by Tory Hayward
Dan had never been one to push things, or take the extra risk. It was why Jack liked him so much. He was the calm one, the steady one. The one who tempered Jack’s wild ideas and talked sense. Dan was all about the bottom line, profit and loss, retirement plans and property ownership.
Dan liked searching for treasures as much as Jack, but this time he hadn’t wanted to be there. He’d wanted to be back with his wife who was due to go into labour at any moment, and was trying to get home as quickly as he could. He’d been distracted. Underestimated the risks of the job.
And to top it all off they’d broken one of their golden rules, and separated. Jack had taken off after a Nazi art horde worth millions, whilst Dan did the job in China. Jack’s job, though successful, was now bogged down in government red tape and bickering estate heirs and would make them little money.
As soon as Dan had landed in the clutches of Wuu Sing Chow, Jack had headed to China, to get him back. But after days of negotiation, and some rough treatment dished out in his direction—he glanced at the scar on his forearm, courtesy of the lugubrious hench-goon Ping and a red-hot branding iron—the only way he could buy Dan’s freedom was to leave his own life as forfeit should anything go wrong.
At the time he hadn’t taken the search for the jewels seriously. There was nothing he couldn’t find. He had a gut instinct for it. Descended from a long line of pirates and profiteers—who’d ended up dumped on Norfolk Island after mutinying on the Bounty—getting things that people wanted and selling them for money was in his blood.
He took getting the jewels seriously now though. Really seriously. And his gut was telling him that he was in a world of trouble.
Chapter Eleven
Jack checked his watch, and squinted impatiently at the Margaret Preston woodblock print on the wall. He adored art, especially Australian art, but this evening he wasn’t feeling the love.
He’d heard that the NSW Art Gallery was presenting a new painting, donated by Max Taylor, Meredith’s father. Given that Meredith had mentioned to her haughty neighbour that the father was in India, and being fully aware of said Miss Taylor’s love of any social event where she could glitter and sparkle in jewels and fine dresses, he was acting on a hunch and hoping she’d be there.
Hoping rather a lot.
He’d spent the day in his hotel, catching up on sleep and trying to figure out how to part Ms Taylor from the jewels. He’d already researched the family thoroughly, but he’d gone over his notes again. They had a reputation of being easy to deal with, and seemed motivated by the highest bidder and little else. Her stubbornness seemed out of character, but he didn’t give it much thought.
Jack did another circuit of the woodblock prints, keeping a close eye on the gallery’s entrance hall. Then checked his watch.
Exactly 5.45 pm.
The presentation was due to begin at six. He glared at another Margaret Preston, and then glanced up with a jolt of adrenaline when a flurry of movement erupted at the cathedral-like entrance. Dress lifted daintily, Merry stepped carefully over the threshold. Jack sighed with relief.
She looked incredible in a long white dress which skimmed the ground, her blonde curls up, making her look more regal than ever. A slight smile hovered on her lips.
Nothing like the bad-tempered sweaty woman he’d encountered that morning. A murmur of desire shifted in the centre of his chest, making him pull at the neck of his shirt and adjust his suit jacket. White suited her, especially when she was in ice-queen mode, but he rather preferred the annoyed, sweaty version.
Meredith strode through the marble entrance hall as if she owned the place, gown swirling around her legs, well-dressed men on either side, hurrying to keep up. She glanced in Jack’s direction once, and her eyes slid away as if she hadn’t seen him. But the rhythm of her heels, tapping on the marble floor, hesitated for a single beat, and then continued, as if nothing had happened.
The hesitation made him smile. Ms Taylor was fully aware of his presence.
Let the games begin.
Jack followed her slowly to the function room where the painting would be revealed and the gallery’s curators would ooze gratitude and smarm at the assembled guests. He’d been to hundreds of these things over the years, across Europe and the USA. They were all the same.
He sipped champagne through the speeches, and though he tried, couldn’t keep his eyes off Merry. She stood, entirely motionless, not a flicker of expression on her face, her lips curved in a polite smile, but no hint of what was going on behind those golden-brown eyes.
She came over to him the minute the platitudes had been spoken, the thanks had been given, and the hubbub of conversation begun to grow.
‘I’ve told you time and again that you are wasting your time, Mr Jones.’ There was exasperation in her voice.
‘I know. I believe you. I’m not here about the jewels. I’ve let them go.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘You’re a fan of Sidney Nolan?’ She glanced toward the painting her father had donated.
‘He was my first.’
‘Your first what?’ The full lips pressed together in a cynical expression, she looked afraid of what he might say.
‘An exhibition including one of his Ned Kelly paintings came to Norfolk Island when I was a child. It fascinated me. Sewed the seeds for what I do now.’
‘You’re from Norfolk Island?’ Her face lit up with interest and he instantly wanted to have a real conversation with her, about Sidney Nolan, or Norfolk Island or anything that held no risk of tense barbs or mention of the damn jewels.
‘My parents still live there, but I escaped the first moment I could. Seventeen, with a backpack and barely a cent to my name. I made it to Europe and haven’t looked back.’
‘It’s a beautiful place.’
‘Small when you are a teenager. Very small.’
She nodded as if she understood what it might be like to be brought up on a tiny island in the middle of the sea and feel contained and constrained by its thirty-five square kilometre area.
‘It was generous of your father to donate that Sidney Nolan to the gallery. Very altruistic of him.’ Jack was a little surprised her father wasn’t here. Surely he’d have some interest in giving away the painting.
Now her lips curved in a smile, but it was not an expression of delight, more like cynical politeness. ‘This donation will save my father thousands in tax deductions. Not altruistic so much as good business. He does loathe to pay taxes.’
‘I think we got off to a bad start, Meredith.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded, eyes turning cold. ‘When you broke into my beach house, armed.’
‘I’d like to apologise. Come for a drink, now. We can talk.’
For a moment her eyes softened and he thought she might say yes. But she shook her head sternly. ‘So you can badger me about the jewels? I think not.’
‘I won’t mention them, I promise. Come on, there’s something very special I’d like to show you.’
At that moment, a stout gentleman came up to them; sweat gleamed on his forehead and dribbled over the rolls at the back of his neck.
‘Meredith?’ His hand slid over her arm and his eyes wandered over her chest. Jack could practically see her tense, and was amazed the lump in front of him couldn’t sense it too. ‘Meredith, you must come with me. I simply have to discuss what happened last time on my yacht.’
‘I’m sorry, Marcel.’ She sounded strained. ‘But I have an appointment with Mr Jones here. I cannot keep him waiting.’
‘Oh well.’ The man blustered, noticing Jack for the first time and looking him up and down with a sneer of contempt. ‘I hardly think he’s worth your time.’
Her lips pressed together in a thin line and Jack could see sparks of anger in her eyes.
‘Is that so?’
‘I have an offer to make you. One that you won’t refuse—’
‘Shall we go, Mr Jones?’ Merry turned to Jack with an expression that dared him t
o object.
‘Of course.’ He gestured to the door and she swayed out, her arm brushing against the sleeve of his jacket.
On the pavement she turned to him. ‘Thank you. That man—’
‘What happened on the yacht?’ Jack thought for a moment she wouldn’t answer. But then she met his eye and grinned, a big amused smile. His heart flipped in his chest. It was the only way he could describe the tingling sensation that swept through him. Flipping.
That smile.
He’d been resisting his attraction to her, telling himself she was beautiful and any straight male over the age of ten would glance at her and not easily look away. He’d been unwilling to buy into something he knew she’d never reciprocate, or even welcome. But now he gave up denying his feelings. Enough was enough.
He wanted Merry. Plain and simple. Wanted her so bad it made his toes curl, and his heart skip and his cock harden ... he stopped that thought before things got out of hand.
She talked easily, thankfully oblivious to Jack’s agonising realisation.
‘Marcel Laprise invited me for dinner on his boat, and my father persuaded me to go. He’s horribly wealthy and Dad likes me to schmooze up to anyone who might be useful. Unbeknownst to me, Marcel sent his staff away, and then appeared dressed in a Balenciaga ball gown. I hadn’t even finished my dessert, and it was a very nice raspberry bavarois.’
‘Well, he has nice taste in gowns.’ Jack tried to imagine the portly Marcel in a couture dress, and flinched at the idea.
She shook her head. ‘With no underwear on underneath. Or so he told me. I jumped overboard before he got it high enough for me to see properly. I swam to shore and I was wearing a new Collette Dinnigan dress. It was completely ruined.’
‘You could’ve drowned, swimming in the dark.’
I shrugged. ‘I doubt it. We were close to shore and it was a warm night. I rather enjoyed the dip.’
‘Come with me.’ He pointed up the road. ‘I truly do have something amazing to show you.’
She frowned, but there was intrigue in her eyes. ‘Something nice?’
He nodded. ‘I promise.’
They strolled the short distance to the Sydney Conservatorium of Music. A beautiful sandstone building in the city’s botanic gardens. Stepping through the entrance hall, he heard her take a surprised breath and she stopped suddenly.
‘Do you hear it?’
Distantly, a cello was being played.
She swayed towards the direction of the music. ‘Bach’s Cello Suites. They’re wonderful.’
‘Come on.’ Jack gestured towards the music.
Her smile, her real smile, the delighted one that made his heart flip, again hovered on her lips, and was all the reply she needed to give. He led her through a warren of passages until they came to a small concert hall filled with a handful of people.
In the centre of the stage sat a teenaged girl in a long, deep-purple velvet dress; she played a cello with such deft brilliance that goosebumps prickled over Jack’s arms. He sought incredible rare things, it was his life’s work, and knew as he laid eyes on her, he watched another.
‘She’s blind,’ he whispered to Merry.
‘That cello is a Stradivarius,’ she murmured back. It was the rarest and most sought-after type of string instrument.
‘I thought you’d like to see it, played by a genius.’
She didn’t reply, just sank into a nearby seat.
He watched her face, the cool mask had completely dropped away as she gazed at the stage. She looked younger somehow, more naive and less polished. There was a dreaminess in her expression that made emotion twist around his heart and he wondered how the hell he could work things out so that he got hold of the jewels, and saved himself and Dan, all without alienating this fascinating woman.
Chapter Twelve
Though I kept my eyes fixed on the beautiful girl playing the wonderful cello, all my senses were tuned in the direction of Jack Jones. A part of me hadn’t been surprised to see him at the art gallery, and a small unwelcome part of me had been pleased that he was there. I’d been anticipating a dull evening, eluding the clutches of the appalling Marcel Laprise, and the appearance of Jack Jones had made it infinitely more interesting.
He didn’t sit, though there were seats next to me. I wondered how he’d known about this. It wasn’t a formal concert, clearly a dress rehearsal for something.
A man, dressed in jeans, a tweed jacket and a bow tie came up the stairs towards them, his grin aimed at Jack, hand outstretched.
‘It’s good to see you, my friend.’ He shook Jack’s hand vigorously and then pulled him into a hug. ‘Genevieve will be so thrilled you heard her play.’
Jack winked at me over his friend’s shoulder and I quickly turned my attention to the stage. The girl, Genevieve, came to the end of her piece and was assisted off the stage, as a delicate-looking harpsichord was carefully carried on and set down gently. A breath on my shoulder made me glance around.
‘Back in five minutes. Don’t go anywhere, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.’
I began to tell him he needn’t bother asking about the jewels, but the harpsichordist began to play. It was the Winter movement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. My mother, an accomplished pianist, had played the tune over and over throughout my childhood.
My voice caught in my throat as I was propelled backwards in time, and I turned back to the stage, unable to speak and desperately fighting sudden tears.
Jack hesitated for a moment, as if he sensed my distress, but then followed the bow-tied man.
I let the music drift over me and remembered my mother in blue and grey tinged bittersweet memories. The sharp discordant notes of the music and the sadness of the endlessly falling scales must have perfectly reflected how my mother felt as she floated, starved of affection, in her husband’s shadow.
It was what terrified me the most, to fall in love and not have it returned. To be trapped, longing desperately for someone who could never be what you wanted.
Libby had said to look at her and Nathan. Just good old-fashioned messy, smelly love. Real love. Libby said my parents were from a bygone era, that my mother should’ve left, that I shouldn’t be afraid, that I should ‘…find some normal beer-drinking guy who doesn’t ponce around in a designer car, wouldn’t be caught dead getting a manicure and most of all who sees you as a geeky antiques chick and not an heiress, and then just go for it.’
And a bold corner of my heart wanted to ‘go for it’, quite desperately. But common sense overruled my silly heart. I’d tried relationships, it’d been a train wreck. No one ever saw me as a geeky antiques chick.
Jack reappeared ten minutes later, thankfully the harpsichordist had moved on to another piece and I had my emotions under control. I glanced at Jack’s hands. Broad, strong, nails that’d never seen the side of an emery board, no hint of a manicure.
‘Come and have a drink, down at the Opera House—’
I picked up my small purse from the chair beside my and rose, nodding. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’
He smiled, and I pressed a hand to my stomach to settle the sudden burst of butterflies. The memory of that moment when I’d opened the jewel case drifted across my mind, the technicolour fantasy where I’d been having toe-curlingly incredible sex with Jack. I dismissed it quickly. Stupid hormones.
‘I believe your father has an interest in the Polish Crown Jewels,’ said Jack as we strolled down Macquarie Street, past the botanic gardens towards the Opera House.
‘Yes?’ I glanced at him in surprise. ‘Those diamonds disappeared from Warsaw during World War Two. A Nazi commander is said to have taken them when they ransacked the museum. They haven’t been seen since.’
He shrugged. ‘I know. People think they’ve ended up in some inaccessible Swiss bank vault, or broken up and sold.’
‘Thing is,’ I said. ‘None of the jewellers at the time had a record of handling them. And if they were forced to break up somethin
g like that they would have recorded it. So people knew what had happened.’
‘My theory has always been that they wouldn’t have cut them up. The commander who took them appreciated the treasures he stole. He had his own art gallery.’
I nodded in agreement as we took the stairs down to the Opera House forecourt and Jack ushered me into a seat a short distance from the bar. A jazz band played nearby and the sound drifted on the warm still air.
‘That was Dad’s theory too,’ I said. ‘That the Polish Crown Jewels are out there, somewhere.’
‘Absinthe?’ asked Jack, eyebrow raised inquiringly as a waiter hovered close to our table.
I suppressed a smile. ‘White wine is fine, just the house one.’
I leaned towards him, excitement bubbling. This was why I loved what I did. Finding lost things. Treasures that people had given up on. The buying and the selling never interested me much, though I was good at it, I’d made sure I was. But the discovering. That was what I loved. ‘So you’ve got a lead?’
He shook his head. ‘Not really.’
I pushed myself back in my chair, annoyed. ‘Why are you telling me if you don’t have a lead?’
‘Well …’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I didn’t want to bring it up yet, but … well, since you asked.’
‘I’m not selling you the Piprahwa Jewels.’ I spoke through gritted teeth, suppressing the urge to douse him in my drink. The whole nagging for the jewels thing was getting very very boring.
‘I wanted to set up a partnership, between my company and yours. Infinity, my business, is unheard of in the Southern Hemisphere. I’m well established in Europe and the US, but I wanted to expand into the Asia Pacific market.’
‘And rather than be in direct competition with us, you want to work together?’
‘Exactly. My parents are in their late seventies now, and I can see myself spending more time back in Australia in the future. So it would work well for me.’
I suppressed a burst of interest. ‘But what about your UK interests, you’ll need to supervise them?’
