dream. They rested in each other’s arms while she gazed at his beautiful naked body. If this was a sin, Lacey thought, there were worse sins than loving someone.

He slept a little and she nestled up to him, wrapping her arms around him. She wanted always to remember the sight of the late-afternoon light and the shadows dancing on the walls while she lay there, feeling so lovely and naked with him. Vic awoke, and soon they were again making love, tasting love, feeling love. And then he held her quietly and they didn’t need to speak for awhile.

“Thank you for coming to Paris for me,” she whispered to him when she thought he was sleeping.

“You’re welcome.” He reached out and held her tight.

“Vic, did something bad happen in Paris? To you, I mean. Forgive me for asking.”

“All forgotten. Doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “By the way, is there anything you haven’t told me about this crazy escapade we’re on together?” He was kissing the nape of her neck now. She gasped as a tingle went down her spine.

“Is this a new interrogation method?”

“No, it’s an old one. Is it working?”

“A little to the left,” she giggled, and watched the curtains bil-low in and out, as if they were taking sweet breaths of the Paris twilight. “Keep interrogating me, I’ll let you know in a few hours.”

Vic kissed her silently for awhile and she luxuriated in his arms.

“You know, Lacey, I’ve been thinking about what you told me today, believe it or not. Your dead end on the Rue Dauphine?

There’s a Rue Dauphine in New Orleans. Mostly they call it Dauphine Street, but the street signs also say Rue Dauphine. Did you know that?”

“You’re kidding. New Orleans, Louisiana? You think the address is in America?”

“Just throwing it out for consideration.” She propped herself up on her elbow and gazed at him. “And you have a funny look on your face,” Vic said. “That look spells trouble.”

“You do think it exists! The lost corset. You don’t think I’m crazy. Or not completely crazy.”

“Oh, no, you are crazy. But I love you anyway. And I just thought you should know there is another Rue Dauphine a little closer to home. For all I know, there’s a Rue Dauphine in every third village in France, but I’ve walked down the one in New Orleans.”

“Is it a long street?” she asked, remembering the address on the note was too high for the street she and Brooke had walked down in Paris that morning.

“All the way from the French Quarter into the Faubourg Marigny.”

“What’s that?”

“The next neighborhood over.”

“You seem to know it pretty well. Got a girl there, cowboy?”