by Nora Roberts
“It made her a star,” Mary mused, flipping through the pages. There were other pictures, some studio-posed, others candid. She was never less than beautiful. Through the pictures, some curling at the edges with age, she exuded sex. Taped with them were snippets of gossip Mary had clipped from movie magazines and tabloids. Rumors of Phoebe’s affairs with her leading men, with producers, directors, politicians.
“Here, this one was at the Oscars when she was nominated for Tomorrow’s Child. Pity she didn’t win, but she was escorted by Cary Grant, and that counts for something.”
“I saw that movie. She fell in love with the wrong man, bore his child, then had to fight against him and his wealthy parents for custody.”
“I cried buckets—every time I watched it. She was so valiant and mistreated.” Mary sighed again and turned the page.
There was a picture of Phoebe in some stiff, pale satin, curtsying gracefully to the queen, then one of her dancing with a dark, sharp-featured man in a tuxedo. Philip didn’t have to be told it was Adrianne’s father. The eyes, the bone structure, the coloring, said everything.
“This?”
“That’s her husband. King Abdu something or other. She married only once, you know. Oh, the papers and magazines were full of it. How they met right here in London while she was filming White Roses. How they fell in love the minute they clapped eyes on each other. He sent her two dozen white roses every day until her hotel suite was like a greenhouse. He booked a whole restaurant so they could have dinner alone. Him being a king and all made it ever so romantic.”
From her position as an onlooker, even after more than a quarter century, Mary’s eyes still misted. “People started remembering Grace Kelly and Rita Hayworth, and sure enough she ended up leaving the movies and marrying him. Going off to that tiny little country over there.” She indicated it with a wave of her hand.
“Jaquir.”
“Yes, that’s it. Like a fairy tale it was. Here’s a picture of her on her wedding day. Looks like a queen.”
The dress was breathtaking with layers of lace and miles of silk. Even under the tulle, Phoebe’s hair had shone like a beacon. She’d looked radiantly happy, achingly young. In her arms she had carried white roses, dozens of them. And around her neck, glittering, glowing, all but burning through the photograph was The Sun and the Moon.
Both diamond and pearl dropped, one resting tight beneath the other, from a heavy double-braided chain of gold. The settings were like starbursts, ornate, old-fashioned, and glorious.
He may have been retired, but the tips of his fingers itched, and his pulse increased. To hold that, to own that for even a moment, would be like owning the world.
“After they were married there wasn’t much news, and hardly ever pictures. There’s some custom over there against pictures. You heard she was having a baby, then that she’d had a little girl. That would be your Adrianne.”
“Yes.”
“People talked for a while, then you read less and less until she showed up in New York with her daughter a few years later. It seems the marriage wasn’t a happy one, and she ended up leaving him to go back home and pick up her career. There’s an interview here soon after, but she didn’t say much other than she’d missed acting.”
She turned the page and there was another picture. This Phoebe was still beautiful, but the lushness, the glory, was gone. In its place were strain and nerves. Beside her was Adrianne. She couldn’t have been more than eight, and small for her age. She stood straight, staring at the camera, but her eyes were carefully guarded. She clung to her mothers hand—or Phoebe clung to hers.
“Such a sad thing. Phoebe never made another really good film. Just ones where she took her clothes off and such.” She turned the pages to a different Phoebe, one with lines around the eyes and dresses cut to show off still-smooth breasts. There was a vacant look to her face and a desperation to her smile. Replacing innocence was a hard edge. “She did one of those layouts for a men’s magazine.” Mary wrinkled her nose. She was anything but a prude, but there were limits. “Had an affair with her agent, among others. There were hints, though, that he had an eye for her daughter. Filthy stuff for a man of his age.”
Something curled in the pit of Philip’s stomach. “What was his name?”
“Oh, Lord, I don’t remember, if I ever knew. It might be in here somewhere.”
“Can I take this along with me?”
“Of course. Does it matter, Phil?” She laid a hand on his as he closed the book. “Whoever her parents were, whatever they were, doesn’t change who she is.”
“I know that.” He touched his lips to her cheek. “She needs to.”
“She’s lucky to have you.”
“Yes.” He grinned and kissed her again. “I know.”
When the buzzer sounded, Philip checked his watch. “That’ll be Stuart, prompt as always.”
“Shall I heat up the tea?”
“It’s warm enough,” he told her as he walked to the door. “Stuart.”
With his nose and cheeks reddened by the wind, Spencer stepped inside. “Miserably cold. We’ll have snow again after nightfall. Mrs. Chamberlain.” He took her offered hand and patted it. “Good to see you.”
“You’ll warm up with a nice cup of tea, Mr. Spencer. Phil will pour. I’m afraid I have a few errands to run.” She slipped into the black mink her son had given her for Christmas. “More cakes in the pantry if you want them.”
“Thanks, Mum.” He drew her collar together. “You look like a movie star.”
Nothing could have pleased her more. After giving his cheek a pinch she went out.
“Lovely woman, your mother.”
“Yes. She’s thinking of going on a cruise with some greengrocer named Paddington.”
“Greengrocer? Well.” Spencer folded his coat, laying it neatly over a chair before turning toward the tea tray. “Sure she’ll be sensible about it.” He helped himself to the tea. “I thought you were taking the holidays off.”
“I am.”
Spencer lifted a brow. It rose a fraction higher when Philip drew out a cigarette. “I thought you’d given those up.”
“I did.”
Spencer added a squirt of lemon. “Seemed time that I filled you in on Paris.”
Though he already knew precisely what had happened, he took a seat and prepared to listen.
“As you suspected, the countess was marked. We had an agent inside undercover as kitchen help, and two more in the field. Our man must have sensed it, because he moved a little too fast. Set off an alarm. That’s a first for him.”
Philip poured a second cup of tea, then sent Chauncy a warning look. “Indeed.”
“The outside men caught a glimpse of him, another first, though the description’s vague at best. Both of them claim he must be as native to Paris as a sewer rat, but that may be because they lost him.”
“The countess’ jewels?”
“Safe.” Spencer heaved a pleased sigh. “We fouled up the works for him there.”
“Perhaps more than that.” Philip offered the cakes. Spencer resisted a moment, then broke off a bite. “I’ve heard some rumors.”
“Such as?”
“They might be nothing more than that, but I’ve had my ear to the ground. Did you know our man has a woman accomplice?”
“A woman?” Spencer forgot the cake and reached for his notebook. “We’ve had nothing on a woman.”
Philip flicked the ash of his cigarette. “That’s why you need me, Captain. I don’t have a name, but she’s a redhead, a bit of a tart, and only bright enough to carry out his orders.” He had to smile at that, thinking how furious the description would make Adrianne. “In any case, she talked to a contact of mine.” He held up a hand, anticipating. “You know I can’t tell you, Stuart. That’s been part of the deal from the beginning.”
“One I regret making. When I think of all the lowlifes and petty thieves I could brush off the streets … never mind. What did she have
to say?”
“That The Shadow, you know they call him The Shadow?”
“They will romanticize.”
“The Shadow’s getting along in years apparently, and has a touch of arthritis.” Philip flexed his fingers. “That’s one of the greatest fears of artists of all kinds. Musicians, painters, thieves. Dexterity is an invaluable tool.”
“I have a difficult time sympathizing.”
“Have another cake, Captain. Rumor is, The Shadow’s going into retirement.”
Spencer paused with the cake halfway to his lips. His eyes widened and glazed. Philip was reminded of a bulldog who’d just discovered the juicy bone he’d been about to sink his teeth into was nothing but plastic. “What do you mean, retire? I’m damned if he can retire. We almost had our hands on him in Paris two days ago.”
“It’s only a rumor.”
“Bloody hell.” Spencer let the cake drop and sucked on his fingers.
“Maybe he’ll only take a vacation.”
“And you suggest?”
“Until he moves again, if he does, we wait.”
Spencer worried the information like a bit between his teeth. “It may pay to focus on the woman.”
“It may.” With a shrug Philip discounted it. “If you’ve time to corral all the redheaded tarts on two continents.” Leaning forward, he picked up his cup. “I know it’s frustrating, Stuart, but the close call in Paris might have been the last straw for him.” He’d have to remember to send a check, a generous one, to his old friend Andre, who’d made certain the Paris agents had had something to report. “I have some business, personal business, to see to over the next few weeks. If I hear anything that can be of use to you, I’ll pass it along.”
“I want this man, Philip.”
A ghost of a smile touched Philip’s mouth. “No more than I, I promise you.”
It was after two A.M. when Adrianne let herself into her apartment. The New Year’s Eve party she’d slipped out of would probably last until dawn. She’d left Celeste flirting with an old flame and bottles of champagne unopened. Adrianne’s escort had certainly noticed her absence by now, but she was sure he could find something, or someone, to entertain him.
It had been difficult not to look at the jewelry with an eye toward a job. For so many years she’d admired a necklace, studied a bracelet while calculating its return in dollars and cents. That was a habit she was trying to break. There was only one more job for her, and those jewels she could envision anytime of the day or night. She could see them in the portrait she’d had painted of her mother from an old photograph. She could feel them, ice and fire, in her hands.
When she returned from Jaquir, she would be the woman everyone already believed she was. Her life would be parties, and benefits and trips to the spots a woman of her means was supposed to frequent. She would learn to enjoy it the way a woman enjoyed success when her life’s work was done. And she would enjoy it alone.
She wouldn’t regret that. Success had a price; no matter how steep, it had to be paid. She’d burned her bridges when she’d boarded that plane out of Cozumel. Perhaps she’d lit the match years before.
He’d forget her. In all likelihood he’d already begun to. She was just another woman, after all. She hadn’t been his first, nor did she have any illusions that she would be his last. He was both for her, and that she accepted.
She draped her coat over her arm as she climbed the stairs that curved to the second floor. She couldn’t afford to think about Philip. She certainly couldn’t afford to regret having loved him, or having closed the door on what that love might have led to. Dead ends, she thought. When a woman loved a man, it always led to a dead end.
What she wanted now was sleep, a long, deep sleep. She would need all her energy, all her skill and wit over the days to come. Her flight to Jaquir was already booked.
She didn’t turn on the light in the bedroom, but tossed her coat over a chair, then began to unbraid her hair in the dark. Outside, the noise of traffic rose in waves, reminding her of the sea. She could almost smell it—that and the edge of tobacco, the tang of soap that brought Philip so clearly to mind.
She froze, her arms lifted, her hands caught in her hair when the light by the bed flashed on.
She looked like something carved out of alabaster and amber, with her skin glowing gold against a white beaded gown. It fell like a tube down her body, straight and snug and glittering. But as Philip lifted a glass to his lips, he watched her eyes. It pleased him to see shock, pleasure, then control flash in them.
“Happy New Year, darling.” He toasted her with his champagne glass, then put it down and lifted the bottle to pour the wine into the second glass he had waiting.
He was all in black, a turtleneck, snug jeans, supple leather boots. While he’d waited for her to return, he’d made himself at home, propped against the heaps of pillows Adrianne grouped on her bed.
She felt everything at once—need, annoyance, delight, and guilt. Because of it, her voice was as cool as the wine he offered. Slowly, she let her arms fall back to her sides.
“I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“You should have. No toast to the new year, Addy?”
To prove her disinterest to herself, and to him, she walked over to take the glass. Her gown shivered like water. “To beginnings then, and the payment of old debts.” Crystal rang against crystal. “You’ve come a long way for a drink.”
Her scent clung, to her skin, to the air, to his senses. He could have strangled her for it. “But you stock an excellent vintage.”
It tasted like sand. “If you like, I’ll apologize for leaving so abruptly.”
“Don’t bother.” He checked himself. Anger was closer to the surface than he’d intended. “I should have understood you were a coward.”
“I’m not a coward.” She set her drink, almost untasted, beside his.
“You are,” he began slowly, “a pitiful, quivering, self-serving coward.”
She slapped him before she’d realized she intended to, before he’d read the intent on her face. The sound of flesh meeting flesh cracked, then echoed. Philip’s eyes went dark with answering violence before he calmly lifted his glass again. But his knuckles went white on the stem.
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“You’ve no right to judge me, no right to insult me. I left because I chose to leave, because I thought it best and because I won’t be an amusement to you.”
“I can assure you, there’s very little about you that amuses me, Adrianne.” After setting his glass aside again, he steepled his fingers and watched her over them. “Did you think all I was interested in was a few tropical fucks?”
Her color faded at that, then came back fast and hot enough to sting her cheeks. “It’s more to the point that I’m not interested in an affair.”
“Use whatever term you like. You’re the one who lowered what happened between us to a cheap one-night stand.”
“What does it matter?” The fury leapt in her voice chased by the shame of hearing the truth. “One night, two, or a dozen?”
“Damn you.” He caught her wrist and yanked her to the bed. Even as she fought back, he covered her body with his and pinned her arms. Flames licked. “It was more than that and you know it. It wasn’t just sex, it wasn’t rape, and I’m not your father.” She went still at that. The angry color drained out of her face, leaving it bone-white. “That’s it, isn’t it? Every time a man got close, every time you were tempted, you’d think of him. Not with me, Adrianne. Never with me.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” His face was only inches from hers. He could almost see the life pump back into it, the color, the anger, the denial. “Hate him if you like, you have the right, but I’ll be damned if you’ll measure me by him or anyone else.”
His mouth came down on hers not with the tenderness he’d shown her before, not with care or coaxing, but with an angry demand edged
with hunger. She didn’t struggle, but the hands he pinned curled into fists even as her blood began to heat and swim.
“What happened between us happened because you wanted as much as I did, you needed as much as I did. Look at me,” he demanded when she kept her eyes shut. He waited until she opened them, and the light beside them slanted across her face. “Can you deny it?”
She wanted to. The lie formed on her lips, then died into the truth. “No. But what happened is over.”
“A long way from over. Do you think it’s just temper that has your pulse pounding? Do you think two people can come together the way we did, then walk away and forget?” He released her hands, only to drag his own through her hair. “I showed you one way that night. Now, by God, I’ll show you another.”
His mouth was hot and hard and hungry. When it closed over hers, she lay limp, determined to give him nothing, and take nothing for herself. But her breath began to quicken, and her lips warmed and opened. He invaded, letting his tongue tempt and his teeth excite.
This was seduction, more so than soft words and soft light. This was challenge, a gauntlet thrown. This was the answer to questions she’d never dared ask.
All at once she was clinging, giving back, but nothing seemed to satisfy him.
He moved down her body, raced, dragging her gown to her waist to free more flesh. No exploration now, but exploitation. He filled his hands with her breasts, then tugged and sucked and teased until her nipples were hard and hot and aching, until her body writhed and arched and shuddered. Reaching for him, she accepted.
She called to him, mindless, with incoherent words that sent the blood racing to his loins to throb with every beat of his heart. So the seducer was seduced.
This was a lock he would open, once and for all. He had the skill, the experience, and the need. The treasures here were richer and more tempting than any he’d ever taken from the deepest vaults, the darkest safes. With his hands and mouth alone he drove her up, dragging her over the edge.
There was a darkness here, like velvet, and the air was as thick and heavy. She fought to pull it into her lungs only to have it catch and lose it again in moans. She should have understood from the hints he’d given her before that pleasure could rack the body, turn it into a mass of sensations and needs. The choice to give and take, to offer and receive, was out of her hands.
