by Dee Brice
“It smells wonderful in here,” she said, her nostrils flaring in obvious appreciation of roasting meat and the scent of baking Yorkshire pudding.
When they were seated and had placed their drink orders, he said, “Is Sir James a good employer?”
She took a sip of water before she said, “Sir James is not as forthcoming as he should be.” She looked directly at him, her eyes a darker, more mysterious green.
“Meaning?”
“He refused to tell me exactly what you want me to appraise and how you fit in with the theft of Isabella’s Belt.”
He glanced around them and decided no one was close enough to hear their conversation. “I do not—”
She smiled at their waiter when he set a glass of Chardonnay in front of her, served Damian his double Scotch and then left them to study their menus.
“Don’t lie to me. You were in Sir James’ office with two Interpol agents while they met with him. I don’t know a lot about police procedures, but I doubt they would allow you to stay if you didn’t have a vested interest.”
“That is quite a supposition, Mrs. Foster.”
“Mrs. Foster is Sir James’ wife. As I told you, I prefer you call me TC. And don’t try to avoid the issue. Sir James may not have told you, but I have a bullshit meter that’s better than a perfumer’s nose.”
Damian stared at her for a long, silent moment and then said, “Very well. I shall tell you what I can.”
“Thank you.” But her eyes remained wary, the bullshit meter obviously on full.
“The Santanas—Emilio and Esmeralda—are my godparents. They also own Isabella’s Belt. The Belt has been in their family for generations and its loss has devastated them. Especially Emilio, who asked me to represent the family here in Europe.”
“And Señora Santana?”
“Pardon me? I do not understand your question.”
“Is she as devastated as Emilio by the loss of Isabella’s Belt?”
Sighing, Damian fiddled with his silverware, then took a deep swallow of his scotch. He wished he had assigned Reynard or Cherub to this interview. Or had not let his cock rule him. He was too involved with Tiffany to remain objective, but he would be damned if he turned this case over to anyone else.
“Women are more pragmatic about the loss of things. Madrina—my godmother—is more concerned about Emilio’s health.”
After a very long moment Tiffany glanced at her menu, smiled and lifted her gaze to his face. “Smashed peas. May I have smashed peas with my dinner?”
“If you will answer a question for me, you may have every smashed pea in the entire restaurant.” He apparently had survived the bullshit meter. This time.
“Shoot, Luke.”
“My name is Ian, not Luke. And I have no desire to shoot anyone. Except, perhaps, your husband.”
Ignoring the sarcasm in his voice and the explanation about her marriage he seemed to demand, she said, “I don’t expect you to shoot anyone. It’s just an expression.” Laughing, she touched his hand, but pulled away immediately. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“My family lives in Devonshire. Torquay.”
“Oh yes. Scones and clotted cream. Yum.” She licked her lips.
Ignoring his swelling cock, he countered, “Would you like some now?”
“What, and ruin my appetite for smashed peas?”
“Ah, humor.” He took a deep breath and said, “You and Sir James are very formal with each other.”
“We’re both very private people.”
“Yes. I could sense that in his office. But… Is your relationship outside the office so cool? So impersonal?”
“Sir James did not approve of my marrying his stepson, William. On the other hand, William’s mother did not approve of William marrying me.”
She looked somewhere over his shoulder. A hint, perhaps, to change the subject. Which he did. “Then why did they allow it?”
“Oh Ian, this is the twenty-first century,” she said on a laugh tainted with bitterness. “William’s mother allowed it because it gained her son access to the high-flying world of Charles Cartierri, renowned jeweler and gemologist.”
“And Sir James allowed you and William to marry because…?”
“Because it irritated Charles.”
She looked so annoyed, Damian thought it best to change the subject. “Do you like the theater?”
“Love it.”
“I think I can get tickets for Phantom.” He watched her eyes widen. “I might even be able to arrange a backstage tour.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“You have not seen the show?”
“Couldn’t get tickets. Seeing it in London makes it even more special,” she crowed, then wiggled her shoulders like a puppy having its tummy rubbed.
Damian wanted to wiggle too, preferably in a wide bed with satin sheets and Tiffany under him.
“Backstage, too? Impressive.”
Damian ground his teeth but, mimicking his teenage sisters, said, “Yeah, way cool.”
They sipped their drinks in silence until the waiter finished serving their entrées. Tiffany ate as if food was a prelude to sex—small, tentative bites at first, a nod of approval, a soft groan of pleasure.
To save himself from more libidinous thoughts, like her taking bites of him, he asked, “When did you first go to work for Sir James?”
“Can’t wait to start the interrogation, eh?” She put her knife and fork at precise angles on her plate.
“I am simply making conversation. Conversation that avoids the subject of your marriage, which you clearly do not want to discuss. Do you like the prime rib?”
“Were I better with words, I would wax poetic about the prime rib. And the Yorkshire pudding is perfection.”
“I suspect you are very good with words,” he muttered, focusing on his plate instead of ogling her breasts or remembering how she had writhed when he suckled them. “How are the peas?”
She retrieved her silverware and resumed eating, forking a dainty bite of peas into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Yummy. I went to work for Sir James—why do I always want to say Saint James?” she wondered, making Damian laugh. “Anyway, I started with him when I was seventeen. Odd jobs at first, like filing and answering phones. William and I married when I turned twenty. When I became a certified gemologist, Sir James began to allow me to appraise jewelry. He also allowed William to train me on security systems.”
“Including how to bypass them?”
She glanced up sharply but said in a smooth voice, “Of course. It sometimes helps in determining whether the items were really stolen or were ‘mislaid’ by someone who only wants the insurance money. What we Yanks call ‘an inside job’.”
“Are you a Yank?”
She chewed for a moment and then said, “No, I’m an international woman. I went to college in the States, but my father, stepmother and I lived virtually everywhere—Paris, Rome, London and Bogotá.”
“My godparents, the Santanas, live near Bogotá.”
“That makes sense. After all, Colombia is rich in emeralds.” She put aside her utensils, resting her chin on her hand.
“I grew up in Madrid and Torquay.”
“Torquay, well-known as the English Mediterranean. Do you like it there? And is Madrid why you have an accent?”
He chuckled. “And you do not? Have an accent, I mean.”
“Of course I don’t have an accent. I speak French like a Parisienne, Spanish like a Catalan, German like a Berliner and Italian like a Roman guttersnipe. And you haven’t answered my question. Do you like Torquay?”
“Yes, but I prefer Barcelona or Granada.” He forked smashed peas into his mouth and prayed she would let the subject drop. Sooner of later, she would ask where he worked and he did not want her to know. Not until he could trust her.
“Ah, Granada. I fell in love once in Granada. Cold as sin in February, but beautiful.”
“Sin is not cold, Tiffany.”
&nb
sp; She laughed, flashing a hint of her dimple.
“I take it your Spanish lover was not William.”
“No. Luis was a medical student at the University of Granada. And he was never my lover.”
“Saving yourself for William?”
She flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment he could not tell. “I am sorry,” he said and covered her hand with his.
“A different time, a different girl.” She eased her hand away to fidget with her spoon.
“Have you a theory about the theft of Isabella’s Belt?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly?
For a brief moment he thought to pursue the question, but let the subject drop.
“Do you want to make love with me?” she asked when the long silence threatened to become uncomfortable.
Feeling his face heat and his cock throb, he said, “Yes, very much.”
“But? What happened in St. Anton was a fluke? We’re on opposite sides regarding this theft?”
He seized the last subject like a drowning man would seize a raft. He had no more desire to discuss St. Anton than she had to talk about her husband. Any discussion about her marriage would lead him to the faithless woman who had gotten his brother killed. Instead, he said, “How can we be on opposite sides? You must want the thief brought to justice as quickly as I do. Bijoux stands to lose a vast sum if the Belt is not recovered.”
“Yes, a vast sum. All due and payable to your godfather, Emilio Santana.”
“That is an evil accusation!” he said, anger coloring his voice and dousing desire. Dios, she had gotten under his skin quickly! Wondering where the hell calm, detached Damian Hunter—temporarily assigned to Interpol—had gone to, he took a deep breath. “You said you did not have a theory about the theft.”
“I don’t. It’s just common practice to look at the owners, along with any other suspects.”
“And if you have no other suspects?”
She lifted her gaze to his face, her green eyes filled with what appeared to be irony. “‘Aye, there’s the rub’.” She shrugged, that perfectly Gallic gesture that somehow conveyed puzzlement and who-the-hell-cares, then added, “Of course, there’s always me.”
He couldn’t hold her gaze, she noted, but looked away, his olive complexion stained with red. So, his thoughts had run to her possible—merde, probable—guilt. Had he seen the surveillance tapes and, if so, why? Surely Interpol wouldn’t allow a civilian to view them. On the other hand, Sir James had seen them. But he had a close connection to the case. Closer than Ian Soria’s at least.
He took a careful sip of scotch and then said, “You? That never entered—”
Extending her index and little fingers and waving her hand from side to side, she stopped his denial.
“What is that gesture? What does it mean?” He frowned and mimicked her like a schoolboy learning a new obscenity.
“It means ‘bullshit’. It means, Señor Ian Soria, that Interpol allowed you to see the Luxembourg surveillance tapes. It means, despite my working for Sir James, you do consider me a suspect.” She folded her arms under her breasts and shot him a “So there!” smile. Did he think her an utter fool that she couldn’t figure out even that much?
“Is that why you offered fuck me? To divert my suspicion?”
Her fury rising, she thrust back her chair, threw her napkin on the table and stood. All she could say was a curt, “Good night and goodbye.”
Payback is a bitch, Damian thought as he watched her leave. He expected her to flounce… No, that was too girlish a word to apply to Tiffany Foster. To stomp out, perhaps. But no. Head high, spine straight, she moved through the crowded restaurant like a queen, her stride as sinuous as her body under him when they made love.
He did not bother to correct himself, to change his thoughts to “had sex”.
Chapter Three
The distinctive double ring of the telephone awakened TC from her nightmares. She glared at the bedside clock and swore. Who the hell would call her at seven in the morning?
“Hello,” she muttered, her voice husky with sleep.
“I have them,” an exuberant voice with a quaint accent crowed in her ear.
All she could think of was that Tony Trust, one of her more reliable snitches, had gotten a line on Isabella’s Belt. But the voice on the telephone wasn’t Tony’s, and besides, it was far too early in the game for any solid leads.
“Who is this?” she said cautiously, wishing for coffee or a cup of strong breakfast tea.
“I am crushed,” the voice said, somehow combining pout and laughter.
“Do you know what time it is, Mr. Soria?”
“I was up half the night trying to get the theater tickets I promised you. And I got them! For tonight, first balcony, center seats.”
TC sat up and, even though she was alone, tucked the sheet over her breasts. “I told you goodbye last night. I meant it.”
“Of course you did, but I talked to Sir James this morning and—”
“You what? Sir James doesn’t even get up—”
“He thinks it is a good idea for us to work together.”
“Oh he does, does he?” she said, barely restraining an ominous growl.
“He thinks you and I should brainstorm—is that the word?—over breakfast.”
TC ground her teeth and mentally counted to ten. When she got to thirty, she said, “This isn’t something we should discuss in public, Mr. Soria.”
“Llama me Ian, Tiffany.”
“Call me TC.”
“My suite or yours?” he asked, his voice silky smooth and dark with innuendo.
TC discovered her senses were not immune to that voice, even if her brain was. Or would be had it not taken a vacation. She suddenly felt the cool sheets against her skin, the furled peaks of her nipples, the slight moisture pooling low in her body.
“Sir James has a conference room in his offices. I’ll meet you there at nine.”
“I shall bring scones and clotted cream.”
“Just bring coffee,” she countered. Resisting her sudden urge to laugh, she hung up and headed for the shower.
She thought about calling Sir James and reading him the riot act, but he might construe her tirade as overreaction. Ian’s relationship to the Santanas was a double threat. Either he would dog her every step to ensure she was doing her job…or he knew more about the theft than he’d told Sir James. Either way, she needed to be careful. And she could hear her father-in-law say in that calm, crisp, upper-upper-British-class voice, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
Twenty minutes later, having showered and dressed in worn jeans, a dull, light blue sweatshirt and sneakers, she noticed the message-waiting light on her telephone. Hoping Tony Trust had called, she dialed the retrieval code and listened with growing horror.
An unknown voice whispered, “Ian Soria is not what he seems.”
* * * * *
“I didn’t realize you were staying at the Savoy.”
Damian had expected anger when she discovered him literally loitering outside the entrance, not this dull indifference. He opened the passenger door to his sleek English racing-green Jaguar, then closed it once she had settled.
“My flat is being painted,” he lied, starting the engine and easing the powerful car down narrow Savoy Way Place that led to the Strand and Trafalgar Square.
Having limited his visits to London in the summer, he found it strange to see the Square virtually empty. Only a few brave souls, rushing through the heavy rain for the underground, shared the sidewalks with the ubiquitous pigeons searching for one more handout. High atop his colonnade, Admiral Lord Nelson seemed to smile at his solitude. The verdigris lions looked grateful for the lack of sticky-fingered children who, during fair weather, clambered over them.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye and noting the dark circles under hers.
“Not particularly.” Her tone was sullen, conve
ying her desire not to talk. At least not to him.
Dios, she must really be pissed if even politeness kept her from asking how he had slept. “I thought Sir James’ offices would be closed today, it being Saturday.”
“I have a key.”
“Good.” He had thought to drive along the Mall to Buckingham Palace, then up to Regent’s Park. One look at Tiffany’s set chin and straight-ahead stare ruined that idea.
What, he wondered, had happened between their telephone conversation and now? Something must have occurred, because he would have sworn he had wrung a laugh from her before she hung up on him.
She probably had called Sir James to complain about Damian’s—Ian’s—demand that they work together. Well, tough! He had a job to do and so did she. If she did in fact work for Sir James. Unless she needed time alone to dispose of Isabella’s Belt. After all, she had invited him to consider her a suspect. He slanted an appraising look in Tiffany’s direction and decided she was simply pissed at him.
He took a more direct route, along The Mall to Constitution Hill, by the Wellington, passing many of the foreign embassies. They completed the ride in silence, mounted the steps to Sir James’ offices and settled in the conference room. In silence. He put the scones and clotted cream he had ordered from the Savoy kitchens on the conference table.
“We’ll need supplies,” Tiffany said and left him.
Looking around, he spotted the coffee pot and made himself useful. Unlike the outer office and Sir James’ opulent lair, the conference room was sparse, utilitarian. Still, it was far more luxurious than any room in any police station he had ever seen. Books of various sizes and contents lined three walls while the fourth gave way to more practical matters. A computer station, a whiteboard and markers. Whatever got posted to the whiteboard could be photocopied by pushing a button. Damian suspected the redoubtable Mrs. Paddington had a lot to say about this particular technology, since it freed her to guard Sir James and his privacy.
The carpet was an ugly gray, but serviceable, as if Sir James, or Mrs. Paddington, expected the room would be used frequently. The long, oval conference table looked like mahogany, but upon closer inspection turned out to be laminate, not real wood. The chairs were covered in some sort of worsted material. He sat in one and banged his knees on the underside of the table. Leaning back in the chair made his back ache.
