Reap the Wind

by Iris Johansen

  “I’ll see you later.” Chelsea straightened the floating chiffon panels of her white gown as she paused in the doorway of the Hall of Mirrors and assumed an air of conscious majesty. She winked at Caitlin. “It’s show time!”

  Caitlin took a hasty step back as the reporters and television cameraman flowed across the hall toward Chelsea like nails to a magnet. She had been present at several of Chelsea’s “show times” in the past few days, and she definitely preferred to be in the background, particularly at this party, which culminated all her efforts of the past weeks. The actress effortlessly dominated any situation by sheer personality alone. She combined glamour, humor, and an exuberant vitality that was the epitome of star quality.

  Chelsea was immediately swept away into the throng of guests, and Caitlin eased herself into the room and gravitated to the far corner of the room. Other than assuring that the mechanics of the party went smoothly, her part was now over. On the far side of the hall a four-piece orchestra was playing Vivaldi, but only an occasional strain could be heard above the buzz of conversation and the delicate clink of glasses. White-coated waiters insinuated themselves among the crowd of guests, offering puff-pastry canapés, Roederer Cristal champagne, and orange juice for the nondrinkers.

  Savonnerie carpets had been laid on the wooden floor of the hall, and the chandeliers glittered in crystal celebration high overhead. A splendid ice sculpture of LeClerc’s Wind Dancer dominated the buffet of beluga caviar, lobster, and light pastry confections on the long damask-covered table next to the bank of long, arched windows.

  Caitlin watched the guests’ reflections in the seventeen mirrors lining the wall, ebbing and flowing, laughing and preening, and she suddenly wondered how similar this party was to the balls that had been given in Catherine’s time. Catherine had never attended a ball here, but her friend, Juliette, must at some time have been in this very hall and gazed up at the arched ceiling at Le Brun’s painted glorification of the Sun King just as Caitlin was doing now.

  “There you are. I’ve been searching all over for you.”

  She looked down from the ceiling to focus on Jonathan looming larger and more impressive than ever. “Hello, Jonathan, I’m glad to see a friendly face in the crowd.” She smiled. “I’ve seen three movie stars, a prime minister, and an oil sheikh, and I was beginning to feel overpowered.”

  “There’s no reason you should feel anything but proud and happy tonight. You’ve done a splendid job.” Jonathan took her hand and Caitlin felt again that sense of indescribable well-being she had experienced when she had first met him. “And besides, you look beautiful. Very regal. As if you belong in a palace.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “And I feel like I belong in an insane asylum. These past few days have been traumatic. I don’t know how you manage to deal with all the spotlight.”

  “You get used to it.” Jonathan took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing white-coated waiter and handed it to her. “But sometimes one of these relaxes you.” He sipped his own champagne and his gaze wandered casually over the crowd. “Ms. Benedict seems to be thriving on it.”

  Caitlin glanced at the number of people clustered around Chelsea in the center of the room. “She’s amazing. She only has to be with anyone for five minutes and she has them in the palm of her hand. You should see the way she handled the press.”

  “I’ve heard she’s not always so diplomatic.” Jonathan turned back to Caitlin. “You like her?”

  Caitlin nodded. “Very much. She’s real. Would you like to meet her?”

  “I’ve already met her. We both received an invitation for dinner at the White House last year.” Jonathan finished his champagne and set his empty glass on the damask-covered table. “I know almost everyone here. Would you like an introduction to Mitterrand or Krakow?”

  “Is Krakow here? I wasn’t sure he’d come.”

  “Over by the potted palm.”

  Caitlin gazed with interest at the legend and was not disappointed. In Lars Krakow’s newspaper photographs his close-cut hair had looked white, but she saw now it was a shade between pale gold and silver. His tall, thin form was dressed with the same elegant anonymity as the rest of the men in the room, but the scar twisting the flesh of his left cheek and those sad, deepest black eyes set him apart. He looked like a saint . . . or a martyr. Her mother had told her he had received that scar as a child when he had been tortured by the Gestapo for information regarding the whereabouts of the Danish resistance headquarters in Copenhagen. He had revealed nothing, and when they had released him his body had been so broken and torn, it had taken over two years to heal. He had become a national hero and after the war had risen to the heights of European politics. “I’ve heard a lot about him. My mother admires him very much. You know him?”

  “I’ve met him at several trade conferences. He’s very charismatic.”

  Caitlin caught a hint of reserve in his tone, and her gaze left Krakow to search Jonathan’s face. “You don’t like him?”

  “As I said, he’s very personable. I don’t know him well enough to form an opinion.” His gaze was on the man to whom Krakow was talking, and his expression became grim. “But I do know the good Monsieur Dalpré. He’s head of Interpol and made both Peter’s and my life miserable with his red tape about the Wind Dancer. I told him we were handling our own security, but he wanted to know every damn step of our itinerary.”

  Krakow’s presence was so dominant, Caitlin had scarcely noticed the slight, dark-haired man standing beside him speaking with such intensity. “He appears to be trying to convince him of something.”

  “Raoul Dalpré’s a passionate advocate for the consolidation of Europe. He’s probably trying to persuade Krakow into his camp.” Jonathan shrugged. “It would be quite a feather in his cap. Krakow’s come out flatly against unity.”

  “What do you think about it?”

  “A consolidation of all the countries of Europe under one governing body would produce a superpower that could be a threat in more than an economic sense. I think we’d all do well to keep an eye on Mr. Dalpré.”

  “According to the newspaper stories I’ve read lately, terrorist attacks and thefts would be virtually eliminated with better central control. Everyone’s blaming bureaucracy and poor communication for the breakdown.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Perhaps.” He dismissed the subject. “You didn’t answer me. Do you want to meet Krakow?”

  She glanced at Krakow again. She really would have liked to have told her mother she had met him, but the poor man seemed to have his hands full with the voluble Monsieur Dalpré. She shook her head. “My mother may never forgive me, but I don’t think so. I believe I’ll just float around and make sure everything is going well and try to look inconspicuous.”

  “Impossible. Lovely women may be understated but never inconspicuous.” Jonathan took her elbow and began propelling her through the crowd toward the Peace Salon at the far end of the gallery. “Forget about playing hostess. Come and say hello to Peter and put his mind at rest. He’s sure you’re ready to skewer him like shish kebab.”

  She frowned. “I’ve been tempted. I need that translation and I still don’t have it.”

  “Then let me take you over so that you can dress down the poor man in person.” His lips twitched. “It will give you much greater satisfaction than talking to an answering machine.”

  “How is Peter?”

  “Fine. You’ll see for yourself in a moment. It’s not enough for him that there are infrared cameras, trip alarms, and security men all around the palace. He has to stand guard too.” He deftly maneuvered her around an obese uniformed gentleman with an impressive array of decorations on his massive chest. “Though he was very impressed with Karazov’s arrangements.”

  “Alex is usually very thorough. I’m glad you’re pleased.”

  “I could hardly be anything else. He met us at the airport this afternoon, double-checked on all our security measures, and supervised the tra
nsportation of the Wind Dancer to Versailles. He didn’t trust our security and hired additional guards of his own for the evening. I saw him a few moments ago patrolling the hall as if it were a battlefield.” His brow knit thoughtfully. “Rather out of character. I would have judged him more likely to be behind the scenes, pulling strings.”

  “You make him sound Machiavellian.”

  “Do I?” Jonathan smiled. “In many ways Machiavelli was a much-maligned man. He was merely a product of his time and environment. Karazov may be the same.”

  They had come even with a square roped off with red velvet cords from the rest of the hall, and Caitlin saw Peter Maskovel standing vigilantly within the square. He was dressed in an immaculate tuxedo, but the formal wear didn’t make him look bigger and more robust as it did Jonathan. Instead, he appeared paler and more finely drawn than when she had last seen him at Port Andreas.

  Peter’s thin face lit with a smile as he saw Caitlin. “Hi.” He gestured to the Pegasus on the black marble pedestal by his side. “Have you come to see me or my buddy here?”

  “Both.” Caitlin smiled. “How are you, Mr. Maskovel? You look a little tired.”

  “Great.” He grinned. “Well, almost great. A touch of jet lag.”

  Jonathan frowned. “For God’s sake, go back to the hotel and rest. You’ve done your part here.”

  “Not until the evening’s over and the Wind Dancer’s safely locked up in the vault at the InterContinental.”

  “Are your accommodations comfortable?” Caitlin asked. “Chelsea and I are sharing a suite on the fourth floor.”

  Jonathan nodded. “Fine. Peter and I have suites on the same floor. Alex reserved the entire fourth floor to avoid any problems and to assure us privacy.”

  “Neighbors.” Peter grinned coaxingly at Caitlin. “You can’t flay a neighbor.”

  She tried to ignore the appeal and gazed at him sternly. “They did it quite frequently during the Middle Ages. I need that translation, Peter.”

  Peter sighed. “You’re a worse slave driver than Jonathan. Father Domenico is almost finished, and I can do the rest from his notes. A week more and the journal will be completely translated.”

  Her eyes widened. “Father?”

  “There aren’t that many scholars who have the expertise to accurately transcribe fifteenth-century Italian. I had to go to a monastery in Virginia and beg Father Domenico to help us.”

  Caitlin guiltily remembered all those less than complimentary messages regarding the translator she had left on Peter’s answering machine. “I thought you’d hired someone to translate them. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Naturally, Jonathan will contribute generously to the coffers of the monastery.” Peter gazed at her limpidly. “And it was more amusing not to tell you. After a while I actually began to enjoy those barbed little messages you left on my answering machine. They added a certain zing to my day.”

  She started to laugh. “Lord, and I told you to tell him to get off his ass and get his butt in gear.”

  Peter’s eyes twinkled. “I neglected to pass on your exact message to Father Domenico. He wouldn’t have understood. You’ll have your translation as soon as I have time to copy his notes on the last twenty pages. He did the translation all by hand and it’s barely legible.”

  “Then I suppose I’d better provide you with peaceful surroundings to finish up. Can you spare the time to go to Vasaro for a few days?” Caitlin smiled as she saw the eagerness dawning on his face and added softly, “I couldn’t consider having you read Catherine’s journal anywhere else.”

  He went still. “You mean it?”

  Caitlin nodded. “It’s the least I can do after nagging you for the past month.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Tomorrow?” He shook his head. “No, not tomorrow. I’ll have to supervise the shipment of the Wind Dancer to Nice. The day after tomorrow?”

  Caitlin laughed. “Fine. I’ll call my mother and tell her you’re coming.”

  “How long can I stay?”

  “As long as you like. Chelsea and I have to leave for Nice tomorrow to shoot a commercial at the Negresco, but that shouldn’t take more than a few days and then we’ll be going home to Vasaro to shoot the rest.”

  “Now I do feel great.” Peter took a step forward and grasped Caitlin’s hand in both his own. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

  “I ask only one favor.”

  “The translation?”

  She nodded. “And that you please don’t send me any more photographs.”

  Peter laughed. “Deal.”

  “Catherine’s journal isn’t going to help, you know. There are no references to the inscription in the journal.”

  “The family history is really more important than the inscription. Deciphering the inscription would only be a plus for me.” Peter smiled gently. “We can work together, Caitlin. I want to help you. I’m not trying to compete.”

  Caitlin reacted with warmth—and guilt. She really had been a demanding shrew about those translations. “I’ll try to remember that.” Caitlin’s gaze followed Peter’s to the Pegasus, and for a moment was caught in the same fascination that had transfixed her the first time she had seen it. She whispered, “It means so much to me. I have to do it, Peter.”

  “I know you do.”

  Jonathan touched Caitlin’s arm. “Why don’t you go tell Ms. Benedict I’m ready for the official announcement of her as spokesperson.” His voice lowered to a barely audible undertone. “I’d like to get this over with so I can send Peter to bed to get some rest. He shouldn’t become overtired like this.”

  Caitlin nodded. “I’ll get her.” She started down the hall toward the spot where Chelsea was holding court.

  “You look different.”

  It was Alex’s voice.

  She stopped and consciously braced herself before she turned to face him. He also looked different: tough, sleek, panther-dark, elegant. “Hello, Alex.”

  “That’s a lovely gown. I’ve never seen you in black.” His gaze lingered on her breasts overflowing the black strapless bodice. “Your skin looks—” He stopped and shifted his gaze to her face. “How is it going?”

  Dear heaven, she couldn’t be feeling like this after all the lectures she had given herself about being over him, she thought desperately. Her mind condemned what he had done, but it clearly made no difference to her body’s responses. She forced herself to smile. “Fine. Everything’s moving like clockwork.” She lowered her voice. “And you?”

  “No sign of him.”

  Her lips twisted in a bittersweet smile. “I know that’s a disappointment for you, but I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “He could still come.”

  Her tone hardened. “Then you’d better make damn sure you get him and he doesn’t get the Wind Dancer.”

  His expression turned suddenly fierce. “Do you think I don’t know that? You went over the security measures with me last night. You know how careful I’m being.”

  “I don’t know what—” She broke off and moistened her lips. She had to get away from him. This bitter dialogue was nearly as painful as the knowledge of her physical response to him. “I’d better go.”

  “Yes, that’s a very good idea.”

  His voice was thick, the intonation faintly Slavic. Her gaze flew to his face. She inhaled sharply as she saw his expression, and her nails bit into her palms as her hands clenched at her sides. Mother of God, she wanted to touch him. She jerkily turned away. “I have to go get Chelsea. Jonathan wants to have the announcement over with.”

  “So do I.” Alex’s voice was tight with tension as he whirled on his heel. “Christ, I want to get the whole damn mess over with.”

  In another moment he had disappeared into the crowd.

  Where was he?

  Alex stood in the corner of the hall, tuning out Jonathan’s speech introducing Chelsea, as he watched the crowd.

&nb
sp; Nothing suspicious.

  The bait couldn’t have been more prominently displayed.

  The trap was set.

  Where the hell was Brian Ledford?

  Jonathan opened the door of his hotel suite to see Peter standing in the hall. “Just thought I’d drop by and let you know the Wind Dancer’s locked up for the night.”

  “In a safe?” Jonathan asked.

  Peter nodded. “It’s a walk-in safe and I’ve stationed two guards outside the vault room. He’s as secure as if he were tucked in at Fort Knox.” He frowned anxiously. “Can you spare me to go to Vasaro?”

  “Why not? I’ll probably be going to Vasaro myself when they start shooting the commercials.”

  Peter smiled with relief. “You will? I thought you’d be too busy.”

  “I have an investment to protect, and it’s time I learned more about commercials. I’ve been thinking about authorizing a television campaign for the new cruise ship when it’s launched.”

  “Pauley Hartland is supposed to be fantastic. He’d be great for the job.” He smothered a yawn. “Chelsea Benedict looked good with the Wind Dancer, didn’t she?”

  Jonathan nodded. “They compliment each other. She was an excellent choice.”

  Peter started to swing the door shut. “Good night, Jonathan, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night. And sleep late, dammit. You don’t have to be up at the crack of dawn every day.”

  Peter covered another yawn with his hand. “Maybe.”

  As soon as the door closed behind Peter, Jonathan strode across the sitting room, tugging off his black tie. He threw it on the desk before taking off his tuxedo jacket and draping it on the back of the chair.

  Christ, he felt like a kid on Christmas Eve trying to resist creeping downstairs to peek at the presents he knew would be under the tree.

  He wasn’t a kid any longer, and he didn’t want to wait. He had waited too long already and life was too damn short.

  He heard the sound of the key turning in the lock and whirled to face the door as it opened.