Honest Illusions

by Nora Roberts

  cold cream. “Do what?”

  “The television thing.” Excitement shimmered around him as he stared at Max’s reflection. “The special Taylor wants to produce. Would we do it here, in L.A. ?”

  With deliberate strokes, Max creamed off greasepaint. “No.”

  “We could do it on location in New Orleans.” He could already see it—the lights, the cameras, the fame.

  Max tossed aside used tissues. “We’re not doing it, Luke.”

  “We should probably cut out any close-up work, but we could fill in . . .” He trailed off, excitement fading into astonishment. “What? What do you mean we’re not doing it?”

  “Just that.” Max loosened the tie of his tux before rising to change. “I turned it down.”

  “But why? We’d reach millions of people in one evening.”

  “Magic loses impact on film.” Max hung up his jacket and went to work on the studs of his shirt.

  “It doesn’t have to. We could do it live. Lots of times they have a studio audience.”

  “Our schedule wouldn’t permit it in any case.” Max placed the studs in a small gold box. A movement of Swan Lake wafted out when he opened the lid.

  “That’s bull.” Luke’s voice quieted as something other than confusion worked into him. Max hadn’t met his eyes once, not once since they’d come into the room. “It’s all bull. You’re not doing it because of me.”

  Deliberately, Max closed the lid on the music. “That’s a remarkably foolish idea.”

  “No, it’s not. You don’t want that kind of exposure, not with me along. Just like you turned down the Carson show last year. You don’t want to do TV because you think that son of a bitch might see me, him or my mother, and make trouble. So you’re saying no to the kind of stuff that would put you over the top.”

  Max stripped off his tuxedo shirt and stood in a white undershirt and dress pants. Out of habit, he hung the shirt on a padded hanger, brushed a finger down the pleats. “I make my own choices, Luke, for my own reasons.”

  “Because of me,” Luke murmured. It hurt, this pressure in the chest, this twisting in the gut. “It’s not right.”

  “It’s right for me. Luke.” Max reached out to touch his shoulder, but Luke jerked away. It was the first time in years the boy had made that sharp, defensive movement. That, too, hurt. “There’s no need to take it this way.”

  “How am I supposed to take it?” Luke demanded. He wanted to smash something, anything, but managed to clench his fists at his sides. “It’s my fault.”

  “Blame doesn’t enter into it. Priorities do. You may not be quite old enough yet to understand that, or that time passes. In another two years, you’ll be eighteen. If I choose to accept an offer to do television at that time, I’ll do so.”

  “I don’t want you to wait. Not for me.” His eyes were bright and furious. “If there’s trouble, I’ll handle it. I’m not a kid anymore. And for all we know, she’s dead. I hope to God she’s dead.”

  “Don’t.” Max’s voice was sharp as a sword. “Whatever she did or didn’t do, she remains your mother, and gave you life. Don’t wish for death, Luke. It comes to all of us soon enough.”

  “Do you expect me not to hate her?”

  “Your feelings are your responsibility. Just as my decisions are mine.” Suddenly tired, Max scrubbed his hands over his face. He’d known the time would come to speak of it. The time always came for what you dreaded most. “She isn’t dead.”

  Luke’s body coiled like a whip. “How do you know?”

  “Do you think I would take chances with you?” Furious at having to explain himself, Max snatched a clean shirt from the hanger. “I’ve kept track of where she is, how she is, what she’s doing. One move toward you, one, and I’d have taken you where she couldn’t find you.”

  All of the anger drained out of Luke, leaving him empty and miserable. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to you.”

  “There’s nothing you have to say. I did what I did, and will continue to do, because I love you. If I have to ask anything of you in return, I’ll ask you to be patient for two short years.”

  Shoulders slumped, Luke poked at the pots on Max’s dressing table. “I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

  “Don’t insult me by trying.”

  “You and Lily . . .” He picked up a jar, set it down again. Some emotions were too huge for words. “I’d do anything for you.”

  “Then put this out of your mind for now. Go and change. I have work to do yet tonight.”

  Luke looked up again. Max wondered how it could be that the boy could turn into a man in the short time they’d stood inside that cramped room. But it was a man who turned to him now, his shoulders broad and erect, his eyes no longer bright, but dark and direct.

  “You’re going to do the Langtree job tonight. I want to go with you.”

  Max sighed and sat to remove his stage shoes. “You’re making things difficult this evening, Luke. I indulged you before, but there’s a big step between casing a job and executing one.”

  “I’m going with you, Max.” Luke stepped forward so that Max was forced to tilt back his head to meet Luke’s eyes. “You’re always talking about choices. Isn’t it time you let me start making some of my own?”

  There was a long pause before Max spoke again. “We leave in an hour. You’ll need dark clothes.”

  Max was grateful that Elsa Langtree didn’t collect the small fru-fru dogs many actresses found fashionable. Elsa’s eccentricities ran toward collecting men—younger and brawnier as the years passed. She was currently between husbands number seven and eight, having recently divorced a professional linebacker. Wedding plans were under way with her current amour, a twenty-eight-year-old body-builder.

  Elsa was forty-nine and counting.

  While her taste was admittedly poor in men, it was otherwise flawless. A fact that Max pointed out to Luke as they climbed over her eight-foot security wall.

  “The wealthy often lose perspective,” Max said softly as they hurried across the trim lawn. “But as you’ll see, the house Elsa had built about ten years ago is simply lovely. She hired decorators, of course. Baxter and Fitch, quite good. But she inspected and approved every swatch, every piece, every detail personally.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “When one prepares to break into a home, it’s imperative to know all about the inhabitants, as well as the structural layout.” He paused in the shelter of some mimosa trees. “There, as you see, is an excellent example of Colonial architecture. Very traditional lines, slightly fluid and feminine and perfectly suited to Elsa.”

  “It’s big,” Luke remarked.

  “Naturally, but not ostentatious. Once we’re inside, you will speak only when absolutely necessary, stay beside me at all times and follow my instructions to the letter, and without hesitation.”

  Luke nodded. Anticipation was bubbling in his blood. “I’m ready.”

  Max found the alarm system camouflaged by the window boxes off the rear patio. Following Mouse’s instructions, he unscrewed the shield and snipped the proper wires. Fighting impatience, Luke waited while Max replaced the screws and moved to the terrace door.

  “Etched glass, cut and designed by an artist in New Hampshire,” Max murmured. “A crime to damage it.” Instead of using his cutter, he took out his picks and went to work on the two locks.

  It took time. As the minutes clicked by, Luke heard every sound in the air. The faint hum from the pool filter, the rustle of night birds in the trees, the quiet click of metal on metal as Max finessed the locks. Then the whisper of success as Max slid the door open.

  Now, for the first time, he felt what Max always experienced. That thrumming excitement of walking inside a locked house, that eerie pleasure of knowing people slept inside, the itchy power of moving through the darkness to take the prize.

  They walked silently, single file through the spacious drawing room. A light scent of mums, a whisper of fema
le perfume lingering. With the blueprints clear in his mind, Max headed for the kitchen, and the door that led to the basement.

  “Why—”

  Max shook his head for silence and moved downstairs. The walls were paneled in dark pine. A pool table stood in the center of the main room and was surrounded by weight equipment. An oak bar dominated one wall.

  “Play room,” Max said quietly. “To keep her men happy.”

  “She keeps her jewelry down here?”

  “No.” Max chuckled at the thought. “But the breaker box is. The safe is a time release. Quite sophisticated and difficult to crack. Of course, if the power’s off . . .”

  “The safe will open.”

  “Bingo.” Max creaked open the door of the utility room. “Isn’t this handy?” he said to Luke. “All neatly labeled. Library.” He flipped the breaker. “That should do it.” He turned to Luke with a smile. “People so often hide their safe among their books. It’s interesting, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah.” Inside his gloves, his hands were sweating.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I did the first time I climbed into the backseat with Annabelle,” Luke heard himself say, then flushed.

  Max pressed a hand to his heart but couldn’t hold back the quick chuckle. “Oh yes,” he managed after a moment. “A very apt analogy.” Turning, he led the way back up the stairs.

  They found the safe in the library, behind a gorgeous O’Keeffe. With the time release negated, it was as simple to open as a child’s puzzle box. Max stepped back and gestured to Luke.

  From father to son, he thought proudly while Luke removed the jeweler’s boxes from the safe. The narrow beam of his penlight shone on the gems when Luke opened the tops.

  They were beautiful. That was all Luke could think as he stared down at the sparkle of stones, magnificently set in gold and platinum. That he didn’t think at all of their monetary value in that first instant would have pleased Max enormously.

  “Not yet,” Max said with his mouth close to Luke’s ear. “What shimmers is often paste.” He removed a loupe from his pouch and, handing the light for Luke to hold over the gems, examined them. “Gorgeous,” he murmured, sighing. “Simply gorgeous. As I said, Elsa has exquisite taste.” He closed the safe and levered the painting back over it. “It’s a shame to leave the O’Keeffe behind. But it seems only fair, don’t you think?”

  Luke stood with thousands of dollars in emeralds in his hands. And grinned.

  10

  The trick of pulling off a clean scam, as far as Sam was concerned, was to exploit the weakest link. In the short time he’d been with the Nouvelle troupe, he had made himself available for all and any jobs, kept an eager smile on his face and a word of flattery ready on his tongue. He had listened sympathetically when Lily told him about Luke’s past and won her heart by inventing a story of a dead mother and a brutal father—which would have surprised his parents, who lived in a modest home in Bloomfield, New Jersey, and who had never in the sixteen years he’d lived under their roof raised an angry hand to him.

  He’d hated the suburbs, and for reasons that had baffled both of his quiet, hardworking parents, had despised them, their life-style and their modest ambitions.

  Throughout his teenage years, he had broken their hearts with defiance and rebellion. He’d stolen the family car for the first time at fourteen and had headed for Manhattan. He might have made it, if he’d bothered to pay the toll at the tunnel. The cops brought him back to Bloomfield, surly and unrepentant.

  He became adept at shoplifting, stealing watches, costume jewelry, department store makeup. He’d box the merchandise neatly in a leather suitcase he’d lifted, then sell it all at a discount to schoolmates.

  Twice he broke into school and vandalized it, for the pleasure of breaking windows or busting water pipes. He was clever enough not to brag about his exploits, and was so charming to his teachers, they never glanced in his direction.

  At home he was a hellion, driving his mother to tears on a regular basis. His parents knew he stole from them, a twenty would be missing from a wallet, knickknacks would disappear, a piece of jewelry would vanish. They couldn’t understand why he felt compelled to take when they provided well for him. They didn’t understand that their son didn’t particularly like to steal. But he liked, very much, to hurt people.

  He refused to go to counseling sessions, or if they did manage to drag him to the therapist, he would sit sullenly and speak not at all. When at sixteen his mother had refused to allow him the use of her car, he had responded by striking her, splitting her lip and bruising her eye. Then he had calmly taken up the keys, walked out the door and driven away.

  He’d ditched the car near the Pennsylvania border, and he’d never gone back.

  He never thought about his parents. No memories played through his mind of Christmases or birthdays, trips to the shore. For Sam, they meant less than nothing, and therefore didn’t exist.

  The Nouvelles were providing him with some pocket change, an excellent front and the time to plan another score. Because he was able to use them, he despised them as much as he had despised the quiet couple who’d given him life.

  For reasons he didn’t understand, or try to explore, he hated Luke the most. Because he sensed that Roxanne had developed a childish crush on Luke, Sam set about wooing her away.

  He also considered her the weakest link.

  He gave her time and attention, listened to her ideas, complimented her magic skills. He flattered her into showing him a few tricks and gradually built up her trust and affection for him.

  He was dead sure of her loyalty, and toward the end of his second month in New Orleans, he decided to put it to use.

  He’d often walk out to meet her on her way home from school, a habit that had endeared him to both Max and Lily. It was a chill, damp winter, and people hurried along the streets, seeking the comfort of home. It was easy to spot Roxanne, strolling slowly along the sidewalk, keeping out of the thin rain by walking under the overhanging terracing while she looked in shop windows. Many of the shopkeepers knew her well and would welcome her in if she came to browse.

  She handled what she touched with respect and admiration, often asking questions and storing the knowledge away.

  She was still two blocks away when he saw her, the bright hair and deep blue jacket shining out of the gloom. He’d already chosen his mark and, as he walked to meet her, was in the best of moods.

  “Hey, Rox, how was school?”

  “It was okay.” She smiled up at him, just old enough, and certainly female enough, to be flattered by the attentions of a nineteen-year-old man. The heart inside her stubbornly undeveloped breast picked up its rhythm.

  One of the shops along Royal was stocked with more junk than treasure. There were some interesting pieces, most of them inexpensive. The woman who ran the shop took merchandise on consignment, and supplemented her income by reading tarot cards and palms. Sam had chosen the shop because the proprietor usually worked alone, and because Roxanne often stopped in for a reading.

  “Want to get your cards read?” He grinned at her. “Maybe you can find out how you did on that test?”

  “I never ask dumb stuff like that.”

  “You could ask her about a boyfriend.” He sent her a look that had her pulse jittering, and opened the door before she had a chance to move on. “Maybe she’ll tell you when you’re going to get married.”

  Roxanne stared down at her shoes. “You don’t really believe in the cards.”

  “Let’s see what she tells you. Maybe I will.”

  Madame D’Amour sat behind the counter. She had an angular, heavily rouged face dominated by dark brown eyes. Today she wore one of her many turbans, a purple one that covered all but a few wisps of her mercilessly dyed ebony hair. She added heavy rhinestone earrings that fell nearly to the shoulders of her purple caftan. Around her neck were several silver chains. Bracelets jangled on both wrists.

  She w
as somewhere in her sixties and claimed to be descended from Gypsies. It might have been true, but regardless of her heritage, Roxanne was fascinated by her.

  As the bells on the door jingled, she glanced up and smiled. Colorfully illustrated tarot cards were on the counter before her, arranged in a Celtic cross.

  “I thought my little friend would visit me today.”

  Roxanne moved closer so that she could study the cards. It was overly warm in the shop, but she never minded. It always smelled wonderful from the incense Madame burned and the woman’s generous use of perfume.

  “Did you come to shop,” Madame asked her, “or to seek?”

  “Do you have time for a reading?”

  “For you, my love, always. Perhaps we can share some hot chocolate, oui?” She glanced over at Sam, and her smile dimmed a bit. There was something about the boy she couldn’t like, despite his open, friendly smile and pretty eyes. “And you? You have a question for the cards?”