“What do you want?” His Scottish accent still added faint music to his speech, even after two decades in France, but its charm was lost on Édoard, whose smile never wavered.
“We’re looking for a thief. An art thief, to be specific.” His gaze flickered to the oil painting hanging on the wall behind Gregor’s head. It was large and abstract; Picasso in his blue period. Original. “I understand you’re well connected in the art community.”
A laughable understatement. Art was a small and insular community, and he was both a dealer and a collector. Some of the deals were even legitimate. But to Édoard he only said, “This La Chatte I keep reading about in the press?”
“The very same.”
Gregor shook his head. “Don’t know him. Can’t help you there.”
“You do realize, MacGregor,” said Édoard, his voice slightly lower than before, “I can make life much more difficult for you than I have. I can have men in here every night. I can have your every move watched. I can crawl right up your ass and plant a flag there if I like, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. So please, take a moment to think it over.” He paused, and that slick smile stayed affixed to his face as if it were carved on. “Perhaps you’ve overheard something in your travels. Perhaps there’s someone you don’t particularly like who might have some interesting news for us. Perhaps there might even be something you’d like to”—his brows lifted, hopeful—“confess. Even the smallest tidbit of information will do wonders for my general sense of leniency. You do enjoy all your expensive toys, don’t you?”
His gaze slid to the Picasso. “You wouldn’t want your art collection and your penthouse and your nightclub and your Ferrari to suddenly be seized by the government due to a paperwork error, would you? An unfortunate mix-up that would certainly take months, possibly years to untangle?”
Like a snake, anger unfurled in a slick, cold coil in Gregor’s stomach. A reptilian slither that wound its way up through his gut and into his chest until his lungs were constricted, it was as familiar as his own face in a mirror. With it came the equally familiar, nearly overwhelming urge to beat something to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp.
Luckily for Édoard, the urge wasn’t completely overwhelming.
With the steely control of a man who’d once stabbed a rival to death with his platinum Mont Blanc pen and hours later used the same pen to sign his name with a flourish on a check with six zeroes at the mayor’s annual charity ball, Gregor mused, “Did you know that hydrofluoric acid is one of the only things that can completely decompose human bone? It can also dissolve glass, it’s so corrosive. Even if as little as a few inches of your skin come into contact with it, you’ll die within hours. Reacts with the calcium in your body, causes systemic toxicity and tissue death. It’s untraceable, too.”
Édoard’s bland smile died a quick, ugly death. He sputtered, “Are you…are you threatening me?”
“What?” Gregor blinked, feigning innocence. “Sorry, I was just thinking about this thing I watched on TV last night. Amazing what you can learn from those crime shows.”
From behind Édoard came a low, amused chuckle. Gregor glanced at the man in the black suit and found him smiling, a flat slash across his face that did nothing to warm the frozen intensity in his gaze. With those sly, vulpine eyes and the clouds of smoke billowing around him, the man was reminding Gregor more and more of an ice serpent conjured from some glacial version of hell.
Édoard sprang from the chair. “Have it your way,” he snapped. “I’ll be back in the morning with a warrant. Plan on spending all day here. We’re going to need access to all your files.”
Muttering oaths, he jerked his head toward the door and turned. The two gendarmes followed on his heels. “Agent Doe!” he barked over his shoulder, then he stepped through the door and vanished.
The man in black rose from the couch with quiet, confident economy. He took one last drag from the cigarette and then dropped it to the handwoven Turkish rug beneath his feet. With the toe of his gleaming black oxford, he unapologetically ground it into the thick pile. He clasped his hands behind his back and regarded Gregor with those chilling blue eyes. When he spoke, his voice was a perfect complement to that look—cold and lifeless, with a pronounced German accent that could make even the most lighthearted child’s song sound like a funeral dirge.
“French cigarettes are as feeble as everything else in this country.”
Gregor leaned back into his chair and gazed at the inscrutable Agent Doe. “Including the police.”
“Ha. How right you are,” quipped Doe without an ounce of affront. He walked to the door, unhurried, his hands still clasped behind his back.
“You’re not one of Édoard’s, then,” said Gregor. “But he called you ‘agent.’ You’re with the government?”
Doe reached the doorway and paused. “I am with the government in the exact same way that you are a legitimate businessman.”
This statement bothered Gregor. The way he pronounced with the as wit zuh bothered him. Everything about the man bothered Gregor. Like a physical itch on his skin, he felt the intense, irritating need to know exactly who this man was and what he was up to. “Doe is an unusual name for a German,” he persisted. “What’s your first name?”
The agent gave him another of those dead smiles. He stepped over the doorway threshold and said, “John.” He disappeared through the door and swung it shut behind him. It closed with a thud that faintly shuddered the row of floor-to-ceiling windows.
John Doe?
From behind him a voice said, “Watch out for that one. He’ll skin you alive and make a lampshade out of your hide if he gets the chance.”
Gregor smiled but didn’t turn. He wanted to savor the moment.
He remembered the very first time he’d heard that silken purr of a voice. It was three years ago. He’d been at Bulgari with his son Sean and his son’s pneumatic bimbo-of-the-week Nicollette, shopping for a Christmas gift for his now blind, elderly mother he’d installed in a big house he’d bought for her in Monaco, when his idiot offspring had thought it a capital idea to try and steal a ten-thousand-euro watch as a Christmas gift for himself.
Try being the operative word. It was a clumsy attempt, at best, and a gargantuan security guard had him by the collar before he’d made it ten steps.
Like his father, Sean had been in trouble with the law since he was a child but had none of his father’s intelligence or ability to learn from mistakes and devise new, better ways of operating outside the confines of the legal system. He was a petty thief, a dumb one at that, and had it not been for the intervention of an angel he’d still be rotting in jail to this day.
Gregor didn’t know exactly how she’d managed it; he didn’t know because she wouldn’t tell him, and though he’d mulled it for years he’d never solved the riddle. The only thing of which he was certain was seeing with his own disbelieving eyes when his son palmed the watch and slid it in his coat pocket as Nicollette distracted the salesgirl from the selection on the white velvet tray. Then he turned and began to walk toward the door. Then the security guard nabbed him, wrestled him to the floor, and searched him while Sean lay silently still, tears rolling down his red cheeks.
But there was no watch.
It wasn’t in his pocket or anywhere on his person, and in the end the guard was forced to let him go. The evidence had disappeared into thin air.
They were all back in the limo, just about to pull away from the curb outside the store, when he heard a light tap on the tinted window. Gregor pushed the armrest button, and it slid silently down, revealing in degrees the most astonishing face he’d ever seen, peering in.
Wide-set eyes of blackest night, canted up at the corners like a cat’s. Thick, shoulder-length hair chopped rough and dyed indigo blue by someone who obviously hated her. Skin the color and creamy consistency of café au lait. A delicate nose and a wide, intelligent forehead and lips almost outrageously full that brought to mind certain body parts he�
�d like to have them wrapped around.
Gregor didn’t think she could accurately be called beautiful—she was too exotic, too many planes and angles in features that were proportionate but atypical—but he knew without doubt he’d never seen anything remotely comparable. He felt like he was a Neanderthal gazing at a Salvador Dali painting; he had no frame of reference and didn’t quite understand it, but he recognized the genius nonetheless.
For the first time in his life, he almost believed in the existence of God.
His surrealist masterpiece said, “I think this belongs to you.” She lifted her hand, and from one tapered finger dangled the gold and diamond watch Sean had taken. It glinted with mocking cheer in the afternoon sun.
When he glanced back at her, she had a faintly amused tilt to her mouth. Gregor felt the sudden, violent urge to kiss those pornographic lips. Instead he said, “No. You’re mistaken.”
Her brows rose. “Am I?”
She laughed a low, throaty laugh that sent a shiver all the way down his spine. He ordered the driver to keep the car running, opened the door, stepped out into the crisp autumn air, and struggled to inhale a single breath of it as his gaze traveled over her body. Head to toe she was encased in black—stiletto boots, kidskin gloves, and enough skintight, curve-hugging leather to satisfy the kinkiest of BDSM enthusiasts, complete with a high-collared jacket zipped right up to her chin.
All that leather armor couldn’t mask the pain in her eyes, though. He stood on the sidewalk next to her and marveled at how someone with the balls to be so defiantly uncommon could be so sad. Her lips smiled, but her midnight eyes held a terrible sorrow he was deeply moved to want to erase.
“Perhaps I’ll keep it, then,” the sloe-eyed stunner said, and slid the watch over her hand and clasped it in place on her wrist. She admired it for a moment, turning it in the light, and then looked back at him, pinning him in the deep melancholia of her eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who could help me sell something like this for a little profit, would you?”
The amusement again. Because he wanted desperately to assure it would stay, he replied, “As a matter of fact, I would.”
Then he sent the driver with a tearstained Sean and a pouting Nicollette on their way.
Three years ago. Gregor knew the woman standing behind him now had known exactly who he was that day, had most likely followed him, waiting for the chance to propose to him what she did eventually propose, here in this very office after she’d pretended to let him convince her to come. Though they’d done business together regularly since then, she was as much a mystery to him now as she was that very first day, a bewitching ghost who drifted in and out of his life, ever silently, ever unexpectedly, leaving behind a faint scent of clover and winter roses that haunted him for hours afterward.
She haunted him.
Gregor, a man of calculating pragmatism who didn’t believe in spirits or the supernatural or anything that could not be purchased with cold, hard cash, still wasn’t entirely convinced this otherworldly creature was real.
“Just another one of Édoard’s lackeys, princess,” he said to her now, slowly swiveling around in his chair.
In soft shadow against the far wall, she stood watching him, regal and enigmatic as the Sphinx. He called her princess because although she stole for a living and dressed like a dominatrix and downed whiskey like it was going out of style, she was obviously highborn, a feline Audrey Hepburn, elegant and lithe. There was something elementally feral about her, too. Something that spoke of nighttime prowls and moonlit hunts.
Something almost…predatory.
He’d never known anyone who could be silent the way she could, who could look at you—into you—as if contemplating how you’d taste.
It was disturbing. Also—profoundly exciting.
She wore sleek, androgynous black, as always: a supple, thigh-length belted leather coat that molded to the lean lines of her body, black gloves, and short black boots with enough buckles and straps to handily double as bondage wear. Beneath the coat her long, gleaming golden legs were bare. She’d told him once that pantyhose made her feel claustrophobic—she had to feel the air on her skin—and he’d instantly summoned the vivid image of her sun-dappled nude body stretched out on green grass under a tree in the woods, arching her back and holding her arms out to him, wiggling her fingers in invitation like a lusty dryad.
He couldn’t help these thoughts. He had a girlfriend, Céline, he was more or less devoted to, but in the presence of this woman who called herself Eliana—he wasn’t entirely convinced that was her real name—all his willpower crumbled.
It should have worried him.
Being a man, it intrigued him instead.
“I don’t think so.” She stepped forward from the shadows, and for the first time Gregor noticed she carried a long cardboard cylinder under one arm. “He’s dangerous, I’m sure of it.”
Gregor rose, crossed to her, and took both her hands in his own. Beneath her gloves, they were chilled. He didn’t bother asking her how she’d gained access to his highly secured building. Just another of her mysteries, never to be decoded.
“Don’t worry about him,” he murmured, gazing down at her. “It’s good to see you again, princess. How are you?”
She grimaced and dropped her gaze to their joined hands. “You know I hate it when you call me that, Gregor. I’m about as much a princess as you are.” After a moment, she gently removed her hands from his. “And how I am is worried about you. They’re getting too close. One of these days—”
“One of these days nothing,” he interrupted firmly, brushing her concerns aside. “They don’t know anything, and they never will. Have I ever failed you before?”
She looked up at him, and something hot flared in her eyes, which was immediately veiled when she lowered her lashes, deftly avoiding his scrutiny.
He was tempted to put a finger beneath her chin and force her to meet his eyes, but he knew that would be a mistake. Aloof and proud—though never haughty—she didn’t do emotions well. As a matter of fact, he’d never met anyone more restrained. Only rare glimpses of sadness and quickly snuffed anger ever escaped her chilly reserve, and it made him wonder what she was hiding. In his experience, only people with something to hide or something they were trying to forget kept themselves locked down like she did.
In Eliana’s case, he suspected it might be both.
“No. Of course not, Gregor. I only meant that maybe we should stop for a while. I don’t want to put you in any danger—”
His guffaw cut her off. “Danger is my middle name! Get it right! I’ll not be havin’ any more of that nonsense. Now, girl, show me what you’ve got there under your pretty little arm.”
Her lips curved to a faint, wry smile. Her lashes lifted, and she regarded him with those eyes, dark as a swan’s. Then without another word, she moved to his desk, removed a plastic cap from the cardboard cylinder, and withdrew a canvas from within. She laid the cylinder aside and carefully unrolled the canvas until it lay flat.
He came up behind her and stood looking down over her shoulder. Had the cylinder contained the Holy Ghost itself, he would not have been more stunned. “The Card Players,” he whispered.
“I know you’re partial to Picasso, but this Cézanne spoke to me,” she murmured. One finger of her gloved hand reverently traced the frayed edge of the old canvas. “Intense, isn’t it?”
“This was sold to a private collector in Qatar last year,” he said, still stunned. “How did you get it?”
Her head turned a fraction, and he saw the glint of mischief in her eyes as she gazed up at him. He smiled, feeling his insides soften under the warmth of her look.
“The Cat has her ways, eh, princess?”
“She does indeed, Mr. MacGregor.” Moving away to take a seat on the other side of the desk, Eliana settled herself in the chair, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “Can you sell it?”
“Can I sell it?” He raised his brows
in mock indignation. “Is the pope Polish?”
She blinked, bemused. “No. But I’ll take that as a yes.”
Gregor sat in his comfortable chair and beamed at her. “You bet your biscuits I can sell it, princess! Same terms?”
She smiled. “Ten percent. Agreed.” Her smile faltered, and for a moment that old sorrow welled to the surface again. “However…I’d like to take the ten in trade this time.”
Gregor was intrigued. “Trade for what?”
She tucked her hand into the pocket of her coat and from it pulled a piece of paper, carefully folded. She leaned across the desk and handed it to him without a word.
Curious, he unfolded the note. When he read its contents, he was even more shocked than moments before. “Eliana. What the hell are you going to do with this many guns?”
Utterly composed, that terrible sadness still lurking behind her little smile, she quietly said, “What people always do with guns, Gregor.”
They gazed at each other. Outside in the cold, winter Paris night, it began softly to rain.
“And the rest of it?” He peered at the list. “Rocket-propelled grenades? Smoke bombs?” He looked up at her again, incredulous. “Land mines?”
She exhaled a long, slow breath and looked away. She removed her gloves, finger by finger, and ran a hand through her thick, twilight-hued hair. He noticed for perhaps the millionth time that she never wore makeup, but he’d never seen anyone who needed it less. Like a firefly, the woman actually glowed.
“Wars can’t be fought with sticks and stones.”
Gregor jerked forward in his chair, really alarmed now. “Wars? Who you going to war with, princess?”
She remained silent, gazing at him now with rebuke. There were questions they didn’t ask each other, information that was never exchanged, and they both knew he’d just violated that inviolable rule. But dammit, this was different! If she was in trouble—the kind of trouble that required this much heavy artillery—he wanted to help. He needed to.
“Let me help you. Whatever this is about, I can help.”
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