scented the cool evening air and soft music wafted in from somewhere beyond the bordering box hedge.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Behind her an explosion of glass shattered on the paving stones. She spun, clutching at her overstuffed bosom, and it wasn’t all acting. Visions of Jean-Marc drawing his gun, calling “Halt! Thief!” and firing when she tried to escape whirled through her imagination.
Damn, she had to calm down. She was nervous as a cat.
In reality, a tray of drinks lay scattered on the ground in a glistening puddle of crystal shards and still bubbling liquid that reflected the brightly colored lanterns overhead. In the middle of it all stood Ricardo and a short man dressed in white, both cursing and gesturing wildly. Ricardo’s eyes shot to her, dismayed. She gave him a smile of reassurance and shook her head slightly.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured to the officer, who seemed stuck to her like glue and must have been the cause of Ricardo’s consternation. She had to get rid of him. “Perhaps you should do something about those two before they come to blows.”
With a grunt, the officer deserted her for the fray.
One down, one to go . She steadied her nerves and turned to politely thank Jean-Marc and get the hell away from him. But he had disappeared.
Uneasiness crawled through her. She swept her gaze over the crush of people crowding the artfully lit gardens, seeking him out. He was nowhere in sight.
For a minute she stood paralyzed with indecision. Should she call it off? A minute turned into two, and then three, as she wavered between caution and necessity.
The hum of a dozen conversations buzzed in her ears but no one said a word to her. No one even looked at her. A handsome young waiter passed by with a tray of fresh champagne flutes, another with a plate of hors de oeuvres, but neither paused to offer her anything.
All of which served to make up her mind.
She would not change the plan. One point three mil . There wouldn’t be another opportunity such as this. Not without weeks or months of research. Far too long. Sofie needed that money now. Jean-Marc or no, she wouldn’t put this off. She couldn’t.
“Right,” she murmured softly. “Off to the trenches.”
At a slow, dignified stroll, she crossed the elegant courtyard back toward the manor house, humming to an old melody that drifted in from a dance floor set up on the lawn behind the gardens. Under her sensible old lady flats, the paving stones winked up at her. They weren’t ordinary brick cobbles, but granite, or porphyry, or some other natural stone that reflected the twinkle of lanterns and the hundreds of fairy lights adorning the trees and paths, as well as the matching sparkle of diamonds, sapphires and rubies hanging from the throats, ears and wrists of every lady there.
Jewelry worth a fortune...
Don’t switch horses in mid-stream, Ciara.
She’d heard that expression more than once, in the old movies that had kept her company while her mom was out working her loser job waitressing at a local dive, and whatever the hell she did after closing time. Ciara had learned a lot from those old movies.
No, she wouldn’t switch horses, as tempting as it was. The plan was set. The arrangements made. No changes.
She re-entered the house through a second set of mullioned double patio doors and found herself in a massive salon, also filled with partygoers dressed to the nines. Quickly she scanned the framed art crowding the walls. Valois hadn’t been able to pinpoint her target’s location, so she’d have to wander around the chateau until she spotted it. She recognized a pair of ornately framed old masters, several stunning impressionists, and a large Henri Rousseau. Gorgeous. There were a dozen others, mostly older paintings. But no Picasso.
She slipped unnoticed through the throng to a paneled door that led toward the rear of the house. Weaving past the guests she made her way to the narrow back servant’s staircase,
Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Behind her an explosion of glass shattered on the paving stones. She spun, clutching at her overstuffed bosom, and it wasn’t all acting. Visions of Jean-Marc drawing his gun, calling “Halt! Thief!” and firing when she tried to escape whirled through her imagination.
Damn, she had to calm down. She was nervous as a cat.
In reality, a tray of drinks lay scattered on the ground in a glistening puddle of crystal shards and still bubbling liquid that reflected the brightly colored lanterns overhead. In the middle of it all stood Ricardo and a short man dressed in white, both cursing and gesturing wildly. Ricardo’s eyes shot to her, dismayed. She gave him a smile of reassurance and shook her head slightly.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured to the officer, who seemed stuck to her like glue and must have been the cause of Ricardo’s consternation. She had to get rid of him. “Perhaps you should do something about those two before they come to blows.”
With a grunt, the officer deserted her for the fray.
One down, one to go . She steadied her nerves and turned to politely thank Jean-Marc and get the hell away from him. But he had disappeared.
Uneasiness crawled through her. She swept her gaze over the crush of people crowding the artfully lit gardens, seeking him out. He was nowhere in sight.
For a minute she stood paralyzed with indecision. Should she call it off? A minute turned into two, and then three, as she wavered between caution and necessity.
The hum of a dozen conversations buzzed in her ears but no one said a word to her. No one even looked at her. A handsome young waiter passed by with a tray of fresh champagne flutes, another with a plate of hors de oeuvres, but neither paused to offer her anything.
All of which served to make up her mind.
She would not change the plan. One point three mil . There wouldn’t be another opportunity such as this. Not without weeks or months of research. Far too long. Sofie needed that money now. Jean-Marc or no, she wouldn’t put this off. She couldn’t.
“Right,” she murmured softly. “Off to the trenches.”
At a slow, dignified stroll, she crossed the elegant courtyard back toward the manor house, humming to an old melody that drifted in from a dance floor set up on the lawn behind the gardens. Under her sensible old lady flats, the paving stones winked up at her. They weren’t ordinary brick cobbles, but granite, or porphyry, or some other natural stone that reflected the twinkle of lanterns and the hundreds of fairy lights adorning the trees and paths, as well as the matching sparkle of diamonds, sapphires and rubies hanging from the throats, ears and wrists of every lady there.
Jewelry worth a fortune...
Don’t switch horses in mid-stream, Ciara.
She’d heard that expression more than once, in the old movies that had kept her company while her mom was out working her loser job waitressing at a local dive, and whatever the hell she did after closing time. Ciara had learned a lot from those old movies.
No, she wouldn’t switch horses, as tempting as it was. The plan was set. The arrangements made. No changes.
She re-entered the house through a second set of mullioned double patio doors and found herself in a massive salon, also filled with partygoers dressed to the nines. Quickly she scanned the framed art crowding the walls. Valois hadn’t been able to pinpoint her target’s location, so she’d have to wander around the chateau until she spotted it. She recognized a pair of ornately framed old masters, several stunning impressionists, and a large Henri Rousseau. Gorgeous. There were a dozen others, mostly older paintings. But no Picasso.
She slipped unnoticed through the throng to a paneled door that led toward the rear of the house. Weaving past the guests she made her way to the narrow back servant’s staircase,
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