by Nora Roberts
SHE DIDN’T SHOW until nearly two the following afternoon. Gideon had just about given up on her. As it was, he nearly didn’t recognize her when she finally came out into the broiling sunlight.
She wore jeans, a low-cut black top that offered peeks of her midriff. So it was her body he made out first. She’d pulled her hair back in a thick braid, shielded her eyes with dark, wraparound glasses and, walking briskly in some sort of thick-soled black boots, melded with pedestrian traffic.
About damn time, he thought as he followed her. He’d been stuck kicking his heels for hours waiting for her. Here he was in one of the most beautiful, most cultured cities in Eastern Europe, and he couldn’t risk the time to see anything.
He wanted to drop in on the Mucha exhibit, to study the Art Nouveau foyer of the Main Station, to wander among the artists on the Charles bridge. Because the woman apparently slept half the day, he’d had to make do with reading a guidebook.
She didn’t window-shop, never paused at the displays of crystal or garnets that flashed in the brilliant sunlight. She walked steadily, down sidewalks, over the cobbled bricks of squares and gave her shadow little time to admire the domes, the baroque architecture or the Gothic towers.
She stopped once at a sidewalk kiosk and bought a large bottle of water, which she stuffed in the oversized purse on her shoulder.
Gideon regretted, when she kept up the clipped pace and the sweat began to run down his back, that he hadn’t followed her lead.
He cheered a bit when he realized she was heading toward the river. Maybe he’d get a look at the Charles after all.
They passed pretty, painted shops thronged with tourists, restaurants where people sat under umbrella tables and cooled off with chilled drinks or ice cream, and still those long legs of hers climbed steadily up the steep slope to the bridge.
The breeze off the water did little to bring relief, and the view, while spectacular, didn’t explain what the hell she was doing. She didn’t so much as glance at the grandeur of Prague Castle or the cathedral, never paused to lean on the rail and contemplate the water and the boats that plied it. She certainly didn’t stop to haggle with the artists.
She crossed the bridge and kept going.
He was trying to decide if she was heading to the castle, and if so why the hell she hadn’t taken a bloody bus, when she veered off and walked breezily downhill to the street of tiny cottages where the king’s goldsmiths and alchemists had once lived.
They were shops now, naturally, but that didn’t detract from the charm of low doorways, narrow windows and faded colors. She cut through the tourists and tour groups as the uneven stone street climbed again.
She turned again, walked onto the patio of a little restaurant and plopped down at a table.
Before he could decide what to do next, she turned around in her chair and waved at him. “Buy me a beer,” she called out.
He ground his teeth as she turned away again, stretched out her long, apparently tireless legs, then signaled to the waiter by holding up two fingers.
When he sat across from her, she offered a wide smile. “Pretty hot today, huh?”
“What the hell was this all about?”
“What? Oh this? I figured if you were going to follow me around, the least I could do was show you a little of the city. I was planning to hike up to the castle, but . . .” She tipped down her glasses and studied his face. It was a little sweaty, a lot pissed off, and down-to-the-ground gorgeous. “I figured you could use a beer about now.”
“If you’d wanted to play tour guide, you could’ve picked a nice cool museum or cathedral.”
“Hot and cranky, are we?” She tipped her sunglasses back in place. “If you felt compelled to follow me, you could’ve asked me to show you around today and bought me lunch.”
“Do you think about anything but eating?”
“I need a lot of protein. I said I’d meet up with you tonight. You tailing me like this makes me think you don’t trust me.”
He said nothing, just stared at her stonily as the beers were served and he downed half of his in one long swallow.
“What do you know about the statue?” he said when he set his glass down.
“Enough to figure you wouldn’t have followed me on a two-mile jaunt in high summer if it wasn’t worth a lot more to you than five hundred pounds. So here’s what I want.” She paused, snagged the waiter again and ordered another round of beer and a strawberry sundae.
“You can’t eat ice cream with beer,” Gideon said.
“Sure you can. That’s the beauty of ice cream; it goes with anything, any time. Anyway, back to business. I want five thousand, USD, and a first-class ticket back to New York.”
He lifted his glass again and polished off the first beer. “You’re not going to get it.”
“Fine. Then you don’t get the girl.”
“I can get you a thousand, once I see the girl. And maybe five hundred more when she’s in my hands. That’s the cap.”
“I don’t think so.” She clucked her tongue when he pulled out his cigarettes. “Sucking on those is why you had trouble with an afternoon stroll.”
“Afternoon stroll, my ass.” He blew out a stream of smoke while the fresh beers and her ice cream were served. “You eat like that on a regular basis, you’re going to be fat as a hog.”
“Metabolism,” she said with a mouthful of ice cream.
“Mine runs like a rabbit. What’s the name of your client?”
“You don’t need names, and you needn’t think they’ll deal with you directly. You go through me, Cleo.”
“Five thousand,” she said again and licked her spoon.
“And a first-class flight back home. You come up with that, I’ll get you the statue.”
“I told you not to hose me.”
“She’s wearing a robe, right shoulder bared, with her hair in a curly updo. She’s wearing sandals, and she’s smiling. Just a little. Sort of pensive.”
He closed a hand over her wrist. “I don’t negotiate till I see her.”
“You don’t see her till you negotiate.” He had good, strong hands. She appreciated that in a man. There were enough calluses on them to tell her he worked with them and didn’t make his living hunting up art pieces for sentimental clients.
“You’ve got to get me home if you want her, don’t you?” It was reasonable. She’d spent time working out the reasonable angles. “To go home, I’ve got to quit my job, so I need enough money to tide me over until I get another one back in New York.”
“I imagine there’re plenty of titty bars in New York.”
“Yeah.” Her voice chilled. “I imagine there are.”
“It’s your choice of profession, Cleo, so spare me the hurt feelings. I need proof she exists, that you know where she is and that you can acquire her. We don’t move forward on terms until that time.”
“Fine, you’ll get your proof. Pay the check, Slick. It’s a long walk back.”
He waved a hand for the waiter and reached for his wallet. “We’ll have a taxi.”
SHE BROODED OUT the side window of the taxi on the drive back. Her feelings weren’t hurt, she told herself. She did honest work, didn’t she? Hard, honest work. What did she care if some Irish jerk looked down his nose at her?
He didn’t know anything about her, who she was, what she was, what she needed. If he thought her feelings got bruised because of one rude comment, he was underestimating her.
She’d spent nearly her entire life as an outcast from her own family. A stranger’s opinion didn’t matter to her.
She’d get him his proof, and he’d pay her price. She’d sell him the statue. She didn’t know why the hell she’d kept the damn thing all these years anyway.
Good luck for her she had, she decided. The little lady was going to get her home and give her some breathing space until she snagged a few auditions.
She’d have to shine the thing up. Then she’d sweet-talk Marcella into letting her use th
at little digital camera and the computer. She’d take a picture, then send it through, print it out. Sullivan wouldn’t know where it came from, and he’d never guess she had what he wanted tucked in her purse for safekeeping.
Figured he was dealing with a loser, did he? Well, he was sure going to find out different.
She shifted as they made the turn toward her building. “Come by the club,” she said without looking at him.
“Bring cash. We’ll do business.”
“Cleo.” He clamped a hand on her wrist as she pushed open the cab door. “I apologize.”
“For what?”
“For making an insulting comment.”
“Forget it.” She climbed out, headed straight toward her building. Funny, she thought, the apology had gotten under her skin even more than the insult.
She turned on her heel and headed down the block again without going back to her apartment. She’d go to the club a little early, she decided. After a quick stop for some silver polish.
IT WAS STILL shy of seven when she walked in. She skirted the stage and headed down the short hall that led to Marcella’s office. Marcella answered the knock with a quick bark that made Cleo wince.
Asking Marcella for a favor was always problematic, but asking when Marcella was in a snarly mood could be downright dangerous.
Still, Cleo poked her head into the ruthlessly organized office. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“If you were sorry, you would not interrupt.” Marcella continued to hammer at the computer keyboard on her desk. “I have work. I am a businesswoman.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What do you know? You dance, you strip. This is not business. Business is papers and figures and brains,” she said, tapping a finger on the side of her head. “Anybody can strip.”
“Sure, but not everybody can strip so people will pay to watch. Your door’s increased since I stepped onstage and took my clothes off in here.”
Marcella peered over the straight rims of her half-glasses. “You want raise?”
“Sure.”
“Then you’re stupid to ask for one when I’m busy and in bad mood.”
“But I didn’t,” Cleo pointed out, and closed the door behind her. “You asked. I just want a favor. A very small favor.”
“No extra night off this week.”
“I don’t want a night off. In fact, I’ll trade you an extra hour onstage for the favor.”
Now Marcella gave Cleo her full attention. The books could wait. “I thought it was a small favor.”
“It is, but it could be important to me. I just want to borrow your digital camera for one picture, and your computer to send it. It’ll take, what, ten minutes. You get an hour back. That’s a good trade.”
“You send a picture out for another job? You want to use my things to get work in another club?”
“No, it’s not for a job. Christ.” Cleo huffed out a breath. “Look, you gave me a break when I was in trouble. You gave me some professional pointers and helped me through the first night’s queasies. You dealt straight with me. You deal straight with everybody. Going behind your back to a competitor isn’t how I pay that back.”
Marcella pursed her slick red lips, nodded. “What do you need to take a picture of?”
“It’s just a thing. It’s a business deal.” When Marcella’s gaze narrowed, Cleo sighed. “It’s not illegal. I’ve got something someone wants to buy, but I don’t trust him enough to let him know I’ve got it with me.” At Marcella’s steely stare, Cleo dug into her bag. “Nag, nag, nag,” she muttered under her breath.
“There is nothing wrong with my hearing or my English.”
“This.” Cleo held up the newly polished statue.
“Let me see.” Marcella wagged a finger until Cleo walked over and put it in her hand. “Silver. Very nice. Needs polishing.”
“I got most of the gunk off.”
“You should care better for your things. Sloppy. This is pretty,” she mused and tapped at it with a red-slicked fingernail. “Solid silver?”
“Yeah, it’s solid.”
“Where do you get?”
“It’s been in my family for years. I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
“And this man—the Irishman,” she assumed. “He wants it.”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. He’s got a story that may or may not be true. Doesn’t matter to me. I’ve got it, he’ll pay for it. Can I use the equipment?”
“Yes, yes. This is an heirloom?” Marcella frowned as she turned the statue over in her palm. “You would sell your heirloom?”
“Heirlooms only count if family counts.”
Marcella set the statue on the desk, where it glinted in the lamplight. “That is a hard heart, Cleo.”
“Maybe.” Cleo waited while Marcella unlocked a desk drawer, took out the camera. “But it’s also a hard truth.”
“Get your picture, then put on your costume. You can put in the extra hour now.”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Cleo zipped up the tight black leather skirt that went with the bustier and silverstudded black jacket. The little whip worked well with the outfit, and Cleo gave it a testing flick that made the other girls jump and bitch at her.
“Sorry.” Turning to the mirror, she straightened the dog collar she’d strapped around her neck and ran a hand over the hair she’d sleeked back into a tight bun at the base of her neck.
A couple of good head shakes would free it, so she’d have to be careful it didn’t tumble down off cue. She added a little more black eyeliner, then practiced pivots and pliés in the high-heeled boots.
She was executing a spread-leg squat, shifting her weight from side to side, when Gideon burst in. Several of the girls called out comments or made kissing noises.
“Let’s go.” He snagged her hand and hauled her to her feet.
“Go?”
“Let’s move. I’ll explain later.”
“I’m on in three minutes.”
“Not tonight you’re not.” When he started to drag her to the door, she shifted her body, angled it, and jammed an elbow into his gut.
“Hands off.”
“Goddamn it.” He’d think about the pain later, and how to pay her back for it. But for now he caught his breath as the others in the dressing area cheered and whistled. “They’ve already been to your place. Your landlady’s in the hospital with a concussion. They can’t be more than five minutes behind me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” She took a step back from him. Another. “Who’s been to my place?”
“Somebody who wants a particular item and isn’t as nice as I am about how they get it.” He grabbed her arm again. “They slapped your landlady around before they bashed her in the head. You want to wait for them to try it with you, or are you coming with me? You’ve got ten seconds to decide.”
Impulse, Cleo thought, had always gotten her in trouble. Why should tonight be any different? She snagged her purse. “Let’s go.”
He moved fast, heading out into the corridor, then dragging her to the right. “No, not out the front,” he said. “They could already be out there. We’ll go out the back.”
“Back door locks from the inside. We go out that way, and there’s trouble, we can’t get back in.”
He nodded, then opened the back door far enough to look out. The alleyway dead-ended to the left, and didn’t that just figure. But he could see nothing and no one at the mouth of it. “How fast can you move in those things?” he asked, gesturing toward the boots.