Chapter One
The club relied on trendy darkness mixed with strobing colored lights to create an atmosphere I’d tried to avoid since the year after college. Unfortunately, the woman throwing the party for her new husband’s sixtieth birthday was only twenty-three, and if she wanted a loud, drunken Monday night extravaganza with beautiful people decades younger than hubby, he and his checkbook were happy to buy into this wifestyle. Even if he risked a heart attack. I’d put my money on six months.
Oh well, she’ll look smashing in a black mini and veil, I thought.
We were using the party invite as a cover. I needed an alibi for later, and this kind of over the top celebration provided such an option. As head of the London office of the Beacham Foundation, I stayed on the party lists for nearly every rich person who dallied in any form of art collection, preservation, philanthropy or as just a hanger-on to the scene. Which meant I tended to save my RSVPing for times when there were fundraisers, or I needed to meet someone in particular who was slated to attend. Neither of those cases fit this Bacchus brouhaha, but the party set a perfect alibi mechanism for leaving people with an impression that I was there later when I…wasn’t. Something essential within the next hour’s timeframe.
The Russian and his wife left the dance floor and had been holding court at a corner table for most of the evening, his red face showing the effects of too much alcohol and exertion. His flirty trophy wife also seemed to hop in his lap the second his blood pressure appeared to be lowering a smidgeon. I wondered how much she stood to inherit and how hard she’d work to make it happen sooner rather than later.
Six months might be optimistic, I concluded.
My right temple throbbed. The impending migraine could easily have had its roots in the techno-house party beat pounding redundantly from the perimeter speakers. Or possibly the potent mix of too many bodies wearing too many competing fragrances. I didn’t know where the maximum capacity level stood for the building, but the number attending likely exceeded the licensed amount.
Or it could be because I was waiting for my personal assistant and longtime friend, Cassie Dean, to crash the party and be my look-alike so I could break into the home safe of the party boy. Yes, besides an alibi, this party did double duty by letting me know the homeowners would be occupied and away while I slipped into their secured house. This was the first non-art related party I’d attended in some time, and ironically, I did so in connection to a pseudo-art crime. It wasn’t something I allowed to be well known, but I wasn’t a virgin when it came to such reclamation ventures. I wasn’t technically stealing. The objective was to return stolen artwork to its rightful owner. Basically, the plan called for me to steal a stolen art piece from at least an accessory to art crime and possibly the instigator of said crime—if the Russian was the one who commissioned the original theft. The jury remained out on that last part of the equation, but I was still recovering stolen art.
Jack Hawkes whispered in my ear, “You look like you’re contemplating a trip to the guillotine.” He wasn’t just my partner in crime this evening, but part of my team investigating forgeries and art heist activities over the past six months. He also doubled as our law enforcement tie with his connection to the British government and Home Office. He and I had begun our partnership suspecting each other as this six-month plot unfurled, until we realized it was nearly everyone else we couldn’t trust. Lately, our partnership had turned personal as well.
“I’m almost wishing someone would cut off my head,” I replied. “It’s starting to pound as steadily as the bass.” I tried to keep from elbowing the couple beside me as we all seemed to be allocated the same square inch on the crowded dance floor. After arriving fashionably late, we’d been at the party less than an hour and I had already been groped three times by drunken strangers. When another man stroked the part of my kicky little black Givenchy cocktail dress that covered my derriere, my elbow slipped, and the stranger’s hand vanished. I raised my chin, motioned to Jack in the direction of a side wall, and said, “Let’s see if we can find someplace marginally less crowded.”
“But a table—”
“No table.” Our plan depended on Cassie playing my doppelganger until I returned post-theft. That meant while I was in sight I needed to stay in the crush of the crowd until she arrived, so people could keep thinking they saw me across the room in the time period when they actually saw her. Tables didn’t allow that kind of sleight-of-person trick.
Jack was a good head taller than I, and I’m no slouch at five-eight without the stilettos I wore for the party, so I let him lead through the path of least resistance. We ebbed with the flow, steadily dancing our way toward the spot I’d indicated. The location was a double winner in that it offered easier access to the hallway I needed to escape through when Cassie sneaked in and was pseudo-me in the short term.
As we gained the wall, Jack leaned down and kissed my ear, then whispered, “We can reschedule—”
“Shh.” I put a finger to his lips then moved to straighten his midnight blue silk tie, letting my hand stay a second too long on his chest as I leaned in and replied, “Everything is in place, and we won’t get a better chance. Besides, we have Cassie on board and she’s kind of excited to be a part of this.”
“I wish I hadn’t had to involve you. I’d rather we were here to enjoy the party, not to toss you into an eleventh-hour art recovery.”
“Frankly, a risky assignment is preferable to attending this shallow showcase of the rich and drunken. Though I do love that it gives you the opportunity to look so good.” I ran a finger and thumb down the lapel of his fine Tom Ford jacket. “Nice.”
“Not exactly slumming it yourself.” Jack leaned down and brushed his lips with mine. “When this is all over, we’re going to do some celebrating of our own. Maybe on a beach in Bali.”
“Sounds exotic.”
Then he frowned. “Maybe I should go with you in case backup is need—”
“Stop,” I whispered. “Jack, I’m at my best when I work alone, and you can’t get inside anyway. Don’t try to make me into some Bond girl to follow your lead and has to be rescued. I don’t fit the mold.”
“Never. I have bigger plans for you—and all of them require that both of us stay out of jail.”
I stretched as far as my Louboutins would let me tiptoe, kissed his chin, and whispered, “Stop thinking worse case scenarios. It’s a piece of cake.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that when we’re talking about something like this,” he replied cryptically, but I knew exactly what he meant.
“We’ve planned every step. Our only concern was how to get a cover for the night and this party was a godsend. I already had an invite and you’re my date. That’s one of the benefits you get from sleeping with the glamorous Laurel Beacham, head of the Beacham Foundation London office,” I teased. He chuckled.
Good, I didn’t need an anxious date.
The birthday boy was a Russian oligarch who possessed a small Rodin bronze bust in his home-office safe. A work of art he’d either purchased illicitly from one of the more unscrupulous art dealers who looked the other way when a piece’s provenance was questionable or missing, or the Russian took possession of the masterwork after hiring the thief himself. Either way, it wasn’t in the English country house of a British noble where it was supposed to be residing and on exhibit to the public. The Russian liked running in art circles, and his new little wifey was cultivating all his money contacts. Officially, the Russian collected Chagalls. At least his Marc Chagall works were the ones with an official provenance to match. Unofficially, he collected everything that struck his fancy, so it wasn’t a stretch for me to believe he sheltered an absconded Rodin.
To Jack and his coworkers in the Home Office, the problem was how to get back the bust. When six months of careful social and diplomatic channels couldn’t restore the piece to the true owner, Jack was assigned the task of retrieving the masterpiece through unconventional channels before the oligarch and the Rodin left for Russia at the end of the week. No one in the British government said, “steal the damn thing,” but that was the unspoken edict.
Despite the rushed schedule, Jack investigated every point of ingress and egress, tried every avenue of gaining access through subterfuge, and even consulted my Italian geek extraordinaire, Nico and myself—because though it’s only known by a limited and very small circle of individuals, Nico and I had quite a lot of experience in these types of challenges. With my tech wizard gathering confidential information and gaining necessary pass codes, and me actually “reclaiming” previously stolen works and returning the art to the true owners. However, because of the particular safeguards this household employed, the only viable channel of escape if the bust was burgled required exit through a small window several inches too narrow to accommodate Jack’s broad shoulders. Strong and steady shoulders I’d leaned on any number of times in previous predicaments, leading me to persuade him to let me return some favors and handle the retrieval myself.
The only challenge was how to create an alibi without having to wear my Lycra cat suit to the party. Jack became my plus one for the event, and Cassie my plus one-half alternate.
Unfortunately, the expression he currently wore on his handsome face looked like he was reconsidering the decision, and the way his dark brows furrowed made him looked thunderous. This would never do. People remembered stormy faces at parties. “Smile, Jack. Relax and flirt with me.”
Instinct took over, and he flashed that cheeky grin I knew so well. But I recognized concern in his teal eyes. It was that control problem he had. No big deal if he was taking a risk and running a play, but when he had to give up control to…well…me…
The doppelganger part was probably overkill and wasn’t something I’d ever done before in a retrieval situation. However, I’d recently been caught on a security cam while working a similar operation to this one and wanted extra insurance for reasonable doubt. Not that the earlier video was enough to convict me of anything, but it was confirmation that gave proof to someone who had harbored suspicions for years about my role in many such robbery reversals. Making me wonder how many other people of the criminal and/or law enforcement persuasion suspected I had hidden talents.
In particular, being on video in the previous project furnished evidence to an art crime mastermind who was known to the world as Devin Moran, real name Phillipe Aubertine, and whom I wanted my secret kept from about my extracurricular activities. Not the best outcome when such intel was revealed to a man I’d been trying to put behind bars for years on art theft charges. I bluffed when Moran tried to out me on one of my previous reclamation projects, but I didn’t want to add to his cache of provable Laurel Beacham activities either. While I wasn’t as concerned about Moran taking such evidence to the police, because too many of his own customers would be compromised, for continued self-preservation tactics it seemed prudent to avoid providing additional ammunition that could quash any upper hand I gained over him. His grandson, Rollie, the heir apparent to Moran’s criminal enterprise, was another wildcard in the mix because of his desire to avoid my gaining a foothold in the family enterprise. Not that I wanted one, or even had the option yet—we’d need a DNA test to know that. But letting Rollie have any leverage over me was out of the question. For now, I was holding to the Beacham name and the mission of the foundation, something my reckless father lost after generations of Beachams kept the torch burning bright.
Both Moran and Rollie held key spots on Jack’s and my personal top ten list of people we wanted incarcerated, so not giving anyone new ammunition was critical. I couldn’t risk being the cause of any inopportune deal-making.
“Think of this as a character building exercise,” I told Jack, focusing on the matter at hand. Without asking directly, since it would just tick him off, I’d circuitously asked enough questions to know I was far more experienced in one of these cat burgling maneuvers than him. But saying this would just start an argument. I tried calming instead. “You know I can do this, and I’ll be careful. So, smile and network, and I’ll be back in record time.”
“Take no chances.” He cocked a dark eyebrow, but the grin remained fixed in place. Kind of like a grimace, but he was trying. When I thought about all the times I’d followed his lead or adjusted to one of his last-minute changes of plan, or got blindsided because he… No, I needed to get off this train of thought.
“I promise to stick with the plan. It’s solid and workable. We’ve covered every minute detail.” I smiled up at him and rubbed his cheek.
He caught my hand with his and nodded, then straightened and reached into the pocket of his handsome charcoal-colored jacket and withdrew his phone. Given the way the sound system pounded through my veins, I was surprised he could even feel the cell vibrate. He turned the screen my way, so I could read the text, then leaned down and pretended to nibble my ear as he said, “Cassie is in place. Take care.”
I pretended to giggle and kissed his cheek, close enough to whisper, “Right. She’ll text you when she needs to be let in the club’s side door, and I’ll text when I’m ready to return so you can let me back inside. She’s carrying a burner for me to use.”
Because too many unscrupulous people were suddenly interested in my whereabouts, Nico had used his techno-wizardry skills to the max on my personal phone, somehow working his magic to make any transmission from my smartphone appear to come from someplace halfway around the world. Despite that cloaking ability in regard to GPS, however, we didn’t want my cell number appearing on Jack’s mobile that evening, since I was supposed to be with him the whole time. Hence the need for the burner.
A sudden cloud of Obsession perfume overpowered the other scents around us, reminding me of a recent bad experience. I backed up a half-step to pivot and head for the hallway to meet Cassie—and slammed into a blonde who suddenly zagged into my path.
As I began apologizing, the blonde in the scarlet Vera Wang sheath laughed. Then she stopped and fought to get her long hair out of her face. Even under the club lighting, I could see the manufactured tan I knew stayed in place three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I stifled an oath as she sobered enough to recognize me. Melanie Weems, former museum director of The Browning, a small museum in Miami. Precisely the person bad memories of Obsession had already conjured. We’d been trying to find her since she hit Germany in January because she was tied to an art crime hood who’d been killed in Rome in one of our previous adventures. She also appeared entangled with another, bigger art criminal, Ermo Colle, who’d disappeared as solidly as she had. Now she’d snuck into the U.K. despite all of Jack’s safeguards. Another hole in the system to plug. Again.
I reached to grab Jack’s arm and assumed as light a tone as I could manage when I shouted, “Look. It’s Melanie. What a surprise.”
His eyes widened, and he leaned closer. “Unexpected…surprise.”
“Oh, Jackie!” Melanie walked fingers up his wool covered bicep. Yes, they had history before Jack knew better. “Are you still slumming with Beacham?”
“What—?” I choked.
Jack cut me off with a small shove toward the hallway. Smart man. But Melanie grabbed my arm and pulled. I would have fallen off my high heels if Jack hadn’t caught hold of me at the waist.
“Dammit, Melanie. Let go,” I cried.
“I was stopping you from hitting me,” she shouted. The smell of alcohol competed with her perfume.
“I was moving out of the way, not trying to hit you.” Why was I arguing with a drunk? I needed to get away.
Then the bitch slapped me!
“What the hell?” My right hand automatically moved back to strike, but Jack caught my wrist and held tight.
“Dammit, Melanie, what was that for?” Jack asked. “Are you pissed or crazy?”
Okay, I knew Jack meant drunk when he said pissed, but the American version of the phrase was rapidly applying to my current mood too.
“Just letting you know you can’t get anything by me this time, Laurel Beacham,” she yelled, her nose millimeters from mine. “You’re such a liar, and I’m not putting up with it.”
I hadn’t been Melanie’s favorite person since we were all in college, and the summer I successfully scored on a revenge plot to counter one of her nastier schemes, which cost a good professor his job. She claimed it was nothing more than a summer school prank, but it foretold the full range of her mean girl persona. Her comeuppance put me firmly in her crosshairs from that moment forward, and she never missed an opportunity to diminish me in public. The fact I was presently with Jack upped the ante, and she presented a definite risk to our plans that evening.
I was feeling secondhand drunk from the alcohol fumes coming with her words. “Melanie, I think you’ve had enough booze for the evening. Maybe you should—”
And she slapped me again!
“You bitch! I’ll—” I couldn’t say anything more because Jack clamped a hand over my mouth and used his other arm to cinch me tighter around the waist, pulling me close against his body. “Laurel needs a little air. Right, love?” he said as he pushed us through the crowd and away from Melanie.
That’s when I realized it looked like half the packed house was apparently following Melanie’s and my exchange. Wonderful. I wanted to stay lowkey tonight, so Cassie could double for me, and now I was center of attention. Not to mention my face hurt from the damned slaps.
I pushed his hand away from my mouth, but he tightened his hold around my waist. Couldn’t really blame him. I wouldn’t have trusted me either. When we finally got into the hallway and away from the crowd he let go.
“Keep her away from Cassie,” I warned. “Melanie could blow everything.”
“I know, don’t worry. I’ll keep her occupied.”
“How did she even get into the country without someone notifying us?” I fumed. “What’s the point of having a means of flagging miscreants if they can just waltz through border security like they have an engraved invitation?”
“I’ll check,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulders and holding my gaze. “But now, you need to center. Forget all of this and go meet Cassie for the quick change.”
I nodded. “Got it. I’ll—” His lips met mine and my stomach gave a little flip-flop that tamped down the adrenalin I’d had surging just a few seconds before. I reached up and ran my fingers through the curls on the back of his head, and he pulled me closer and deepened the kiss.
As our lips parted, he said, “You’re sure you don’t want to abort the plan? Things are kind of—”
“Going sideways already. I know.” I smiled, leaned against his chest, and looked up as if whispering sweet nothings his way. “Tonight is our best bet, skeleton crew in the house with most of the servants off, and our only chance since they’re heading back to Russia next week. We’re heading for New York tomorrow, remember.”
“If anything looks risky, get out of there.”
“I will.” I patted his chest over his heart. “I promise to be careful. Besides, it’s going to be fine. Within a few minutes, I’ll be in my element.”
“Your element…” He shook his head.
I pulled his tie and leaned close again. “My assignment for the rest of the evening is much safer than yours. I’m not the one who has to keep Melanie occupied.” Smiling, I backed to the exterior door and blew him a kiss before I slipped into the brisk London night.
