Destiny's Hand. Lori Wilde
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with intriguing histories and unique North African objets d’art, which is how the White Star came into my possession. The amulet is very lovely. It is a five-pointed star made of the purest snow-white ivory and it is about the size of a petite woman’s palm, with a hollow center. However, anyone could know this if he or she had done the research, so let me suggest that you check my credentials. Perhaps that would convince you that I am genuine.
Morgan inhaled sharply. His description accurately matched the illustration of the White Star that she and Cass had stumbled across in the old French tome and then read about in an article in the New York Times when it had been stolen from the Stanhope auction house. The amulet had been recovered, but then it had been stolen from a museum, found again and was now currently missing from the evidence room at Sam’s precinct. She couldn’t help but wonder if Henri Renouf knew something about the thefts that he wasn’t telling.
Had he obtained the White Star through illegal means? It seemed likely. Yet everyone was innocent until proven guilty. Who was she to judge? She wanted to believe that he was a trustworthy man who’d gained access to the White Star honestly and that he was a legitimate collector, but she had to know for sure.
Quickly, she googled him and learned that yes, Henri Renouf was indeed a legitimate collector who had been in business for many, many years. She scoured the information that she downloaded, looking for anything incriminating, but found nothing alarming.
Still, did she dare trust him?
Throw caution to the wind for once in your life. Take a chance.
But she’d just done that by trying to seduce Adam, and look how miserably that impulse had played out.
Yes, but her gut had told her that going to the Grand Duchess was wrong. She had acted on Cass’s advice, not her own instinct. She had to ask herself this question: did she truly believe Renouf had the White Star?
In her mind’s eye she could see Egmath and Batu, meeting clandestinely in the cypress grove, their love for each other eternal and pure. The story that had held her spellbound for months would not let go of her.
She couldn’t help comparing the legendary lovers to her relationship. Morgan sighed with longing and cast her mind back to her courtship days with Adam.
They’d been in a study group together in college and after the group ended they just kept meeting for coffee every Thursday night. She liked him from the very beginning, their eyes meeting across the table, their smiles lingering on each other. They’d gotten the best grades in the class. Two high achievers in a mutual admiration society.
Their goals had been so closely aligned back then, their values so similar it was little wonder that they got along so well. It was breezy being with him, light and fun and hopeful. When he asked her to the symphony to hear her favorite composer she’d eagerly accepted his invitation. It turned out that they liked the same music, read the same books and enjoyed the same kind of movies.
“Cut from the same cloth,” was what their friends said about them.
When she met Adam’s family, his mother told her it was as if they’d just been waiting for her to walk through the door—the bond was that instant, that right. It was the same with Adam and her family. Her dad called him the son he’d never had.
The more she knew about Adam, the more she admired and respected him. He was thoughtful and gentle. He opened the car door for her, helped her on with her coat, pulled out her chair when they dined in restaurants. He bought her little gifts and never forgot important dates. He got along with her friends, and she with his. He was even-tempered and goal-oriented. And just like Morgan, he had a plan for his life and was busily on the path to success. His kisses curled her toes and when they eventually made love it felt nice and warm and safe.
Like coming home after a long journey.
Everyone thought they were the perfect match.
But it had been almost too easy. There had been no big dramas, no major conflicts to overcome, no challenges to hurdle.
Sometimes Morgan couldn’t help wondering if Adam had married her simply because their relationship had been so easy. At some point had he felt trapped by the niceness of it all and drifted into the union because it was expected?
She thought quitting her job and taking on the less stressful role of shop owner would strengthen their marriage, but it had not. She’d changed, while Adam had stayed the same. Safe and nice and warm were no longer enough. In her marriage, she ached for the same kind of red hot energy, the throbbing intensity of passion that fable claimed Egmath and Batu had shared.
Weird as is seemed, Morgan felt that if she did not get to see inside that box, she would never know for sure how Adam truly felt about her. The notion was purely emotional. She knew it, yet she could not shake the irrational impulse.
For her peace of mind, she had to find out what was in that box.
Dear Monsieur Renouf, she tapped out on the keyboard. It just so happens I have plans to visit France within the following week….
IN A LAVISH VILLA IN the south of France, Henri Renouf sat back in his plush leather chair in front of his state-of-the-art computer, a sinister smile playing across his sun-weathered face.
The foolish woman had taken the bait.
She was so easy. It was like being a chess champion and condemned to play with a rabbit. But she had brought to his attention a new conquest to add to his collection, and for that he was grateful.
This new discovery of a mysterious box linked with the White Star was exhilarating and only served to fuel his obsession with the amulet and its legend of star-crossed lovers.
He had to possess that box. At all costs. He would risk everything just to get his hands on it. Nothing mattered more to him.
Renouf rubbed his palms together in a quick, excited gesture and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored tile of the wet bar across the room. He was nearly bald, and what hair he had left he vainly dyed jet-black.
Frowning, he pushed back from the chair and tramped to the mirror for a closer look. His eyes were his most striking feature—intense black pupils emphasized by remarkably clear whites. A lover had once told him that his eyes didn’t seem quite human. He’d taken the comment as a compliment, not for the frightened insult the woman had intended.
Henri traced stubby fingers over the lines embedded in his forehead, the furrows running beside his nose to the corners of his mouth. They suggest experience, command, impatience with fools. But he was vain enough to hate the wrinkles and yet he loved the sun too much to stay out of it.
He had other vices, as well. Cigars and cognac and rich food. His indulgences had thickened his waist. Even so, most people thought he was in his fifties, but Henri was nearing seventy. He didn’t have much time left.
He wanted the box and whatever Henri wanted, Henri got. And he didn’t care who had to die in the process. He’d killed before and, if necessary, he would kill again.
Anticipation watered his mouth. It was all he could do to keep from calling up his pilot, telling him to ready the plane and jetting off to Connecticut to take the box away from the woman immediately. But he could not risk such a bold maneuver. Not when the authorities were looking for him.
But he wanted the box so badly because it represented what he’d never been able to have in real life—true love—that it was almost worth the gamble.
Patience, he cautioned himself. Patience.
Knowing when to attack and when to wait in ambush was what had earned him his privileged life. He would wait. Lure her in. She must come to him, on his turf.
And then he would strike.
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