had saved him from jail on many occasions and his ability to stay silent was the main reason his very wealthy, very well- connected employer had selected him for the job.
Could his enigmatic boss have hired someone else, just in case, to make sure Jean kept his end of the bargain? He ground his teeth, angered at his employer’s lack of trust. Was there truly no honor among thieves?
Then again, maybe he was jumping to conclusions. The contents of Zoey Zander’s estate had been extensively detailed in the newspaper. The woman had been wealthy enough to cause thieves on three continents to salivate, and the fact she had no immediate heirs made her fortune that much more enticing.
Jean watched as a broad-shouldered man loomed in the hallway. His mind shot back to an early childhood memory of his father stumbling through their house along a seedy stretch of the Seine. Come here, you son of a whore. Don’t hide from me. But Jean knew if he stayed hidden long enough his father would pass out in a drunken stupor and in the morning forget why he’d wanted to beat him in the first place. He’d learned to hide in plain sight, blending into the shadows, anchoring his fear down tight inside him.
When the stranger reached the door of the vault, he stopped and switched on a penlight.
Jean studied the man’s face in the gloom, but did not recognize him. He was younger than Jean and dressed casually, but elegantly. Like the son of a rich man. The interloper punched a number into the coded key pad and the vault door clicked open.
Interesting.
Where had he gotten the code? Did he work for the auction house? Jean had planned on sabotaging the mechanisms of the vault door and then disengaging the internal alarm with a special device designed by his employer. An anti-anti-theft apparatus. But this poser had simply obtained access to the deactivation code.
Specifically what had he come after?
The man disappeared inside the vault, but left the door ajar.
Jean hung back for a second and then edged forward. Cautiously, he peered through the opening. The man quickly skirted the antiques, memorabilia and other large items of the Zoey Zander collection and headed straight for a tall, upright safe at the back of the room.
Suddenly what had seemed like an imposing obstacle—the unexpected appearance of this stranger—became a blessing in disguise. Jean would let this man do the hard work.
His excitement was back. It tasted sweet and edgy against his tongue. His nose tingled with the smell of secrets, the tang of adrenaline.
The man stuck his penlight between his teeth and shone the thin beam on the lock. He spun the combination. The safe door popped open. Shoulders hunched, he dug inside, retrieved a fistful of jewels and stuffed them into a royal blue felt pouch he’d pulled from his jacket pocket.
Jean flexed his fingers, aching to touch her.
The man straightened, turned and for the first time saw Jean. He startled and then opened his mouth.
But he never got a word out.
Jean slammed the butt of his Luger hard against the side of the other man’s temple.
His eyes glassed over, his knees buckled and he went down.
Reaching out, Jean plucked the felt pouch from his hand as he fell. The penlight hit the floor beside him. Jean bent and picked it up, directed the light into the pouch. He ignored the rubies and emeralds and diamonds. His eyes were hungry for one thing and one thing only.
She smiled up at him, resplendent in the sliver of wan light. Smiled and winked and sparkled. She was perfect. Ivory in the shape of a five-pointed star with a hollow center.
He separated her from the other gems, but in the process, the pin of an onyx brooch pierced his thumb. He cursed softly, brought his thumb to his mouth and tasted blood.
He dropped the brooch and the rest of the jewels on top of the downed man. The interloper might as well have something for his troubles besides a throbbing headache when he awoke.
Jean’s eyes turned back to the amulet, now cradled in his palm, compelled by her allure. His breathing stopped. How could such a beauty be cursed?
Romantic rubbish.
Never mind the foolish legend. At long last she was his. And she was going to make him rich beyond his wildest imagination.
How he loved her.
His White Star amulet.
1
DON’T LOOK DOWN.
Cassandra “Cass” Richards, assistant public relations representative to the haute couture house of Isaac Vincent, stood trembling on a window ledge eight floors above Broadway in Manhattan’s garment district. One wrong move and she would plummet like a runway model’s weight two weeks before the spring collection debut.
Suddenly, shimmying after her Hermès scarf, which had caught on one of the brownstone’s grim-faced gargoyles, seemed more and more like a very bad idea. The brisk spring breeze had whisked it off her neck when she’d leaned out the open window to wave goodbye to her best friend, Marissa Suarez, who was heading off to the Caribbean with her boyfriend and had stopped by the office to leave Cass a key to her apartment just in case.
Wind whipped up her smart pink pencil skirt, sending a bone chill up her spine and causing her to realize that wearing a g-string thong today was probably not the brightest impulse she’d ever had.
And let’s face it, in her much-prized four-inch Manolo Blahnik pink patent leather Mary Janes that had set her back a full month’s salary, she was at a distinct disadvantage for navigating the eight- inch-wide cement outcropping.
How did she keep getting herself into these ridiculous fixes? She bit down on her bottom lip and eyed the traffic below.
Her head reeled dizzily.
Don’t look down.
She was pressed flush against the side of the building, arms splayed out at her sides, the coveted Hermès scarf clutched tightly in her right hand. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of what the dirty bricks were doing to her glamorous outfit.
When she’d first climbed onto the ledge it hadn’t seemed so scary because her attention had been fixed on the scarf. She had leaned out, never meaning to actually end up on the protrusion, but then she’d discovered her reach wasn’t quite long enough. She’d winnowed her hips through the window frame just to give her an extra couple of inches.
Close, but not close enough.
Don’t look down.
She’d held tightly to the frame, swung her legs around and then edged out onto the ledge. Two, three steps maximum was all it had taken to reach that first gargoyle.
Unfortunately, just as Cass had grasped for the recalcitrant scarf, the wind grabbed it again and fluttered it over to a second gargoyle a good four feet farther on down the ledge.
She hadn’t thought about anything except how many lunches she’d had to skip to afford the damned thing. Now,
