Stolen. Tess Gerritsen
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in that line of work. He might know your firm.”
She smiled back at him, her lips immensely kissable, her teeth a bright arc in the night. “I work for Nimrod Associates,” she said. Then, turning, she walked away.
“Wait. Miss—”
She waved a gloved hand in farewell, but didn’t look back.
“I didn’t catch your name!” he said.
“And I didn’t catch yours,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s keep it that way.”
He saw her blond hair gleam faintly in the darkness. And then, in a twinkling, she was gone. Her absence seemed to leave the night colder, the darkness deeper. The only hint that she’d even been there was his residual ache of desire.
I shouldn’t have let her go, he thought. I know bloody well she’s a thief. But what could he have done? Hauled her to the police? Explained that he’d caught her in Guy Delancey’s bedroom, where neither one of them belonged?
With a weary shake of his head, he turned and began the long tramp to his car, parked a half mile away. He’d have to hurry back to Chetwynd. It was getting late and he’d be missed at the party.
At least his mission was accomplished; he’d stolen Veronica’s letters back. He’d hand them over to her, let her lavish him with thanks for saving her precious hide. After all, he had saved her hide, and he was bloody well going to tell her so.
And then he was going to strangle her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE PARTY AT Chetwynd was still in full swing. Through the ballroom windows came the sounds of laughter and violin music and the cheery clink of champagne glasses. Jordan stood in the driveway and considered his best mode of entry. The back stairs? No, he’d have to walk through the kitchen, and the staff would certainly find that suspicious. Up the trellis to Uncle Hugh’s bedroom? Definitely not; he’d done enough tangling with vines for the night. He’d simply waltz in the front door and hope the guests were too deep in their cups to notice his disheveled state.
He straightened his bow tie and brushed the twigs off his jacket. Then he let himself in the front door.
To his relief, no one was in the entrance hall. He tiptoed past the ballroom doorway and started up the curving staircase. He was almost to the second-floor landing when a voice called from below.
“Jordie, where on earth have you been?”
Suppressing a groan, Jordan turned and saw his sister, Beryl, standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was looking flushed and lovelier than ever, her black hair swirled elegantly atop her head, her bared shoulders lustrous above the green velvet gown. Being in love certainly agreed with her. Since her engagement to Richard Wolf a month ago, Jordan had seldom seen her without a smile on her face.
At the moment she was not smiling.
She stared at his wrinkled jacket, his soiled trouser legs and muddy shoes. She shook her head. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“Then don’t.”
“I’ll ask anyway. What happened to you?”
He turned and continued up the stairs. “I went out for a walk.”
“That’s all?” She bounded up the steps after him in a rustle of skirts and stockings. “First you make me invite that horrid Guy Delancey—who, by the way, is drinking like a fish and going ‘round pinching ladies’ bottoms. Then you simply vanish from the party. And you reappear looking like that.”
He went into his bedroom.
She followed him.
“It was a long walk,” he said.
“It’s been a long party.”
“Beryl.” He sighed, turning to face her. “I really am sorry about Guy Delancey. But I can’t talk about it right now. I’d be betraying a confidence.”
“I see.” She went to the door, then glanced back. “I can keep a secret, you know.”
“So can I.” Jordan smiled. “That’s why I’m not saying a thing.”
“Well, you’d best change your clothes, then. Or someone’s going to ask why you’ve been climbing wisteria vines.” She left, shutting the door behind her.
Jordan looked down at his jacket. Only then did he notice the leaf, poking like a green flag from his buttonhole.
He changed into a fresh tuxedo, combed the twigs from his hair and went downstairs to rejoin the party.
Though it was past midnight, the champagne was still flowing and the scene in the ballroom was as jolly as when he’d left it an hour and a half earlier. He swept up a glass from a passing tray and eased back into circulation. No one mentioned his absence; perhaps no one had noticed it. He worked his way across the room to the buffet table, where a magnificent array of hors d’oeuvres had been laid out, and he helped himself to the Scottish salmon. Breaking and entering was hard work, and he was famished.
A whiff of perfume, a hand brushing his arm, made him turn. It was Veronica Cairncross. “Well?” she whispered anxiously. “How did it go?”
“Not exactly clockwork. You were wrong about the butler’s night off. There was a manservant in the house. I could have been caught.”
“Oh, no,” she moaned softly. “Then you didn’t get them…”
“I got them. They’re upstairs.”
“You did?” A smile of utter happiness burst across her face. “Oh, Jordie!” She leaned forward and threw her arms around him, smearing salmon on his tuxedo. “You saved my life.”
“I know, I know.” He suddenly spotted Veronica’s husband, Oliver, moving toward them. At once Jordan extricated himself from her embrace. “Ollie’s coming this way,” he whispered.
“Is he?” Veronica turned and automatically beamed her thousand-watt smile at Sir Oliver. “Darling, there you are! I lost track of you.”
“You don’t seem to be missing me much,” grunted Sir Oliver. He frowned at Jordan, as though trying to divine his real intentions.
Poor fellow, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica was deserving of pity. Sir Oliver was a decent enough fellow, a descendant of the excellent Cairncross family, manufacturers of tea biscuits. Though twenty years older than his wife, and bald as a cue ball, he’d managed to win Veronica’s hand—and to keep that hand well studded with diamonds.
“It’s getting late,” said Oliver. “Really, Veronica, shouldn’t we be going home?”
“So soon? It’s just past midnight.”
“I have that meeting in the morning. And I’m quite tired.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to be going, then,” Veronica said with a sigh. She smiled slyly at Jordan. “I think I’ll sleep well tonight.”
Just see that it’s with your husband, thought Jordan with a shake of his head.
After the Cairncrosses had departed, Jordan glanced down and saw the greasy sliver of salmon clinging to his lapel. Drat, another tuxedo bites the dust. He wiped away the mess as best he could, picked up his glass of champagne and waded back into the crowd.
He cornered his future brother-in-law, Richard Wolf, near the musicians. Wolf was looking happy and dazed—just the way one expected a prospective bridegroom to look.
“So how’s our guest of honor holding up?” asked Jordan.
Richard grinned. “Giving the old handshake a rest.”
“Good idea to pace oneself.” Jordan’s gaze shifted toward