An Angel In Stone. Peggy Nicholson
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Eames’s home court, and she certainly didn’t need the curator drooling over her shoulder, while she tried to cut a deal. A fossil of great interest was, by definition, a bone of contention. Careers as well as fortunes rose and fell with paleontology’s great discoveries.
Consider me beguiled. She looked up to send that silent reply, but Amber Eyes was speaking to the same Indian with the tray. Something passed between their hands—a tip for the man’s trouble, no doubt.
“You would be Mr. Ken…Cade?” the waiter asked with a nervous gulp.
“Kincade. Who wants to know?”
“I was told to give you…this.” He thrust a small white rectangle into Kincade’s hand, then retreated through the crush.
Odd. Kincade inspected both front and back of the envelope, but there wasn’t a mark on it. Who knew he’d be here tonight? There’d been a guest list published in the museum’s newsletter, he supposed, and possibly in the Times, but—
“Who’s that from?” Amanda wondered at his elbow.
“That’s a lovely nose, sweetheart.” Likely the best that money could buy. “But as for sticking it in my business?” Cade dropped the unread note in his pocket as he took her by the arm. “Let’s find you another drink.” And somebody else to play with. He’d blown his cover back there anyway; Raine had noticed his interest.
But then, she must be used to men staring.
Even so, maybe it was time to take it up a notch. He hadn’t meant to meet her tonight, but he had a sudden urge to learn if her voice matched the rest of her. He’d ditch Amanda, and then—
Raine chanced to be looking up at the Allosaurus, when its head exploded.
Chapter 3
T he shot ricocheted off the stone wall with a vicious whine. A woman screamed, then stunned silence spread in widening ripples.
“Ladies and gentleman, touch a cell phone and you’re dead! I mean you, sir!” The gun cracked again. A man yelled and clutched at his shoulder. His phone clattered on the marble terrazzo.
“Hands on your head. Everybody! Now!”
By the metal detector, the guard lay in a boneless heap. In a beautifully tailored suit, the shooter stood before him. A Halloween mask concealed his face—ex–President Clinton, with a rubbery aw, shucks grin that didn’t match his commands.
He’d come in as a guest with the mask in his pocket, Raine assumed, then used either a knife or a Taser to secure the guard’s gun. Clinton blocked the main—eastern—entrance, the revolving doors that gave onto Central Park West.
Balancing her champagne flute on her head with both hands, she swung casually to the south. There was an exit in the center of each wall of this rectangular gallery.
But for this event each had been closed with its own set of pocket doors. These were cast bronze fit for a cathedral, each half of which had to weigh tons. Nothing to be hastily dived through at the best of times, and with a rubber-faced “Jimmy Carter” holding a pistol at the south exit, well, forget that line of retreat.
Jimmy had taken out a second security guard. This one was conscious, wriggling futilely against the nylon ties that cuffed his hands behind his back.
“All of you, move! Thataway, move! Take your hands off your head and you die. Move it!”
Amazing how quickly a self-satisfied crowd could be reduced to a docile herd. With shaky whispers, they shuffled in the direction their captors indicated with waving guns, till a smirking “George Bush” shunted them away from the northern doors.
At last everyone converged, trapped against an inner corner of the room.
A glass of perfectly good champagne on her head, and her mouth had gone dry as a stone. Relax, Raine warned herself. Focus. Danger either numbed the senses—or it sharpened them.
So…two Democrats, one Republican. She counted three gunmen in all. Bush stood fairly close to her left; Carter far off on the right. Clinton was clearly the boss. He stepped up onto the central dais and strode across it till he stopped by the baby Barosaurus. His roving gaze cowed the last terrified whispers to silence.
Could this be her watcher? If he had golden eyes, the mask’s exaggerated brow ridge shadowed their color. Raine studied the man’s shoulders. They didn’t seem quite as deliciously wide as she remembered. But how else to account for that aura of leashed danger she’d sensed, each time she’d met Amber Eyes’s gaze? At some instinctive level she’d known the man was a predator.
“Keep your hands on your head and kneel,” Clinton rasped. “You there.” He aimed his gun to Raine’s right—at Trenton. The linebacker towered over Mrs. Lowell, who looked as if she’d erupt any second. “Help the old bag down. Yeah, like that—now hands up! Move it, folks. A little cooperation and we’ll be out of here in no time. Just sit tight till the taxman gets to you, then give him everything you’ve got—your wallet, your jewels, your phone. And meanwhile, shut up over there!”
A hysterical sobbing was instantly hushed.
Jerk. Bully. Raine studied the distance from herself to the dais. Her knife was balanced for throwing, but Clinton stood beyond her outer limit of accuracy. Besides, kneeling on the hem of her ankle-length gown, she couldn’t reach her weapon discreetly. Make a note for Shoba. Next dress needs a side zipper for instant access.
But as for now…Could she really let these creeps take her opals? The necklace wasn’t worth a tenth of Mrs. Lowell’s sapphires, but Raine’s mother had helped her dig up its first stone when she was eight. It was one of the last things her mother had ever touched on this earth. How can I give it up?
Her eyes ranged over the crowd. Who else feels the same? Trenton? But no, the big man dropped his ruby tie tack in the bag he’d been handed, while Jimmy Carter covered him with his gun. Next he helped Mrs. Lowell unhook her necklace. Trenton might be deadly on the five-yard line, but he played games; he didn’t play for keeps.
Eames? The curator’s shoulders were hunched high around his ears. His elbows trembled like a fledgling’s bony wings. No help there.
A woman somewhere behind Raine pleaded that she couldn’t get it off! She couldn’t! A squeal of pain and Bush’s coarse chuckle ended the dispute.
“If you can’t remove your rings, ladies and gentlemen, that’s no problem,” soothed the man on the dais. “Jimmy Carter has the bolt cutters, if you need assistance.”
Joke, Raine told herself desperately. Maybe.
All right, if she couldn’t reach her knife, what did she have? John Ashaway had taught all his children self defense. Then when Trey had joined the firm, he’d honed their combat skills to an ex-SEAL’s satisfaction. Think. What would Trey do? The envelope she still gripped between two fingers was too small to roll into a weapon. She wore high wedge sandals, easy to run in, but without stilletto heels.
To her right came a muffled groan. Raine turned in time to see a blood-soaked man wobble, sag—his eyes rolled back in his head. His neighbor cursed and caught him—lowered him gently to the floor, to lie in a spreading, dark puddle.
The wounded one was the man who’d tried to phone for help, and his Samaritan—“Oh!” Raine cried aloud. Amber Eyes! So he wasn’t one of these brutes—wasn’t Clinton. Sorry! she apologized mentally.
He glared past her at the man on the dais. “This guy’s bleeding to death. Better let me take him out to the—”
“Shut up!” Clinton took aim on his forehead. “Hands back on your head!”
“Look, you don’t want him dead, either. At least let me—”
Clinton swung—blew the head off the baby Barosaurus—then turned his gun back on Amber Eyes. “Want the same? Keep talking.”
O-kay,