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, and up to the second level.
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, and up to the second level.
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