“Let me properly introduce you two,” said Guy. “This is Lord Lovat’s nephew, Jordan Tavistock. And this—” Guy swept his hand proudly toward the woman “—is Diana Lamb.”
The woman extended a slender hand across the table as Jordan turned his chair to join them. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tavistock.”
“So you two met at Sotheby’s,” said Guy.
“Yes. Terribly disappointing collection,” she said. “The St. Augustine estate. One would think there’d be something worth bidding on, but no. I didn’t make a single offer.” Again she looked straight at Jordan. “Did you?”
He saw the challenge in her gaze. He saw something else as well: a warning. You spill the beans, said those cheerful brown eyes, and so will I.
“Well, did you, Jordie?” asked Guy.
“No,” muttered Jordan, staring fiercely at the woman. “Not a one.”
At his capitulation, the woman’s smile broadened to dazzling. He had to concede she’d beaten him this round; next round she’d not be so lucky. He’d have the right words ready, his strategy figured out…
“…dreadful shambles. Pitiful, really. Don’t you agree?” said Guy.
Suddenly aware that he was being addressed, Jordan looked at Guy. “Pardon?”
“All the estates that have fallen on hard times. Did you know the Middletons have decided to open Greystones to public tours?”
“I hadn’t heard,” said Jordan.
“Lord, can you imagine how humiliating that must be? To have all those strangers tramping through one’s house, snapping photos of your loo. I’d never sink so low.”
“Sometimes one has no choice,” said Jordan.
“Certainly one has the choice! You’re not saying you’d ever let the tourists into Chetwynd, would you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Neither would I let them into Underhill. Plus, there’s the problem of security, something I’m acutely tuned in to after that robbery attempt last night. People may claim they’re tourists. But what if they’re really thieves, come to check the layout of the place?”
“I agree with you on that point,” said Jordan, looking straight at the woman. “One can’t be too careful.”
The little thief didn’t bat an eyelash. She merely smiled back, those brown eyes wide and innocent.
“One certainly can’t,” said Guy. “And that goes triply for you. When I think of the fortune in art hanging on your walls…”
“Fortune?” said the woman, her gaze narrowing.
“I wouldn’t call it a fortune,” Jordan said quickly.
“He’s being modest,” said Guy. “Chetwynd has a collection any museum would kill for.”
“All of it under tight security,” said Jordan. “And I mean, extremely tight.”
The hussy laughed. “I believe you, Mr. Tavistock.”
“I certainly hope you do.”
“I’d like to see Chetwynd some day.”
“Hang around with me, darling,” said Guy, “and we might wangle an invitation.”
With a last squeeze of the woman’s hand, Guy rose to his feet. “I’ll have the car sent ‘round, how about it? If we leave now, we’ll avoid the jam in the parking lot.”
“I’ll come with you,” she offered.
“No, no. Do stay and finish your drink. I’ll be back as soon as the car’s ready.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
The woman sat back down. No shrinking violet, this one; brazenly she faced Jordan. And she smiled.
FROM ACROSS the refreshment tent Charles Ogilvie spotted the woman. He knew it had to be her; there was no mistaking the hair color. “Cinnamon red” was precisely how one would describe that glorious mane of hers. A superb job, courtesy of Clairol. Ogilvie had found the discarded hair-color box in the bathroom rubbish can when he’d searched her hotel room this morning, had confirmed its effect when he’d pulled a few silky strands from her hairbrush. Miss Clea Rice, it appeared, had done another quick-change job. She was getting better at this. Twice she’d metamorphosed into a different woman. Twice he’d almost lost her.
But she wasn’t good enough to shake him entirely. He still had the advantage of experience. And she had the disadvantage of not knowing what he looked like.
Casually he strolled a few feet along the tent perimeter, to get a better look at her profile, to confirm it was indeed Clea Rice. She’d gone heavy with the lipstick and rouge, but he still recognized those superb cheekbones, that ivory skin. He also had no trouble recognizing Guy Delancey, who had just risen to his feet and was now moving away through the crowd, leaving Clea at the table.
It was the other man he didn’t recognize.
He was a blond chap, long and lean as a whippet, impeccably attired. The man slid into the chair where Delancey had been sitting and faced the Rice woman across the table. It was apparent, just by the intensity of their gazes, that they were not strangers to each other. This was troubling. Where did this blond man fit in? No mention of him had appeared in the woman’s dossier, yet there they were, deep in conversation.
Ogilvie took the lens cap off his telephoto. Moving behind the wine bar, he found a convenient vantage point from which to shoot his photos, unobserved. He focused on the blond man’s profile and clicked off a few shots, then took a few shots of Clea Rice, as well. A new partner? he wondered. My, she was resourceful. Three weeks of tailing the woman had left him with a grudging sense of admiration for her cleverness.
But was she clever enough to stay alive?
He reloaded his camera and began to shoot a second roll.
“I LIKE THE HAIR,” said Jordan.
“Thank you,” the woman answered.
“A bit flashy, though, don’t you think? Attracts an awful lot of attention.”
“That was the whole idea.”
“Ah, I see. Guy Delancey.”
She inclined her head. “Some men are so predictable.”
“It’s almost unfair, isn’t it? The advantage you have over the poor dumb beasts.”
“Why shouldn’t I capitalize on my Godgiven talents?”
“I don’t think you’re putting those talents quite to the use
