Stolen

Frantically Ogilvie glanced around the parking lot and spotted his black MG socked in three rows deep. By the time he could extricate it from that sea of Jaguars and Mercedes, Delancey and the woman could be miles away.

In frustration he watched Delancey’s Bentley drive off. So much for following them; he’d have to catch up with her later. No problem. He knew which hotel she was staying at, knew that she’d paid for the next three nights in advance.

He decided to shift his efforts to the blond man.

Fifteen minutes later he spotted the man leaving through the gates. By that time Ogilvie had his car ready and waiting near the parking-lot exit. He saw the man step into a champagne gold Jaguar, and he took note of the license number. The Jaguar pulled out of the parking lot.

So did Ogilvie’s MG.

His quarry led him on a long and winding route through rolling fields and trees, leaves already tinted with the fiery glow of autumn. Blueblood country, thought Ogilvie, noting the sleek horses in the pasture. Whoever was this fellow, anyway?

The gold Jaguar finally turned off the main road, onto a private roadway flanked by towering elms. From the main road Ogilvie could just glimpse the house that lay beyond those elms. It was magnificent, a stone-and-turret manor surrounded by acres of gardens.

He glanced at the manor name. It was mounted in bronze on the stone pillars marking the roadway entrance.

Chetwynd.

“You’ve come up in the world, Clea Rice,” murmured Ogilvie.

Then he turned the car around. It was four o’clock. He’d have just enough time to call in his report to London.

VICTOR VAN WELDON HAD HAD a bad day. The congestion in his lungs was worse, his doctors said, and it was time for the oxygen again. He thought he’d weaned himself from that green tank. But now the tank was back, hooked onto his wheelchair, and the tubes were back in his nostrils. And once again he was feeling his mortality.

What a time for Simon Trott to insist on a meeting.

Van Weldon hated to be seen in such a weak and vulnerable condition. Through the years he had prided himself on his strength. His ruthlessness. Now, to be revealed for what he was—an old and dying man—would grant Simon Trott too much of an advantage. Although Van Weldon had already named Trott his successor, he was not yet ready to hand over the company reins. Until I draw my last breath, he thought, the company is mine to control.

There was a knock on the door. Van Weldon turned his wheelchair around to face his younger associate as he walked into the room. It was apparent, by the look on Trott’s face, that the news he brought was not good.

Trott, as usual, was dressed in a handsomely tailored suit that showed his athletic frame to excellent advantage. He had it all—youth, blond good looks, all the women he could possibly hope to bed. But he does not yet have the company, thought Van Weldon. He is still afraid of me. Afraid of telling me this latest news.

“What have you learned?” asked Van Weldon.

“I think I know why Clea Rice headed for England,” said Trott. “There have been rumors…on the black market…” He paused and cleared his throat.

“What rumors?”

“They say an Englishman has been boasting about a secret purchase he made. He claims he recently acquired…” Trott looked down. Reluctantly he finished. “The Eye of Kashmir.”

“Our Eye of Kashmir? That is impossible.”

“That is the rumor.”

“The Eye has not been placed on the market! There is no way anyone could acquire it.”

“We have not inventoried the collection since it was moved. There is a possibility…”

The two men exchanged looks. And Van Weldon understood. They both understood. We have a thief among our ranks. A traitor who has dared to go against us.

“If Clea Rice has also heard rumors of this sale, it could be disastrous for us,” said Van Weldon.

“I’m quite aware of that.”

“Who is this Englishman?”

“His name is Guy Delancey. We’re trying to locate his residence now.”

Van Weldon nodded. He sank back in his wheelchair and for a moment let the oxygen wash through his lungs. “Find Delancey,” he said softly. “I have a feeling that when you do, you will also find Clea Rice.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“TO NEW FRIENDS,” said Guy as he handed Clea a glass brimming with champagne.

“To new friends,” she murmured and took a sip. The champagne was excellent. It would go to her head if she wasn’t careful, and now, more than ever, she needed to keep her head. Such a sticky situation! How on earth was she to case the joint while this slobbery Casanova was all over her? She’d planned to let him make only a few preliminary moves, but it was clear Delancey had far more than just a harmless flirtation in mind.

He sat down beside her on the flowered settee, close enough for her to get a good look at his face. For a man in his late forties, he was still reasonably attractive, his skin relatively unlined, his hair still jet black. But the watery eyes and the sagging jowls were testimony to a dissipated life.

He leaned closer, and she had to force herself not to pull back in repulsion as those eyes swam toward her. To her relief, he didn’t kiss her—yet. The trick was to hold him off while she dragged as much information as she could out of him.

She smiled coyly. “I love your house.”

“Thank you.”

“And the art! Quite a collection. All originals, I take it?”

“Naturally.” Guy waved proudly at the paintings on the walls. “I haunt the auction houses. At Sotheby’s, if they see me coming, they rub their hands together in glee. Of course, this isn’t the best of my collection.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, I keep the finer pieces in my London town house. That’s where I do most of my entertaining. Plus, it has far better security.”

Clea felt her heart sink. Darn, was that where he kept it, then? His London town house? Then she’d wasted the week here in Buckinghamshire.

“It’s a major concern of mine these days,” he murmured, leaning even closer toward her. “Security.”

“Against theft, you mean?” she inquired innocently.

“I mean security in general. The wolf at the door. The chill of a lonely bed.” He bent toward her and pressed his sodden lips to hers. She shuddered. “I’ve been searching so long for the right woman,” he whispered. “A soul mate…”

Do women actually fall for this line? she wondered.

“And when I looked in your eyes today—in that tent—I thought perhaps I’d found her.”

Clea fought the urge to burst out laughing and managed—barely—to return his gaze with one just as steady. Just as smoldering. “But one must be careful,” she murmured.

“I agree.”

“Hearts are so very fragile. Especially mine.”