by Nora Roberts
me company?”
Lucille swept up her lashes. He was small, and skinny, she thought. But very pretty in the face. “Perhaps. After mademoiselle is gone.”
“I’ll be around.” Whistling again, Adrianne followed Lucille’s direction into the kitchen. Working fast, she slipped into the utility room. The alarm system was hardly more than a toy, making her sigh at the lack of challenge. Quickly, one ear turned for noise, she unscrewed the plate. From the deep pockets of her coveralls she took a pocket computer the size of a credit card and two spring clamps. Forcing herself not to hurry, she clamped the wires, cutting off the power.
She heard the click of heels, and dashed back through the door to pump a fog of organic rose dust into the air.
“Better give me another minute, luv,” she advised when Lucille poked a head into the kitchen. “This stuff needs to settle. Wouldn’t want to make those pretty eyes red.”
Coughing, Lucille waved a hand in front of her face. “Mademoiselle wants to know how long you will be.”
“An hour, tops.” She pumped more, hastening Lucille’s retreat. Counting five, Adrianne slipped back into the utility room and pulled out her wire cutters. It took under two minutes to feed the wires into her computer and change the security code. Getting in would be no problem, she thought as she replaced the face plate. Now all she had to do was find the safe. With the tank on her shoulder, Adrianne strolled back out to Lucille.
“Where next?”
“The guest room.” Lucille indicated the way, then was interrupted by a stream of French curses.
“Lucille. Goddammit, where did you put my red bag? Do I have to do everything myself?”
“Sounds like a real sweetheart,” Adrianne commented. Lucille only rolled her eyes and hurried off. If she threw a temper tantrum over a bag, Adrianne imagined Madeline would have apoplexy over the loss of her sapphire. Never pays to be greedy, she thought, then went off to search the guest room.
Twenty minutes later she heard the front door slam. It took her less than ten more to locate the safe in Madeline’s fussy red and black bedroom. It stood behind a false front in a vanity covered with pots and jars.
Standard combination, Adrianne mused with a cluck of her tongue. One would have thought Madeline would have spent as much on her security as she had on her wardrobe. Hefting the tank once more, Adrianne went out to find Lucille waiting for her.
The maid had spritzed herself with her best perfume.
“You have finished?”
“Any mouse that tries to sneak in here is dead meat.” This was going to take some delicate footwork, Adrianne decided as Lucille smiled at her. “The mademoiselle is gone?”
“She won’t be back for at least an hour.” The invitation was obvious as Lucille took a step closer. Adrianne felt a giggle well up and had to remind herself this was no laughing matter.
“Wish I had a little free time now. But I’ve got some later. What time does she let you off?”
“She has moods.” Pouting, Lucille toyed with the collar of Adrianne’s coveralls. She’d never been kissed by a man with a beard. “Sometimes she keeps me all evening.”
“She’s got to go to bed sometime.” Since Adrianne had plans for Madeline that evening, she thought it best to make some for Lucille as well. “Can you get out, say, midnight? You could meet me at Bester’s in Soho. We’ll have a drink.”
“Only a drink?”
“That depends.” Adrianne grinned. “I live right around the corner from the club. You could come by and give me … a French lesson. Midnight.” She ran a quick finger down Lucille’s cheek, then headed for the door.
“Maybe.”
Adrianne turned and winked.
An hour later, in a blond wig and pink sweater set, Adrianne paid cash for two dozen red roses and an elegant champagne dinner for two in a private dining room of a country inn an hour’s drive from London.
“My boss wants only the best,” Adrianne explained in a stern British accent as she handed a fistful of five-pound notes to the manager. “And, of course, discretion.”
“Of course.” The manager bowed, careful not to show too much enthusiasm. “And the name?”
Adrianne lifted a brow, a la Celeste. “Mr. Smythe. You will see that the champagne is properly chilled by midnight.” As she spoke, she added a twenty-pound note.
“Personally.”
Stiff-backed, head erect, Adrianne walked out to the car she’d rented for the trip out of London. She couldn’t prevent the briefest of smiles. By now Madeline would have received the first delivery of roses, and the romantic, mysterious invitation to a midnight supper in the country with a secret admirer.
Human nature was as important a tool as limber fingers. Madeline Moreau was very French, and very vain. Adrianne didn’t doubt for a minute that the Frenchwoman would step out of her flat and into the limousine Adrianne had arranged, leaving her flat empty. Madeline would be disappointed, naturally, when her anonymous admirer proved a no-show. But the Dom Pérignon and her own curiosity should occupy her for a while. Adrianne doubted if Madeline would return to London before two. By then Adrianne would have the sapphire, and Madeline a brilliant French temper tantrum.
It took her very little time once she was back in her rooms to go over notes and recheck her timing. The second delivery of roses, with a foolish, lovesick poem and another plea for an intimate evening would be arriving on Madeline’s doorstep within the hour.
She’d never resist it. Adrianne lit a match to her notes and watched the paper catch flame. Her instincts were right about this, she assured herself. Philip Chamberlains intrusion might have been simple coincidence, but The Shadow preferred tidy calculations. She smiled to herself. At this point Philip was giving her the best possible cover. She’d be seen going to dinner with him, then coming home again. She would make certain no one saw her leave her suite at midnight.
Adrianne was in the best of moods when she dressed for dinner. The basic black she chose was very slim, interest added by an explosion of multicolored mosaic beading along one shoulder. She clipped on royal blue glass earrings trimmed in gold that would be taken for sapphires by anyone but an expert. She stole the best, the most precious of jewels, but rarely bought them for herself. Only The Sun and the Moon interested her.
Standing back, she took a long hard look at herself. This image, like the image of Rose Sparrow, was important to her. She decided she was pleased she’d gone with the impulse to have her hair crimped, but changed her mind about her lipstick and applied a darker shade. Yes, she thought, that added just a hint more power. Philip Chamberlain might be a dangerous man, but he wouldn’t find her easy prey.
When the desk clerk phoned, she was ready, even looking forward to the evening. She insisted on coming down to the lobby to meet Philip.
He wasn’t dressed so formally tonight. The gray suit was Italian casual and only shades lighter than his eyes. Rather than a shirt and tie, he wore a black turtleneck, which set off his hair well. Too well, Adrianne thought. Her smile was very cool.
“You’re prompt.”
“You’re lovely.” He offered her a single red rose.
She knew men too well to be seduced by a flower, but couldn’t prevent her smile from softening.
She had a sable over her arm. He took it. As he slid the coat slowly over her shoulders, he let his fingers linger to free her hair from the collar. It was as rich and thick as the fur.
The warmth spread unexpectedly. Determined to ignore it, Adrianne looked over her shoulder. Her face was teasingly close to his. She let her lips curve as their gazes held.
She knew how to unnerve a man with a look, with a movement, he realized. He wondered how she’d earned a reputation as unattainable with eyes like that.
“There’s an inn about forty kilometers east of London. It’s quiet, atmospheric, and the food’s delightful.”
She’d expected a slick, sophisticated restaurant in the heart of the city. Could it be they would dine i
n the very spot where Madeline would be waiting for her mystery lover at midnight? Philip caught the sudden humor in her eyes, and wondered at it.
“You are a romantic.” Carefully, she stepped out of his arms. “But I’d like a drive. On the way you can tell me all about Philip Chamberlain.”
With a smile he took her arm. “We’ll need more than forty kilometers for that.”
When Adrianne settled in the Rolls, she let her fur slide down her shoulders. The brisk autumn air couldn’t compete with the warmth. The moment the driver pulled away from the curb, Philip took a bottle of Dom Pérignon from an ice bucket.
It was too perfect, she thought, and battled back another smile. Red roses, champagne, the plush car, and an evening at a country inn. Poor Madeline, she thought, greatly amused as she studied Philip’s profile.
“Have you been enjoying your time in London?” The cork came out with a muffled pop. In the quiet interior she could hear the excited fizz of air and wine rise in the neck of the bottle.
“Yes, I always enjoy it here.”
“Doing?”
“Doing?” She accepted the glass he offered. “Shopping, seeing friends. Walking.” She allowed him to spoon caviar onto a cracker for her. “What do you do?”
He watched her nip into the caviar before he sipped. “About what?”
Crossing her legs, she settled comfortably in the corner. It was the image she chose to project, lush furs, silk-clad legs, glittering jewels. “Work, pleasure, whatever.”
“What appeals most at the moment.”
She found it odd he didn’t elaborate. Most of the men she knew needed only the slightest opening to expound on their businesses, their hobbies, and their egos. “You mentioned gambling.”
“Did I?”
He was watching her, in the steady, disconcerting way he had before. It was as if he knew the Bolls was a stage and they were only playing parts. “Yes. What sort do you prefer?”
He smiled. It was the same smile she’d seen through the louvers in the Fumes’ closet door. “Long shots. More caviar?”
“Thank you.” They were playing a game, Adrianne thought. She wasn’t sure what the rules were, or what form the prize at the end would take, but a game was on. She took the caviar, beluga, the best, as was the wine and the car that was driving smoothly out of London. She trailed a finger along the swatch of upholstery that separated them. “Your long shots must pay off.”
“Usually.” With her he was counting on it. “What do you do when you’re not walking in London?”
“I walk someplace else, shop someplace else. When one city becomes tedious, there’s always another.”
He might have believed it if he hadn’t seen those flickers of passion in her eyes. This was no bored former debutante with too much money and too much time. “Are you going back to New York when you’re done with London?”
“I haven’t decided.” How dreary life would be, she thought, if she lived as she pretended. “I thought I might try somewhere hot for the holidays.”
There was a joke here, he thought. It was just behind her eyes, just edging the tone of her voice. Philip wondered if he’d find it amusing when he heard the punch line.
“Jaquir is hot.”
It wasn’t a joke he saw in her eyes now, but the passion, swift, vital, and quickly concealed. “Yes.” Her voice was flat and disinterested. “But I prefer the tropics to the desert.”
He knew he could prod, and had decided to when the phone interrupted him. “Sorry,” he said, then lifted the receiver. “Chamberlain.” There was only the briefest sigh. “Hello, Mum.”
Adrianne lifted a brow. If it hadn’t been for the slightly sheepish expression in the word, she wouldn’t have believed he had a mother, much less one who would call him on his car phone. Amused, she topped off his glass, then her own.
“No, I haven’t forgotten. It’s on for tomorrow. Anything at all, I’m sure you’ll look wonderful. Of course I’m not annoyed. On my way to dinner.” He glanced at Adrianne. “Yes, I do. No, you haven’t. Mum …” The sigh came again. “I really don’t think it’s—yes, of course.” He lowered the receiver to his knee. “My mother. She’d like to say hello to you.”
“Oh.” Nonplussed, Adrianne stared at the phone.
“She’s harmless.”
Feeling foolish, she took the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hello, dearie. That’s a lovely car, isn’t it?”
The voice had none of Philip’s smoothness, and the accent veered toward cockney. Adrianne automatically glanced around the Rolls and smiled. “Yes, it is.”
“Always makes me feel like a queen. What’s your name, dear?”
“Adrianne, Adrianne Spring.” She didn’t notice that she’d dropped her title and used her mother’s maiden name as she did with those she felt comfortable with. But Philip did.
“Pretty name. You have a lovely time now He’s a good boy, my Phil. Handsome, too, isn’t he?”
Eyes bright with humor, Adrianne grinned at Philip. It was the first time the full warmth of her was offered to him. “Yes, he is. Very.”
“Don’t let him charm you too quick, dearie. He can be a rogue.”
“Really?” Adrianne eyed Philip over the rim of her glass. “I’ll remember that. It was nice talking to you, Mrs. Chamberlain.”
“You just call me Mary. Everyone does. Have Phil bring you by anytime. We’ll have some tea and a nice chat.”
“Thank you. Good night.” Still grinning, she handed the phone back to Philip.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mum. No, she’s not pretty. Her eyes are crossed, she has a harelip, and warts. Go watch the telly. I love you too.” He hung up, then took a long sip of wine. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The phone call had changed her feelings for him. It would be difficult for her to be cool to a man who had both love and affection for his mother. “She sounds delightful.”
“She is. She’s the love of my life.”
She paused a moment, studying. “I believe you mean it.”
“I do.”
“And your father? Is he as delightful?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
If she understood anything, it was the need to draw a shade over private family business. “Why did you tell her my eyes were crossed?”
With a laugh he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “For your own good, Adrianne.” His lips lingered there while his gaze held hers. “She’s desperate for a daughter-in-law.”
“I see.”
“And grandchildren.”
“I see,” she repeated, and drew her hand away.
The inn was all he had promised. But then, she’d chosen it for Madeline because it was quiet, out of the way, and unabashedly romantic. The manager she’d met just that afternoon greeted her with a bow and not a flicker of recognition.
There was a huge, ox-roasting fireplace where logs as thick as a man’s trunk blazed behind a gilt-edged screen. They kept up a hot, humming roar. Mullioned windows held out the blast of autumn wind that came from the sea. Huge Victorian furniture, the sideboards groaning with silver and crystal, seemed cozy in the enormous room.
They dined on the house specialty of beef Wellington while candles in heavy pewter holders flickered around them and music came from an old man and his gleaming violin.
She’d never expected to be relaxed with Philip. Not like this, not so she could laugh and listen and linger over brandy. He knew old movies, which were still her passion, though for now he skirted around her mother and her tragedy. They skipped back another generation to Hepburn, Bacall, Cable, and Tracy.
It disarmed her that he could remember dialogue, and could mimic it amazingly well. Both her English and her talent for accents had come from the screen, small and large. Since her love of fantasy had come naturally enough through Phoebe, she couldn’t help feeling kindred with him.
She discovered he had an interest in gardening, which he indulged both at his country home and in the greenhou
se attached to his home in London.
“It’s difficult to imagine you puttering around and scouting out weeds. But it explains the calluses.”
“Calluses?”
“On your hands,” she said, and immediately regretted her slip. What should have been a casual observation seemed too personal, too intimate with candlelight and violins. “They don’t suit the rest of you.”
“Better than you think,” he murmured. “We all have our images and illusions, don’t we?”
She thought she felt the sting of a double entendre and neatly sidestepped with a comment about the gardens of Buckingham Palace.
