The Grandmaster's Pawn

by Patricia D. Eddy

  No one but you.

  Daniel

  Gemma is utterly silent as I drive. Using my teeth, I tug off my thin leather gloves and reach over to cover her hand with mine. But she flinches and pulls back. “Don’t.”

  The word escapes on a whisper, and I cast a quick glance at her. “I…can explain—bugger it. I’m an arse, Gemma.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I did. But not about my feelings for you. Never about that.”

  “Oh no? Why did you first challenge me to a chess game?” Her voice is stronger now, and she balls her hands into fists on her thighs.

  “To get close to you. To pump you for information about the security surrounding the Lewis Chessmen. I had a buyer for them. But…then I got to know you, and—”

  “And you decided fucking me would just seal the deal? Wooing me with a stolen painting, plying me with expensive wine, seducing me with all those beautiful words.” Tears spill onto her cheeks, and she turns to stare out the window.

  “No!” I snap, louder than I intend. “The first day we met in person, I knew you weren’t simply a mark to me anymore. Everything between us after that…was real. Is real.”

  “You’re an art thief, Daniel. And I work for the British Museum. We can’t have anything real.”

  Silence fills the car, so thick I feel like I’m choking on it. But she’s been through too much for me to argue with her tonight. After I finish what I started with Tatiana, perhaps she’ll understand. If not…my heart may never be whole again.

  She lets me help her up to her flat, even allows me to draw her a bath and help her into the tub, never once looking me in the eyes. After she’s wrapped in a fluffy robe with a mug of tea and tucked in her bed, she meets my gaze. “Did you steal the Chessmen?”

  I won’t lie to her again. Even though she could destroy me. “Yes. When I called you, I’d just left a forged set in their place.”

  She nods, running her fingers over the rope welts on her wrist. “I want you to leave now.”

  “Gemma, please—”

  “No. No more excuses. I’ll keep your secret. Though once my boss sees me looking like this, I’ll probably end up the prime suspect.” Gemma swipes at a single tear that races down her cheek. “Don’t contact me again. The door is self-locking. Pull it closed on your way out.”

  She looks so small and broken under the blankets. So vulnerable. So…sad. But her eyes hold fierce determination, so I nod. “I...I am sorry. For everything.”

  The click of the door locking behind me is the final blow to my heart, and as I start the car, I wonder if I’ll ever feel anything again.

  Gemma

  Three days later, I muster the courage to go back to work. After Daniel left, I hid from the whole world. Didn’t turn on the television, didn’t answer emails. Left my boss and my professors a message that I’d been hit by a car and needed time to recover.

  I don’t have many friends in London. I’ve always been too busy with work and school to socialize. But two of my coworkers came knocking yesterday. I ignored them and hid in my bedroom, crying.

  Getting dressed takes me an hour, and by the time I’m done, I think a car accident would hurt less. My ribs are covered in bruises, my cheek is a deep purple, even with several layers of foundation, and the welts around my wrists itch like crazy. At least I managed to fix my glasses.

  A little before 9:00 a.m., I limp up the steps to the museum, my heart hammering in my chest like it’s about to explode. I can’t go more than five minutes without thinking of Daniel, and that’s the worst pain of all. Knowing he betrayed me. Knowing I fell for it. And him.

  Patrons mill about, a bit of normalcy I needed more than I thought. I sniffle more than once on my way to my office.

  “Miss Gemma!” Charles calls as I pass the antiquities room. I don’t want to go in there, but thankfully he rushes to the edge of the room, so I don’t have to cross the threshold. “Mrs. Savoy said you’d been hit by a car. You’re okay, yeah?”

  “Healing.” I glance over at the podium where the Chessmen should be—only to see them. “Did anything…happen while I was out?”

  “No, Miss Gemma. Just the usual tours. Why?” Charles cocks his head, and he takes a step closer to me, as if he’s afraid I’m going to topple over.

  “No reason, just feeling out of touch.”

  With slow, painful steps, I make my way over to the Chessmen. They’re all here. In perfect condition. I know these pieces. Know them as well as I know my own name. If they were replicas, I’d be able to tell.

  “But he said he’d—” I shake my head, and my heart squeezes. He put them back? Why? For me?

  By the time I reach my office, I’m ready for a nap. But I’m so behind—on everything. Half an hour later, as I head to the break room for a cup of tea, startled voices carry out the door. What the hell? It sounds like half the docents are in there.

  And…they are. Gathered around the small television.

  “I can’t believe all those thefts…”

  “…kept his stash in the middle of London?”

  “Why wouldn’t he just sell everything?”

  “…obviously headed here next.”

  I push my way through the crowd until I can see—and hear—the news story.

  “Once again, in case you’re just joining us, the renowned art thief known only as the Grandmaster has been apprehended. An anonymous tip sent Interpol to an abandoned house on Lordship Lane three nights ago. They caught two men attempting to flee the premises with the missing Gustav Klimt painting, The Portrait of a Lady. Ulrich Von Straten and his associate, Matthias Fontinel, have been linked to more than fifty separate thefts over the past two decades.”

  The footage cuts to a shot of the basement, and I shudder as I try not to think about the dark, cold closet where I spent the better part of a day terrified I was going to die.

  “High quality forgeries of the Lewis Chessmen were found with the two men, as well as a key to a storage unit in central London. When Interpol agents raided the unit, they found ten missing paintings, Tucker’s Cross, and the Ivory Coast Crown Jewels, which were stolen in 2011. Fingerprint and DNA evidence found in the storage unit link Von Straten to these crimes. He and his associate are currently in an undisclosed location while several countries petition Interpol for extradition rights.”

  I pull out my phone. Three days. Every hour I wanted to text him. To hear his voice. To feel his arms around me one more time. He hasn’t contacted me, and a part of me wishes he’d tried, even though I asked him not to.

  He’s probably changed his number. Gone on the run. But I send him a message anyway.

  How much did you return?

  I have to know.

  Daniel’s response comes only seconds later.

  Everything.

  The walls threaten to suffocate me, so I lurch out onto the museum’s front steps. The damp air prickles along my skin, cooling my still-swollen cheek, and I brace myself against one of the tall columns at the top of the stairs, wheezing, desperate for more answers.

  “Gemma.”

  Oh God. From the bottom of the steps, Daniel stares up at me. Dark circles bruise his eyes, and he’s unshaven, his skin sallow under the stubble. Even his voice is wan.

  “Why?” I swipe away a tear, my legs shaky, and my gaze locked on him.

  Slowly, deliberately, he climbs the steps until he’s in front of me. His hands mold to my hips, gently, but with enough pressure I know he won’t let me fall. He smells the same. Like...home.

  “So there would be nothing between us but the truth.”

  “But…this is who you are. You’re…the Grandmaster,” I whisper.

  “Not anymore. I’ve retired. Permanently.”

  My knee buckles, and Daniel pulls me against him. The feel of his lithe, muscular body, the hitch in his breath, and his rather insistent erection make me ache in so many different ways, but nothing hurts more than my heart.

  “How can I ever trust you
again?” The words escape on a sob, and I wrap my arms around his waist, my uninjured cheek pressed against his chest. I want to. So very much I don’t think I can let go.

  Daniel eases me back slightly, reaches inside his jacket, and pulls out his phone. “I do not know, darling. But perhaps this will help.” He brings up a video.

  On screen, he’s standing inside a brightly lit storage space with dozens of crates all around him. “Gemma, I am risking my freedom—possibly my life—by recording this, but I want you to know who I am.” One by one, he pulls out various items and tells me exactly where and when he took them, and how he’s going to return them.

  When the video finishes, he sends it to me.

  “Why?” I ask as my phone vibrates with the incoming message. “Why give me the power to destroy you?”

  “Because I want you to know how important you are to me, Gemma. I am yours. Completely. If you wish to see me jailed, you have only to send that to Interpol. I won’t run. Or stop you.”

  I can’t delete the video fast enough, and when I do, Daniel’s eyes shine in the mid-morning light. “I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper, my entire body trembling against him. “I kept thinking about you. And it hurt. So much.”

  Daniel wipes away the single tear staining my cheek. “You need to rest. Let me bring you home. Take care of you. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I can’t spend another minute in my flat, Daniel. Take me to yours.”

  As he opens his door, I whirl on him. “You said you gave everything back.”

  “I did.” He presses his thumb to a biometric lock on his credenza, and a drawer slides open to reveal a bill of sale from Sotheby’s. “For The Siren,” he says. “The next page is the electronic transfer records from my personal account. I will have no more secrets from you, Gemma. Ever.”

  Easing the documents from his hand, I put them back in the drawer without a glance. “I don’t need proof, Daniel. I just need you. The real you.”

  When he slides his fingers into my hair, I melt, and as he claims my mouth, the enormity of what he did hits me. He gave it all up. The storage unit linked to Ulrich…was Daniel’s. The replica Chessmen found with the man who almost killed me? Daniel admitted he’d stolen the real ones. Which means...he then risked everything to put them back.

  “There’s one thing you haven’t returned, you know,” I say as the corners of my lips twitch into a half smile. “I’m still missing a pair of panties.”

  “Would you consider a trade, my darling?” Daniel sweeps me up into his arms and carries me to his big, luxurious bed. “I could give you my heart.”

  “I’ll take that. Absolutely. But…those were my favorite panties. I think you owe me a little something extra.” Unbuttoning his rumpled white shirt, I slide my hands down his sculpted chest. “Like all of your clothes. For at least two days.”

  “They’re yours. For as long as you want them. There is nothing I would not do for you, Gemma. I love you.”

  I brush a lock of hair from his forehead.

  “Checkmate.”

  Thank you for reading The Grandmaster’s Pawn. I loved Daniel and Gemma, and I hope you did as well. One of these days, they’re getting a little bonus scene so you can see what they’re up to now.

  This is the first in a series of at least Checkmate novellas. The second, tentatively titled French Quarter Queen (though it may end up being Queen Takes King or King Takes Queen before release, should be out in July.

  Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you’ll consider leaving a review!

  Love, Patricia

  About the Author

  I’ve always made up stories. Sometimes I even acted them out. I probably shouldn’t admit that my childhood best friend and I used to run around the backyard pretending to fly in our Invisible Jet and rescue Steve Trevor. Oops.

  Now that I’m too old to spin around in circles with felt magic bracelets on my wrists, I put “pen to paper” instead. Figuratively, at least. Fingers to keyboard is more accurate.

  Outside of my writing, I’m a professional editor, a software geek, a singer (in the shower only), and a runner. I love red wine, scotch (neat, please), and cider. Seattle is my home, and I share an old house with my husband and cats.

  I’m on my fourth—fifth?—rewatching of the modern Doctor Who, and I think one particular quote from that show sums up my entire life.

  “We’re all stories, in the end. Make it a good one, eh?” — The Eleventh Doctor, Doctor Who

  I hope your story is brilliant.

  You can reach me all over the web…

  patriciadeddy.com

  patricia@patriciadeddy.com

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