Jack Sinclair put on his first tuxedo at the age of eight, looked in the mirror and told the servant who’d helped him dress, I look good. The servant laughed before shunting him off to a corner of the main hallway to await his parents’ summons. That was twenty-two years ago, but two things hadn’t changed: he still looked good in a tux, and he still spent time hanging out in corners at these formal events.
This particular event was taking place at the Castle, a mansion carved out of Rocky Mountain stone in the 1800s. David Candalaria was celebrating the opening of the King’s Treasures exhibit at the Denver museum that bore his name, a collection of paintings, statues and carvings from a tiny kingdom that no longer existed. Only serious art lovers or historians remembered it today.
Jack liked art, but the party tonight wasn’t about that. The best way to view a treasure was in private, intimately. No, this evening was about seeing and being seen. Photo ops. Who was with whom? Who was wearing what? Who had acquired what?
He sipped champagne as he strolled the perimeter of the ballroom. He’d been there nearly two hours, had talked to everyone he had any interest in and now was avoiding the few he didn’t want to talk to. That was why he kept moving; it was harder to hit a moving target.
In keeping with the rest of the Castle, the ballroom was grand. Polished marble tile reflected prisms of light from the chandeliers forty feet above. Eight fireplaces were spaced around the room, each large enough to hold six of Candalaria’s bodyguards shoulder to shoulder. Palladian windows lined the three outside walls, opening onto stone terraces that led to formal gardens, then to a vast expanse of lush green lawn that ended in dark walls of impenetrable forest.
Sidestepping a Tokyo collector said to covet all the world’s masterpieces, Jack turned his attention back to the guests. Some of them were as beautiful as the room, some as expensive, some as dark as the forest encroaching outside. He estimated the net worth of the attendees easily north of $500 billion: royalty, sheikhs, businessmen, politicians, celebrities. The rich who sought out the spotlight and the even richer who paid a great deal to avoid it.
He was approaching the starting point of his ramble when movement in the nearest corner caught his eye. He didn’t see much: a flash of dark red dress, an even briefer flash of honey-toned shoulders, black curls drawn up. The woman had slipped through a barely opened door before his brain registered that much. Along with a sense of familiarity.
Of course she seemed familiar. He’d been to dozens of these parties all over the world. There were always local faces added to the crowd, but overall the guest lists included the usual suspects. But something about this woman... He couldn’t quite recognize her—and he never forgot a face. Especially when it was attached to such gorgeous shoulders.
Depositing his champagne on a table, he walked to the corner. He didn’t look over his shoulder, glance around or do anything to draw attention his way. He simply turned the doorknob, slipped through the opening and closed it behind him.
The hallway stretching before him made a few turns before reaching the kitchen at the back of the house. It was well lit in comparison to the narrow stairs on the left that twisted out of sight within a few steps. They were lighted by a single bulb on a landing above, then another from the second floor. There they connected to a similar servants’ corridor, running the length of the east wing suites.
Along with quarters for the most favored of his guests, David’s suite was in that wing.
Jack listened, catching faint bits of conversation and clanging from the kitchen, but no sound from the stairs. A glance up showed no fleeing woman, no shadows or signs of movement, but...yes, there distantly, the thud of a heel on wood. Intrigued by the fact that the woman was slipping into very private quarters in the middle of a grand gala, he followed, listening intently, his gaze constantly searching both above and below.
He was rewarded with another sound, a hushed expletive in a husky voice. As he reached the top of the steps, he moved closer to the wall and recalled the layout of the second floor. To the left, the hall extended across the wing, with doors opening into discreet niches in the main corridor, allowing the maids and kitchen help access to the rooms without being visible for more than a few seconds. Candalaria was a big believer that the help should be neither seen nor heard.
To the right, the corridor covered only fifty feet before it ended at a dark, heavy door opening into Candalaria’s own suite. All Jack knew about it was what a chatty housekeeper had shared after a few glasses of wine last visit. Unlike the rest of the mansion, the space was modern, austere, one large room bigger than most people’s houses. There was a sitting area, an office area, a well-stocked bar, a sleeping area and, behind an undulating wall of water, a bath.
From beyond the door came another muffled sound.
Only a servant would enter by this route. Any woman with an invitation would be escorted along the main corridor, steps muffled by the red-and-blue Serapi carpet, given a chance to admire the Elizabeth Turk marble sculptures, the Lalique tables and the Devine metal pieces on the walls.
Only a servant...or someone in the same line of business as Jack.
Interesting. Who had targeted David, and which of his treasures was she after?
Jack’s curiosity was purely that. He wasn’t there to study the security setup or to check out the priceless baubles worn by the guests. He wasn’t meeting a prospective client or eavesdropping on gossip. He was on vacation, had come for the company, the food and the infrequent chance to admire David’s personal collection up close.
But he couldn’t help but be interested in someone who was on the job tonight, especially a woman. There weren’t many females in his field, and he was pretty sure he’d met all of them except...
Bella.
His stomach tightened.
It wasn’t her real name. Twelve years ago, when she’d waltzed into the Italian villa of a designer who’d given Armani and Prada a run for their money, she’d left with the crown jewel of his fancy red diamond collection: a flawless four-carat brilliant cut worth a million or so for each carat. With that one act, she’d become a legend, and like any good legend, there was a shortage of hard, cold facts.
She was fair, with green eyes, so blue they couldn’t have been natural, and brown the rich shade of cacao. Her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders...when it wasn’t short and sleek and fiery red or pale brown with silvery highlights. She was tall, thin, rounded, danced like a prima ballerina and walked with a limp, spoke with a Southern drawl, sounded French or had an accent too exotic to identify.
The only thing anyone agreed on was that she was a beautiful woman. Bella donna.
The designer’s fancy red had disappeared, along with, over the years, various other items from London, Berlin, Dresden, Hong Kong. None was ransomed back to its owner, offered on the black market or ever seen again, and after each theft, Bella remained as mysterious
