interesting coincidences.”
“I’m a Rose. According to our Wisdom, there’s no such thing.”
Nick smiled. “I know. He’s been flagged by our agency, but he’s also on Scotland Yard’s watch list. Do you recall the theft of that van Gogh in Milan two years ago?”
“No, I don’t.”
“The painting just vanished into thin air in the middle of a working day. According to a clerk there, no one from the public was inside the gallery that morning and no alarms went off. But Maclean had been a visitor earlier in the week.”
Sam paced thoughtfully, tingling with some excitement. “He leapt into the gallery and leapt out with the painting. Gee, I wonder if it survived traveling at the speed of light.”
“Guess who is rumored to now have it?” Sam waited and Nick said, “Hemmer.”
Sam started. “Okay. So that explains the guest list. He stole the painting, sold it to Hemmer, and now they’re best buds.”
“He’s best buddies with various other wealthy art collectors around the world.” Nick was wry. “And he’s linked to five international art dealers, who have suffered the combined loss of eight masterpieces in the past decade. Several of his other friends are reputed to be in possession of those stolen works of art now.”
Sam stared at Nick. Maclean was using his powers to steal. So this was how he’d acquired his wealth—and his Park Avenue address. And then the comprehension was instant and blazing. “You don’t think he’s here to hold Hemmer’s hand.”
“I don’t think he’s here to hold Hemmer’s hand.”
“He’s going to steal the page,” Sam said softly.
Nick stood. “And I bet you’ll do anything to get in his way, won’t you?”
Sam slowly smiled. “Oh, yeah,” she said, with relish.
His stare hardened. “Do not let him out of your sight tonight.”
Sam saluted.
“There’s nothing like a woman scorned,” Nick suddenly grinned. “I’m sort of glad he pissed you off.”
“I’m not pissed off. And I hate to tell you, I wasn’t scorned. But, Nick? I’m better than the cliché. I don’t get mad, I get even—and then some.”
“I’m counting on it.”
MACLEAN WAS NOWHERE in sight.
Standing in the marble foyer just outside the brass doors of the elevator, which had taken them to the penthouse, Sam and Kit exchanged glances. Hemmer had built the building in his usual style—Las Vegas glitz meets haughty Fifth Avenue. There were marble floors, gilded mirrors and Corinthian columns. Everything was as costly as possible, screaming money. A handful of guests stood ahead of them, filing forward, and black-clad security agents were everywhere.
Sam wore a strapless red jersey dress, which clung to her every curve, and gold spike sandals. She’d added one of her mother’s gold bracelets to her right wrist, although bracelets tended to get in the way during tight, hand-to-hand combat. Rings were actually useful—they could be annoying for the enemy, inflicting painful little cuts. She wore several. Most women carried a clutch, but she wore a wallet-size bag on a shoulder strap. It was almost weightless, holding only a credit card, her cell phone and her red lipstick, and couldn’t possibly get in the way of anything. And she wore the diamond hoops her sister had given her last year. She only took them off to clean them.
She glimpsed Rupert Hemmer just within the doorway of his home, his blond wife with him, greeting the guests as they came in. The room beyond them was already crowded, but she didn’t see Maclean amongst the glittering partygoers. Her heart was thudding oddly, slow and steady—the way it always did before she leapt into battle. He was present. She was certain of it, and not because Nick had said he was on the guest list. She felt him, somewhere in the penthouse.
Sam could sense white power, and Maclean’s was obvious.
His aura reeked of sexuality, and her own answering tension told her he was nearby.
She couldn’t wait to spoil his good time.
Then she poked Kit and nodded up at the thumbnail-size cameras in the corners of the foyer. Kit followed her gaze. Then she gestured at their hostess. “Is she even legal?”
Sam was amused, and she glanced at their host, who was handsome and tanned in a black tuxedo, his face obviously lifted, his hair that funny shade of medium brown that every older man seemed to sport in order to cover up the gray. While he had to be close to sixty, even if he’d been under the knife and was lean and fit, his wife looked twenty—if that. She wore a bubble-gum pink evening gown that was more of a second skin than a dress. Sam pegged it as Versace. From this distance, Rupert reeked of arrogance and wealth, but not evil. Sam could sense evil as easily as she sensed white power, and she suspected him to be human with a few drops of demonic blood.
It was finally their turn to meet and greet. Rupert looked at her, his eyes widening with obvious male interest. He looked carefully at her lush chest, which was not the obvious boob job his wife was showing off, and then at her long, hard legs. He glanced at Kit, who wore a classic black sheath and had actually put on lip gloss. He smiled slowly at them. “You must be Sam Rose and Kit Mars, from World Media.”
Sam had noted that Becca Hemmer didn’t care about her husband ogling other women—and why should she? Sam had read up on the Hemmers while getting dressed. She was young, gorgeous and smart enough to have signed a pre-nuptial agreement that made her one of the city’s wealthiest women, no matter what happened to her marriage. And apparently, Becca liked to play as much as he did.
Sam dismissed her as irrelevant and smiled back at Hemmer, giving him a come-hither-if-you-dare look. “None other.” She extended her hand. “I’m Sam Rose. I was wondering how long it would take for us to meet, Mr. Hemmer.”
He grasped it warmly. “All my guests are instructed to call me Rupert.”
“Rupert,” Sam murmured. “It’s been a while since I had instruction.”
He smiled slightly as he absorbed the innuendo. “How interesting.” He added, “Had I realized World Media had publicists like you two, I think I would have been persuaded to give you my business much more easily.” His gaze was suddenly hooded.
Sam wondered if they’d been made. “Is the rest of the team here?”
“I believe so,” he murmured. “John Ensign and Charles Dupre were two of the first to arrive.”
She felt Kit’s tension. “Jack Ensign,” she corrected casually. “We all call him Jack.”
“Ah, yes, of course, my mistake. So, do come inside and help yourself to the bubbly. Perhaps we can chat a bit later about the project. I look forward to hearing your ideas.”
“I
