by Anne Stuart
“As good as you are?” she echoed. “Or were?”
They were at the top of the curving staircase. The upper hall was deserted, the morning sunlight streaming through a vast, multipaned skylight and sending shadows spearing around them. “Don’t push it, Francesca,” he said. “Or I’ll think you have a reason for wanting to goad me.”
“I’m not about to make off with Regina’s jewelry collection, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’ll have to look elsewhere for a suspect. Like in a mirror.”
For a minute his hand tightened on her arm, then he released her, forcing a laugh. “You have a definite talent for making me crazy. No, I don’t think you’re going to rob anybody. I think you’re unable to leave me alone, so you taunt me to get a reaction.”
The truth was like a slap in the face, robbing her of her defenses. “I can leave you alone,” she managed to say after a moment. “There’s no reason for me to be here. For that matter there’s no real reason for you to be here, either. It’s not as if you’re guarding some specific, priceless object. Why don’t you leave me alone?”
“You might find this difficult to believe, but I didn’t con my way into this job simply to be near you.”
She ignored the shaft of pain that shot through her. “I believe you. You know as well as I do that what was between us is over.”
“Goading me again, Francesca,” he murmured.
She ignored it. “But what I don’t understand is why you talked Regina into letting you do it.”
“And the reason you don’t understand is that you jump to conclusions, you don’t consider alternatives, and you’re so damned quick to judge.” His voice was bitter. “Come along, Ferris. We’ll look at The Hyacinths, we’ll be charming to Nelbert, and we’ll go over the kind of locks and alarm systems Regina has in place. And then you can run away.”
“How about if I run away now?” Her voice was low, almost pleading. But if she was hoping for pity from Blackheart, it was a waste of time.
“I’ll catch you and bring you back. I’m not going to let you go, Francesca.”
“You won’t have any say in the matter.”
“You don’t think so?” She had her dignity, and she was not going to run away from him like a coward. She pulled free of him, giving him a brittle smile. “Try to stop me.” She turned on her heel and continued down the stairs, resisting the impulse to run. She could feel him watching in the silent hallway, but right then her defenses were rapidly slipping. One minute more and she would either have thrown him over the balcony or ended up kissing his knees.
“Coward,” he called after her, and she gritted her teeth.
“Thief,” she shot back over her shoulder, and continued on her way, refusing to look back one more time.
BLACKHEART LEANED against the railing, watching her stalk away from him. The streaks of sun from the skylight made patches of light and shadow as she moved, and he had the strong urge to spank her. Thief, indeed. It was nothing she hadn’t already known. He rubbed his knee with a surreptitious touch. He’d twisted it, keeping his balance when she’d shoved him, and after three operations and years of physical therapy it still wasn’t perfect, and never would be again. All because of another woman scorned, he thought, remembering Prudence Hornsby’s red-faced rage when she’d locked him in the basement after catching him stealing her ugly but quite valuable jewels.
It was just as well Francesca walked away. She was too distracting. He hadn’t needed her there that day—it would have been better all around if he let her immure herself in her office until this whole mess was sorted out and could devote his full attention to her.
But he never did have much sense, particularly where Francesca was concerned. It was bad enough sleeping alone, not having her grumbling over his coffee, his apartment and his peripatetic existence. He could survive a few weeks, even months of celibacy if he knew Francesca would be there at the end of the wait. But doing without her entirely, even her distrust and baiting, was a little more difficult. He’d take an insult from Francesca over a dozen sweet words from anyone else, and she probably knew it.
At least he had no doubt at all that she was still just as much in love with him as she’d always been. She was fighting it, fighting it with all her strength, and he couldn’t get rid of the nagging fear that if he did leave her alone and concentrate on his myriad problems, she might just manage to get over him. He wasn’t romantic enough to think that true love would conquer all and last forever. True love needed to be nourished and encouraged.
“Is she worth the trouble?” Jeff Nelbert had crept up on him. Blackheart betrayed no surprise, but inwardly he cursed. The day that a cigar-smoking, two-hundred-and-forty-pound Jeff Nelbert could sneak up on a retired cat burglar of Blackheart’s talents was a sad day, indeed.
He turned to face his greatest rival, his expression bland. “None of your damned business.” Nelbert was a paunchy, aggressive, not very ethical individual, but he was a born salesman, and that arcane talent had brought him too far in the security business for Blackheart’s peace of mind. Blackheart disliked and distrusted the man, but right then he didn’t have the energy to waste on a minor irritant like Jeff Nelbert.
“Heard you two had a falling-out.” Nelbert licked his thick, pink lips. “I thought I might have a crack at her. She has the cutest little . . .”
Blackheart found the energy. “You’ll keep your sweaty hands off her,” he said with his friendliest smile, “or I’ll tie your tongue in knots and dump you into the bay. She’s mine.”
“I don’t know if she agrees with you on that. Word has it she dumped you, and no one can figure out why. If two people ever looked like they were in love it was you two. The only thing I can guess is that she must have caught you doing something you shouldn’t have. And I’m betting it was something our friend McNab would want to hear about. Am I right?”
“You’re an idiot, Nelbert.”
Nelbert’s grin widened. “That answers my question. But don’t worry, Blackheart. I know when to keep my mouth shut. When someone makes it worth my while, that is.”
He could toss him over the railing without much difficulty, Blackheart mused. The splat he’d make on the marble floor beneath was too nasty to contemplate, however, so he merely shrugged. “You’re swamp algae, Nelbert. Go protect The Hyacinths and leave us poor working stiffs alone.”
“Sorry, old boy. The Hyacinths are your responsibility as long as they’re here. They don’t become my problem until they hit the museum next week. And you can be sure I’ve got an alarm system designed that not even you could break through.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Let’s just call it a friendly warning. You’ve got problems enough in this life, Blackheart. Keep away from The Hyacinths.”
FERRIS WANTED nothing more than to head to her car and drive like crazy straight back to her office, or even better to her apartment, shutting herself away from the disparate emotions that were assailing her. Damn Blackheart! Did he want her, or didn’t he? Was he still stealing, or a victim of circumstance? Had he lied to her, or was there some reason for his mysteriousness?
No reason was good enough. If he’d ever really loved her, wanted to marry her, then there was nothing he couldn’t tell her. She was wasting her time trying to drum up excuses, when her emotional energies could be much better spent turning her life in new directions.
And she had no doubt whatsoever what her first move should be. The Committee for Saving the Bay would do very well without her—half the volunteer help had exceptional organizational skills. Anything they didn’t know how to do, they could hire someone to take care of.
Her second move would be away from San Francisco. Maybe up to Seattle, though she wasn’t sure if she could stand all that rain. Or the mountains—Colorado, maybe northern New Mexico. Away from the bay and the fog that came in
on little cat’s feet or however that cursed poem went.
Seven days. Seven days until the circus, their next big fund-raising event. She’d give Regina her notice and make her plans. And in seven days she’d be gone.
So why didn’t she feel the weight of the world lifting from her shoulders? In seven days she’d never have to see John Patrick Blackheart again.
“Because you’re still in love with him, you stupid fool,” she muttered. “And you have exactly seven days to get him out of your system.” She squared her shoulders, that small physical gesture telling her, reminding her that she wasn’t powerless. In the meantime, she had a job to do.
She could see Danielle Porcini’s lithe figure down by one of the Winnebagos. The least she could do was make sure the Porcinis had everything they needed. The committee expected to make a great deal of money from the benefit, and Ferris was both puzzled about and grateful for the Porcinis’ generous offer. Besides, she was also curious about the mysterious Mrs. Porcini.
She threaded her way through the preoccupied crowds of circus people, local electricians, circus-struck socialites and yuppies on their lunch hour, her attention centered on Danielle’s disappearing back, when a strong, thick-fingered hand caught her arm, pulling her up short.
“Ms. Byrd.” Marco Porcini displayed an enviable set of teeth in a grin that reminded Ferris of the big bad wolf. “Or may I call you Ferris?”
“Certainly.” She tugged surreptitiously at her arm, but Marco didn’t seem to notice. She was getting tired of being manhandled, she thought wearily. If anyone was going to clamp onto her arm she’d just as soon it were Blackheart. “How may I help you?”
He lifted his moist eyes for a moment, staring in the direction Danielle had taken, and then all his attention was centered on Ferris. “You were looking for my wife?”
If Marco was adept at phony smiles, Ferris was no amateur. She curled her lips obligingly. “I wanted to see if you had everything you needed.”
“Why not ask me?” He lowered his voice an octave, the breath hissing out of him as if he were a snake. A garlic-laden snake at that, Ferris thought, controlling the urge to wrinkle her nose. He’d been working out—he was wearing a mesh tank top despite the cool, damp weather, and his bronzed muscles were glistening with sweat.
“All right,” Ferris said gamely. “Do you have everything you need?”
“There’s a problem in the caravan.”
“Caravan?”
“This thing.” Porcini slapped the side of the Winnebago. “If I could just show you . . . ?”
At thirty years of age Ferris was old enough to know better. In retrospect it was just one more thing she could blame on Blackheart. If she hadn’t still been so addled by her encounter with him up at the mansion, she would never have walked blindly into the Winnebago with an oversexed aerialist at her back.
The closing of the door behind them blocked out the bright daylight. Ferris reached out for a light switch, and found Porcini instead.
In a matter of seconds he’d wrapped his sweaty arms around her and maneuvered her onto a convenient bunk, his well-muscled body covering hers.
Her first thought was sheer annoyance. She would have to pick today of all days to wear linen. It was going to end up rumpled and sweat-stained. Her second thought was the beginning of concern. Marco Porcini was very strong indeed.
“Would you like to let me up?” she inquired politely as his mouth nibbled, no, gobbled at her neck.
He wrapped his meaty hand in her hair, pulling it free from its pins. “You’ve been begging for this, cara,” he muttered. “I’ve seen you watching me.”
Ferris laughed. She couldn’t help it, even though she knew it wasn’t the most promising defense. “I’ve been watching your wife, Marco. Not you.”
“Why?” He lifted his head, staring down at her in disbelief.
“Your wife reminds me of someone.” The moment she came up with that, she realized it was true. In addition to Danielle Porcini’s unnatural calm, there was a curiously familiar air about her, one she couldn’t place.
With a suddenness that was as welcome as it was unflattering, Porcini lost interest. He climbed off her, headed for the door and flung it open, letting in the daylight. Ferris pulled herself upright, brushed back her hair and tried to straighten her pale green jacket around her.
“You’re mistaken,” Marco said, not bothering to look at her, the impressive muscles in his shoulders noticeably tense. “My wife doesn’t look like anyone but herself. You couldn’t have seen her before. She’s lived in Europe all her life.”
“But I must have seen her.”
“She’s spent the last year in Lisbon, Paris and Madrid,” he growled. “If you were there, if you saw the circus, then perhaps you might have seen her perform.”
Lisbon, Paris, Madrid. Why did those cities sound familiar? “I’ve never been to Europe.”
“And she’s never been to the States before. That answers your question. She’s a stranger.” He started down the three short steps of the vehicle. “Close the door behind you,” he ordered, disappearing into the crowd.
Ferris stared after him. “Curiouser and curiouser,” she said aloud. She looked around the tiny, shipshape little RV, but it was still spotless, no sign of habitation marring its plasticity. What had managed to discourage Marco so quickly, when he’d been so intent on a conquest? And why did those three cities sound so familiar?
It wasn’t her problem, she reminded herself, deliberately leaving the Winnebago’s door open as she stepped out onto the grass. She only had a week to go, and then she wouldn’t have to think about circuses, benefits or semiretired cat burglars. Seven more days.
SEVEN MORE DAYS, Dany thought. Surely she could make it that long. The unnatural hush of the Museum of Decorative Arts crowded in on her, adding to her uneasiness. After the ceaseless noise of the circus, coupled with Marco’s constant litany of self-praise and abuse, she should have welcomed the thick silence. It just went to prove that anyone could get used to anything. As her leather-shod feet moved silently through the marble halls, she found herself longing for noise, for a chattering family of tourists, a noisy security guard, anything.
But the Museum of Decorative Arts wasn’t a major tourist attraction in San Francisco, and there was scarcely a security guard to be seen. Something was going on in the west wing, something to do with a new painting, but that was the least of Dany’s worries. Paintings held no interest for her, not even a priceless Van Gogh. She paused for a moment, wondering what the silly Americans were doing putting a Van Gogh into a museum devoted to decorative arts, then dismissed the question. Understanding the natives of her new home would take time, a commodity she would have in abundance in seven days.
In the meantime, the rest of the world could worry about Van Gogh. Directly ahead of her was something far more inspiring, and a great deal more portable.
They sat there on their marble and gold bases, four jewel-studded, ridiculously ornate eggs. For a moment Dany had the fancy that they had been laid there by a fantastic jewel-encrusted bird, some mythical beastie committing its last act before vanishing into the mists of time.
Absurd, of course, Dany thought with a sniff. The eggs hadn’t been laid by some extinct creature. Unless you could call Peter Carl Gustavovitch Faberge extinct, which, since he died sometime after the Russian Revolution, you probably could. But he left behind these eggs, four of some twenty or thirty.
Dany stared at them, her palms damp, her mouth dry, her heart racing in anticipation. She might not want to steal them, but since she had no choice in the matter, her instincts were clicking into place, and that old, dangerous excitement was taking over. No wonder Blackheart had done it for so long.
The exhibit was in a small room, one of many sectioned out of a huge hallway. She looked overhead, assessing the security
system. It was basic, no frills, tricky enough to be a challenge, predictable enough to ensure eventual success. Timing was everything. Once the Van Gogh was in place and the security beefed up, then they might remember that the Faberge eggs were worth a tidy bit on their own.
Of course, they’d be long gone by then. Gone by the time the Van Gogh made its stately trek from the mansion up the hill. And she’d be gone with them.
Seven days, she thought again, rubbing her damp hands on her khaki pants. And no one even suspects.
“Lovely, aren’t they?” a voice murmured in her ear. “It makes one understand why some people are thieves and some are cops. Make your fingers itch just to look at them, don’t they?”
Slowly Dany turned, expecting Blackheart, preparing herself for a confrontation she both anticipated and dreaded. Instead she found herself looking up into Police Detective Stephen McNab’s cool gray eyes. And for the first time in years, she was lost.
Chapter Eight
Stage Fright
(Elstree Studios 1950)
IT WAS A VERY strange emotion, Dany thought, still silent, looking up into the face of a man she could fall in love with. A man who was the sworn enemy of everything she’d worked for, everything her energies were directed toward at that very moment. The question was, did he suspect?
She glanced back at the Faberge eggs with a careful nonchalance that betrayed nothing more than curiosity. “They certainly don’t incite any latent criminal tendencies on my part,” she said with great truthfulness. Her criminal tendencies were nothing if not overt. “I mean, what could you do with them? Sit and gloat, I suppose. They’re a little too fat to sit on a mantel, assuming one even has a mantel in one’s flat. Chances are the kids would knock them over and they’d smash, and then where would you be? A few hundred thousand dollars in the red. Do you have any children?”
