LITMIR.BIZ

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tonight. Right under my nose.”

      “And did you defend her honor?”

      “Didn’t have to,” said Richard with a laugh. “She does a pretty good job of defending herself.”

      Delancey’s hand was now on Miss Buxom’s lower back. Slowly that hand began to slide down toward dangerous terrain.

      “What do women see in a guy like that, anyway?” asked Richard.

      “Sex appeal?” said Jordan. Delancey did, after all, have rather dashing Spanish looks. “Who knows what attracts women to certain men?” Lord only knew what had attracted Veronica Cairncross to Guy. But she was rid of him now. If she was sensible, she’d damn well stay on the straight and narrow.

      Jordan looked at Richard. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a security firm called Nimrod Associates?”

      “Is that based here or abroad?”

      “I don’t know. Here, I imagine.”

      “I haven’t heard of it. But I could check for you.”

      “Would you? I’d appreciate it.”

      “Why are you interested in this firm?”

      “Oh…” Jordan shrugged. “The name came up in the course of the evening.”

      Richard was looking at him thoughtfully. Damn, it was that intelligence background of his, an aspect of Richard Wolf that could be either a help or a nuisance. Richard’s antennae were out now, the questions forming in his head. Jordan would have to be careful.

      Luckily, Beryl sauntered up at that moment to bestow a kiss on her intended. Any questions Richard may have entertained were quickly forgotten as he bent to press his lips to his fiancée’s upturned mouth. Another kiss, a hungry twining of arms, and poor old Richard was oblivious to the rest of the world.

      Ah, young lovers, sizzling in hormones, thought Jordan and polished off his drink. His own hormones were simmering tonight as well, helped along by the pleasant buzz of champagne.

      And by thoughts of that woman.

      He couldn’t seem to get her out of his thick head. Not her voice, nor her laugh, nor the catlike litheness of her body twisting beneath his…

      Quickly he set his glass down. No more champagne tonight. The memories were intoxicating enough. He glanced around for the tray of soda water and spotted his uncle Hugh entering the ballroom.

      All evening Hugh had played genial host and proud uncle to the future bride. He’d happily guzzled champagne and flirted with ladies young enough to be his granddaughters. But at this particular moment Uncle Hugh was looking vexed.

      He crossed the room, straight toward Guy Delancey. The two men exchanged a few words and Delancey’s chin shot up. An instant later an obviously upset Delancey strode out of the ballroom, calling loudly for his car.

      “Now what’s going on?” said Jordan.

      Beryl, her cheeks flushed and pretty from Richard’s kissing, turned to look as Uncle Hugh wandered in their direction. “He’s obviously not happy.”

      “Dreadful way to finish off the evening,” Hugh was muttering.

      “What happened?” asked Beryl.

      “Guy Delancey’s man called to report a burglary at the house. Seems someone climbed up the balcony and walked straight into the master bedroom. Imagine the cheek! And with the butler at home, too.”

      “Was anything stolen?” asked Richard.

      “Don’t know yet.” Hugh shook his head. “Almost makes one feel a bit guilty, doesn’t it?”

      “Guilty?” Jordan forced a laugh from his throat. “Why?”

      “If we hadn’t invited Delancey here tonight, the burglar wouldn’t have had his chance.”

      “That’s ridiculous,” said Jordan. “The burglar—I mean, if it was a burglar—”

      “Why wouldn’t it be a burglar?” asked Beryl.

      “It’s just—one shouldn’t draw conclusions.”

      “Of course it’s a burglar,” said Hugh. “Why else would one break into Guy’s house?”

      “There could be other…explanations. Couldn’t there?”

      No one answered.

      Smiling, Jordan took a sip of soda water. But the whole time he felt his sister’s gaze, watching him closely.

      Suspiciously.

      

      THE PHONE WAS RINGING when Clea returned to her hotel room. Before she could answer it, the ringing stopped, but she knew it would start up again. Tony must be anxious. She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. Eventually she would have to, of course, but first she needed a chance to recover from the night’s near catastrophe, a chance to figure out what she should do next. What Tony should do next.

      She rooted around in her suitcase and found the miniature bottle of brandy she’d picked up on the airplane. She went into the bathroom, poured out a splash into a water glass and stood sipping the drink, staring dejectedly at her reflection in the mirror. In the car she’d managed to wipe away most of the camouflage paint, but there were still smudges of it on her temples and down one side of her nose. She turned on the faucet, wet a facecloth and scrubbed away the rest of the paint.

      The phone was ringing again.

      Carrying her glass, she went into the bedroom and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

      “Clea?” said Tony. “What happened?”

      She sank onto the bed. “I didn’t get it.”

      “Did you get in the house?”

      “Of course I got in!” Then, more softly, she said, “I was close. So close. I searched the downstairs, but it wasn’t there. I’d just gotten upstairs when I was rudely interrupted.”

      “By Delancey?”

      “No. By another burglar. Believe it or not.” She managed a tired laugh. “Delancey’s house seems to be quite the popular place to rob.”

      There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then Tony asked a question that instantly chilled her. “Are you sure it was just a burglar? Are you sure it wasn’t one of Van Weldon’s men?”

      At the mention of that name, Clea’s fingers froze around the glass of brandy. “No,” she murmured.

      “It’s possible, isn’t it? They may have figured out what you’re up to. Now they’ll be after the Eye of Kashmir.”

      “They couldn’t have followed me! I was so careful.”

      “Clea, you don’t know these people—”

      “The hell I don’t!” she retorted. “I know exactly who I’m dealing with!”

      After a pause Tony said softly, “I’m sorry. Of course you know. You know better than anyone. But I’ve had my ear to the ground. I’ve been hearing things.”

      “What things?”

      “Van Weldon’s got friends in London. Friends in high places.”

      “He has friends everywhere.”

      “I’ve also heard…” Tony’s voice dropped. “They’ve upped the ante. You’re worth a million dollars to them, Clea. Dead.”

      Her hands were shaking. She took a desperate gulp of brandy. At once her eyes watered, tears of rage and despair. She blinked them away.

      “I think you should try the police again,” Tony said.

      “I’m not repeating

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