LITMIR.BIZ

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the aching.

      Until the last few weeks, when Marley had taken up residence in Lisette’s head with no intention of leaving until her dearest dream had been fulfilled: the return of Le Mystère to its rightful owner.

      Lisette.

      Though she could sense her mother clapping her hands in delight, the emotions inside Lisette weren’t so light. Le Mystère was a priceless statue, and her father had been killed for it. So had his great-great-grandfather. Some might consider it cursed: by the Toussaint who’d given the statue to the Blue family as a token of appreciation? The next-generation Toussaint who’d tried to take it back and killed its rightful owner in the process? Her father, who’d died to protect it? Or the Toussaint who’d left Lisette fatherless?

      It’s justice, Lizzie. That statue belongs to you. It’s your heritage. It’s your father’s legacy. He did die for it, and I promised his spirit that we’ll get it back. His death won’t have been in vain.

      “Not now, Mama, please. Stay out of my head.”

      Lisette had to stay ready just in case company showed up.

      This company had better be Jack Sinclair. She’d put herself near his path in the ballroom twice, had paused at the door long enough for his gaze to lock on her. She’d even made sure to scrape a shoe and swear, difficult tasks to carry out when she’d been taught stealth her whole life.

      Her gloved hands steady, she rolled the canvas once again and slid it into a mailing tube she’d found in a supply closet. It was a sorry home for such a wonder, but only for another twenty-four hours.

      Before capping the tube, she bent close to the desk to examine what looked like colored stones thrown into a glass dish. Given time, she could examine each one and total up their approximate values, but it didn’t really matter. The small fancy red was delicate, its colors fiery, and would bring enough to cover her and Padma’s expenses for a while.

      She sealed the red inside an envelope from Candalaria’s desk, dropped it into the tube, then taped the cap securely before glancing around the room once more. There were so many other masterpieces to study if only she had time, but time was never on her side. If she was caught with Shepherdess, if she was even caught on this floor of the house...

      Shrugging to loosen the tension in her shoulders, she started toward the balcony. If she was caught, she would have to move on to plan B. She always had a plan B—and a C and D. And now, to Marley’s delight, a plan IDS, for Île des Deux Saints, the island where Le Mystère resided.

      Lisette turned to the east wall. There were no curtains on the windows or the French doors—just stunning views of the mountains during the day, near-darkness at night. Little of the outdoor lighting reached this high up, leaving the murky shadows she liked best.

      Now for the hardest part of the job. She opened the door just wide enough to slide through to the balcony. Barely ten by twenty feet, it had been built more for looks than function, though it did hold two elaborately carved chairs. She didn’t move toward the chairs, didn’t go one inch nearer the knee-high balustrade than she had to. She dragged a few oxygen particles into her lungs, pressed her back against the stone wall and tried to ignore the fact that she was standing on a monstrously heavy stone ledge fifty feet above the ground.

      She didn’t like heights. Didn’t like the idea of falling to her death.

      It’s not the fall that kills you, Lizzie. It’s the landing. But you’ll be okay.

      There’d been a time when Lisette had believed those last three words, no matter the situation. But that was before she’d crashed a party with more security than any presidential visit, sneaked into the owner’s quarters and stolen a canvas valued around a million dollars, and now had to climb her way down from the high-in-the-sky balcony and leave the grounds without anyone noticing.

      Besides Jack Sinclair. Even with him on her trail, okay was still a long ways out of her reach. And if it wasn’t him moving quietly in the suite behind her...

      “Hey, sweetie, look up.” As usual, Padma, Lisette’s best friend and partner in crime, was right on time. Though her voice came softly from the bud resting in Lisette’s ear, her tone was warm and cheery, meaning everything from her end was going according to plan.

      Lisette tilted her head. The bright lights below deepened the contrast with the inky sky. Generally, this far outside Denver, the night put on a pretty spectacular show, but tonight the sky was dark, hiding its gems with a thick cloud layer.

      No, it wasn’t totally dark. A tiny red light hung a hundred feet overhead, slowly descending. After a moment, its soft whirring buzz reached her, and half a moment after that, the machine stopped in midair in front of her.

      “Smile for the camera, sweetie.”

      Lisette bared her teeth. Technology was Padma’s passion. She never missed an opportunity to buy a new toy, and the drone was her latest and favest. Since it was proving to be of use on the job tonight, she was happy to call it her favest, too.

      Cautiously she reached out to disconnect the bag hanging beneath the camera. She took out a grappling hook and line, the metal clanking softly on the stone, then grabbed a pair of climbing gloves. The Shepherdess, with the fancy red in her tube, went into the bag, the zipper rasping as it closed. Once it was secure, she backed to the wall again and gave a thumbs-up, envisioning Padma’s beaming face.

      “Okay, sweetie, I’ll get this baby safely out of here, and you do the same with yourself. See you at home.”

      I hope. If her dress didn’t get in the way. Her heels. Her fears. A security guard. A nosy guest. But she had a talent for managing risks.

      “FYI,” Padma added, “countdown to fireworks, four minutes. People should be gathering outside the ballroom. Be careful.”

      Lisette watched the drone disappear into the sky, making no more noise than an annoying cicada. Once she lost sight of it, she turned her attention to the grappling hook and the 9.5-millimeter line attached to it. What goes up must come down. Of course, going up a flight of stairs was so much safer than sliding down a piece of rope.

      Heart pounding, she knelt even though her entire body agreed that edging closer to the balustrade was a really bad idea. She pushed those voices to the back of her head and concentrated on securing the hook and the rope with clammy hands. She wasn’t as expert with her climbing gear as she should be, since she tried to avoid self-induced terror as often as possible. Everything else about her job—the ingress and egress, the intel, the plans, the backup plans, the disguises—all that was dangerous but fun. Climbing, whether up or down, was just plain scary.

      “What’re you doing?”

      Lisette jerked, spinning around like a turtle hunkered on the ground to face the man who’d spoken, her feet sliding between two squat columns, dangling in air. One shoe slipped, then slid off her foot in slow motion, landing somewhere below without a sound.

      For an instant, she wanted to strangle Jack Sinclair, but that would mean prying her hands loose from the stone, and that wasn’t happening until it was do-or-die time.

      She’d had two choices for this role in her drama: Jack or his friend Simon Toussaint. It had been no choice, even without her mother’s lifelong insistence that the Toussaint family was evil. If Simon had appeared on the balcony, she would have lost her grip and fallen backward to her death. He scared her that much.

      Jack, on the other hand, was Prince Charming. She’d never met him, but she’d seen him, mostly on the internet, a few times in person. He was tall, blond, tanned and, even in this light, outrageously handsome.

      Her gaze was traveling the fine leather of his shoes up to the incredible weave of his trousers when abruptly he crouched in front of her. His brows were quirked, and so was his mouth as their gazes connected. His expression was tinged with curiosity, but underneath that was tautly controlled intensity. Interest. Even amusement.

      She didn’t take comfort in that assessment.

      “Well?”

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