at the edge of the Atlantic. Bemused, Jack took in the rolling sand dunes, the upended rowboat, the electronic waves splashing across a wall studded with LED lights.
“Wow. Is this all your doing?” he asked Gina.
“Not hardly. Mostly my boss, Samuel, and...uh-oh! There’s Samuel now. He’s with our big boss. ’Scuse me a minute. I’d better find out what’s up.”
Jack recognized the diminutive woman with the salt-and-pepper corkscrew curls at first look. Nicole Tremayne hadn’t changed much in the past eight years. One of the underlings in her Boston operation had handled most of the planning for Jack’s wedding to Catherine, but Nicole had approved the final plans herself and flown up from New York to personally oversee the lavish affair.
He saw the moment she recognized him, too. The casual glance she threw his way suddenly sharpened into a narrow-eyed stare. Frowning, she exchanged a few words with Gina, then crossed the floor.
“John Harris Mason.” She thrust out a hand. “I should have made the connection when Gina demanded to know if Jack Mason had contacted me.”
“I hope you told her no. She almost bit off my head when I offered to call and put in a word for her.”
“She did? Interesting.”
Chin cocked, Tremayne studied him through bird-bright eyes. She wasn’t so crass as to come out and ask if he were the father of Gina’s baby but Jack could see the speculation rife in her face.
“I was sorry to hear about your wife,” she said after a moment.
“Thank you.”
God, what a useless response. But Jack had uttered it so many times now that the words didn’t taste quite as bitter in his mouth.
“Are you still in Boston?” she asked.
“No, I’m with the State Department now. Right now I’m assigned to D.C.”
“Hmm.” She tapped a bloodred nail against her chin. “Good to know.”
With that enigmatic comment she excused herself and returned to her underlings. Gina rushed over a few moments later.
“I’m so sorry, Jack. We’ll have to postpone the tour. I’ve got to take care of an ice-sculpture crisis.”
“No problem. Just let me know if tomorrow evening’s a go for the duchess.”
“I will.”
* * *
The following evening was not only a go, but the duchess’s acceptance also came with an invitation for drinks at the Dakota prior to dinner.
Jack spent all that day at the NYPD Counterterrorism Bureau established after 9/11. While coordination between federal, state and local agencies had increased exponentially since that horrific day, there was always room for improvement. The NYPD agents were particularly interested in Jack’s recent up-close-and-personal encounter with a rabidly anti-U.S. terrorist cell in Mali. They soaked up every detail of the terrorists’ weaponry and tactics and poured over the backgrounds of two Americans recently ID’d as part of the group. Since the parents of one of the expatriates lived in Brooklyn, NYPD was justifiably worried that the son might try to slip back into the country.
Jack in turn received in-depth briefings on the Counterterrorism Bureau’s Lower Manhattan Security Initiative. Designed to protect the nation’s financial capital, the LMSI combined increased police presence and the latest surveillance technology with a public-private partnership. Individuals from both government and the business world manned LMSI’s operations center to detect and neutralize potential threats. Jack left grimly hopeful that this unique public-private cooperative effort would prove a model for other high-risk targets.
He rushed back to his hotel and had his driver wait while he hurried upstairs to change his shirt and eliminate his five-o’clock shadow. A half hour later he identified himself to a uniformed doorman at the castlelike Dakota. The security at the famed apartment complex had stepped up considerably after one of its most famous tenants, John Lennon, was gunned down just steps away from the entrance years ago. Jack had no problem providing identification, being closely scrutinized and waiting patiently while the doorman called upstairs.
“The duchess is expecting you, sir. You know the apartment number?”
“I do.”
“Very good.” He keyed a remote to unlock the inner door. “The elevators are to your left.”
A dark-haired, generously endowed woman Jack remembered from the wedding reception answered the doorbell. She wore a polite expression but he sensed disapproval lurking just below the surface.
“Hola. I am Maria, housekeeper to la duquesa and auntie to Sarah and Gina.”
Auntie, huh? That explained the disapproval. She obviously considered him solely responsible for the failure of the box of condoms he and Gina had gone through during their sexual extravaganza.
“Good evening, Maria. I saw you at Sarah’s wedding but didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Jack Mason.”
“Sí, I know. Please come with me. La duquesa waits for you in the salon.”
He followed her down a hall tiled in pale pink Carrara marble. The delicate scent of orange blossoms wafted from a Waterford crystal bowl set on a rococo side table. The elegant accessories gave no hint of how close the duchess had come to financial disaster. Jack picked up faint traces of it, however, when Maria showed him into the high-ceilinged salon.
The room’s inlaid parquet floor was a work of art but cried for a hand-knotted Turkish carpet to soften its hard surface. Likewise, the watered silk wallpaper showed several barely discernible lighter rectangles where paintings must have once hung. The furniture was a skillful blend of fine antiques and modern comfort, though, and the floor-to-ceiling windows curtained in pale blue velvet gave glorious views of Central Park. Those swift impressions faded into insignificance when Jack spotted the woman sitting ramrod-straight in a leather-backed armchair, her cane within easy reach. Thin and frail though she was, Charlotte St. Sebastian nevertheless dominated the salon with her regal air.
“Good evening, Jack.”
She held out a veined hand. He shook it gently and remembered her suggestion at the wedding that he use her name instead of her title.
“Good evening, Charlotte.”
“Gina called a few moments ago. She’s been detained at work but should be here shortly.”
She waved him to the chair beside hers and smiled a request at Maria. “Would you bring in the appetizer tray before you leave?”
When the housekeeper bustled out, the duchess gestured to a side table holding a dew-streaked bucket and an impressive array of crystal decanters.
“May I offer you an aperitif?”
“You may.”
“I’m afraid I must ask you to serve yourself. The wine is a particularly fine French white, although some people find the Aligoté grape a bit too light for their tastes. Or...”
She
