The Stolen Chalicel (4 page)

Xandra punched a button on her cell phone and someone immediately answered on the other end.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Good. Wait until activity is at its busiest, then go in,” she instructed.

She stayed on the line for a moment more.

“Very well, good luck.”

She pressed the disconnect button and began to pace, her silk robe billowing behind. Her eyes fell on the pale green box of Ladurée macarons on the sideboard. The French confections were her favorites, delivered that afternoon from the shop on Madison Avenue. Xandra pulled off the lid, selected a pale green pistachio meringue, and bit into the
crust, releasing ganache onto her tongue. It was heaven! She dropped the rest of it into her mouth and chewed, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

A large pair of topaz gold eyes gazed back at her, heavy-lidded and tilted up slightly at the corners—the eyes of a lion. At least, that’s what her lovers always told her. When people noticed her eyes, she would lower her lids and blink at them slowly. Men would just stare, mouths agape. It was her favorite seduction trick.

Lady Xandra ran her hands through her dark hair, holding the strands this way and that. Was it too late to call the hotel salon and have someone come and arrange it in an elegant upsweep? She should have thought of that sooner. But there had been other things to plan.

She walked to the closet and took out a gown that resembled a
kalasiris
—the long, form-fitting ankle-length dress worn by women in ancient Egypt. In most tomb depictions, the garments were white. Her modern version was red pleated silk, with rows of gold beading around the neckline. Nobody else would have anything like it.

Tonight, she would also flaunt the stuffy conventions of the Fifth Avenue crowd in another way. Underneath the dress, she would not wear anything.

Half an hour later, Lady Xandra Sommerset picked up her evening bag—inside was a comb, lipstick, cell phone, and small pocket mirror. She couldn’t risk taking the pistol with her. They’d be screening purses at the door.

Just as she was about to leave, the phone rang. She opened the bag and looked at the number. It was Moustaffa.

“Xandra, there’s a problem.”

“No. Everything’s all set.”

“Listen to me! They are going ahead with an attack plan of their own, instead of waiting for the one we have in place for Egypt.”

“Who would do that?”

“It’s Vojtech and two others,” Moustaffa said. “I’ve seen veiled references to it on the Internet.”

“That’s just talk. They ramble on like that all the time.”

“Well, it’s drawing attention.”

“They’d never dare act on their own. Besides, everyone in the organization knows Egypt is in three weeks.”

“But a reliable source told me they are planning something
tonight,
to prove themselves.”

Xandra paused to think, smoothing her eyebrow in the mirror.

“Vojtech always was a little wild,” she agreed. “But I don’t think he would have the nerve to preempt your plan.”

“I hope you’re right. If they take things into their own hands, they’ll screw everything up.”

“What can I do?”

“Keep your eyes open. If anything happens, just remember to get out quickly.”

“Moustaffa, once we have the art, I’m gone.”

“Good. Just put in an appearance, and then get out of there as fast as you can.”

Metropolitan Museum of Art

H
OLLYWOOD-STYLE KLIEG LIGHTS
scanned the night sky, and a red carpet ran up the steps to the columned portals of the museum. Several couples were making their way up as camera flashes went off all around them.

Cordelia and Sinclair got out of their limo and paused on the sidewalk.

“Can you believe this?” Cordelia asked, staring up at the billowing white-and-gold banners. “It’s incredible!”

Sinclair reached over and took her hand, his grasp warm and strong. He looked wonderful tonight, certainly as debonair as when she met him last year in Monaco. Cordelia hoped she was carrying off her floor-length strapless chiffon gown with equal style.

“Do I look all right?”

He turned to look at her, his expression astonished.

“What do you mean? You’re
beautiful
!”

“Well, I just spent the last four months in Egypt, roughing it. I feel like there’s still sand in my hair.”

Sinclair’s eyes traveled down her form, surveyed the deep red gown.

“You look like a goddess.”

She smiled. Typically, comparisons to Greek and Roman deities were his highest compliments.

“Shall we?” Sinclair started to ascend the steps. A wall of flashbulbs erupted. Reporters and photographers started shouting.

“Look this way!”

“Over here, miss
. . .
over here!”

A bright flash lit up the night, blinding Cordelia. There was a solid wall of lenses all the way up to the door.

“I can’t believe how many reporters there are,” she said, hesitating on the first step.

“Just look straight ahead and smile,” Sinclair coached. “And don’t stop until you hit the top.”

Sinclair slowed his pace to accommodate Cordelia’s high heels. Her nervousness was apparent from the tight grip on his hand. The press were at it again, snapping away over on the other side of the black velvet cordon. It had been almost a year since he had faced their lenses in Europe.

Of course, that romance with Shari was an embarrassment now—but who could resist a gorgeous supermodel? They had been photographed constantly. The affair had ended in disaster. It was over, and he’d broken up with Shari, blaming the whole thing on high testosterone and bad judgment.

He had met Cordelia on the rebound. Who knew what fates had thrown her into his path, but it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And he was eternally grateful to be here tonight, holding her hand as they climbed the steps of the Met.

He turned and looked at her. That flimsy gown she was wearing was beyond sexy. The pure silk chiffon flowed down the lines of her willowy body and billowed out behind her in the breeze. As he went up the stairs, he pictured the two of them later this evening, when they returned to the hotel, and that put a spring in his step.

Dr. Holly Graham took a sip of her champagne and surveyed the fashionable crowd in the Greek and Roman Gallery. The Met invitation asked that women limit their choice of color to “Roman Legion red” or “Classical Greek white.” Everyone seemed to have gone for shades of crimson, but she wore white.

“Holly!”

She turned and saw Carter Wallace over the heads of the guests. Was it only an hour and a half ago that they had pored over the CAT scans of a mummy in her office? This was not the shaggy young Egyptologist she knew. His evening clothes were a vast improvement over that wooly Harris tweed blazer.

Objectively, most people might think Carter was handsome. He had broad shoulders and the strength of a former college football star. Usually that type didn’t appeal to her, but tonight he was transformed.

“Carter, I barely recognized you,” she teased.

“You look pretty glamorous yourself. . . . And as beautiful as ever.”

Nice compliment, but he couldn’t possibly mean it. Holly was too old for him by at least a decade. She didn’t kid herself. Her looks were fading. Fine lines were appearing around her eyes and her hair was turning darker.

In one way, maturity was good. Her appearance had often been a distraction to the men around her, especially when she was trying to establish her bona fides as a serious scholar.

She glanced around and her spirits rallied. Carter wasn’t exactly her idea of a hot date, but an evening like this didn’t come along very often—the champagne was flowing like water.

“Kind of a snazzy crowd, don’t you think?” she observed.

“It’s definitely above my pay grade,” he agreed, taking a flute from a passing tray. He smiled at her as he raised it.

“Cheers!”

Dr. Carter Wallace watched Holly over the rim of his champagne glass. My God, she looked like a movie star tonight. He had suffered a raging crush on her for five years now. Although he dated other people, Holly was definitely his main fantasy.

That cool sophistication was irresistible. His pulse quickened whenever she was around. His feelings were not reciprocated, however. She had always relegated him to the status of junior colleague.

It was clear that she was conscious of their age difference. The tone of voice she used to address him could be condescending
and
infuriating.

It didn’t dissuade him, however. Most afternoons, he’d find an excuse to drop by her office. Sometimes he’d catch her eating her sandwich at her desk, a pencil stuck through her chignon, glasses halfway down her nose. He’d ask her questions to prolong the visit, and no matter how obscure the query was she always had a detailed and flawless answer. Inevitably, as she talked, his mind would drift, and he would start thinking about what it would be like to take her glasses off and lean over and kiss her.

Holly had a mind like a computer . . . and the full figure of a Greek goddess, especially tonight in that white dress. The graceful folds of the fabric had the simplicity of the classical statues all around her. The red lipstick was a nice touch. He had never seen her dressed up before. She really camouflaged her body in those cable-knit cardigans and slacks, but if she didn’t half the leches in the museum would be after her.

Including him. Not that
he
was a lech. His intentions were honorable. He just wanted . . . well, a respectable dinner date for a start. Not much to ask, was it?

Carter looked around. The gala was so crowded the waiters could barely navigate with their trays. He’d play it cool during cocktails and wait until dinner to lay on the charm. Then, during the dancing, he was planning on sweeping her off her feet.