The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  “You have an ancestor on your mother’s side. A Simon White-Smythe.”

  More puzzled than interested, Cleo sipped her coffee, strong and black. “So?”

  “He was a collector, art and artifacts. There was a piece in his collection, a small silver statue of a woman. Greek style. I represent a party that’s interested in obtaining that statue.”

  Cleo said nothing as her breakfast was served. The scent of food, particularly food she wasn’t going to have to pay for, put her in a cooperative mood.

  She scooped up a bite of egg, picked up a slice of bacon. “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah. This client got a reason for wanting some little silver woman?”

  “Sentimental reasons, primarily. There was a man back in 1915 who was traveling to London to purchase it from your ancestor. He made an unwise choice in his mode of transportation,” Gideon added as he helped himself to Cleo’s bacon. “And booked passage on the Lusitania. He went down with it.”

  Cleo studied the selection of jams and settled on black currant. She slathered a slice of toast generously as her mind worked through the story.

  Her grandmother on her mother’s side, the one family member who’d been human and humorous, had been a White-Smythe by birth. So his story gelled, as far as it went.

  “Your interested party’s waited over eighty years to track down this statue?”

  “Some are more sentimental than others,” he said evenly. “You could say this man’s fate was determined by that small statue. My job is to locate it and, if it remains in your family, to offer a reasonable price for it.”

  “Why me? Why not contact my mother? You’re a generation closer that way.”

  “You were closer geographically. But if you’ve no knowledge of the piece, that’s my next step.”

  “Your client sounds pretty screwy, Slick.” Her lips curved as she bit into her toast. Her eyebrows winged up, making the beauty mark a velvet period on a sexy exclamation point. “What’s his definition of a reasonable price?”

  “I’m authorized to offer five hundred.”

  “Pounds?”

  “Pounds.”

  Jesus, Jesus, she thought as she continued to eat with every appearance of calm. That kind of money would fatten her get-out-of-Dodge fund. More, it would help her get back to the States without losing face.

  But the man must have tagged her as an idiot if he thought she was buying his story from top to bottom.

  “A silver statue?”

  “Of a woman,” he said, “about six inches high, holding a kind of measuring spool. Do you know it or not?”

  “Don’t rush me.” She signaled for more coffee and continued to plow her way through the eggs. “I might have seen it. My family has a lot of dust catchers, and my grandmother was the world title holder. I can check on it, if you add another fifty to that,” she said with a nod toward the note sticking out from under Yeats.

  “Don’t wind me up, Cleo.”

  “A girl’s got to make a living. And the extra fifty’s less than it would cost your client to send you to the States. Plus, my family’s more likely to cooperate with me than a stranger.”

  Which is bullshit, of course, she thought.

  Considering his options, Gideon slid the half bill across the table. “You’ll get the other fifty if and when you earn it.”

  “Come by the club tomorrow night.” She plucked up the bill, stuffed it into her jeans pocket.

  Not an easy feat, Gideon mused, as those jeans appeared to be painted on.

  “Bring the money.” She slid out of the booth. “Thanks for the eggs, Slick.”

  “Cleo.” He closed a hand over hers, squeezed just hard enough to be sure he had her attention. “You try to hose me, it’s going to make me irritable.”

  “I’ll remember that.” She tossed him an easy grin, tugged her hand free, then strolled out with a deliberate swing of hips.

  She made a statement, Gideon mused. Any man with a single red corpuscle would want to fuck her. But only a fool would trust her.

  Eileen Sullivan hadn’t raised any fools.

  CLEO WENT STRAIGHT to her apartment, though calling the single room an apartment was like calling a Twinkie a fine dessert. You had to be either really young or stupidly optimistic.

  Her clothes were hung on the iron rod that was screwed into a water-stained wall, stuffed into the banana-crate-sized dresser with its missing drawer, or tossed where they landed. She’d decided the problem with growing up with a maid was you never learned to be tidy.

  Even with its single dresser, cot-sized bed and lopsided table, the room was crowded. But it was cheap and boasted its own bath. Such as it was.

  While the room wasn’t to her taste—and she was neither really young nor in any way optimistic—she could cover the weekly rent with one night’s tips.

  She’d installed the dead bolt lock herself after one of her neighbors had tried to muscle his way into her room for a free show. It gave her a considerable sense of security.

  She switched on the light, tossed her purse aside. She went to the dresser, pawing her way through the top drawer. She’d had a considerable wardrobe when she’d landed in Prague, and a great deal of it had been new lingerie.

  Bought, she thought viciously as she shoved through silk and lace, to delight one Sidney Walter. The prick. Then again, when a woman let herself spend a couple grand on undies because she was hot for a man, she deserved getting screwed. In every possible sense.

  Sidney had certainly obliged her, Cleo thought now. Heating up the sheets in the presidential suite of the priciest hotel in Prague, then strolling away with all her cash and her jewelry and leaving her with a hefty hotel bill.

  Leaving her, she added, flat broke and mortified.

  Still, Sidney wasn’t the only one who could cash in on an opportunity when it slapped him in the face. She smiled to herself as she yanked out a pair of athletic socks, unrolled them.

  The little silver statue she uncovered was badly tarnished, but she remembered what it looked like when it was shiny and clean. Smiling to herself, Cleo rubbed a thumb over the face with absent affection.

  “You don’t much look like my ticket out of here,” she murmured. “But we’ll see.”

  SHE DIDN’T SHOW until nearly two the following afternoon. Gideon had just about given up on her. As it was, he nearly didn’t recognize her when she finally came out into the broiling sunlight.

  She wore jeans, a low-cut black top that offered peeks of her midriff. So it was her body he made out first. She’d pulled her hair back in a thick braid, shielded her eyes with dark, wraparound glasses and, walking briskly in some sort of thick-soled black boots, melded with pedestrian traffic.

  About damn time, he thought as he followed her. He’d been stuck kicking his heels for hours waiting for her. Here he was in one of the most beautiful, most cultured cities in Eastern Europe, and he couldn’t risk the time to see anything.

  He wanted to drop in on the Mucha exhibit, to study the Art Nouveau foyer of the Main Station, to wander among the artists on the Charles bridge. Because the woman apparently slept half the day, he’d had to make do with reading a guidebook.

  She didn’t window-shop, never paused at the displays of crystal or garnets that flashed in the brilliant sunlight. She walked steadily, down sidewalks, over the cobbled bricks of squares and gave her shadow little time to admire the domes, the baroque architecture or the Gothic towers.

  She stopped once at a sidewalk kiosk and bought a large bottle of water, which she stuffed in the oversized purse on her shoulder.

  Gideon regretted, when she kept up the clipped pace and the sweat began to run down his back, that he hadn’t followed her lead.

  He cheered a bit when he realized she was heading toward the river. Maybe he’d get a look at the Charles after all.

  They passed pretty, painted shops thronged with tourists, restaurants where people sat under umbrella tables and cooled off with chilled d
rinks or ice cream, and still those long legs of hers climbed steadily up the steep slope to the bridge.

  The breeze off the water did little to bring relief, and the view, while spectacular, didn’t explain what the hell she was doing. She didn’t so much as glance at the grandeur of Prague Castle or the cathedral, never paused to lean on the rail and contemplate the water and the boats that plied it. She certainly didn’t stop to haggle with the artists.

  She crossed the bridge and kept going.

  He was trying to decide if she was heading to the castle, and if so why the hell she hadn’t taken a bloody bus, when she veered off and walked breezily downhill to the street of tiny cottages where the king’s goldsmiths and alchemists had once lived.

  They were shops now, naturally, but that didn’t detract from the charm of low doorways, narrow windows and faded colors. She cut through the tourists and tour groups as the uneven stone street climbed again.

  She turned again, walked onto the patio of a little restaurant and plopped down at a table.

  Before he could decide what to do next, she turned around in her chair and waved at him. “Buy me a beer,” she called out.

  He ground his teeth as she turned away again, stretched out her long, apparently tireless legs, then signaled to the waiter by holding up two fingers.

  When he sat across from her, she offered a wide smile. “Pretty hot today, huh?”

  “What the hell was this all about?”

  “What? Oh this? I figured if you were going to follow me around, the least I could do was show you a little of the city. I was planning to hike up to the castle, but . . .” She tipped down her glasses and studied his face. It was a little sweaty, a lot pissed off, and down-to-the-ground gorgeous. “I figured you could use a beer about now.”

  “If you’d wanted to play tour guide, you could’ve picked a nice cool museum or cathedral.”

  “Hot and cranky, are we?” She tipped her sunglasses back in place. “If you felt compelled to follow me, you could’ve asked me to show you around today and bought me lunch.”

  “Do you think about anything but eating?”

  “I need a lot of protein. I said I’d meet up with you tonight. You tailing me like this makes me think you don’t trust me.”

  He said nothing, just stared at her stonily as the beers were served and he downed half of his in one long swallow.

  “What do you know about the statue?” he said when he set his glass down.

  “Enough to figure you wouldn’t have followed me on a two-mile jaunt in high summer if it wasn’t worth a lot more to you than five hundred pounds. So here’s what I want.” She paused, snagged the waiter again and ordered another round of beer and a strawberry sundae.

  “You can’t eat ice cream with beer,” Gideon said.

  “Sure you can. That’s the beauty of ice cream; it goes with anything, any time. Anyway, back to business. I want five thousand, USD, and a first-class ticket back to New York.”

  He lifted his glass again and polished off the first beer. “You’re not going to get it.”

  “Fine. Then you don’t get the girl.”

  “I can get you a thousand, once I see the girl. And maybe five hundred more when she’s in my hands. That’s the cap.”

  “I don’t think so.” She clucked her tongue when he pulled out his cigarettes. “Sucking on those is why you had trouble with an afternoon stroll.”

  “Afternoon stroll, my ass.” He blew out a stream of smoke while the fresh beers and her ice cream were served. “You eat like that on a regular basis, you’re going to be fat as a hog.”

  “Metabolism,” she said with a mouthful of ice cream.

  “Mine runs like a rabbit. What’s the name of your client?”

  “You don’t need names, and you needn’t think they’ll deal with you directly. You go through me, Cleo.”

  “Five thousand,” she said again and licked her spoon.

  “And a first-class flight back home. You come up with that, I’ll get you the statue.”

  “I told you not to hose me.”

  “She’s wearing a robe, right shoulder bared, with her hair in a curly updo. She’s wearing sandals, and she’s smiling. Just a little. Sort of pensive.”

  He closed a hand over her wrist. “I don’t negotiate till I see her.”

  “You don’t see her till you negotiate.” He had good, strong hands. She appreciated that in a man. There were enough calluses on them to tell her he worked with them and didn’t make his living hunting up art pieces for sentimental clients.

  “You’ve got to get me home if you want her, don’t you?” It was reasonable. She’d spent time working out the reasonable angles. “To go home, I’ve got to quit my job, so I need enough money to tide me over until I get another one back in New York.”

  “I imagine there’re plenty of titty bars in New York.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice chilled. “I imagine there are.”

  “It’s your choice of profession, Cleo, so spare me the hurt feelings. I need proof she exists, that you know where she is and that you can acquire her. We don’t move forward on terms until that time.”

  “Fine, you’ll get your proof. Pay the check, Slick. It’s a long walk back.”

  He waved a hand for the waiter and reached for his wallet. “We’ll have a taxi.”

  SHE BROODED OUT the side window of the taxi on the drive back. Her feelings weren’t hurt, she told herself. She did honest work, didn’t she? Hard, honest work. What did she care if some Irish jerk looked down his nose at her?

  He didn’t know anything about her, who she was, what she was, what she needed. If he thought her feelings got bruised because of one rude comment, he was underestimating her.

  She’d spent nearly her entire life as an outcast from her own family. A stranger’s opinion didn’t matter to her.

  She’d get him his proof, and he’d pay her price. She’d sell him the statue. She didn’t know why the hell she’d kept the damn thing all these years anyway.

  Good luck for her she had, she decided. The little lady was going to get her home and give her some breathing space until she snagged a few auditions.

  She’d have to shine the thing up. Then she’d sweet-talk Marcella into letting her use that little digital camera and the computer. She’d take a picture, then send it through, print it out. Sullivan wouldn’t know where it came from, and he’d never guess she had what he wanted tucked in her purse for safekeeping.

  Figured he was dealing with a loser, did he? Well, he was sure going to find out different.

  She shifted as they made the turn toward her building. “Come by the club,” she said without looking at him.

  “Bring cash. We’ll do business.”

  “Cleo.” He clamped a hand on her wrist as she pushed open the cab door. “I apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For making an insulting comment.”

  “Forget it.” She climbed out, headed straight toward her building. Funny, she thought, the apology had gotten under her skin even more than the insult.

  She turned on her heel and headed down the block again without going back to her apartment. She’d go to the club a little early, she decided. After a quick stop for some silver polish.

  IT WAS STILL shy of seven when she walked in. She skirted the stage and headed down the short hall that led to Marcella’s office. Marcella answered the knock with a quick bark that made Cleo wince.

  Asking Marcella for a favor was always problematic, but asking when Marcella was in a snarly mood could be downright dangerous.

  Still, Cleo poked her head into the ruthlessly organized office. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “If you were sorry, you would not interrupt.” Marcella continued to hammer at the computer keyboard on her desk. “I have work. I am a businesswoman.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What do you know? You dance, you strip. This is not business. Business is papers and figures and brains,” she said, tapping
a finger on the side of her head. “Anybody can strip.”

  “Sure, but not everybody can strip so people will pay to watch. Your door’s increased since I stepped onstage and took my clothes off in here.”

  Marcella peered over the straight rims of her half-glasses. “You want raise?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you’re stupid to ask for one when I’m busy and in bad mood.”

  “But I didn’t,” Cleo pointed out, and closed the door behind her. “You asked. I just want a favor. A very small favor.”

  “No extra night off this week.”

  “I don’t want a night off. In fact, I’ll trade you an extra hour onstage for the favor.”

  Now Marcella gave Cleo her full attention. The books could wait. “I thought it was a small favor.”

  “It is, but it could be important to me. I just want to borrow your digital camera for one picture, and your computer to send it. It’ll take, what, ten minutes. You get an hour back. That’s a good trade.”

  “You send a picture out for another job? You want to use my things to get work in another club?”

  “No, it’s not for a job. Christ.” Cleo huffed out a breath. “Look, you gave me a break when I was in trouble. You gave me some professional pointers and helped me through the first night’s queasies. You dealt straight with me. You deal straight with everybody. Going behind your back to a competitor isn’t how I pay that back.”

  Marcella pursed her slick red lips, nodded. “What do you need to take a picture of?”

  “It’s just a thing. It’s a business deal.” When Marcella’s gaze narrowed, Cleo sighed. “It’s not illegal. I’ve got something someone wants to buy, but I don’t trust him enough to let him know I’ve got it with me.” At Marcella’s steely stare, Cleo dug into her bag. “Nag, nag, nag,” she muttered under her breath.

  “There is nothing wrong with my hearing or my English.”

  “This.” Cleo held up the newly polished statue.

  “Let me see.” Marcella wagged a finger until Cleo walked over and put it in her hand. “Silver. Very nice. Needs polishing.”