Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (2 page)

“I want you in my bed, not on the end of a telephone line.”

Jeff’s voice was hoarse with desire. Tracy gripped the phone, feeling weak with longing. She wanted him too, desperately. It had been only a week since they had been together in Amsterdam, but her body was already crying out for him.

“We can’t be seen together in Rio. Not until I’ve nailed Pierpont.”

“Why not? I can be the Count Di Sorrenti.”

“He died.”

“Bummer. How?”

“Jet Ski accident in Sardinia.”

“What a phony. He deserved it.”

“I watched it happen from our yacht.”

“Of course you did, Countess.” Jeff chuckled. “How about I come back as his ghost?”

“I’ll see you in church next Saturday, darling. I’ll be the hot girl in the white dress.”

“At least tell me where you’re staying.”

“Good night, Mr. Stevens.”

THE LAWYER’S OFFICE WAS
small and airless, tucked away in a small street off the Avenida Rio Branco in Rio’s Centro business district.

“You’re sure these permissions are genuine?”

“Yes, Countess Di Sorrenti.”

“And complete? There’s nothing else I would need, legally, apart from the deeds here”—Tracy held up a sheaf of papers—“to begin work on this site?”

“No, Countess.” The lawyer’s frown deepened. He’d explained the situation to the beautiful young lady multiple times now, but she still seemed unable to grasp it. The Countess Di Sorrenti might be rich and beautiful, but she was also clearly profoundly dim. He tried one last time. “You do understand, there is still the issue of—”

“Yes, yes. Thank you.” Tracy waved an imperious hand before reaching into her vintage Louis Vuitton handbag for a gold Montblanc pen. “How much do I owe you?”

Suit yourself,
thought the lawyer. He’d done his best.

FIVE DAYS AFTER HIS
dinner with the Countess Di Sorrenti at Quadrifoglio, Maximilian Pierpont drove south of Rio, along the breathtaking Green Coast road, toward his latest acquisition. As good as her word, the countess had couriered over copies of the deeds to her property along with building permits the very next morning. Pierpont had wired the six million reals to her Swiss account within an hour, and the land was his.
Go to hell, Monsignor Cheapskate!
But he hadn’t had a chance to drive out and see it until today.

Six acres of prime cliff-side property—six acres!—with its own private beach, easily accessible from both the city and from Paraty, Rio’s answer to East Hampton. Maximilian Pierpont could hardly believe his luck. Better still, he fully intended to nail the lovely Countess Valentina tonight, once he returned to the city. She’d invited him over to her apartment for dinner, always a good sign. The address was on one of the finest streets in Leblon, the most exclusive neighborhood in the whole of South America. Clearly neither “Papa” nor “poor Marco” had left the lady short of funds. The prospect of swindling the sexy young heiress out of still more millions, while availing himself of her smoking-hot body in bed, was giving Maximilian Pierpont the biggest hard-on he’d had in a decade.

He reached the property just before noon. There were a few houses along this stretch of road, but no real standouts. Pierpont’s plot stood in splendid isolation at the very top of the bluffs. Valentina wasn’t kidding about the views. They were spectacular. On one side the ocean blurred into the cloudless sky, a symphony in limitless blue. On the other, mountains smothered by vivid green rain forest sparkled like vast heaps of newly polished emeralds.
It’s even prettier than I imagined.
Maximilian Pierpont congratulated himself again that he hadn’t lost out on this deal by listening to his dumb-ass lawyer.

“It’s the first rule of real estate, Max,” Ari Steinberg had warned him. “Don’t buy a pig in a poke. You taught me that, remember?”

“The problem is, some stupid monsignor’s already poking my pig. He’s got this chick wrapped around his little finger, Ari. I need to make a move before he does.”

The lawyer was insistent. “You haven’t seen the land. You gotta see the land.”

“I’ve seen the deeds. I’ve seen the building permits. And I know where it is. Prime coast, Ari, the best. We’re talking a Brazilian Malibu.”

“But, Max . . .”

“If we were talking about a ten percent profit, or twenty, or even fifty, I’d agree with you. But I can get this for peanuts! A fraction of what it’s worth. Wire her the money.”

“I strongly urge you to reconsider.”

“And I strongly urge you to do what the hell I tell you, Ari.”

Maximilian Pierpont hung up.

Stepping out of his Bentley, he ducked under the orange construction tape that marked the entry to the Di Sorrenti property.
Make that the Pierpont property,
he thought gleefully. A team of surveyors were already on-site. Pierpont walked up to the chief surveyor, smiling broadly.

“Whaddaya think? Quite a view, huh?” He couldn’t help boasting.

The chief surveyor looked at him steadily. “You can’t build a house here.”

Maximilian Pierpont laughed. “What do you mean I can’t build a house here? I can do whatever I want. It’s my land.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Sure it’s the point.” Pierpont stopped laughing. This dweeb was starting to annoy him. “I got legal permits, set in stone.”

“I’m afraid that’s all that’s set in stone,” said the surveyor. “The ground you’re standing on?” He tapped at the grass beneath their feet with a stick. “This time next year it won’t be here.”

A chill ran down Maximilian Pierpont’s spine. “What?”

“This is some of the worst erosion I’ve seen. Ever. It’s an ecological tragedy. Anything you build here will be down there before the walls are dry.” The surveyor pointed at the beach below. Reached by a charming set of winding wooden steps, its soft white sand looked mockingly perfect.

“But this area, this stretch of the coast . . . prices are sky-high,” Pierpont spluttered.

“Halfway up the mountain, sure,” said the surveyor. “You got this knockout view. But here?” He shrugged. “Here you
are
the view. Didn’t anyone say anything to you when you applied for these permits?”

“I didn’t apply for them. The previous owner did.”

The surveyor frowned, confused. “Really? That’s odd. Because they’re only a week old.”

Behind Maximilian Pierpont, the leaves of the rain forest rustling softly in the breeze sounded uncannily like Ari Steinberg’s laughter.

THE APARTMENT IN LEBLON
took up the entire top floor of a grand Victorian mansion. The door was opened by a British butler in full uniform.

“I want to see the Countess Di Sorrenti.” Maximilian Pierpont’s jowly face looked uglier than ever, like a bulldog chewing a wasp.
That bitch is giving me my money back if I have to beat it out of her with a crowbar.
Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Valentina was so stupid, she probably didn’t realize herself that the land was worthless. It should be a simple enough thing to convince her to go back to the monsignor.

“I’m sorry, sir. Who?”

Maximilian Pierpont glared at the butler.

“Now listen to me, Jeeves. I’ve had a bad day as it is. I don’t need any more aggravation. You go and tell Valentina that Maximilian Pierpont is here.”

“Sir, this apartment is owned by Mr. and Mrs. Miguel Rodriguez. The Rodriguezes have lived here for more than twenty years. I can assure you, there is no ‘Valentina’ at this address.”

Maximilian Pierpont opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, like a toad gaping uselessly at a fly.

There is no Valentina at this address.

There is no Valentina . . .

Racing back to his car, he called his accountant. “The money we wired on Tuesday, to that Swiss account? Make some calls. Find out who opened the account and where the funds are now.”

“Mr. Pierpont, no Swiss bank is going to reveal that sort of information. It’s proprietary, and—”

“DO IT!”

A vein began to throb in Maximilian Pierpont’s temple. It was still throbbing forty minutes later when the accountant called back.

“I don’t have a name, sir. I’m sorry. But I can tell you the account was closed down yesterday and all funds were withdrawn. That money is gone.”

GUNTHER HARTOG DROVE THE
wedding car, a vintage 1957 Daimler Conquest, with Tracy and Jeff cuddled up in the back.

“So, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. Where to?”

“The Marina da Glória,” said Tracy. “We have a small yacht waiting there to take us to Barra da Tijuca. I packed us some clothes,” she added to Jeff.

Jeff squeezed his wife’s thigh. “I can’t think why. You won’t be needing any for the next week at least.”

Tracy giggled. “Tomorrow morning we’re on a private plane to São Paulo, then on to Tunisia for the honeymoon. It’s too dangerous to fly direct from Rio. Pierpont or his goons might be waiting at the airport.”

Jeff looked at her lovingly. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, darling?”

“I try.”

Tracy leaned into him. She tried to remember if she had ever felt quite this happy before but nothing came to mind.
I’m Mrs. Stevens. Mrs. Jeff Stevens!
she told herself, over and over. The scam she’d run on Pierpont had gone perfectly. Now she and Jeff really would go straight and leave this crazy life behind them. Jeff could follow his dream of becoming an archaeologist, something he’d always been passionate about. And Tracy could fulfill her dreams too.

A baby. A baby of my own. Mine and Jeff’s.

They would settle down to a normal, domestic life together and live happily ever after.

Tracy closed her eyes and imagined it.

“I must say, I was pleased you went for such a traditional wedding,” observed Gunther, from the driver’s seat. “Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.”

“We did?” Tracy and Jeff exchanged puzzled glances.

“Why yes.” Gunther smiled. “Tracy used the ‘barred winner’ scam on Pierpont. Where she had the winning ticket—in this case the land ripe for development—but couldn’t claim the prize herself. That’s as old as the hills.”

Jeff grinned. “Okay, I get it. So go on, then, Gunther. What was new?”

“The money!” Tracy laughed.

“Quite so. The money is new. New to you, at least,” said Gunther.

“Tracy’s identity was borrowed,” said Jeff. “I’m getting good at this game. But what’s blue?”

Gunther Hartog arched an elegant eyebrow. “I imagine,” he said, “that Mr. Maximilian Pierpont is blue. At this precise moment, in fact, I should say that our old friend Mr. Pierpont is feeling very blue indeed.”

CHAPTER 2

LONDON, ENGLAND

ONE YEAR LATER

T
RACY TORE OPEN THE
plastic wrapper of the pregnancy test and sat down on the toilet.

She was in the downstairs bathroom at 45 Eaton Square, the beautiful Georgian house she’d bought with the proceeds from her first two jewel heists in the early days of her career. Gunther Hartog had helped her pick out the house and decorate it, and Gunther’s impeccable, if slightly masculine, taste was still in evidence everywhere. The red damask wallpaper and eighteenth-century gilt mirror in the bathroom made the tiny room feel like a luxurious boudoir. It reminded her of a time gone by. Before Jeff. Before marriage. Before trying, and failing, to have a baby had become the sole obsession of her life.

After peeing on the test stick, Tracy replaced the plastic cap and laid the stick flat on the tiles around the basin, waiting for the requisite five minutes to pass. In the beginning she’d watched the tiny square window the whole time, as if she could make that longed-for second pink line appear simply by willing it to do so. Now she looked away, forcing herself to think about other things.

She thought about Jeff, on day three of his new job at the British Museum, and how happy he’d been when he bounded out of bed this morning, like a puppy chasing a shiny new ball.

“Can you believe it?” he’d asked Tracy two weeks ago, when he heard he’d gotten the job. “Me! Officially employed as a curator of antiquities at the British Museum. Isn’t that a trip?”

“Of course I can believe it,” said Tracy loyally. “You know as much about those treasures as anyone else on earth. More than most professional academics. You deserved that job.”

The truth, as they both knew, was that Professor Trenchard had pulled some serious strings to get Jeff the position. Tracy and Jeff had met Nick Trenchard, a world-renowned archaeologist, on their honeymoon in Tunisia. Jeff had signed up for a dig at a Roman hill fort that Professor Trenchard was heading and the two men hit it off immediately. Strangely perhaps, as on the surface they had little in common. The professor was in his early sixties, cerebral, shy and utterly obsessed with the late Roman Empire. Jeff Stevens was an ex–con man with no formal education, who could have written what he knew about the Emperor Constantine II on the back of a postage stamp. But his enthusiasm and passion for learning were quite astonishing, as were his natural intelligence and capacity for hard work.

“I wish all my students were like your husband,” Professor Trenchard told Tracy over dinner one evening at Jeff and Tracy’s hotel. “I’ve never seen such commitment from an amateur. Is he this driven about everything?”

“When he wants something badly enough,” said Tracy.

“I do feel guilty, monopolizing so much of his time when you’re on your honeymoon.”

“Don’t.” Tracy smiled. “We picked Tunisia because of its rich history. Jeff’s dreamed of going on a dig here his whole life. I’m just happy to see him so happy.”

She meant it. She
was
happy, watching Jeff thrive as they began their new life. She was happy when they returned to London and Jeff enrolled in class after class on everything from Byzantine sculpture to Celtic artwork to ancient Roman coins to Chinese ceremonial armor. Without effort it seemed, without sacrifice, he had traded the thrill of their old life as thieves and con artists, robbing only the bad guys and making a fortune for themselves in the process, for the thrill of acquiring new knowledge. And Tracy was happy. For him.

For herself, unfortunately, things were a little more complicated.

The truth was, she’d simply assumed she would get pregnant right away. She and Jeff made love every night of their honeymoon and often during the day as well, when Jeff would sneak away from Professor Trenchard’s dig for “lunch” at the hotel. She took a test as soon as they got back to London and was so astonished when it was negative that she went to see her doctor.

“You’ve only been off the pill for a month, Mrs. Stevens,” he reassured her. “There’s no reason to think that anything’s wrong. However, if you do decide to have your fertility tested, I can recommend Dr. Alan McBride at Seventy-seven Harley Street. He’s the best in the business and a thoroughly nice man.”

Tracy tried for six more months. She made sure she knew when she was ovulating, and that she and Jeff were having sex at the right time. Not that that was difficult. They were still having sex
all
the time. The happier Jeff felt, the more his libido went through the roof. Tracy still enjoyed their lovemaking.
I’ve married the most handsome, charming, clever, wonderful man in the world,
she reminded herself.
I should be dancing in the streets.
But for her, the transition from their old life had not been so easy, and she wasn’t always in the mood the way she used to be. Part of it was stress about the baby, or rather the lack of a baby. But another, huge part of Tracy mourned the loss of her old identity. She missed the adrenaline rush of the daring heists she and Jeff used to pull off together; the thrill of outsmarting some of the most brilliant, devious, corrupt minds in the world, of beating them at their own game. It wasn’t about the money. Ironically, Tracy had never been particularly materialistic. It was about the rush. Sometimes she would watch Jeff while he slept after sex, a look of pure contentment on his face, and feel almost aggrieved.

How can you not miss it? What’s wrong with you?

What’s wrong with me?

By the time she put that same question to Dr. Alan McBride, she felt wretched and desperate.

“I suspect that nothing is wrong with you, Mrs. Stevens. But let’s run some tests, shall we? To put your mind at rest.”

Tracy liked Dr. Alan McBride immediately. A handsome Scot with white-blond hair and a naughty twinkle in his intelligent, light blue eyes, he was not much older than her, and didn’t take himself too seriously the way that so many senior doctors seemed to do. He also didn’t beat around the bush when it came to medical matters.

“Right,” he said, when Tracy’s test results came back. “The good news is, you’re not infertile. You’re ovulating every month, your tubes are all fine, no cysts.”

“And the bad news?”

“Your eggs are a bit crap.”

Tracy’s eyes widened. This was not the sort of terminology she was used to hearing from eminent Harley Street doctors.
“A bit crap,”
she repeated. “I see.
How
crap exactly?”

“If Ocado delivered you a dozen of them in a box and you opened it, you’d probably send it back,” said Dr. McBride.

“Riiiight,” said Tracy. And then, to her own surprise, she burst into laughter. “So what happens now?” she asked, once she’d regained her composure.

“You take these.” Dr. McBride pushed a packet of pills across the desk.

“Clomid,” read Tracy.

“They’re magic.” Dr. McBride positively glowed with confidence. “Basically they’re like those practice machines on tennis courts that fire off balls.
Bam bam bam bam bam
.”

“What’s all the bamming?”

“That’s your ovaries, shooting out eggs.”

“Crap eggs.”

“They’re not all crap. Try it. No side effects and it will triple your chances of getting pregnant.”

“Okay,” said Tracy, feeling hopeful for the first time in nearly a year.

“If you’re not up the duff within three months, we’ll go nuclear on the problem with IVF. Sound good?”

That conversation had happened three months ago. Tracy had just finished her last round of Clomid. If today’s test was negative, she would begin the brutal, invasive process of in vitro. She knew that millions of women did it, and told herself that it was no big deal. But deep down, IVF felt like failure.
I’m a useless wife,
thought Tracy.
A faulty model. Damaged goods. Jeff should return me and trade me in for one that works. One with eggs that aren’t crap.

She looked at her watch. One minute to go.

Sixty seconds.

She closed her eyes.

She remembered the last time she’d been pregnant, with Charles Stanhope’s baby. Charles’s parents were rich Philadelphia snobs. They’d been furious when Tracy got pregnant, but Charles had assured her he wanted both her and the baby. But then Tracy had been sent to prison, framed for a crime she didn’t commit, and Charles had turned his back on her. She could still hear his voice now, as if it were yesterday.

“Obviously I never really knew you . . . you’ll have to do whatever you think best with
your
baby . . .”

Savagely beaten by her cell mates, Tracy lost her baby. She hadn’t told that to Dr. McBride. Perhaps she ought to? Perhaps it made a difference, even now?

Thirty seconds.

Warden Brannigan and his wife, Sue Ellen, had taken pity on Tracy and hired her as a nanny for their daughter, Amy. Tracy had saved Amy’s life, risking her own in the process, and had been granted parole as a result. She’d loved that little girl dearly. Too dearly, perhaps, for Amy wasn’t hers. Would never be hers. How old must she be now?

Ten seconds.

Tracy opened her eyes. Nine seconds. Eight. Seven . . . three, two, one.

Heart pounding, she grabbed the test stick and turned it over.

JEFF STEVENS TURNED THE
coin over in his hand and felt a shiver of excitement thinking about all the hands that had held it before him.
This is history. Living history. And I’m touching it.

It was incredible how
new
the thing looked, as if it had been minted yesterday. In fact the small silver disk had been forged in the old English kingdom of Mercia in around the year 760. It bore the name and image of Queen Cynethryth, wife of the fabled King Offa, often considered the first, true king of all England. Jeff Stevens liked the sound of King Offa. The guy had clearly had an ego bigger than his kingdom and the balls to match. He’d had this particular coin fashioned in the style of the late Roman emperors, who often issued currency in the names of their wives. On one side of the disk was the name of the silversmith who’d made it. The other side bore the inscription:
CENETHRETH; REGINA (Cynethryth, Queen)
with a perfect
M
in the middle for Mercia.

The coin was a statement. “If it was good enough for the Roman emperors, it’s good enough for me.” Not bad for a Saxon warlord/thug who’d fought his way to the top with his bare, bloody hands.

Jeff Stevens loved working at the British Museum. People often talked about their “dream jobs.” But for Jeff, this truly was a dream, a fantasy he’d nurtured since he was a small boy.

Jeff’s mother had been killed in a car crash when he was fourteen. Two months later his father, an aluminum-siding salesman, married a nineteen-year-old cocktail waitress. One night when his dad was on the road, Jeff’s stepmother had made a crude attempt to seduce him. The teenage Jeff made a run for it and headed for Cimarron, Kansas, where his uncle Willie ran a carnival. From that day on, Uncle Willie effectively became Jeff’s father, and the carnival became his school. It was there that Jeff learned about human nature. About greed, and how blind and foolish it could make even the most intelligent of men. All the confidence tricks that he would later go on to use to devastating effect against some of the richest, nastiest individuals in the world, Jeff learned from Uncle Willie and the carneys.

But it was also one of the carneys who first instilled in Jeff a love of antiquity and a profound respect for the past. This man had been a professor of archaeology, just like Professor Nick Trenchard, before he was thrown out of the university where he taught for stealing and selling valuable relics.

“Think of it, son,” he used to tell Jeff. “Thousands of years ago there were people just like you and me dreaming dreams, spinning tales, living out their lives, giving birth to our ancestors.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Carthage. That’s where I’d like to go on a dig. Those people had games and baths and chariot racing. The Circus Maximus was as large as five football fields.”

The young Jeff listened, entranced.

“Do you know how Cato the Elder used to end his speeches to the Roman senate? He’d say,
‘Delenda est Carthago.’
Carthage must be destroyed. His wish finally came true. The Romans reduced the place to rubble and built a new city on its ashes. But boy, think of the treasures that must be under there!”

Jeff had never stopped thinking about them. He felt as much excitement, holding the ancient Saxon coin in his hand now, as he had ever felt stuffing a bag with priceless jewels, or walking brazenly out of a major art gallery with an Old Master tucked under his arm. Best of all, this job was legit. There were no Interpol or FBI or Mafia goons on his tail. He actually got
paid
to do this.

“Hey, boss. The volunteers from the Women’s Institute just arrived. Where would you like them to start?”

Rebecca Mortimer, a Ph.D. student and intern, was the one member of the museum staff who was even newer than Jeff. A striking twenty-two-year-old with brown eyes like gleaming horse chestnuts and almost waist-length auburn hair, she had started work just two days ago, but already Jeff had a good feeling about their working together. Rebecca was as passionate about the ancient world as Jeff was, and there was an earnestness about her that he found endearing and that brought out his paternal side. Like the small army of elderly volunteers that the British Museum used to help out with special exhibitions and keep costs down, Rebecca was unpaid, but Jeff got the sense she would happily have sold everything she owned for the joy of working here. He knew how she felt.

“Show them into the Special Exhibitions Reading Room,” said Jeff, replacing the Mercian coin in its glass case and locking the display. “It’s the little room right next to the Great Russell Street entrance. I’ll give them a run-through of their duties next week and you can help me take questions.”

“Really?” Rebecca’s eyes lit up.