She slid her beam of light across the room one more time. It landed on the refrigerator installed in the wet bar, exactly like the one in their room. The light caught on something metal on the side of the refrigerator.
A padlock?
No. That would be ridiculous. Who would hide vases in the refrigerator? But then, who would lock up their Evian?
Tiptoeing over, she trained the penlight on the industrial-strength lock. She’d never figure out the combination, and certainly couldn’t force it off. She kicked at the refrigerator door, then pushed the unit to test its weight.
A trickle of sweat rolled down her back. This is exactly what Luc had warned her against doing. Exactly.
But her Plums could be right here, one lousy midget-fridge door away. Using every ounce of strength she had, she slid her arm into the small opening between the wall and the refrigerator and tried to pull it out. It moved about an inch.
Enough for her to see how the door was assembled. Six screws on metal plates down the side. She looked at the penlight-screwdriver gizmo in her hand.
Knowing full well she was breaking the rules he’d set out for her, she stuck the light between her teeth and started to unscrew. The first four came off easily. The fifth stuck, and her screwdriver slid out of her grip and down the side of the metal door.
“Come on, damn it.” She used both hands, neither one steady, to find the slot again and force the screw to turn. It gave a fraction. Then a smidge more. “Yes!” she hissed, as the screwdriver made a complete revolution and then rhythmically twisted.
One more screw. She brushed a hair off her face with her forearm and crouched down to get to the last one. It was flat-out rusted.
Swearing, she knelt on the hard floor. The sudden sound of laughter nearly knocked her over. From the hall, the voices of several men—a little loud, maybe a little drunk—reverberated outside the suite. She froze.
One spoke in a foreign language. Dutch? German? Another answered with a guffaw, then a long, unintelligible comment.
Dear God, they were right outside the door.
More laughter.
She tucked herself into a ball, biting on the flashlight so hard she thought she might break the plastic or her teeth. What would happen if Benazir’s henchmen burst in and found a woman in a mink coat kneeling in front of the wet bar, breaking into a refrigerator?
They’d kill her.
The adrenaline had turned to fire, burning her chest and stomach and throat. This was it. The end. Death. She bit back a moan of pure terror.
Their voices got softer. The laughter diminished.
They were gone.
She blew out a breath and stabbed her little tool into the last screw. She would do this, damn it. She would do this. She repeated her mantra with each fruitless attempt. She. Would. Do. This. The handle dug into her skin as she wrenched with all her strength and a resounding grunt.
It budged about a millionth of a millimeter. She moaned in relief and twisted again, her biceps quivering with the effort. She was rewarded with a miniscule movement. The third time, the screw loosened completely, twirled off and clunked on the floor. Hallelujah!
With one vicious tug, she broke the suction of the refrigerator door and blinked into the blinding light.
And feasted her eyes on the most beautiful color purple she’d ever seen.
She whipped off the mink and laid it on the floor. Carefully, she reached in and cradled the largest of the Plums, its porcelain smooth and cold under her hands. She scraped her thumbnail on the gold ormolu base. She dug as hard as she could, then squinted at the edge of her nail. Not a speck of black in the glaze. No indication of absorbed moisture. These were the real thing.
Albert would have been so proud of her. Luc would be so proud of her. She laid the largest inside the coat, then slid each of the smaller Plums in a coat sleeve. Cautiously wrapping the whole package in fur, she then picked it up with as much care and love as a mother with her newborn.
It was awkward, but not too heavy. Getting across the resort without looking foolish or guilty would be difficult. But there was no way she’d hide in the room next door; that was too close to Benazir.
She’d go for the security of their suite.
Adjusting the mink in her arms, she used her free hand to open the door and then stuck her head into the hall. It was empty: no laughing Dutchmen, no murderous Indian princes. No one. She squared her shoulders and marched toward the elevator as though it were perfectly normal to roll up her ten-thousand-dollar coat in a ball and carry it around. Dizzy, light-headed, and high on her achievement, she pressed a shaky finger on the down arrow and took a deep breath.
Maybe, up in heaven, a crazy old art lover with a heart of gold and an eye for beauty looked down on her. And on his Plums.
The bell rang, and she stepped into an empty car. Thanks, Albert.
It descended to the lobby level in one smooth run. She slipped out the door they’d come in and strode directly to the darkened path Luc had used on the way over.
Keep up the good work, Albert. We’re almost home.
Her flat shoes made no sound on the concrete. The moon stayed hidden behind a cloud, and not a soul was in sight. She nearly broke into a run. Good God, she had the Plums. She did it!
And Luc? She took a breath. He’d come back. They’d figure something out. This was too good, too real to lose. Wasn’t it? There was something extraordinary about that man. He made her feel whole. Alive. Amazing.
Her feet fairly flew as soon as she saw the other entrance to the lobby. The elevator was just beyond it. You rock, Albert. Two more minutes and we’re home free.
“Janine Coulter.”
She shrieked, stumbled, and almost dropped the whole bundle.
A man blocked her way, seemingly from nowhere. A gasp caught in her throat, and she backed up. Right into the rock solid form of someone else.
Her gaze dropped from the riveting gray eyes to the gun pointed straight at her.
“FBI. Don’t move.”
Chapter
Twenty-three
L uc’s earlier inspection of the grounds had revealed a much faster route to the casino than Benazir would take. He had time to purchase gaming chips, order a drink, and play a hand against the house.
He won.
“I am expecting someone,” he said to one of the two dealers, in his most distinct French. No Dave Cooper in this venue. Dave would call it baccarat and think it was a rich man’s blackjack, roped off because the dealers wore tuxedos and the players were worth millions.
Luc knew better. He hadn’t chosen chemin de fer, as savvy Euros called the game, because of its glamour. On the contrary. The baccarat room was teeming with casino personnel, from the two dealers who sat at the center of each table, to the caller across from them. In this particular room, a keen-eyed ladderman supervised the action from a chair above the table. Just as important as all those observers, chemmy was the only card game that allowed the players to deal. That was crucial to his plan.
“The table is yours,” the dealer promised, looking toward the entrance. “Perhaps this is your guest.”
A predatory instinct made Luc want to turn and attack, but he held it in check. He’d never met the man, but he’d certainly seen photos and watched hours of interrogation on videotape. He straightened his pile of thousand-dollar chips and remained perfectly still. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck jumped to attention, every cell in his body poised on high alert. It was Benazir. He had no doubt.
Wordlessly, a large figure settled into the seat at the other end of the oval table.
After a moment, Luc looked up and met the hooded black eyes of the man who lived to kill him. “Bon soir,” he said softly.
“A pleasure,” Benazir responded. It would be English, then. Fine.
“The pleasure is mine, monsieur.” Luc looked pointedly at the exotic woman partially hidden by Benazir’s considerable bulk. She wore a simple beige gown that set off her dark foreign be
auty. Enormous ink black eyes looked away from him, but he purposely paid her, and her escort, a compliment by extending his careful scrutiny of her.
Benazir pushed a pile of chips toward the center, his bet a wordless indication that he would meet the house maximum and, therefore, be the banker first. Exactly what Luc wanted.
The more times Benazir slid a card from the shoe that housed the eight decks, the more opportunities Luc had to set him up. Every time his opponent hit a natural nine, it drew additional attention from security.
He shifted enough in his seat to be certain he could feel the vibration of the cell phone deep in his pocket, against his thigh, and nodded to begin the elaborate shuffling ritual. The two dealers and the caller took turns mixing the cards, then the caller held the entire deck over the middle of the table, letting the two players decide who would cut.
Luc tilted his head, granting the honor to his opponent. As Benazir reached forward to cut, he kept his unrelenting gaze on Luc, pure, unadulterated hatred in his eyes. Luc met it with a slight smile. Let him wonder. Let him worry. Best of all, let him think there was work to be done.
He flexed his leg muscle against the phone, as though he could somehow force it to vibrate with a page from Janine. One of the dealers flipped the top card, revealed it as an eight of clubs, and slid it to the burn pile.
A man walked in, and Luc caught a glimpse of his goatee just before he sat at another table. He remembered seeing him at Versailles, only at the gala he’d been a reporter.
So Benazir had some backup. But they couldn’t back up a cheater held by security.
“Gentlemen,” the dealer said, “you may place your bets on the winning hand. For the opening hand, the banker”—he nodded to Benazir—“the player”—he looked at Luc—” or a tie. The house will retain five percent of the banker’s winning hands.”
The four cards were dealt, read by the caller, given or passed. Benazir didn’t deviate from the strict, unspoken parameters of the game and never took his eyes off Luc, except to glance at his hand. When he did, he whispered, “Non,” announcing that he was satisfied.
Luc lifted the corner of his card. “Carte,” he requested.
Benazir pulled a single card from the shoe and passed it to the dealer, who looked at it. He gave it to Luc, who barely touched the corner and knew it was the ace that gave him a natural nine. When the caller announced his victory, Luc just nodded to Benazir and sweetened the existing pot by a thousand.
Benazir didn’t react to the loss. The woman stayed a few steps behind him, a mask of indifference on her face.
And his phone remained silent and still.
While Luc placed his bet on his own hand, as the rules required, an image of Janine in the room, in the dark, searching for her vases, haunted him. She was too smart to linger there. If she didn’t find the Plums, she’d go back to their suite. Wouldn’t she? A fresh wave of worry rolled through him.
An undercurrent of excitement hummed around them. Benazir’s backup man spoke to one of the security guards. The ladderman peered down at Luc’s table as the shoe was passed to him.
From his peripheral vision, he caught a flash of the caller’s wristwatch. Eleven-fifteen. She should call within the next five minutes.
He dealt the four cards. They tied with eights.
Benazir leaned on the table and looked expectantly at Luc. “It is such a fortunate coincidence that you are in Evian,” he said, impatience evident in his thickly accented voice.
He knew Benazir was impatient and greedy; this time it would work in Luc’s favor.
“Evian is too tempting to resist this time of year, don’t you think?” Luc pushed the shoe back to Benazir, jostling the container just enough to reveal the tip of the second card. If Benazir saw it, he would deal seconds. He could risk that move once or twice without attracting attention; but no more than that.
“Temptation can be a downfall,” Benazir said, as he glanced at the shoe.
He dealt the second card.
Luc resisted a smile of satisfaction. Benazir would cheat, but Luc would never let him know it was anything but chance and the movement of the shoe. Once every six or seven hands. By then, Benazir would have a running tally of what cards had been played. He would start to win every time.
Then he’d be under enough scrutiny for Luc to alert security.
The man at the other table had been joined by someone else. Luc sneaked a look at the dealer’s watch again. Eleven twenty.
Where the hell was she?
Janine wasn’t about to argue with the barrel of a gun or the steely eyes. She hugged her bundle, bit her lip, and held her breath.
“What are you doing here, Dr. Coulter?” His voice was as low as Luc’s and as American as Dave Cooper’s.
“Taking a walk.”
He raised an eyebrow and glanced at the rolled up fur coat. “With that?”
“Is fur illegal in France?” The question came out with way more bravado than she felt.
He slipped his gun into a holster at his side and indicated the casino entrance with his head. “Come with me, please.”
There was something about him…something familiar. She’d seen this man before. She remembered his face, his golden good looks and muscular build. She remembered him whispering into a microphone at Versailles. Of course. He was one of Luc’s men. Or was he? He could have been part of Benazir’s team, involved in the theft that Luc had set up.
Someone put a hand on her shoulder, and she jerked away from the unexpected touch, turning to see a bald, heavyset man. She looked from one to the other. They had both been at Versailles. No doubt about it.
This could be a setup. Or not. She cleared her throat and hugged her fur. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who you are and why you want me.”
“I’m Tristan Stewart, FBI, art crimes division.” His expression softened just enough to be genuine. “This is my partner, Paul Dunne.”
“Art crimes?” She took a chance. “Then you’re investigating the theft of the Plums.”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the death of Bérnard Soisson.”
She barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping.
“And the death of Dr. Albert Farrow,” he added.
Relief and confusion clashed in her head, and she nearly swayed with the impact. “I’d like to talk to you about those deaths, too,” she said quickly, her gaze intent on Tristan Stewart. “I think they’re related and so does Luc.”
“Luc?” His eyes widened in surprise. “Have you seen him?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped. She’d seen the look he and Luc had exchanged at Versailles. There was no love lost between these two men. Shifting the weight of the coat, she nodded once. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”
Tristan frowned at her vague answer and dipped his head closer to hers. His cheeks were so clean shaven, she could see the tiny pores. “Dr. Coulter, we have evidence that you have been to a château in Burgundy where a man was killed in precisely the same manner as the man who died, leaving you the opportunity to lobby, and obtain, his role as curator of the Pompadour exhibit.”
Evidence? A thread of horror started to wrap around her chest. Did they think she was guilty of killing Bérnard? And Albert? She just stared at him, stunned. And then realized what evidence she held in her arms.
“How long have you known Lisette Soisson?”
She startled at the question from behind her. “A few days.”
“How did you meet her?” Tristan asked.
She whipped her head back to him. “Through Luc. He took me there.”
“When?” Back to Paul.
She opened her mouth to answer him, but Tristan interrupted her. “Luc was there, too?”
She didn’t know whether to scream “shut up” or answer. She nodded and clasped her hands together under the fur.
“And where is he now?” Tristan demanded.
Her shoulders sank as she let out a breath of surrender.
“He’s in the casino playing baccarat with Karim Benazir.”
Tristan paled as he looked at Paul. “Call DST. We’re going over there.”
“No!” Janine almost reached out to him, then remembered her precious bundle. “You can’t,” she insisted, gathering the fur closer to her. “Not yet. You’ll ruin everything.”
Paul was already dialing a cell phone.
“We’re going over there,” Tristan announced. “And you’re coming with us.”
Lisette had one chance left. It lay rolled in yards of burlap in the recesses of her husband’s wine cellar, tucked on top of a shelf of thirty-year-old Pinot Noir.
She pushed the door open with the flashlight; the lock was still blackened from Luc’s gunshot. The single beam of gold lit the steps to the dirt floor. Lisette followed its path, holding her breath. She had waited patiently for Arlaine to describe the visit from the American officers of the law and explain what they had taken. They’d been upstairs and in Bérnard’s office. Not, bless God, in the wine cellar.
But the despicable Indian who’d left his precious bundle would be back for it. And probably for her. She’d run away for most of the day, hiding in the vineyards. Then she remembered what was tucked away in her cellar. Perhaps her last chance to do the right thing.
She let out a ragged curse. God was creative in his punishment for her sins. He’d made her pay dearly for hiding those letters from America, for burning the words of love and pleas for forgiveness that Gabrielle Sauterville sent to her childhood sweetheart. He’d made her miserable for forging the letter from Bérnard and sending Gabrielle that picture as a final farewell. He’d helped her find the information in her husband’s office that gave her the idea that she could rid her world of the one most potent reminder of the past—Gabrielle’s own son.
She eyed the knapsack Luc had left behind, the empty wine bottle, the blanket. All evidence that she had housed the hunted…or the hunters. But it was all too late; nothing would ease her guilt. And nothing would deliver her from evil.
Even her pathetic attempt to warn him with the dress seemed laughable.
French Twist Page 21
