Captivated

by Carla Neggers

  Sheridan winced. "Is that when they hit you?"

  "No, that's when they told me they had you, and if I didn't come up with the necklace, they'd do harm to you."

  It was precisely the same deal Vincent D'Amours had offered her for the return of J.B. Did that mean Vinnie didn't have J.B., either? She regarded Richard thoughtfully. "Did they indicate they were acting for D'Amours?"

  "No, but I assumed they were."

  "I see. So what did you do?"

  Richard gave her a small wry smile that, despite his battered state and her own worries, sent waves of emotion and warmth undulating through her. "They were considerably more specific about what they meant by 'harm.' Like a fool I jumped them. That's when they hit me."

  "I'm touched, Richard."

  "It was damned silly, wasn't it?"

  "Impulsive, not silly. At least they didn't kill you."

  "Then they'd never get their hands on the necklace, would they?"

  "You didn't give it to them?"

  "Presumably they were about to beat its location out of me, but you came swooping to my rescue and scared them off." The lightness of his tone didn't match the seriousness of his expression. "I probably would have thrashed them, despite being outnumbered and under siege, once I found out you were safe."

  She remembered J.B.'s sarcastic words: "your fearless St. Charles." Yes, he was. "So you should be grateful. You're alive, I'm alive."

  "Woman," he said, resting his head back against the chair, "if one thing in this world is irrefutably true, it's that Sheridan Weaver is alive. It's the Weaver charm, I'm sure, that lends you such vitality."

  "I hope it still works for me," she said quietly.

  Richard eyed her. "What does that mean?"

  "It means I received much the same ultimatum from D'Amours about J.B. He called this morning and said he had J.B. and would return him for the necklace, which I was to get from you by hook or by crook—unless you were willing to take him up on his offer of a hundred thousand dollars."

  "And?"

  "And I believe him. I have no reason not to, Richard. I called Swifty, and he hasn't heard from J.B. Even Lucille's worried. What happened here certainly casts doubt on whether D'Amours does, in fact, have J.B., yet I can't operate on the assumption that J.B. is safe." She twisted her hands together. "You were the first person I called, Richard. Only you weren't where you said you'd be."

  "I know." His voice was gentle and tender. "I didn't lie to you, Sheridan. I had planned on going to my office, but on the way I was thinking about that necklace and what it could possibly mean to a man like Vincent D'Amours. It occurred to me that if we found out that much, we might stand a chance of sorting out this mess. So I detoured to my bank, got the thing out of my safe-deposit box and took it over to a jeweler I know. He identified the owners of the original."

  Sheridan stared at him. "You mean there is an original?"

  "Most definitely. It belongs to Peter and Amelia Livingston. They live in Pacific Heights. I haven't been in touch with them. I came directly here to talk with you and decide what we should do."

  "I guess I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions, huh?"

  He smiled, no longer belligerent, and got painfully to his feet. "I guess not. Though trust doesn't come easily, does it?"

  "No, but it does come."

  She rose and followed him below, where she ordered him to sit down and be still while she doctored his cut. "Tell me what you did after D'Amours called you," he insisted. "I can't imagine Sheridan Weaver sitting still while her father could be in danger."

  She had hoped to avoid any mention of her unproductive visit to the D'Amours estate, but at the same time she wanted to hold nothing back from Richard. With a warm facecloth she cleaned off the blood around his cut while she told him everything, including her remarks and thoughts on Vinnie's choice of thug.

  "Slipped right into your P.I. mode, didn't you?" he said with a grin.

  With the cloth tucked around her fingers, she was gently moving closer and closer to the gash itself. "Not necessarily," she said.

  "I'm sure you're not that flippant with a United Commercial vice president."

  "No, but I can think the remarks, at least."

  "Which is why you have an ulcer."

  "Life with J.B. Weaver is why I have an ulcer."

  "Ouch!" He swore. "If you're going to maul me, perhaps I should take over."

  "Sorry. I don't think you have a concussion."

  "A black belt, an MBA and now an MD."

  "Do you want to see a doctor?"

  "No." He seized the cloth and finished the job himself. "You shouldn't aggravate me while I'm working."

  "I'll remember that in the future. I'm not squeamish about these things, love, but your touch leaves something to be desired—at least right now. You do, however, have your moments." He reached one long arm out, grabbed her by the waist and brought her down next to him. She started to sink her head against his chest, but he touched her under the chin with one finger and tilted her chin up to him. "I never felt so lost," he whispered, "as when I thought those cretins had gotten hold of you. I'm so very glad you're alive, Sheridan Weaver."

  Her lips parted as his mouth covered hers, bringing warmth and sensuality into her, joy and light. He touched her breast, his fingertips just grazing the nipple, and in spite of all her concerns, all her questions, she could feel the ache of her response. "Me, too," she murmured.

  He smiled into her eyes. "I suppose J.B. would have our heads if we made love while he languished in some dank cell of D'Amours's. What do you say we have a chat with the Livingstons?"

  11

  Peter and Amelia Livingston lived in an opulent house on Vallejo Street with a dramatic view of the bay. They were an elderly couple, well dressed, formal and polite. Sheridan and Richard were invited to join them in their rose garden for tea. With a graciousness and ease that surprised Sheridan, Richard accepted. This, she thought, was a world in which he was comfortable. But was there a world in which he felt awkward and ill at ease? He seemed perfectly content to accept whomever he happened to be with, not because he was insecure about his own identity, but because he was very, very secure. She would have to give all this some thought, but later. After they learned about the Livingston necklace… and located Jorgensen Beaumont Weaver.

  Tea was served by a uniformed maid in a small but incredibly elegant and beautiful garden. Sheridan noted a decidedly unexpected but alluring rope hammock in the far shady reaches of the garden. She pictured herself curling up there, enjoying a warm San Francisco afternoon.

  She could do the same on her rooftop deck in Boston, she reminded herself.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Livingston," Richard began, "thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice. As you've perhaps inferred, this is a matter of great importance to us."

  Sheridan raised an eyebrow as she tilted her china teacup into her mouth. How different Richard seemed now, compared to that first morning at United Commercial! She remembered quite well his brusque approach to her, a perfect stranger.

  The Livingstons both assured him that the meeting posed no problem at all and urged him to continue.

  "Ms Weaver is a private investigator here in San Francisco."

  "Why, yes, of course!" Amelia Livingston cried. She was a tall slender woman with pale-blue eyes and silver curls. "You must be J.B. Weaver's partner. His daughter, I believe?"

  Peter Livingston chuckled. "My wife is an avid fan of mysteries, in fiction and in real life."

  Hence the hammock, Sheridan thought. Now she could picture Amelia Livingston curled up there. "Yes, J.B.'s my father," Sheridan replied.

  "I've followed his—and your—exploits in the papers. Several people we know have retained your agency's services over the years. Nothing sordid, you understand."

  "Of course," Sheridan said smoothly.

  Amelia set her cup and saucer in her lap, an eager look in her eyes. "Please, go on."

  Richard, who had yet to
touch his tea, proceeded. "Some years ago—twenty-five, I believe—Mr. Weaver came into possession of a necklace that is reputedly a copy of a necklace in your collection. I would like you to look at it and tell me if this is the case."

  The energy and excitement went out of Amelia Livingston's face; she glanced quickly over at her husband, a good-looking man of about her height with a paunch and a receding hairline. His look was equally troubled. "Certainly," he said.

  Keenly observing what was going on, Sheridan sat back quietly while Richard removed the fabled fake from the inner pocket of his muted-gray jacket and passed it to Amelia Livingston. Together she and her husband laid the black velvet case on the table and opened it.

  And together they gasped.

  "Oh, Peter," Amelia Livingston moaned and sat back heavily in the wicker chair.

  Peter Livingston rose and began pacing on the stone terrace. "I'm not sure where to begin," he said.

  "This is a copy of the one you own?" Richard asked.

  "Yes. Yes, it is."

  For a moment Richard said nothing, but Sheridan could see he was measuring the situation, what to say and not to say. "Mr. and Mrs. Livingston, J.B. won this necklace more than two decades ago during a poker game. At the time he was a professional gambler. He had expected the necklace to be a valuable piece of jewelry made with real stones, not paste. Circumstances, however, prevented him from pursuing his loss, so he put the necklace away. Recently he retrieved it, placed it in a game with the same individual from whom he had won it all those years ago… and I ended up with it. We have reason to believe this necklace presents a dangerous situation for J.B., for us and, apparently, even for its original owner."

  Amelia Livingston scoffed at this, raising her hand unconsciously to an antique cameo at her throat. "We are the original owners!"

  Sheridan sat forward. "Of the copy, too?"

  "Yes."

  "You're both too young to remember," Peter Livingston said. "Twenty-five years ago our house here on Vallejo Street was burgled, our entire collection of jewels stolen… and our housekeeper, a charming, intelligent girl for whom we felt a keen responsibility, was killed."

  He paused, letting his words soak into the minds of his two guests. Sheridan felt herself growing rigid. This was all much, much more serious than she had hoped. Why couldn't the issue have been some silly vendetta between J.B. and D'Amours? But grand larceny? Felony murder?

  Mrs. Livingston resumed the grim tale. "The thieves, I'm sure, thought they were getting away with millions of dollars worth of gems, but they weren't. My husband's father, who began the collection at the turn of the century, was an eccentric, suspicious man. He had every piece copied by a skilled jeweler, and while they're not worthless and hold a certain sentimental value for us, they're not remotely as valuable as the original pieces."

  "The perpetrators have never been caught," Mr. Livingston went on. "It was said that the infamous Bernard was the mastermind behind the operation—an embarrassing muddle for him, I'm sure—but there's never been any proof of that."

  Glancing over at Richard, Sheridan saw that she didn't have to explain about Bernard, an international jewel thief whose image was far from romantic. If violence was deemed necessary to obtain results, he used it. Sheridan greeted the news of his possible involvement in her father's troubles with grim acceptance, yet found herself wanting to touch Richard, hold on to his hand and share his strength of spirit. A week ago such a longing would have sent her screaming into the night, fearful of losing her own strength of spirit. Now she acknowledged it, wanted it, relished it.

  With a jerk of his wrist Peter Livingston gestured at the necklace on the table. "Until now none of the copies has surfaced."

  "It couldn't be a coincidence?" Sheridan asked. "Another copy?"

  He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid that's unlikely in the extreme. The copies my father had made were extremely precise and probably wouldn't be detected as fakes by an amateur, at least not immediately. Anyone trying to imitate the work would need either the original or the copy itself. The genuine pieces of the collection have always been kept in our safe-deposit box. Since that night twenty-five years ago, they've never seen the light of day. It's an appalling waste of such skill and beauty, I'm afraid, but we just can't bear to wear any of the pieces while Maria's murderers walk free."

  "I understand," Richard said quietly.

  "Do either of you know Vincent D'Amours?" Sheridan asked.

  "We know of him," Mr. Livingston said, "but we've never met him. Why?"

  "If it's all right with you," Sheridan continued, "I'd like to get to the bottom of this before we give you any of the details, but if there's any chance Maria's murderers can be brought to justice, we'll do what we can."

  Amelia Livingston sighed sadly. "It was such a waste. Such a horrible, tragic waste. For what?" The question hung unanswered in the warm scented air.

  Thanking the elderly couple for their hospitality and their willingness to dredge up painful memories, Richard and Sheridan promised they would keep in touch.

  At the front door Richard turned suddenly. "Mr. Livingston, Mrs. Livingston—would you be willing to sell the genuine article?"

  Even Sheridan was caught off guard. What now?

  "As far as I'm concerned," Mrs. Livingston said with feeling, "you can have the whole bloody lot, but they're not mine."

  "Amelia, of course they're yours as much as mine," her husband chided her; obviously this was an old bone of contention.

  "It's the Livingston collection, not the Amelia Sanders collection. Peter, you must decide."

  He smiled. "My wife is stubborn."

  "That's something I can relate to," Richard said with a broad, friendly grin. Sheridan and Mrs. Livingston exchanged long-suffering looks.

  "Forgive me for sounding like one of the novels my wife reads, but do you believe having the original will help you locate this Bernard fellow or whoever was responsible for that dreadful crime all those years ago?"

  "It's possible," Richard said, "but I can't make any promises."

  "I could loan you the necklace."

  That made more sense to Sheridan, but Richard was already shaking his head. "That's very generous of you, Mr. Livingston, but I would prefer to use the original only if you were willing to risk losing it. By loaning it to me, you're indicating you want it back. That's too complicated. If you sold it, I would then be able to do with it as I pleased."

  Sheridan frowned. What the hell was he talking about?

  "I will promise you, however," he went on, "that if I am still in possession of the necklace when we conclude this business, I'll sell it back to you."

  Peter Livingston rubbed his thumb along the edge of his sharp chin, giving the matter some thought. "All right," he said finally, "all right, I'll sell it to you. What are you willing to offer?"

  "This morning I talked with a jeweler here in town," He named a name that the Livingstons responded to with murmurs of approval. "I asked what the genuine version of the copy would cost in today's market, and he said it would vary depending on the quality of the stones. The highest-quality gems would earn a maximum price tag of three hundred thousand dollars. I'll assume your necklace is of the highest quality and offer you that amount."

  If Sheridan had to guess, she would have said Peter Livingston hadn't a clue as to the dollar value of any piece in his collection. "Fine," he said, "but now the necklace will be yours. I—we—don't want it back. One woman has already died because of it. We'd feel better if it can be enjoyed by someone else." His eyes rested on Sheridan, but she stepped back, suddenly embarrassed. Richard was coming up with the money for the necklace; it would be his.

  The two men retreated to the dining room to make the appropriate phone calls and close the deal. Mr. Livingston made arrangements to go to the bank to remove the genuine necklace from the safe-deposit box. Richard and Sheridan accompanied him.

  When they left the bank, Richard was humming to himself, the sun catching th
e highlights in his dark hair and the sculptured lines of his face. Sheridan scowled up at him. "That's twice in less than two weeks that you've bought yourself a necklace without having it appraised."

  "Ah, yes," he said, a jaunty spring to his step, "but this time I have a plan."

  Although they were both keyed up and anxious to put the plan into effect, come what may they had to eat so they drove out to Sausalito for a very late lunch at the club. Before Sheridan could ask how Richard felt about having the two necklaces on him with only himself and her for protection, the manager pulled him aside, undoubtedly to discuss with him certain "irregularities" witnessed on his yacht. She ordered herself a beer and watched Richard smile that devastating smile. Within seconds he had the manager smiling and nodding.

  Sheridan wondered what Richard had told him.

  Richard returned to the table and dropped into a chair opposite her. "Hanging around you has made me remarkably glib," he said. "I have a feeling he thinks I'm an undercover narcotics agent."

  Sheridan laughed. "As J.B. says, whatever works." But mention of her father made her solemn again, and she drank her beer, thinking of what the Livingstons had said. "If D'Amours can be tied to that heist twenty- five years ago, he could go up for felony murder. There's no statute of limitations on that, and all he had to do was be there. He didn't have to kill that poor maid. He just had to help the people who did." She licked the foam off her lips. "Which means J.B. just might be in more trouble than I thought—except somehow I still can't believe Vinnie would actually kill anyone himself or even willingly be a part of something like that. He always survived by his wits. Crude force wasn't his style."

  "It sounds to me as if he got himself involved with the wrong group of people twenty-five years ago."

  "And now he doesn't want to pay for it. And J.B.—"

  "I think he knew what he was getting himself into," Richard said.

  "You're right." She smiled suddenly. "Never underestimate J.B. Weaver—or so he told me all his life. I can't let my worries fog my thinking. He'd disown me. You said you had a plan. I want to hear it. As I see things, we have to force Vinnie's hand—but without hurting J.B., wherever he is."