by Anne Stuart
He climbed down off the stool and shuffled back toward the hidden doorway to his storeroom closet. He’d miss his workshop, miss his secrets. But it was time to retire, and best to retire at the top of the game. For a moment he wondered what had possessed his customer to tackle such a monumental job. But he knew. As enamored as he was of the phony emeralds, he knew the real ones would be far more enticing, particularly once you held them in your hands. No, he didn’t blame his customer. And he would make sure that he profited by them, just in case the elaborate scheme didn’t succeed. Elaborate schemes had a high risk factor, and Hans Werdegast had almost been burned too many times.
Yes, he thought with a sigh, shutting the back wall of the closet behind him and shuffling into the deserted storeroom. It was time to retire. He’d spend his time in the upstairs workshop from now on, and look back with satisfaction on his memories. Particularly the Von Emmerling emeralds.
Chapter Three
CARLETON HOUSE was an impressive old mansion overlooking the Pacific Ocean on a point of land to the west of the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge. Once, years ago, it had been a private residence, until the bankrupt sea captain left it to the Daughters of the Pacific. In the last decades it had played host to any number of charity balls, garden fetes, debutante dances, ladies’ luncheons and even a discreet conference or two. The multitude of cavernous, elegant rooms, the expanse of beautifully maintained gardens, the dozens of bedroom suites on the third and fourth floors made it an admirable facility for any kind of social affair. It also made it utter hell to protect. That thought pleased Ferris no end.
“There you are, Ferris, dear.” The blue-haired lady in the elegant tweed suit greeted her with a warm smile. “And you’ve brought Mr. Blackheart. How good of you to come, Patrick! I knew we could count on you.”
Ferris had her first look at Blackheart’s celebrated charm as he kissed Phillip’s mother’s hand with a panache that would have done Errol Flynn proud. Had Errol Flynn ever played a cat burglar? He would have been good at it, Ferris thought dismally. This explained, in part, why Phillip had been so insistent on Blackheart, Inc. Regina Merriam was clearly entranced with the cat burglar.
Ferris knew an escape when she saw one. “Regina, why don’t you show Mr. Blackheart around while I check on the decorations committee? You know Carleton House as well as anyone.”
Regina smiled at her future daughter-in-law. “I’d adore to. I had to sneak out from the flower committee—the air was getting a little thick in there. Too many boring old matrons. Come along, Patrick, my boy, and I’ll show you what an impossible job you have ahead of you. How’s Trace? Will he be coming later? Olivia has been pestering me all day.”
“Trace will be here.”
Ferris could feel those eyes of his following her as she made good her escape.
“Later, Miss Byrd,” he called after her, the words a warning and a challenge.
She hesitated for a moment, contenting herself with a cursory nod before disappearing into the nearest reception room. She could hear Regina’s amused voice drifting after her. “Heavens, Patrick, call her Ferris. She’s the dearest girl. Far too good for my son.”
Ferris stopped dead still just inside the door, straining to hear his answer. But they’d moved away, out of reach, and only the soft murmur of his voice carried to her ears.
God, she was in trouble. Blackheart was far more dangerous than she’d imagined. The only thing she could do was call Phillip and beg him to let her come back and work on his campaign. He’d thought the Puffin Ball would be good experience for her, outside the political arena in the social world where a politician’s wife spent so much of her time. She was getting to know the major names in San Francisco society, and she was becoming good friends with her future mother-in-law, but all those benefits seemed to pale next to the seemingly very real threat of Patrick Blackheart.
Not that there was anything he could do to hurt her.
He couldn’t read her mind, know the deep, dark secrets of her soul that she trusted to no one. He was no threat to her, she had to remember that.
In the meantime, she was too busy that day to think much one way or the other about John Patrick Blackheart, apart from avoiding him whenever she saw him coming. He had the uncanny habit of sneaking up on her, his booted feet silent on the marble floors of the old mansion, that damned, bland smile on his face. She would find him waiting patiently behind her shoulder as she listened to a thousand and one questions, complaints, and impractical suggestions from the busy ladies of the Committee for Saving the Bay, and the only clue that he had reappeared would be the sudden, fatuous expression on the speaker’s face.
She couldn’t get through to Phillip till late in the afternoon, when most of the members of the committee had drifted away. The sound of his deep, mellifluous voice had its usual effect, soothing and warming her. It was one of his greatest political gifts, that rich, mellow voice, and Ferris was no more immune to it than his besotted constituents, especially when she knew what a basically decent, nice person resided behind that warm voice and those patrician good looks.
But the soothing tones offered her cold comfort indeed. “It will only be a week, Ferris. Surely Blackheart can’t be so bad—my mother adores him, and I trust her taste implicitly. After all, she thinks you’re too good for me.
“Blackheart isn’t bad, Phillip. I’m just not comfortable around him. Things are coming together beautifully—your mother knows as much as I do about everything. Couldn’t I please come back?” She let her voice sound mournful and pleading, hoping she might appeal to his protective instincts.
Phillip was too smart for her. “No, Ferris. There’s nothing you can’t handle, be it a hostile constituent or a retired cat burglar or the combined forces of the Committee for Saving the Bay. I’m counting on you, darling. This is the kind of experience for you that money can’t buy, and it will all be over by Friday. I’ll be there to take you to the ball, and we might even consider making our formal announcement.”
“I thought we were going to wait till after the primary.” Why was she suddenly reluctant to have her triumph made public knowledge? Enough people had seen the diamond on her left hand and given her a knowing look; it was no longer a secret.
“I was considering it, but I’ve decided you might bring me more votes,” he said frankly.
That was the problem with their relationship, Ferris decided suddenly. His election always came first, for both of them, and their engagement was more a useful adjunct than an emotional commitment. The thought was suddenly depressing.
“Let’s wait and see,” she temporized. “Will you call later?” Her voice was no longer mournful, it was brisk and efficient.
“Sunday at three, same as always. You’ll stick with it, won’t you, Ferris? Mother’s capable, you’re right, but I don’t like putting so much responsibility on her after her stroke. You can do it, can’t you?”
Ferris sighed, well and truly trapped. She may as well acquiesce gracefully. “Of course I can, Phillip. I just miss you.”
The deep, rich voice, like chocolate custard, breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew I could count on you, Ferris. I love you.” The last was hurried, almost by rote, and Ferris repeated it the same way.
They would deal well together. She would be the perfect politician’s wife, charming, reserved, very clever, with just the right amount of public deference and private encouragement to aid Phillip in attaining whatever office he was seeking. The public acclaim was not part of her own particular fantasy—she’d be just as happy if Phillip had remained a lawyer. But Phillip was an ambitious man, it was an integral part of his nature, and she wouldn’t have him any other way. It was ambition that had gotten her where she was now, and she wasn’t going back if she could help it. She would support Phillip completely, follow him . . .
“What’s that determined look on your face?”
Ferris dropped the phone with a nervous shriek, cursed, and rounded on Blackheart. “Must you sneak up on people like that?” she demanded indignantly.
“I can’t help it.” He favored her with that charming smile that melted all women within a ten-mile radius. Ferris did her best to remain stonily unmoved, but it was an uphill battle. “I can’t change years of habit overnight, Miss Byrd. Are you ready to leave?”
The last thing she wanted to do was get back into the cramped quarters of her car with him. That lethal charm was beginning to work on her, much as she fought it. Why did that smile of his have to be so damned infectious? And why did his brown eyes glint with hints of amber as he looked at her? And why couldn’t she trust him?
None of that really mattered of course, with Phillip in the picture. “I’m not quite ready to leave,” she said coolly. “Perhaps you could get a ride with someone else.”
He seemed to have the uncanny knack of reading her mind. Slowly he shook his head. “That won’t do, Miss Byrd. Everyone’s gone. I’ll just have to wait here, all alone with you in this big old house, while you finish whatever you’re doing.”
“I’m ready,” she snapped, interpreting the smiling threat correctly. “It’ll take me a few minutes to lock up. I’ll meet you at the car at ten past.”
“That’ll give me just enough time to check in with my office,” he said sweetly.
“Why?” Her suspicions were instantly aroused.
“To see if my burgling tools have arrived,” he drawled. “Go ahead and lock up, Ms. Byrd.”
She hesitated for a moment, watching as he picked up the telephone. “If I’m the last one to leave, I have to lock up, Mr. Blackheart. Once I do so, you won’t be able to leave without tripping the alarm.”
He laughed then, a rich, full laugh that was even more attractively unnerving. “You really think so?” he questioned gently. “You do underrate me, Ms. Byrd.” For her dubious peace of mind she could be grateful he was waiting at the car for her. She had little doubt that he could leave the house with its locks intact, but her sense of responsibility would have insisted that she go back and check, and Blackheart would have been bound to follow, smiling that damnable smile of his. What she wouldn’t give to wipe it off his face for just one moment, she thought with wistful violence.
It was a foggy day in late February, cool and chilly and distinctly unfriendly. She couldn’t wait till she was back in her small, cozy apartment, her shoes off and her long legs curled up underneath her, a real fire in her working fireplace and a snifter of brandy in her hand. God bless gourmet frozen dinners, she thought with a blissful sigh.
“What occasioned that erotic moan?” Blackheart drawled from beside her, and she jumped. For a brief, heavenly moment she had almost forgotten he was sitting beside her as she raced haphazardly back into the city.
She allowed herself a short glimpse at him, and her tense shoulders began to relax a trifle. In less than five minutes she’d be free of him, in ten minutes she’d be home. A tentative smile lit her face. “I was thinking about food,” she confessed.
He was staring at her, his expression arrested. “Do that again,” he said, his low, drawling voice suddenly husky in demand.
“Do what?” She couldn’t summon more than a trace of irritation as she screeched around the corner toward his office.
“Smile. I didn’t think you could.”
It was with a great effort that she kept another, answering smile from her mouth. “And you, Blackheart, smile too much. ‘A damned, smiling villain,’ Shakespeare said. He must have had you in mind.”
“You think so?” He seemed genuinely pleased at the notion. “And who are you?”
“Lady Macbeth,” she snapped, pulling to a stop in front of the old brick town house that housed Blackheart, Inc.
He made no move to leave the car, just looked at her out of those translucent eyes of his. “No, I don’t think so,” he murmured. “I haven’t got it yet, but I will.”
“Be sure to let me know when you think of it,” she said sarcastically.
He smiled at her. “I will. You really detest me, don’t you, Miss Byrd? Think I’m the lowest of the low?”
She said nothing, neither denied nor confirmed it. “Good evening, Mr. Blackheart.”
Reaching for the door handle, he pulled himself out of the Mercedes with a graceful swoop. Leaning down to close the door, he looked in at her. “I’m not really that bad, you know,” he observed gently.
“I’m sure you’re not,” Ferris said, sure of no such thing.
He grinned, a glint of wickedness in those tawny brown eyes. “At least I always go by the same name.” This was said in the softest of tones, and the door closed before she could respond.
There was nothing she could say. There was a sick burning in her stomach, her hands were clammy with nervous sweat, and she felt a nasty headache coming on. Without another word, without a look in his direction, she screeched the car away from the curb, directly into the traffic. Horns blared in protest, and then she was gone, tearing down the hillside with a blithe disregard for traffic and stop lights.
HANS WERDEGAST handed the plastic baggie over with a sense of real regret. He would never see them again, what he had fondly come to think of as his Von Emmerling emeralds. They were even prettier than the originals, if he were any judge, and he was. To be sure, the stones were fakes, beautiful ones. But he’d executed the delicate filigree settings with an even lighter touch than the original master who’d designed them. And now they were being shoved into the pocket of someone who’d done nothing more than glance at them through the filmy plastic.
The old man took the creased envelope stuffed full of old bills and shoved it in his pocket with all the care it deserved. Money was nothing, compared to art. “This is the only time,” he said heavily, hating the sound of the words, knowing he had to say them. “No more. Tell the man who sent you.”
“Why?”
“I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. You’ll have to find someone else for your next job.”
“No one else is as good as you.”
“That’s true,” the old man agreed sadly. “But that’s the way of the world. There are no craftsmen left, only technicians.”
“You won’t reconsider?”
He shook his head. “You have in your pocket, my friend, my last hurrah. Treat them with respect.”
His customer grinned. “I’ll put them to very good use.”
HE COULDN’T HAVE known, Ferris thought as she undid the three locks and let herself into the maze of rooms that constituted her apartment in the marina section of San Francisco. There were six of them, with steps up and steps down, a small terrace with an impossibly windy view of the bay, the tiniest kitchen this side of a Winnebago and a bedroom so small it only held her queen-size bed and the television set. The largest room in the mélange was the bathroom, with a marble bathtub the size of a small swimming pool, a double marble sink, mirrors that would put a whorehouse to shame, and a towel rack directly over the radiator that gave Ferris deliciously heated towels in the morning. She loved the hodgepodge of space, but nothing pleased her that evening.
It must have been a shot in the dark. He knew she went by the name of Ferris, but she’d openly admitted her first name was Frances. And that was the truth, or mostly the truth. Her first name was a variant of Frances. And it was none of Blackheart’s damned business if she chose not to use it. She didn’t have any criminal reason for wanting to hide it.
There was no sign of her disreputable gray alley cat. Blackie must be out on one of his sabbaticals, wreaking havoc in female feline hearts. He might not be back for days. She kicked off her shoes, her bare feet padding comfortably over the hardwood floors as she trailed through the living room, dining room, kitchen and bathroom, finally ending up in the cramped confin
es of the bedroom. She took a delicious dive, ending up in the middle of her unmade bed, a trail of clothes leading toward her destination. She’d pick them up later. For now all she wanted was a moment of peace.
It was hours later when she opened her eyes. Blearily she peered at the digital clock residing on the floor beside her bed. Almost twelve-thirty. Damn! She’d never get back to sleep, not for hours. It was always a mistake when she let herself nap before dinner.
With a groan she pulled herself from the bed, scampering across its wide length to the bathroom. A long, hot shower would help, so would the glass of brandy she’d forgotten all about. It was too late for dinner. She’d curl up in front of the television and watch an all-night movie with her favorite vice.
Her flannel nightgown had seen better days, but the cotton was so thin that its comfort was practically transcendental. She poured more brandy into the Waterford snifter than was proper for savoring its bouquet, but once she got settled she didn’t want to have to scramble back to the kitchen again. With a desultory attempt at housecleaning, she picked up the trail of clothing and dumped it in the hamper, then allowed herself the delight of opening her freezer. Oh, blessings, there was Heavenly Hash.
She must have made a ridiculous picture, tromping across her bed to the mound of pillows at the head, an overfull snifter of brandy in one hand, a small mixing bowl of ice cream in the other, mismatched socks on her narrow, chilly feet. With a sigh of pure pleasure, she collapsed against the pillows, spilling a tiny bit of the brandy on her nightgown.
Setting her goodies carefully on the floor, she dived under the bed in search of the remote control for the TV set. She had misplaced it for two weeks once, lost in the welter of clothes and papers and magazines and single shoes that lived and multiplied under her
She loved her remote control. She could only be thankful she didn’t live with some man who would commandeer it, a man who had the right to complain about her life-style, which could only charitably be called casual. Her sisters had told her she was a walking disaster, but she liked it that way. At least if the earthquake that everyone had been promising came, no one would know the difference in her apartment.
