Guy Delancey—who, by the way, is drinking like a fish and going ‘round pinching ladies’ bottoms. Then you simply vanish from the party. And you reappear looking like that.”
He went into his bedroom.
She followed him.
“It was a long walk,” he said.
“It’s been a long party.”
“Beryl.” He sighed, turning to face her. “I really am sorry about Guy Delancey. But I can’t talk about it right now. I’d be betraying a confidence.”
“I see.” She went to the door, then glanced back. “I can keep a secret, you know.”
“So can I.” Jordan smiled. “That’s why I’m not saying a thing.”
“Well, you’d best change your clothes, then. Or someone’s going to ask why you’ve been climbing wisteria vines.” She left, shutting the door behind her.
Jordan looked down at his jacket. Only then did he notice the leaf, poking like a green flag from his buttonhole.
He changed into a fresh tuxedo, combed the twigs from his hair and went downstairs to rejoin the party.
Though it was past midnight, the champagne was still flowing and the scene in the ballroom was as jolly as when he’d left it an hour and a half earlier. He swept up a glass from a passing tray and eased back into circulation. No one mentioned his absence; perhaps no one had noticed it. He worked his way across the room to the buffet table, where a magnificent array of hors d’oeuvres had been laid out, and he helped himself to the Scottish salmon. Breaking and entering was hard work, and he was famished.
A whiff of perfume, a hand brushing his arm, made him turn. It was Veronica Cairncross. “Well?” she whispered anxiously. “How did it go?”
“Not exactly clockwork. You were wrong about the butler’s night off. There was a manservant in the house. I could have been caught.”
“Oh, no,” she moaned softly. “Then you didn’t get them…”
“I got them. They’re upstairs.”
“You did?” A smile of utter happiness burst across her face. “Oh, Jordie!” She leaned forward and threw her arms around him, smearing salmon on his tuxedo. “You saved my life.”
“I know, I know.” He suddenly spotted Veronica’s husband, Oliver, moving toward them. At once Jordan extricated himself from her embrace. “Ollie’s coming this way,” he whispered.
“Is he?” Veronica turned and automatically beamed her thousand-watt smile at Sir Oliver. “Darling, there you are! I lost track of you.”
“You don’t seem to be missing me much,” grunted Sir Oliver. He frowned at Jordan, as though trying to divine his real intentions.
Poor fellow, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica was deserving of pity. Sir Oliver was a decent enough fellow, a descendant of the excellent Cairncross family, manufacturers of tea biscuits. Though twenty years older than his wife, and bald as a cue ball, he’d managed to win Veronica’s hand—and to keep that hand well studded with diamonds.
“It’s getting late,” said Oliver. “Really, Veronica, shouldn’t we be going home?”
“So soon? It’s just past midnight.”
“I have that meeting in the morning. And I’m quite tired.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to be going, then,” Veronica said with a sigh. She smiled slyly at Jordan. “I think I’ll sleep well tonight.”
Just see that it’s with your husband, thought Jordan with a shake of his head.
After the Cairncrosses had departed, Jordan glanced down and saw the greasy sliver of salmon clinging to his lapel. Drat, another tuxedo bites the dust. He wiped away the mess as best he could, picked up his glass of champagne and waded back into the crowd.
He cornered his future brother-in-law, Richard Wolf, near the musicians. Wolf was looking happy and dazed—just the way one expected a prospective bridegroom to look.
“So how’s our guest of honor holding up?” asked Jordan.
Richard grinned. “Giving the old handshake a rest.”
“Good idea to pace oneself.” Jordan’s gaze shifted toward the source of particularly raucous laughter. It was Guy Delancey, clearly well soused and leaning close to a buxom young thing. “Unfortunately,” Jordan observed, “not everyone here believes in pacing himself.”
“No kidding,” said Wolf, also looking at Delancey. “You know, that fellow tried to put the make on Beryl tonight. Right under my nose.”
“And did you defend her honor?”
“Didn’t have to,” said Richard with a laugh. “She does a pretty good job of defending herself.”
Delancey’s hand was now on Miss Buxom’s lower back. Slowly that hand began to slide down toward dangerous terrain.
“What do women see in a guy like that, anyway?” asked Richard.
“Sex appeal?” said Jordan. Delancey did, after all, have rather dashing Spanish looks. “Who knows what attracts women to certain men?” Lord only knew what had attracted Veronica Cairncross to Guy. But she was rid of him now. If she was sensible, she’d damn well stay on the straight and narrow.
Jordan looked at Richard. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a security firm called Nimrod Associates?”
“Is that based here or abroad?”
“I don’t know. Here, I imagine.”
“I haven’t heard of it. But I could check for you.”
“Would you? I’d appreciate it.”
“Why are you interested in this firm?”
“Oh…” Jordan shrugged. “The name came up in the course of the evening.”
Richard was looking at him thoughtfully. Damn, it was that intelligence background of his, an aspect of Richard Wolf that could be either a help or a nuisance. Richard’s antennae were out now, the questions forming in his head. Jordan would have to be careful.
Luckily, Beryl sauntered up at that moment to bestow a kiss on her intended. Any questions Richard may have entertained were quickly forgotten as he bent to press his lips to his fiancée’s upturned mouth. Another kiss, a hungry twining of arms, and poor old Richard was oblivious to the rest of the world.
Ah, young lovers, sizzling in hormones, thought Jordan and polished off his drink. His own hormones were simmering tonight as well, helped along by the pleasant buzz of champagne.
And by thoughts of that woman.
He couldn’t seem to get her out of his thick head. Not her voice, nor her laugh, nor the catlike litheness
