Stolen. Tess Gerritsen
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secrets,” she answered calmly.
“And why on earth are you so fixated on Delancey? Isn’t it a bit risky to stick with the same victim?”
“Who said he’s the victim?” She lifted the glass to her lips and took a delicate sip. He found her every movement oddly fascinating. The way her lips parted, the way the liquid slid into that moist, red mouth. He found himself swallowing as well, felt his own throat suddenly go parched.
“What is it Delancey has that you want so very badly?” he asked.
“What were those papers you took?” she countered.
“It won’t work, you know.”
“What won’t work?”
“Trying to lump me in your category. You’re the thief.”
“And you’re not?”
“What I lifted from that wardrobe has no intrinsic value. It was a personal matter.”
“So is this for me,” she answered tightly. “A personal matter.”
Jordan frowned as a thought suddenly struck him. Guy Delancey had romanced Veronica Cairncross, and then had threatened to use her letters against her. Had he done the same to other women? Was Diana Lamb, or someone close to her, also a victim of Guy’s?
Or am I trying to talk myself out of the obvious? he thought. The obvious being, this woman was a garden-variety burglar, out for loot. She’d already proven herself adept at housebreaking. What else could she be?
Such a pity, he thought, eyeing that face with its alabaster cheeks and nut brown eyes. Sooner or later those intelligent eyes would be gazing out of a jail cell.
“Is there any way I can talk you out of this?” he asked.
“Why would you?”
“I just think it’s a waste of your apparent…talents. Plus there’s the matter of it being morally wrong, to boot.”
“Right, wrong.” She gave an unconcerned wave of her hand. “Sometimes it isn’t clear which is which.”
This woman was beyond reform! And the fact he knew she was a thief, knew what she had planned, made him almost as guilty if she succeeded.
Which, he decided, she would not.
He said, “I won’t let you, you know. While I’m not particularly fond of Guy Delancey, I won’t let him be robbed blind.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell him how we met?” she asked. Not a flicker of anxiety was in her eyes.
“No. But I’m going to warn him.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“Suspicions.”
“I’d be careful if I were you.” She took another sip of her drink and placidly set the glass down. “Suspicions can go in more than one direction.”
She had him there, and they both knew it. He couldn’t warn Delancey without implicating himself as a thief. If Delancey chose to raise a fuss about it to the police, not only would Jordan’s reputation be irreparably tarnished, Veronica’s, too, would suffer.
No, he’d prefer not to take that risk.
He met Diana’s calm gaze with one just as steady. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” he said, and smiled.
“Meaning what, pray tell?”
“Meaning I plan to make it bloody difficult for you to so much as lift a teaspoon from the man and get away with it.”
For the first time he saw a ripple of anxiety in her eyes. Her brightly painted red lips drew tight. “You don’t understand. This is not your concern—”
“Of course it is. I plan to watch you like a hawk. I’m going to follow you and Delancey everywhere. Pop up when you least expect it. Make a royal nuisance of myself. In short, Miss Lamb, I’ve adopted you as my crusade. And if you make one false move, I’m going to cry wolf.” He sat back, smiling. “Think about it.”
She was thinking about it, and none too happily, judging by her expression.
“You can’t do this,” she whispered.
“I can. I have to.”
“There’s too much at stake! I won’t let you ruin it—”
“Ruin what?”
She was about to answer when a hand closed over her shoulder. She glanced up sharply at Guy Delancey, who’d just returned and now stood behind her.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said cheerily. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Yes, everything’s fine.” Though the color had drained from her face, she still managed to smile, to flash Delancey a look of coquettish promise. “Is the car ready?”
“Waiting at the gate, my lady.” Guy helped her from her chair. Then he gave Jordan a careless nod of farewell. “See you around, Jordan.”
Jordan caught a last glimpse of the woman’s face, looking back at him in smothered anger. Then, with shoulders squared, she followed Delancey into the crowd.
You’ve been warned, Diana Lamb, thought Jordan. Now he’d see if she heeded that warning. And just in case she didn’t…
Jordan pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. Gingerly he picked up the woman’s champagne glass by the lower stem and peered at the smudge of ruby red lipstick. He smiled. There, crystal clear on the surface of the glass, was what he’d been looking for.
Fingerprints.
OGILVIE FINISHED SHOOTING his third roll of film and clipped the lens cap back on his telephoto. He had more than enough shots of the blond man. By tonight he’d have the images transmitted to London and, with any luck, an ID would be forthcoming. The fact Clea Rice had apparently picked up an unknown associate disturbed him, if only because he’d had no inkling of it. As far as he knew, the woman traveled alone, and always had.
He’d have to find out more about the blond chap.
The woman rose from her chair and departed with Guy Delancey. Ogilvie tucked his camera in his bag and left the tent to follow them. He kept a discreet distance, far enough back so that he would blend in with the crowd. She was an easy subject to tail, with all that red hair shimmering in the sunlight. The worst possible choice for anyone trying to avoid detection. But that was Clea Rice, always doing the unexpected.
The couple headed for the gate.
Ogilvie picked up his pace. He slipped through the gates just in time to see that head of red hair duck into a waiting Bentley.
Frantically Ogilvie glanced around the parking lot and spotted his black MG socked in three rows deep. By the time he could extricate it from that sea of Jaguars and Mercedes, Delancey and the woman could be miles away.
In frustration he watched Delancey’s Bentley drive off. So much for following them; he’d have to catch up with her later. No problem. He knew which hotel she was staying at, knew that she’d paid for the next three nights in advance.
He decided to shift his efforts to the blond man.
Fifteen minutes later he spotted the man leaving through the gates. By that time Ogilvie had his car ready and waiting near the parking-lot exit. He saw the man step into a champagne gold Jaguar, and he took note of the license number. The Jaguar pulled out of the parking lot.
So did Ogilvie’s MG.
His quarry led him on a long and winding route through rolling fields and trees, leaves already tinted with the fiery glow of autumn. Blueblood country, thought Ogilvie, noting the sleek horses in the pasture. Whoever was