'Til Dragons Do Us Part (Never Deal with Dragons) (4 page)

My guide didn’t seem to notice my shock. “I’ll leave you here with a list of the items Lord Relobu has set aside for Miss Banks’ use. As requested, the majority of these items are quite well known, and should assist in creating the impression she is aiming for, especially among the guests who have a reasonable knowledge of art and antiquities. You should be able to find them all here in the room, starting on your left and moving clockwise. Should you have any questions, simply press this button to reach me via intercom.” He handed me a sheaf of paper, directed my attention to the intercom controls on the wall, and then gave me a short bow before leaving me alone in the room.

“Holy Mother of...” Simon was going to go nuts when I told him about this. The confusion behind my warm welcome forgotten, I started down the stretch of carpet, scanning the papers kindly provided by Relobu’s butler. The list of items read like a museum exhibit announcement, each artist’s name and masterpiece topped by the next, and soon my head was swimming with Monets, Picassos, Mings and Winstons.

Like most art collectors in this day and age, our client was looking for something rare or famous. Preferably both. The painting he’d settled on,
Bright Seasons
, fully qualified on both counts. The five-by-eight-foot canvas was one of only two works completed by Bernard Tofegaard, and depicted a very colorful and somewhat idealized version of the merging of the English and Scottish Parliaments. Tofegaard, a shining star in the early 18th century art scene, was tragically killed by a gang of thieves in a dark London alley on the night of his twenty-second birthday.

And I’d learned from experience that nothing made a good piece of art more valuable than a sad backstory. The fact that Bernard’s first painting,
Dark Shadows
, had been destroyed when the National Gallery in London had burned during the last world war only helped increase the value of his surviving piece.

I skipped to the second sheet and scanned the items, wondering whether I’d get lucky and find the Tofegaard on Relobu’s list.

But no. I saw no mention of Bernard Tofegaard
.
“Well,” I muttered to myself, “it wouldn’t have been fair if it were that easy.”

Simon had managed to snag us the contract—he’d been crowing about the fact that we’d finally managed to beat Prometheus on a bid for what felt like forever—but the victory had come with a very, very short window of time in which to deliver.

It was too bad. Being handed the piece of art we were searching for would have gone a long way toward meeting our deadline. I made a quick pass through the room just in case the canvas had accidentally been left off the list, and then turned back toward the exit. With no small twinge of regret, I left the room and started my search for a British Parliament.

Chapter Four

I’d finally located the group of politicians on the wall of the formal banquet hall, and I was inspecting the frame to see how long it might take me to pop it out for transport, when someone cleared their throat behind me.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

I turned to find a dark-haired man leaning against one of the heavy wooden columns, surveying me with mild curiosity. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, causing the buttons of his dress shirt to strain as the fabric stretched across his wide frame.

“Nope. Just enjoying the art.” I turned back to the painting, hoping he’d simply wander away to find another use for his time.

No such luck.

I watched from the corner of my eye as the man shifted up from his spot against the column, but instead of continuing through the room, he moved closer, out of my line of sight, until he stood just behind me as I pretended to admire the painting.

Goosebumps started to form on the back of my neck.

“A Tofegaard fan, are you?” He was standing so close I felt my hair move as he spoke, and I stifled the urge to fidget.

Only guilty people fidgeted.

“Yes, actually, I am. I love how he, ah...” for the first time in my life I wished I’d paid attention as Jeanie waxed poetic about a specific piece of art, “...does this thing with the paintbrush here.”

I gestured randomly at the painting, hoping I didn’t sound as moronic as I thought I did. I stifled a laugh when I realized my pointed finger was hovering directly over the fat belly of a wigged politician.

“Yes, that’s a pretty amazing thing he did there. Bernard Tofegaard was a man of many talents. I’ve seen no one capture old men quite like he did.” I could hear the smile in his voice as he answered, and knew without a doubt I was being laughed at. “Anything else that strikes your fancy?”

“No.” For some reason his amusement struck a nerve, and I turned, intending to ask him why he was so interested in a stranger’s taste in art. But my thoughts stuttered to a halt as soon as I met his gaze. His eyes were a deep and startling blue, the color made even more striking by his dark skin and the fact that they were lined with thick lashes that would seem almost feminine, if not for the face they’d been paired with. No, his face wasn’t feminine at all. And neither was the rest of his body. It was hard and unyielding, a blend of fantastic genetics and proper care that created ridges of muscles in all the right places and caused my girlie parts to stand up and take notice.

He faced me squarely, studying me as carefully as I did him, and I found myself wondering whether there were any parts of him that were standing up with interest.

Figuratively, of course.

He stepped out of the shadow of the column, and I was able to experience the full effect of his face. Sharp nose, strong jaw, and with lips fuller than you’d expect to see on a man, his features seemed to simultaneously compete for attention and work together to make it difficult for me to look anywhere else.

All in all, his looks were a bad combination for a thief. One of the things that makes Simon so great at his job is his ability to blend into his surroundings—to appear as just another tourist, shopkeeper, businessman, whatever. The sheer
normalness
of his looks allows my partner to go anywhere and be anything, without the fear of people remembering him after he was gone. Simon is a modern day
everyman
, who with a simple change of a hat appears as an entirely different person. He switches disguises as easily as others change their mind.

My face is slightly more recognizable. I’m not exactly gorgeous, but my features are memorable enough that I have to be careful when I’m on a job. With the proper use of makeup and hair style, I’d learned to dress in such a way that nine times out of ten people would see exactly what they’d expect to see, whether that was the girl next door or wealthy socialite. The other one-tenth of the time, I’d learned to manage it as best I could.

This guy? He’d be noticed no matter what he did.

He continued to stare, but something told me that his interest had nothing to do with a reciprocal hormonal response. Such was the pity. Though he made no outward show of being particularly interested in me one way or another, I could tell that his mind was cataloging my every feature with brutal efficiency. Combined with his muscled frame and smooth movements, I’d put money on him being part of Relobu’s security team.

So much for a quick grab and go.

Ah well, I guess I needed to start earning my commission eventually. Though it was too late for me to cover my interest in the painting, I deliberately wandered over to another on the opposite wall, a scene depicting a buxom and very naked young lady, reclining on a bed near a sleeping dog. Jeanie was the art expert, but I thought it was likely a Titian.

“The Tofegaard I understand, but this? It’s an interesting choice for a dining room.”

“Mmm.” His response was neither an agreement nor an argument.

My unwanted companion hadn’t followed me, but had pivoted to track my progress with his eyes. I turned my back on him to study the painting, and released the breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. I wasn’t sure of the cause, but something about this guy had my nerves—usually well behaved in high stress situations—at full-alert.

“So you’re not fond of the placement. But how about the painting itself? Do you like how he held the paintbrush?” The teasing note was back.

“I don’t have an opinion one way or the other. How about you?” If he wanted to stand here and make small talk for the rest of the day, it was his responsibility to keep the conversation moving.

His lips quirked as if he’d read my thoughts and they had struck him as amusing. I found myself stiffening as he ambled closer, feeling like a mouse waiting for the snake to strike. The irony of my situation made me smile. I was usually the reptile in these types of encounters. It was somewhat startling to realize I didn’t enjoy playing the part of the mouse. They were so much cuter than snakes.

He stopped near my shoulder and made a show of inspecting the canvas before us.

“Can’t say that I know that much about art, but I like this one better than a picture of a bunch of guys sitting around a table.” He held out a hand. “Cameron Shaw.”

I shook his hand cautiously, half expecting him to yank me off my feet and pin me against the wooden column he’d been leaning on earlier. But while his hand was nearly twice as big as mine, his grip was warm and polite, the perfect balance for a casual greeting between strangers.

It didn’t make me any less wary. “Savannah.”

“Well, Savannah. I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity, but I’m wondering why you’re here in an empty banquet hall trying to pull priceless paintings off the wall.”

I couldn’t deny that it was a perfectly valid question. I shuffled though several responses and discarded them all. It was clear from the butler’s treatment that the household had been expecting someone specific, and that this someone had been given permission to look through Relobu’s treasures on behalf of Myrna Banks.

Apparently, they weren’t expected to touch anything else.

I decided to stall.

“I wasn’t exactly trying to pull the painting off the wall.” Okay, maybe I had been, but only because I’d wanted to see just how well the frame had been mounted. Sometimes I got lucky, and priceless paintings like the Tofegaard had been secured no better than a magnetic frame to the face of a refrigerator. It was important to know exactly how long it would take to extract a canvas, because on average, windows of time for art theft were rather small. A couple of extra seconds could mean the difference between being paid and being caught red-handed.

He gave me a look that made it clear he didn’t believe me. “The pressure sensors on the wall would say otherwise.”

Wow. Pressure sensors. Given the difficulty of obtaining good tech, a system that included pressure sensors was very rare, and very expensive. I’d only encountered them on one other job, so we’d need to do some research beyond the usual mapping of security camera locations.

I was reasonably sure Relobu’s permission to view a portion of his hoard had been granted in connection to Myrna’s upcoming wedding. Usually I’d feel comfortable running with this information, fashioning a convenient back story to distract the person asking the questions while I unobtrusively made my way out the door to safety. But I had a feeling that Cameron Shaw wasn’t going to be easy to distract. And judging by the casual way he’d slid between me and the exit, I didn’t think he planned on allowing me to leave either. I couldn’t risk guessing wrong, and raising even more flags.

“Well, as I mentioned, I’m a great fan of Bernard Tofegaard, and your butler was nice enough to provide me with this list of art housed in the Manor.” I waved the papers for illustrative purposes, but Cameron’s eyes never left my face.

“Anyway, I’d heard that Relobu was the owner of
Bright Seasons
, but it wasn’t on my sheet, so I thought I’d wander around and see if I could find it. And as you can see,” I said, with a small laugh, “I did!”

“Yes, I do see. But, Ms....” He paused, waiting for me to supply my last name.

“Cavenaugh.”

He inclined his head. “Ms. Cavenaugh. I’m not sure whether I mentioned this, but I’m in charge of security here at Relobu Manor. My staff allowed you through the gate when you arrived, as Bridal Visions had secured an appointment to look through the items offered by Lord Relobu.”

Bridal Visions. So this
was
something related to Myrna’s impending nuptials. “Okay, so what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, Savannah, I’ve just been notified by the gate that Amanda George has arrived for her appointment. The same appointment for which we’d assumed you were here.”

Uh-oh. That was definitely the problem with these sorts of mistaken-identity situations. While they were a boon in the short run, there was always the chance that the real version of the person I was playing would show up mid-performance, confusing the audience and generally turning a successful masquerade into an embarrassing sequence of events culminating in my arrest.

“Amanda. Of course. She’s my colleague. She asked me to get here a bit early to get things set up. And now I’ve lollygagged around so long, I’m a bit behind. If you could excuse me.”

I tried for a sheepish and apologetic expression before making a beeline to the door.

I had just brushed by him when Cameron’s hand snagged onto my arm with a gentle yet unbreakable hold. “I apologize for slowing you down, but I still need to understand one thing. When I spoke with the guard, he said Ms. George seemed quite confused when he informed her that another employee of Bridal Visions had already arrived.”

Double uh-oh. “Yes, well. I may have forgotten to tell her I was on my way.”

“Savannah!” The shrill voice was followed by a series of staccato taps as a pair of high heels entered the room, carrying with them a woman in her mid-fifties with bleach-blond hair and painted nails longer than my dragon form claws. Just inside the door she stopped, scanning the room until she found me.

I marveled at her balance as she barreled toward us in a form-fitting suit and a pair of heels that had to be over five inches high. She stopped barely a foot from where I was standing and performed a head-to-toe inspection of my person, her lip curling in disgust the entire time.

“First of all, you will never, ever, be dressed like this in my presence. Bridal Visions has a uniform, and you are required to wear it. I do not allow my employees to embarrass me, either in private, or in public.

“Second, who told you to meet me here? I was very specific with the recruiter. I insist upon an interview before anyone is allowed to be sent out on a Bridal Visions event.” She gave my clothing another disparaging look before ripping away the sheaf of papers I held in my hand. Then, ignoring Cameron and me both, she calmly pulled a pen and a pair of glasses from her lapel pocket and started to read.

I sneaked a glance at Cameron. He was wearing the same bemused expression that I’m sure was on my face. I felt as if I’d been hit by a tornado and now stood, confused, as I tried to figure out how I’d managed to remain standing.

The woman—I assumed this was Amanda George of Bridal Visions—read several items aloud as she scanned the sheet, her bony fingers ripping the staples from the pages when she reached the bottom of one sheet and moved to the next.

“What are you doing?” Amanda snapped, her eyes never leaving the list.

I looked to Cameron, confused when he appeared to be looking back at me expectantly. I turned back to find Amanda’s eyes boring directly into my own, her toe tapping impatiently.

“Who, me?”

“Who, me?” she mocked in a shrill falsetto. “God, I hate training new employees. Why aren’t you writing this down? I want the pieces I just mentioned inspected and counted before 5:00 p.m. tomorrow. And I expect the final flower order for the Banks/Chobardan event to be on my desk first thing in the morning. Now go home and change out of those filthy clothes.”

Wow. I’d been worried about my cover being blown when the real Bridal Visions assistant arrived, but now I was beginning to think that the recruiter Amanda mentioned would probably be delighted I was here. Because I had serious doubts about anyone being gullible or stupid enough to want this job.

Except, apparently, me.

I scrambled to catch the now-loose sheaf of papers that had been shoved in the general direction of my chest, and managed to get them all under control—sort of—just in time to see Amanda George take her first good look at my handsome companion. Within the space of a second, she’d given him an inspection no less thorough than the one he’d subjected me to only minutes ago.

“You.” From out of nowhere, she produced a business card. “Call me if you’re ever interested in doing some modeling work. I have some print advertisements in need of a groom.”

She looked back to me. “Why are you still standing here? Shoo. Now where is that butler? I told him to leave my car out front.”

Both of us apparently dismissed, Cameron and I watched as Ms. George swept out in the same sudden manner she’d arrived, leaving only our shocked silence in her wake.