"What's the plan?" she asked quietly. "Surely you have more in mind than just seeing and being seen."
Nick broke off another crust of bread, keeping his expression bland and his thoughts well hidden. He planned to do more than stroll around Nice, all right. A lot more. But he wasn't prepared to read Mackenzie in on his plans.
As he'd pointed out back in Washington, he worked alone. He always had, from his earliest days on the streets right on up through his years with OMEGA. He'd learned early in life that survival often depended on his ability to move quickly, without encumbrances, and keeping his mouth shut. Adding to his inbred caution was the fact that he didn't know who or what he was dealing with. Until he did, he wouldn't put Mackenzie any more at risk than he already had.
He knew better than to voice that thought, however. His chief of communications already considered him several degrees to the right of Neanderthal for suggesting she might constitute a distraction on this mission. Nick could imagine her response if she knew the way his gut twisted every time he remembered how close those bullets had come to ripping into her.
"I'm still working out an operational strategy," he replied with perfect truth. His glance roamed the small restaurant. "But this isn't the time or the place to talk about it."
Mackenzie recognized a brush-off when she heard it. Her fingers drummed on the tablecloth for a moment or two.
Okay. If that's the way he wanted to play it, she'd go along. For now. But she intended to make it clear she considered herself a fully functioning member of this little team.
Which is why she exited her bedroom later that night and made her way across the sitting room toward his.
It was well past midnight Nice time, but still early by D.C. count. She'd heard Nick's shower cut off some time ago, had seen his lights go out. She'd turned off her lights, too, then tossed and turned on her regal bed for some time until finally deciding this was as good a time as any to have it out with him. If the time difference had kept her awake, she'd bet Nick wasn't asleep, either.
He wasn't, she discovered after rapping on his door a second time. Nor was he in his room.
The intrusion detection devices she'd set up were still activated, the silent alarms hadn't triggered, but Nick had vanished into the night.
Chapter 5
A silent shadow in black, Nick slipped through the darkened streets of Cannes. The moon had disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Light from the wrought iron streetlamps barely penetrated the gloom. Yet he wound his way unerringly through the twisting alleys.
These dark, crowded streets were home—the only home Henri Nicolas Everard had known until Maggie Sinclair and Paige Jensen had descended on Cannes all those years ago, followed in short order by their soon-to-be spouses. The OMEGA operatives had come to track down the reclusive megalomaniac responsible for pirating highly classified digital imaging technology. They'd left with a skinny, nimble-fingered pickpocket in tow.
After more than two decades in the States, Nick thought, felt, acted and spoke like an American, but the razor-edged survival instincts that had saved his life more than once during his years with OMEGA had been developed right here in Cannes. It was here he'd learned to blend with the darkness and become part of the night. Here he'd graduated from pocketknives to switchblades to razor-edged daggers. Here he'd slipped up like a shadow to relieve the rich and ultra rich of their wallets and watches.
Cannes was smaller than Nice, and more crowded. Its wealthy citizens occupied sumptuous villas dotting the hills above the city and ventured down only to visit the exclusive clubs, hotels and boutiques lining Cannes's fabled La Croisette. Few wandered into the heart of the old city, where Nick's destination lay—a small pawnshop a few blocks off the Place de la Castre. The owner was Jacques Gireaux, one of Nick's oldest and least reputable acquaintances.
If someone within a fifty-mile radius of Cannes had put Nick Jensen on a hit list, Gireaux would have heard about it. The man had a finger in or an eye on every shady operation on the Cote d'Azur. His small army of pickpockets brought him the rumors they picked up on the streets along with their haul of filched purses, rings and Rolexes. For years, Gireaux had fenced the goods Nick brought him... after taking his seventy-five percent commission, of course. As he'd frequently remind his minions, business was business.
Evidently business had fallen off considerably in recent years. Nick stood for some time in the shadows across the street from Gireaux's shop, noting its dust-streaked windows and upswept stoop. He saw no signs of activity, no light glowing from the back office or from the windows of the flat above the shop. Frowning, he crossed the street to read the small white sign affixed to the bars on the front door.
"Well, hell!"
It was an official notice, announcing a public auction. All items not claimed at these premises within sixty days would be sold to the highest bidder. He bent to peer at the date and caught a glimpse of a red glow in the entry to the shop next door.
His muscles coiled. With a flick of his right wrist, the handle of a knife slid into his palm. Turning, he searched the shadows.
"The shop is closed, monsieur."
A small, slight figure emerged from the darkened entry. He looked to be about eight or nine, but the cigarette dangling from his lip and the way he moved told Nick the kid didn't count his age in years.
With a jerk of his chin, the boy indicated the barred door. "This shop is closed," he said again. “I can take you to another, where you will get good prices for whatever it is you wish to sell."
"My business is with Gireaux. Where is he?"
The kid ran a considering eye over Nick's length. The dark clothes gave him pause, but not enough to keep him from conducting a little business of his own.
"Such information should be worth a few francs, yes?"
"How many francs?"
The cigarette's tip glowed bright red-gold.
"Fifty."
Nick knew the rules. He'd played this game often enough himself. The kid expected him to bargain the price of his information down to twenty, maybe ten francs. Digging into his pocket, Nick extracted his wallet and produced a hundred franc note.
The diminutive informant didn't hesitate. With a flash of his small, nimble fingers he plucked the note out of Nick's hand. It disappeared inside the pockets to his grubby shorts.
"I regret, monsieur, I have no change."
"Somehow I didn't think you would. So where's Gireaux?''
"He is dead."
"Dead how?"
"He was shot, right there in his shop, two... No, three weeks ago."
The timing could be coincidence. Mere chance. Nick wouldn't bet on it.
"How did it happen?"
"Thieves broke in hoping to find Gireaux's cash box. They found him instead. There was some unpleasantness, you understand, before they put a bullet through his head and ended his misery."
"What kind of unpleasantness?"
"Fingernails pulled off," the boy said with a shrug that indicated little sympathy for the deceased. "An electric wire up his nose. Me, I think they fried his brains and had no choice but to shoot him. All they made off with were some papers."
Interesting. Nick knew Gireaux cooked his books. He'd had to in order to survive regular visits from gendarmes searching for stolen property. To keep himself straight, however, he maintained a secret set of records. Nick had seen him hunched over the ledger, scribbling down who had brought in what, along with the estimated value of the items. Those records, the pawnbroker would chuckle, the police would never find.
Maybe the thieves hadn't found them, either.
With a nod to the kid, Nick spun on one heel and walked away. Ten minutes and six backtracking turns later, he inserted one of Mackenzie's handy-dandy electronic gadgets into the shop's rear door. The wafer-thin device used a kind of sonar to bounce silent signals off the tumblers in a lock, then sized a set of teeth to open them.
Good thing Mackenzie hadn't de
cided on a life of crime, Nick thought with a grim smile as the lock clicked open. There wasn't a security system or a bank safe she couldn't get around. With Nick's own talents in that arena, they would have made an unstoppable team in the old days.
Putting the thought from his mind, he closed the door behind him and switched on a pencil-thin beam of light. He needed the light to navigate the clutter of items pawned long ago for a fraction of their value and never reclaimed. A cello leaned drunkenly against a mannequin draped in moth-eaten mink. Bicycles, lawn chairs and chain saws dangled from ceiling hooks. An antique Louis XV glass-fronted cabinet displayed a collection of costume jewelry and cameras. The really high-value items—the diamond tennis bracelets, the dinner rings, the high-priced watches—would be in the safe hidden under the floorboards in Gireaux's upstairs office.
The pawnshop owner never knew that one of his street rats had shimmied up a drainpipe one night.
After crawling through a window, the toothpick-thin pickpocket had watched Gireaux pry up the floorboards to deposit the 60 string of lustrous matched pearls Nick lifted earlier that afternoon. He'd never mentioned what he saw that night to anyone, Gireaux in particular. Rumor was the coldblooded shop owner had strangled one particularly troublesome street punk with his own hands and dumped the body in the bay. Nick had possessed no desire to feed the sharks.
The safe was right where he remembered it, hidden beneath floorboards so dusty they looked as though they hadn't been swept since the previous century. Nick slid the tip of his blade between the boards until he located the spring that released them. Another of Mackenzie's supersensitive devices delivered the necessary amplification to hear the click of the spin lock as it disengaged. Thoughtfully, Nick surveyed the velvet drawstring bags nestled inside.
Was this what the thieves had been after? This hidden stash?
His gloved fingers slipped the knot on one bag and a waterfall of sparkling emeralds slid into his palm. The stones were grouped in star shaped patterns to form a three-inch wide choker.
Nick recognized the necklace instantly. It had last graced the neck of one of America's most voluptuous film stars. A jeweler anxious for free publicity had pressed her to wear the heavily insured choker at the Cannes film festival some years ago.
The necklace had disappeared the second night of the festival, and the attendant hue and cry had generated plenty of publicity, if not the kind the jeweler had anticipated. No wonder Gireaux had kept the piece hidden away. He'd been waiting for the heat to die down before trying to find a private buyer.
Nick played with the sparkling gems, remembering how they'd gleamed above the movie star's overripe breasts. They deserved a more elegant setting, a less overwhelming platform. A smile tugged at his mouth as he imagined them around Mackenzie's throat. With her green cat's eyes and creamy skin, she'd look magnificent stretched out on a silk coverlet wearing these emeralds.
Only these emeralds.
The smile slipped. His body went taut. He could see her sprawled on the fluffy duvet. Feel her under him. Her long legs tangled with his, her mouth open and eager. Sweating under his black turtleneck, he slid the glittering stones back into their bag.
Gireaux's ledgers lay at the bottom of the safe. Nick flipped through the later ones, not surprised at the shop owner's meticulous attention to detail.
Or by the names and addresses annotated in the margins.
For years Gireaux had made a double killing by blackmailing clients who'd lost wallets or purses containing compromising bits of information. Love notes from mistresses. Phone numbers for male prostitutes. Notices from the bank about late payments or overdue accounts. Gireaux had also sold stolen passports, IDs and credit cards on the black market. Both sidelines were dangerous. One might finally have gotten the old man killed.
The ledgers containing Henri Nicolas Everard's contributions to these shady enterprises spanned some six years. Shaking his head, Nick skimmed a glance down the handwritten entries. He knew he'd been quick and at times incredibly bold, but he hadn't realized he'd raked in such a haul.
Despite the incriminating evidence, he hadn't come to destroy the ledgers. The statute of limitations on his crimes had run out years ago. Nor was Nick particularly worried about having his past exposed. He wielded enough influence—and wealth— to put his own spin on whatever story might come out. Besides, his gut told him these books held the key to the murderous attacks on both him and on Gireaux.
Stuffing the ledgers into the black cloth sack he'd brought with him for just this purpose, he piled the velvet sacks back in the safe. All except the one containing the emeralds.
He'd have to come up with a credible story for how the collar came into his possession. Reimburse the insurance company for any payments to the jeweler who'd loaned out the necklace. Convince Mackenzie to wear them.
Grinning, he slipped the bag into his pocket.
It was close to dawn by the time he'd made the drive back to Nice. Leaving the rental car in the hotel's garage, he avoided the lobby and slipped up the back stairs. A quick flick with a small, handheld device directed a high-energy beam at the camera hidden in a vent. The beam temporarily blinded its electronic eye. For the few moments it took Nick to reach their suite, the lens would record nothing but gray fuzz.
The same device deactivated the intrusion detection devices Mackenzie had set up inside their suite. Two clicks, and Nick could use the key card without fear of setting off the silent alarms.
The sitting room was dark, the air saturated with the perfume of gladiolas. Nick entered on silent, rubber-soled shoes and speared a quick glance at the bedroom opposite his. Not so much as a glimmer of light showed under Mackenzie's closed door. He started for his own room, took only two steps, and felt a small prod at his left shoulder.
Pain jolted into him. Sharp. Slicing. His muscles contracted with shock. He lurched forward, but couldn't coordinate his movements.
Swearing viciously, he went down.
Chapter 6
Nick's right knee hit the carpet. He managed to keep from toppling over. Barely. Whoever had zapped him had used just enough juice to get his attention. The pain in his shoulder was ferocious, but not unbearable. From past experience, he knew he'd regain control over his muscles shortly. When he did...
With savage intensity, he fought the pain. Suddenly, the lights flicked on and flooded the suite with a golden glow.
"Well, well," a voice drawled from just behind him. "Look who the cat dragged in."
Silk swished. A figure draped in pale silver moved into the periphery of Nick's vision. With an effort that caused beads of sweat to pop out on his temples, he raised his head.
With casual unconcern for the voltage she'd just drilled into him, Mackenzie tossed a pencil-thin Taser onto a nearby table. Her glance was decidedly unsympathetic as it swept over his hunched form.
"You really shouldn't sneak into hotel rooms in the middle of the night, Nick. Or disable the silent alarms. I thought you were one of the bad guys breaking in."
The hell she had! She'd known exactly who she'd taken down. The look he shot her could have peeled the bark from a tree, but Mackenzie didn't so much as blink.
"For that matter," she continued, nonchalantly crossing her arms, "you really shouldn't sneak out of hotel rooms in the middle of the night. What was I supposed to think when I went to your room and found you gone?"
He could tell from the tight set to her jaw that she was royally torqued. Nick wasn't feeling too friendly at the moment, either. He didn't know which got to him more. The fact that she'd taken him down so easily or that she'd obviously decided to teach him a lesson.
Maybe it was time to teach Ms. Blair a thing or two.
Still propped on one knee, he grunted and reached for the strap of the cloth bag slung over his shoulder. He kept his movements slow, awkward... until his fingers wrapped around the strap. Without any warning, his arm whipped forward and brought the heavy ledgers
in an arc that knocked Mackenzie's feet out from under her.
"Hey!"
Nick lunged and caught her as she tumbled down. He managed to keep her tailbone from thumping the floor, then used her momentum to carry them both backward. His body landed on hers. Using its weight to keep her down, he grabbed her flailing arms and pinned them to the carpet. She bucked once or twice, more from surprise than from any real hope of dislodging him.
Deliberately, Nick relaxed his taut muscles and let her take his full weight. The air whooshed out of her lungs, and the fire went out of her eyes.
"Nick! I can't...breathe."
He eased his weight up on his elbows, but kept her under him. She pulled air back in with breathy little pants.
"All right," she gasped. "That's one takedown apiece. We're even." "Not quite."
The low growl made Mackenzie blink. She took in the skin stretched tight across his cheeks, the narrowed eyes, the clenched jaw. This was Lightning, the lethal operative she'd glimpsed in action the night of the attack. The same operative who'd sent a kitchen knife across a room with blinding speed.
Belatedly, it occurred to her that she might have unleashed something she could have trouble controlling. Wariness fluttered in her veins, overlaying the anger that had simmered there since she'd discovered him gone.
"Nick..."
Ignoring her breathless gasp, he stretched her arms high above her head and transferred both wrists into one hand. When he brought his free arm down and slid it beneath the small of her back, Mackenzie's pulse skittered. Stopped. Started again with a painful kick.
"Don't even think about it," she panted, reading his intent in his face.
"Too late."
His mouth came down on hers, and a dozen different responses flashed into Mackenzie's head. She could jerk up her knee. Crack her forehead against his. Sink her teeth into the lips savaging hers.
To Love a Thief Page 5
