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“Good afternoon Hong. Thank you for taking my call.” Maxine Tellerman ran her fingers through the fur of her seal wrap, which she had dropped on the table next to the telephone in her hotel room.
“Good afternoon Miss Tellerman. I have been anxiously awaiting it,” the Chinese cultural attaché replied. “In fact, I had expected to see you in person. Do you, perhaps, have bad news?”
“Not at all, Hong,” she sat down on the bed and looked through the open closet door at a rectangular wooden crate and the backs of several unwrapped paintings leaning against it.
“Then we can meet.”
“I wished to clarify our agreement first.”
“Very well.” The hint of concern in Hong’s voice belied his usual inscrutability. Maxine smiled. For three years she had been trying to crack the attache’s composure. If she had finally succeeded then their relationship would have to be over – he would no longer wish to deal with her. The revision of their deal that she was about to make would certainly give him an excuse, if he needed one.
“There were unforeseen complications. I have to raise my fee.”
“You were to account for complications in advance.”
“You dictated the fee. It was adequate for a simple purchase only, not the removal to two obstacles.”
“You were to make a simple purchase. If you did not, that is not our responsibility.”
“Another buyer of the information will cover my increased costs.”
The line was silent for a long moment. Maxine smiled smugly, leaning back against the pillows and swinging her legs up on to the bed.
“You will conclude the assignment as agreed. Bring the microdot to Chan’s this evening at seven o’clock.”
“My fee has doubled. You bring my price.”
The line was disconnected, leaving Maxine frowning at the receiver. Then her gaze returned to the crated painting and its valuable companions. Her lips curled at the corners in an unattractive smile.
***
Emma shut the front door and leaned against it with a deep sigh, her leather briefcase dangling from the fingers of one hand, the other hand on her belly. The shape of the new life growing within her made her pause to consider its needs.
“Good afternoon Ma’am,” the nanny’s voice from the gallery was entirely too perky. Emma leaned her head back to look up at the young woman, her mouth parting in a smile at the sight of John in Siobhan’s arms. She had spent four hours in her office at Knight Industries and it felt like she’d pulled an all-nighter. She didn’t remember being this exhausted in the middle of her first pregnancy. “You look like you’re not ready for his nibs,” Siobhan added, shifting John to her other hip.
“I desperately want to spend some time with him,” Emma said, pushing away from the door toward the base of the stairs. “But you’re right – I need a few minutes.”
“We were just going to the family room,” Siobhan implied by her tone that she was seeking Emma’s approval.
“I’ll find you there in a bit,” Emma replied, pausing at the top of the stairs to place a kiss on the back of John’s head.
A half hour later she had changed into a loose blouse and stretchy trousers and washed her face. She stopped in the library to tuck her attaché case under her desk, then joined Siobhan and John in the family room, a big, informal space filled with toys and books and comfortable furniture. Siobhan had tuned the television to a program aimed at toddlers. John was in his walker with the tray full of colored blocks, his attention split between them and the frenetic activity on the television screen. As she entered the room Emma provided a third distraction and his chubby legs flailed as he steered his little walker across the floor toward her.
“Ma! Ma!”
“Hello love,” Emma crooned, the sound of her son’s voice sparking an overwhelming wave of affection only matched by the effect of Steed murmuring in her ear. John reached out to her with both arms and she obliged, lifting him from his walker. She settled on her favorite settee with him straddling one of her thighs cuddled against her round belly.
“Oph!” she groaned as he dug his knee into her in an effort to stand. “Don’t kick your sister.”
“Mr. Steed really wants a little girl, doesn’t he?” Siobhan asked, looking up from her book. She was sitting in an armchair with one leg tucked under herself. Emma was very impressed with the nanny’s ability to read while watching over John. She seemed to have an extra sense that caused her to glance up at just the right moment without losing the thread of whatever she was reading. Or in any case there had never been a mishap while the child was in her care. Now she was watching as Emma helped John get his feet under himself and stand beside her.
“Yes. And I do too. But we’ll adore whichever this bump turns out to be.”
“There are so many ways that they tell,” Siobhan said thoughtfully, “My mum insisted that she could tell by the position of the baby – whether it was high or low on the mother.”
“Any insight for this one?”
“Well, it is rather high – that’s supposed to be a girl I think.”
“I’ll take that,” Emma chuckled, stroking John’s back.
“Ma’am, would it be all right if I went to a party this Saturday night?”
“Siobhan, that’s your night off – you can do whatever you want.”
“I just wanted to be sure you would know that I’d be out of the house.”
“Steed and I don’t have any special plans so we’ll soldier through without you.”
“Thank-you ma’am. I’m looking forward to going out.”
“And you deserve it. Now,” Emma noted that John’s attention had returned to the television, “just what is this program teaching my son?”
***
The stone wall went on forever. Do they have to be so ostentatious? Tara groused as the gate posts – massive stone things set back from the road to allow an apron in front of the gate for visiting cars – hove into view at last. She turned her old Europa in and stopped facing the big iron gates. At least they haven’t had their initials forged into it, she thought, imagining an intertwined J and E. She shuddered and stubbed out her cigarette in the brimming ashtray. Pierre pressed his nose into the narrow crack she’d left between the window and frame on the passenger side and inhaled a long, noisy sniff of the bucolic country air.
Little more than a month after burying her husband Tara was not predisposed to be tolerant of happily married people. She wasn’t sure why she was here, other than that Steed had asked her to come. He had no authority over her now: her resignation from the ministry had been processed. She was no longer a spy for the security services. No, she thought as she extracted another cigarette from the pack in her bag and eyed the security camera that was aimed into her window, I’m here because I could not tolerate another moment with mother.
The camera moved slightly, a weird cyclopian eye controlled, she was sure, by someone in the house. I’m going to be a prisoner here. They have alarms and cameras everywhere. Once I’m in, I won’t get out unless they let me. She reached out the window, cigarette between her index and middle fingers, to touch the button that would signal someone inside that she was waiting. Pierre swung his head around to watch her. But before she touched the button the gates began to swing inward on their own. They were watching me. This is going to be worse than mother’s.
In a way, she supposed as she put the car in gear and moved forward toward her doom, this was her opportunity to restore herself in Steed’s eyes. He had lost faith in her because of her actions in Paris. Hell, I lost faith in me, she thought bitterly. So maybe if she regained Steed’s regard she could regain her own.
Except Emma is sure to be beastly to me, her husband’s former lover living in the same house. What are we all thinking? We’ll kill one another – no, they’ll kill me, I’m too out of condition to stand up to either of them. She allowed her internal monologue to build as she steered her car along the winding drive. The steering was stiff and the brakes were squishy, the legacy of several years parked in her mother’s garage. She was glad now that she had not sold the car when she went to Paris, but she wished she could be driving something different; something that did not remind her of half of her cases with Steed.
Emma was waiting for her at the top of the front steps. Tara took in her black knit trousers and pastel orange baby-doll blouse as she stopped and shut off the engine. She can pull off anything. I hate her.
“Welcome,” Emma said, opening Tara’s door for her. Pierre darted out across Tara’s lap, leash trailing uselessly behind him. But he wasn’t as brave as he thought he was: he froze on the gravel drive a few feet away, eyes fixed on the front doorway where Gilbert the basset hound was standing.
“Oops!” Emma chuckled at the wiry little dog. “This must be Monsieur Pierre. Bonjour!”
Tara smiled wanly at her hostess’s acceptance of her dog as she climbed out of the car.
“How are you Tara?” Emma’s tone was warm and inviting, lacking in the drippy sympathy that practically everyone had been slathering on her for weeks. Emma, she reminded herself, knew how she was feeling. Or at least some of it.
“Hello Emma. I’m as good as can be expected, I suppose,” she said, never sure how truthful to be when asked such a question. She was sure the truth would come out in time, so there was no need to hit her hostess in the face with it from the start.
Pierre emitted a tentative little woof in the direction of the house. Tara bent to pick up the end of his leash just as Gilbert answered with a basso woof in return. Feeling the touch on his leash Pierre looked to his mistress as if for moral support. In the doorway a taller, narrow figure appeared behind Gilbert, bright alert eyes peering out at the newcomer.
“I’ll keep him in my room, Emma,” Tara said quickly. “Come on you,” she tugged Pierre around toward the rear of the car, forcing him to loose the stare-down with Gilbert.
“Nonsense. Those two will welcome their guest,” Emma replied as Tara went round to open the boot. Her suitcase containing the odd collection of clothes she’d packed in Paris before boxing everything else up for shipment was jammed in tight. She took a firm grip on the handle and tugged.
“Careful!” Emma said, surprised as the bag came loose and Tara took a couple steps backward, nearly treading on Pierre. She set it down with a sigh and reached up to shut the boot. Emma reached for the bag.
“No, don’t,” Tara nodded at the bump at Emma’s middle. “I wouldn’t want you to strain.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed for a second and she took a deep breath to calm her initial reaction to Tara’s tart tone. She’s on the edge, be patient with her, she told herself.
“Let’s drag it inside and we’ll get Steed to carry it upstairs later. He should be home soon,” she said, stopping herself before she added anything about where he was. That was not Tara’s business anymore. “Come inside. I’ve set up your rooms for you.”
“Rooms?”
Tara hauled her bag up the steps, tugging Pierre along. He darted from side to side, trying to get a look through the front door. Gilbert and Sullivan backed into the lobby as Emma entered and shooed at them with her hands. Gilbert uttered another woof and Pierre froze in the doorway, his front legs stiff, his collar pulling up his ears uncomfortably. Tara set her bag down and picked up the dog.
“Come here, I’ll protect you,” she said.
“Gilbert!” Emma scolded the basset. “They really are usually quite friendly to other dogs,” she added to Tara. “I’m sure they’ll come ‘round.”
“It’s not pleasant having your home invaded,” Tara replied pointedly. Emma appeared to ignore all of her meanings, clapping her hands in front of Gilbert’s face to draw his attention off of Pierre. The smaller dog was looking rather superior now, safe in Tara’s arms.
“You’ll have the bedroom over the kitchen – the farthest you can get from the nursery without being exiled to the attic rooms,” Emma went on as they climbed the stairs. “You have the bath and the study in this wing all to yourself. And you’re near the laundry. I’ve told Siobhan not to do any wash after eight or before nine. You can use it whenever you want, though.”
Emma’s monologue washed over Tara as they walked along the upstairs hall. Emma pointed out the small study, the large bathroom, and finally the bedroom. It was, Tara realized, more space than the apartment she and Robbie and Pierre had shared in Paris.
Emma strode into the bedroom with a proprietary air. She really is the lady of this manor, Tara thought absently, still a bit overwhelmed. Emma picked up a sheet of paper that was on a writing table and held it out to Tara.
“I’ve listed all of the security codes and other information you’ll need about the house,” she said. Tara took the paper and looked at the long list of telephone numbers and codes to get in the gate, secure the house, signal the authorities, and so on. She felt a total fool for her earlier uncharitable thoughts. “I’d appreciate it if you’d memorize it and destroy the list – bad for security to keep it around.”
“Of course,” she replied, setting the paper back down. “That goes without saying.”
“Good. I’ll leave you to get settled,” Emma said as she moved to the door. “And Tara, we’re glad you’re here. Please tell us if there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”
Tara sat down on the bed, releasing Pierre to explore the room, and took a deep breath, fighting off the tears that threatened to overtake her. She’d had enough crying, and if she was sick of it then she was sure everyone else was too. The apprehension she’d felt outside the gate had withered away in light of Emma’s kindness. Obviously she was trying very hard, and Tara felt it her duty to do the same.
***
“Look darling, your father’s home,” Emma pointed toward the kitchen door, trying to entice John to look. But his gaze was focused on the spoon full of applesauce she was holding in her other hand. Steed’s smile as he crossed the kitchen made her flesh tingle. She knew that look: desire and sensuous heat emanated from it so powerfully she struggled with the urge to drop the baby’s spoon and rise to meet him. If he expected it he did not let on. He bent down, drawing a stray lock of hair away from her face as she looked up at him, caressing her cheek with his fingers as he kissed her. His mouth took hers aggressively, lips consuming hers, tongue probing. Ever since Miss Drake’s advances that morning he’d been suppressing a mental image of Emma at her sexiest. The actual sight of her wearing jersey trousers and a baby-stained blouse, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, did nothing to dampen his need. Her pulse quickened and she sucked in a long breath, kissing him back just as enthusiastically as her insides warmed in anticipation.
Beside her John squealed, annoyed at losing his mother’s attention. Steed drew back, his eyes twinkling as he held Emma’s gaze.
“There have been times in our relationship when a kiss like that would require an immediate physical response,” she said, her voice husky. His sensuous smile suggested that he was open to any response she cared to propose. John squealed again. “But at this particular moment,” she paused to look pointedly at John. He opened his mouth to squeal again and she raised the spoonful of applesauce to it.
“I’m a very patient man. And anticipation can be extremely, shall we say, stimulating.”
Emma fed John another spoonful. “Himself will be done shortly and Siobhan will put him to bed. Tara is here, but she hasn’t come downstairs. Supper is cooking and I’m famished.”
“Tara is in the upstairs study,” Steed wandered over to the Aga to lift the lid on a saucepan and look inside. “I stumbled over her bag when I came in, so I took it up.”
“I had forgotten. Thank you.”
“What happens after we’re all properly fed?” he asked, turning his back to the stove.
“I’ve just an hour or so of work to do.”
His alarmed expression dissolved at the sight of Emma’s wicked grin. She chuckled and fed John another spoonful.
“I’m joking Steed. After that, I’m all yours.”
***
Chan’s was one of those huge, brightly decorated restaurants catering to Chinese locals and adventurous Londoners seeking England’s idea of authentic Chinese food. It was also a convenient meeting place for those members of the Chinese embassy staff who were forced, because of their duties, to meet with the lower ranks of society. Maxine Tellerman did not realize that. She only knew that Hong always met her at Chan’s, and she assumed it was because it was large, busy, and public. She also did not realize that Chan’s had private rooms. Hong never used them for meetings with the intimidating Slavic woman. He did not wish to be alone with her.
Tonight he had taken a table in the middle of the bustling dining room. Trim waiters in black suits with cropped jackets wove in and out of the tables carrying impossibly large trays of plates – enough food balanced on one stiff wrist to feed an extended family of ten. Nothing was ever dropped, and the food was always hot when it was placed in front of the diners.
Hong appeared to be staring absently at the lit red eyes of an ornamental dragon mounted on the far wall when Maxine spotted him from the entrance. Waving off the host who approached her with his armload of menus, she joined the stream of waiters weaving across the room. She thought she had snuck up on him until she was nearly at his table when he turned his gaze toward her and raised his small china teacup to his lips. Their eyes met over its rim and she felt a shiver down her spine. This is going to go badly, she thought as she pulled out the chair opposite him. Fortunately, she had already made contingency plans.
Hong held his teacup with three fingers of each hand near the rim as he set it on the table. Maxine watched him, wondering if he would pour for her from the matching squat, green ceramic pot on the table. He did not.
“Good evening Hong.”
“Miss Tellerman,” he nodded his head in an abbreviated bow. “You have brought the information?”
“You have brought my fee?”
Hong leaned to the side to reach something on the floor next to his chair. Maxine stiffened, certain that he was not going to come up shooting, but unable to ignore the fear that he might.
He straightened and placed a thick manila envelope on the tablecloth, then pushed it across the table between the vase of plastic flowers and the place setting to his right. Maxine swallowed down her tension as she watched the approaching envelope.
When he withdrew his hand she reached for it, unfastening the metal clip at the top and unfolding the flap to look inside. She reached in with two fingers to bend the corners of the bills and see their denomination. She set the envelope down on the table with a grim smile.
“Not enough, Hong. Not by far.”
She had never seen the Chinese show anger before. The change to his facial expression was subtle but clear. His complexion turned grey as his already narrow eyes became near slits. The muscles around his mouth tightened, crimping his lips unnaturally.
“That is the agreed upon fee Miss Tellerman.” His voice was like splintering ice.
“My terms have changed. You may contact me when you are prepared to meet them. The merchandise may still be available.”
She stood up before he responded, not even certain that he intended to. His eyes darted to the envelope still on the table and hers followed them. Then she stepped away from the table and inhaled a nervous breath as she turned her back on it and walked away. It was one thing to go back on their deal, another to take the payment and not deliver the goods.
Hong looked past her toward the door and made an almost imperceptible nod. The host set his stack of menus on his desk and picked up the telephone.
Maxine noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye just before the enormous man in a grey suit lunged at her from behind the column flanking the restaurant’s front door. She spun to face him as the chimes on the restaurant door tinkled and a second man, apparently the twin of the first, emerged.
Recalculating her odds, she backpedaled, putting a few steps between herself and both men. They followed much faster than she had thought they could, one moving laterally, the other coming straight at her with outstretched arms. She fumbled her left hand into her bag, keeping her right hand free to repel them as she backed across the sidewalk. An elderly Chinese couple approached from the left, but stopped short, eyes widening at the sight of the three adversaries. Maxine felt her thighs hit the side of a parked car as the oldsters did an about-face. The twins moved in to flank her, apparently unconcerned about the witnesses. As one they reached for her upper arms. She tried to wiggle free but could not shake their vice-like grips as they physically lifted her. Their powerful bodies squeezed her between them with her feet skimming the sidewalk as they carried her toward an unmarked, handle-less door to the right of the bright restaurant entrance.
They stopped in front of the door and one of them knocked in a rhythmic pattern. There was a clunk from inside and the door started to swing outward. Maxine’s left hand was still buried in her shoulder bag, but the right was free. Fighting the goon on her right’s iron grip she snatched the edge of the door as it swung toward her. She hooked it with her right foot to add to the momentum as she propelled it toward the goon on her left.
As luck would have it, he was leaning slightly forward, perhaps preparing a small bow to whoever had opened the door. Whatever the reason for his pose, it placed the side of his face in the path of the door. His grip on her arm loosened as he instinctively drew back. Still unsure of what reinforcements would come from inside, Maxine dropped her weight to her right, tugging at the other twin, and pivoted with her left knee raised. She connected with the tender area that she had aimed for and her attacker grunted and loosened -- but did not release -- his grip.
Maxine glanced into the dark entry and saw a small man dressed in busboy whites – not an immediate threat considering the startled expression on his face. She completed her pivot, driving her knee up once more before slugging a solid left into the big man’s bicep. His fingers dug deeper into her upper arm, but he bent over, his other hand lowering to protect his crotch.
Meaty hands clutched her collarbones placing a tremendous weight on her – her other attacker was mad now. From behind her he snarled something that she could not understand. But his twin apparently did because he let go of her arm as the man behind her tried to wrap an arm around her throat. She knew that in a moment she’d be shoved through the doorway never to emerge again. That was not the end she had in mind for herself.
She grabbed the monster’s arm and dropped. He was far too heavy for her to throw, but if she could get him off balance she might get out of his grip. She would lay odds that she could outrun them, particularly the one she’d kneed. Sure enough, as she crouched on the balls of her feet and one hand, the other still holding the thick arm that was around her throat, its owner leaned to the left, his barrel chest sliding across her back. She shoved that way and he went over, releasing her in order to break his fall.
His twin had stepped back to give him the victorious finish, so Maxine had just enough space to straighten and step to the right before he lunged at her. Instead he wound up sprawled on top of his companion on the sidewalk. Maxine couldn’t spare a moment to look down at them – she took off down the sidewalk as fast as her pumps would allow.
Well, that seals that, she thought as she finally slowed to a walk four blocks later. She hadn’t been pursued, but she knew Hong would not let things end this way. Somewhere, some time, he would exact his revenge. So now her top priority was cashing in on her recently acquired bankroll so that she could disappear.
***
Tara ran her finger along the spines of the books on a small bookcase in the upstairs study. There was a whole library downstairs, and still more books here. Such excess, she thought, bending over to read the titles.
They were light reading: novels, poetry, travel essays. A couple on grief and coping. She realized that Emma must have selected the books specifically for her and straightened up, once again feeling guilty for her unkind thoughts. She drew one of the books about grief from its place and studied the back cover as she moved toward a chair. Glancing down before she sat, she recognized the deep red leather. Steed’s furniture from his mews flat in London seemed terribly out of place here. Were they banished to this upstairs spare room, or placed here lovingly as a reminder of things past? She realized belatedly that the arrangement of chairs, sofa, and tables mimicked the old apartment rather closely, and at once this cheered her and sparked a pang of grief for all the changes she had faced.
“I never throw anything away.” Tara looked up to find Emma standing in the doorway.
“But why should you? They’re lovely chairs,” Tara replied, stroking the leather of the one next to her.
Emma frowned, puzzled, then understood.
“The furniture? No, of course not. I meant the book,” she looked at the volume in Tara’s hand. “I was given several of those types of books when Peter disappeared. I don’t know why I kept them all this time.”
“But here they are,” Tara forced a smile. And here you are, face to face with the first person you thought of when you learned you were a widow, and you can’t seem to get through your own barriers to talk to her.
Emma watched her for a moment, then nodded slightly and smiled politely as if she’d read her mind.
“I just wanted to let you know that supper will be ready in a few minutes. And we’ve been very decadent this year – the pool is still heated. I know Steed will insist that we shut it down any day now, so you should use it before he does.”
“I hadn’t even thought of it!”
“No matter, it’s deliciously warm even if you do have to dash inside when you get out. I’m thinking of installing a sauna, or a whirlpool.”
“No, I meant I don’t think I have a swimsuit,” Tara replied, unable to absorb Emma’s casually stated plans for expensive additions.
“Oh, well, we can find something for you I’m sure. And there are no strict rules about it – if you’re comfortable without.”
Tara felt her jaw drop. Had Emma just suggested that she swim in the nude?
Emma watched her again for a moment then laughed. “The look on your face! Of course we’ll find you a suit, or some shorts and a t-shirt would do.”
“Right,” Tara laughed too.
“Come down as soon as you’re ready – We’re eating in the dining room.” Emma disappeared down the hall leaving Tara with the distinct impression that she had not been joking at all about the pool, but had only pretended to be when Tara herself looked so surprised. The mental image of Steed swimming, the water flowing over his bare ass and muscled thighs as he used powerful strokes to pull himself through the water flashed through her mind. She quickly squelched it, but not before Emma swam into the image. She shivered and dropped the book on the chair, heading for the bathroom to prepare for supper. Pierre must need to go out, and would probably have to be his bodyguard against the hostile natives.
***
“I’m impressed, Mike Gambit,” Catherine glanced around the restaurant. The subdued elegance of the décor highlighted the glamorous attire of the other diners. Candles on every table cast a flattering golden glow across faces and sparkled on jewels, glasses, and cutlery.
Catherine knew very well the sort of pull that was required to get a table for two at eight o’clock on a few hours notice. She did not for a moment think that Gambit had it. She had made inquiries and learned that he was a retired paratrooper with a penchant for fast cars, currently assigned to a mysterious branch of the security services organizationally straddling MI5 and MI6. He had a reputation as a fighter – both currently and in his youth as a street tough. As they were seated and their crisp linen napkins settled on their laps she idly wondered about the friends he must have in high places.
He further surprised her by ordering a good vintage of a very fine champagne. She began to reconsider her analysis: perhaps his veneer of sophistication was thicker than she had at first thought.
Gambit had telephoned Steed, who had telephoned Emma, who had instructed her executive assistant Mrs. Emerson to use the Knight Industries name to procure the dinner reservation. As he raised his slender champagne flute to Catherine and took a sip, he enjoyed the burnished glow the candlelight gave her face as she drank too. She was tantalizingly enigmatic. The background check he’d run on her had revealed her ordinary roots and remarkable climb, but it had not explained her motivations. What in her rural mid-western childhood had created such ambition? From what he’d read, she circulated comfortably with American and European jet-setters and frequently rubbed elbows with very high society indeed. That he had managed a similar climb from the streets to the close company of the likes of Emma and Steed, did not cross his mind.
She shot him a flirtatious smile that set off all kinds of alarms in his agent’s brain. She wanted something, and she would use sex to get it. On one level he understood the technique and was not above using it himself. But on another level he was disappointed – he had been looking forward to the chase, but it seemed that she was going to make it easy.
As if she’d read his thoughts her expression turned opaque, her eyes suddenly chilly. He felt the corners of his own mouth curl and tried to suppress the smile. She could play hard to get, but he’d already seen through her. And he could guess what it was she wanted from him. It was nothing as simple as the bids from the auction, but he would start with that.
“I got the names off of the bid list for the Knight painting,” he said. In fact, he had the list in his pocket, but he had decided not to show it to her.
“And?” she asked, her face softening.
“Mr. Bray was bidding against Miss Maxine Tellerman and Mr. Laslo Skinner . There were two other early bidders who entered one bid each.”
“But Tellerman and Skinner bid more than once?”
“They drove the auction price up by thirty-five hundred pounds in four bids against Mr. Bray.”
“Thus driving up the value of Mrs. Steed’s work,” she said, sipping her champagne as she studied Gambit speculatively. It had occurred to her that the robbery could be part of a publicity ploy for a nascent artist. Murders had been committed for less in the art world. Gambit could be investigating such a plot.
Gambit smiled wryly. “Perhaps you should interview Mrs. Steed,” he said, trying to imagine the encounter.
“You have?” she asked, curious mostly because of his amused expression.
He nodded, buying a moment to formulate a better response. “She is – interesting.”
“Most artists are.”
“I don’t think she had anything to do with the robbery,” he decided to be blunt, although honesty would have required a more definite declaration. “She is a serious artist, but she also has a career in business and handsome income. She would not be motivated by financial gain.”
“And she would be unlikely to murder a patron, whether she needs his money or not.”
“Agreed.” Gambit thought he had probably deflected Catherine’s suspicions from Emma, but if not he knew that the artist could hold her own if confronted. He only hoped he could be there when it happened.
Catherine surprised Gambit by ordering a steak – he’d had her pegged as the salad and seafood type. Gambit surprised Catherine by ordering pheasant with a delicate French sauce that she hadn’t expected a man like him to appreciate. They talked about art, and Mr. Bray, and the challenge for unknown artists finding an audience. She did not ask him about his involvement in the case and he did not tell her. They nibbled on a cheese plate and sipped sherry before concluding their meal with strong espresso and tiny chocolate truffles over a discussion of their favorite handguns. Neither of them was quite sure how the conversation had turned to such a martial topic, nor why it was that bullets, muzzles, and grips suddenly seemed so sexy.
“Shall I give you a lift?” Gambit asked, leaning close enough to catch a whiff of her perfume as he handed his ticket to the valet. It was floral, complex and sophisticated. The image of her dabbing it behind her ear with her fingertip sent a wave of warmth through him. Catherine’s expression was unreadable again, but her eyes sparkled seductively. She drew her hair back off her face with her left hand and turned her head to watch the valet approach Gambit’s red Jaguar parked just down from the restaurant entrance.
“Is that your car?” she asked, impressed. She turned her face back to him so that her full lips were an inch from his. She had refreshed her lipstick after dinner.
“Um hummm,” he purred. She held the pose, her eyes challenging him to kiss her. He held back, fighting off another wry smile.
“Your car sir,” the valet broke their standoff.
Gambit pressed a tip into his hand and opened the passenger side door, looking pointedly at Catherine. She lowered her eyes toward the car then looked back at him with a knowing smile. He gestured into the vehicle and she got in.
***
Email your comments on this story to miamc at mmvn dot net (you know how to translate that!)