Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  Philip’s informant picked at a brochette from the banquet of tidbits that had already been ravaged. “Want an introduction?” He made the offer without enthusiasm. He’d made a play for the elusive Adrianne himself, and had been brushed away like a mosquito.

  “No, I’ll handle it.”

  Philip watched her awhile longer, his suspicion growing that she wasn’t truly a part of this scene, but, like he, an observer. Intrigued, he wound his way through the crowd until he was at her side.

  “Hello again.”

  Adrianne turned. The recognition was instant. His weren’t eyes she would forget. In a matter of seconds she calculated, then smiled. Better to acknowledge, her instincts told her, than to rebuff with a blank stare.

  “Hello.” She drained her champagne, then handed him the empty glass with just enough of an imperial quality to the gesture to distance him. “Do you often walk at night?”

  “Not often enough or I would have seen you.” Smoothly, Philip signaled a waiter. He replaced the empty glass and selected two fresh ones. “Were you visiting here?”

  She considered the lie, then rejected it in the same instant. If he chose, though God knew why he should, he could find her out. “No, just walking. I wasn’t looking for company that evening.”

  Nor had he been, but he’d found her. “You made a picture that stayed with me—all wrapped in black with fog at your feet. Very mysterious and romantic.”

  She should have been amused, but she wasn’t. It was the way he looked at her, as though she could have all the secrets she wanted, but he would find them out, one by one. “Nothing romantic about jet lag. I’m often restless the first night after a long flight.”

  “From?”

  She studied him over the rim of her glass. “New York.”

  “How long will you be in London?”

  It was small talk, nothing more, nothing less. Adrianne wished she knew why it made her uneasy. “Another few days.”

  “Good. Then we can start out with a dance and work our way up to dinner.”

  When he took the glass out of her hand, she didn’t protest. She knew how to handle men. With a neutral smile she pushed her hair behind her back. “We can dance.”

  She allowed him to lead her through the fringes of the crowd in front of the orchestra. His hand surprised her. He looked to be a man who was well suited to formal dinner jackets and cummerbunds, yet the palm of his hand was hard with a ridge of callus running under the fingers and along the tips.

  Workingman’s hands, an aristocratic face, and a suave manner. It added up to a dangerous combination. Adrianne forced herself not to stiffen when he drew her into his arms. Something had clicked when their bodies brushed, something she didn’t want to feel or acknowledge. Sexuality was part of her image, but the image was only skin deep. No man had had her, and she had decided years before that no man would.

  She felt his hand firm at her back, felt the slope of muscle in his shoulder where she rested her palm. She had felt muscle before, and the hard line of a man, but she hadn’t been disturbed by it. Until now. The band was playing a low and intense tune. Despite the champagne, her mouth was dry. Because it was, she lifted her lace and kept her eyes on his.

  “Are you good friends with Lord and Lady Fume?”

  “Acquainted,” Philip told her. She had a unique scent. Something that brought pictures of dimly lit, hushed rooms redolent with incense and female secrets. “We were introduced through a mutual friend. Carlotta Bundy.”

  “Yes, Carlotta.” Adrianne matched her steps to his. He danced as he spoke, smoothly, without a ripple. Another time, another place, she would have enjoyed it. But like everything else about him, his way of moving made her uneasy. “I don’t believe I’ve seen her here tonight.”

  “No, she’s in the Caribbean, I think. On her newest honeymoon.” Testing only, he moved her an inch closer. She complied, but he didn’t miss the wariness in her eyes. “Are you free tomorrow?”

  “I make it a habit to be free.”

  “Have dinner with me.”

  “Why?”

  It wasn’t a coy question, but a direct one. He found himself drawing her closer this time for no reason other than to enjoy her scent. “Because I prefer having dinner with a beautiful woman, particularly one who takes lonely walks.”

  She felt his fingers tangle lightly with the tips of her hair. She could have ended that subtle flirtation with a look. But she let it pass. “Are you a romantic?” He had the face for it, she thought, poetic, lean, with eyes that could be quiet or intense.

  “Yes, I suppose I am. You?”

  “No. And I don’t have dinner with men I don’t know.”

  “Chamberlain, Philip Chamberlain. Shall I arrange for Helen to give us a more formal introduction?”

  The name meant something, stirred some memory that nagged, then slipped away. She decided to dig it out later, but for now it might be more interesting to play the game. The slow song blended into one with a quicker tempo. He ignored it and continued to move in the same slow rhythm. Why that should have made her pulse throb she didn’t know. Intrigued, she continued to sway with him.

  “What would she tell me about you?”

  “That I’m unmarried and discreet about my affairs, business and otherwise. That I travel extensively and have a mysterious past. That I live most of the year in London and have a country home in Oxfordshire. I like to gamble, and prefer winning to losing. That when I’m attracted to a woman, I like to let her know immediately.” He brought their joined hands to his lips, brushing her knuckles.

  It wasn’t easy to ignore the heat that raced up her arm. “Is that because you’re honest or in a hurry?”

  He smiled, and nearly coaxed her lips to curve in response. “I’d say that would depend on the woman.”

  It was a challenge. A challenge from a man had always been difficult for Adrianne to refuse. She made the decision on impulse, knowing she’d regret it.

  “I’m at the Ritz,” she told him as she drew away. “I’ll be ready at eight.”

  Philip found himself reaching for a nonexistent cigarette as she walked away. If she jangled his nerves after one dance, it would be more than interesting to see what she did to him during an entire evening. He signaled the waiter for another glass of champagne.

  It took Adrianne over an hour to slip away. She’d been in the Fumes’ London house only once before, but she had a very good memory, which had been refreshed by the floor plans she’d bought. The first problem was to avoid Lady Fume, the ever-anxious hostess, and the staff of efficient servants. In the end, she decided on the bold tack. Experience had taught her that often subterfuge was effective under a mask of brazen action. She took the main stairs as though she had every right to wander the second floor.

  The music was muted here and the hallways smelled more of lemon oil than the mums and hothouse roses that crowded the tables in the rooms below. All the doors were painted Wedgwood blue against the white walls, and all were closed. Adrianne counted down four on the right, then as a precaution, knocked. If anyone answered, she had the ready excuse of a raging headache and the search for an aspirin. When no one answered, she took a quick look left, then right, before pushing the door open. Once it was closed again, she took a slim flashlight out of her evening bag and scanned the room by its narrow beam.

  She wanted to know the placement of every stick of furniture. If she entered the room while her host and hostess were sleeping, it wouldn’t do to bash into a Louis Quinze table or a Queen Anne chair.

  Carefully, she made mental notes of the layout while privately deciding that Lady Fume could use a more creative decorator. Fortunately, the security was no more imaginative. The safe was hidden behind a rather bland seascape on the wall opposite the bed. The safe itself was a simple combination affair that she estimated would take no more than twenty minutes to crack.

  Moving quietly, she checked the windows. They were the same style as those on the main floor, and could be jimm
ied easily enough if it became necessary. There was a trace of dust on the sill. Adrianne clucked her tongue. Lady Fume’s housekeeper should be more conscientious.

  Satisfied, she took a step back just as she heard the doorknob tam behind her. Swearing under her breath, Adrianne took a dive into the closet and found herself surrounded by Lord Fume’s peer-of-the-realm suits.

  She held her breath. Her eyes, accustomed to the dark, made out the movement of the door through the louvers of the closet. As it opened, some of the dim light from the hallway spilled in. Enough light, as it happened, to allow her to see Philip clearly.

  Adrianne set her teeth and cursed him even as she racked her brain for some reason for his being there. He simply stood in the doorway while his gaze moved from one end of the room to the other. Alert, she thought again. Too alert, and too ready. And he looked dangerous. It must have been the way the light behind his back haloed his head while condemning his face to the shadows.

  A dangerous man, Adrianne thought as she peered through the slats. No matter how sophisticated his manners or cultured his speech, he would handle himself well on the street.

  Adrianne damned him to hell and back as he stared at the closet door. The fact that he didn’t belong in there any more than she did wouldn’t offset being discovered in Lord Fume’s closet. She damned him again and held her breath. A chance encounter on a deserted street, a one-in-a-million coincidence, and he’d ruined a job she’d planned for weeks.

  Then he smiled, and the smile worried her even more. It was as though he smiled at her directly, personally, through the panel of wood that separated them. She almost expected him to speak, and felt as if she should be searching for some plausible response when he turned and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  She waited a full two minutes before stepping out of the closet. Always cautious, she fluffed out her skirts and smoothed her hair. Perhaps she’d been right to agree to have dinner with him. Something told her she’d be better off keeping an eye on him rather than trying to avoid him.

  Philip Chamberlain was forcing her to change her plans. She took a last glance around the darkened bedroom. Lady Fume was going to keep her emeralds, at least for a while. But she’d be damned if the trip and her time would be wasted. She cast one regretful look at the seascape.

  She would keep Philip Chamberlain occupied for a few hours at dinner, return to her suite, and change into her working clothes. Madeline Moreau was going to lose her sapphire pendant a little ahead of schedule.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Refocusing her plans on Madeline Moreau kept Adrianne up late, and had her up and on the job early. Figuring in the factor of Philip Chamberlain might have tilted the odds on the Fume job, but it didn’t mean The Shadow had to leave London empty handed.

  As a thief, Adrianne was very successful. Part of the reason was caution. Another part, perhaps a larger part, was flexibility. The blueprints and specs she’d carried over from New York would wait. The Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund wouldn’t.

  At eight forty-five, Madeline’s day maid, Lucille, opened the door to an attractive, bearded young man in gray overalls.

  “May I help you?”

  “Pest control.” Adrianne grinned through a sandy-colored beard and sent Lucille a broad wink. Under a battered cap she wore a straggly blond wig, a bit on the dirty side, that skimmed over her ears. “Got six flats to do this morning, luv, and you’re number one.”

  “Pests?” Lucille hesitated, blushing as the exterminator gave her a long, interested study. “The mademoiselle said nothing about pests.”

  “Building superintendent ordered it.” Adrianne held out a pink sheet. She wore workingman’s gloves, frayed, that reached past her wrists. “Got some complaints. Mice.”

  “Mice?” On a muffled squeal, Lucille snatched her hand back. “But my mistress is asleep.”

  “No skin off my nose. You don’t want Jimmy to kill the little buggers, I’ll just toddle along to the next on my list.” She offered the sheet again. “You want to sign this? It just says you didn’t want the service. Gets the super off the hook if any rodents crawl up your leg.”

  “But no.” Lucille lifted a hand to her mouth and chewed on her nails. Mice. Even the thought of them made her shudder. “You will wait here. I will wake up the mistress.”

  “Take your time, luv. I get paid by the hour.”

  Adrianne watched Lucille scurry off. Setting down her tank, she moved quickly around the room, lifting paintings, shifting books. She smiled a little when she heard Madeline’s voice rise from a room down the hallway, apparently unhappy to have her beauty sleep interrupted. When Lucille came back out, Adrianne was leaning aginst the door, whistling between her teeth.

  “Please, you will start in the kitchen. Mademoiselle wishes to leave before you go through the bedrooms.”

  “At your service, luv.” Adrianne hefted the tank. “Want to keep me company?”

  Lucille swept up her lashes. He was small, and skinny, she thought. But very pretty in the face. “Perhaps. After mademoiselle is gone.”

  “I’ll be around.” Whistling again, Adrianne followed Lucille’s direction into the kitchen. Working fast, she slipped into the utility room. The alarm system was hardly more than a toy, making her sigh at the lack of challenge. Quickly, one ear turned for noise, she unscrewed the plate. From the deep pockets of her coveralls she took a pocket computer the size of a credit card and two spring clamps. Forcing herself not to hurry, she clamped the wires, cutting off the power.

  She heard the click of heels, and dashed back through the door to pump a fog of organic rose dust into the air.

  “Better give me another minute, luv,” she advised when Lucille poked a head into the kitchen. “This stuff needs to settle. Wouldn’t want to make those pretty eyes red.”

  Coughing, Lucille waved a hand in front of her face. “Mademoiselle wants to know how long you will be.”

  “An hour, tops.” She pumped more, hastening Lucille’s retreat. Counting five, Adrianne slipped back into the utility room and pulled out her wire cutters. It took under two minutes to feed the wires into her computer and change the security code. Getting in would be no problem, she thought as she replaced the face plate. Now all she had to do was find the safe. With the tank on her shoulder, Adrianne strolled back out to Lucille.

  “Where next?”

  “The guest room.” Lucille indicated the way, then was interrupted by a stream of French curses.

  “Lucille. Goddammit, where did you put my red bag? Do I have to do everything myself?”

  “Sounds like a real sweetheart,” Adrianne commented. Lucille only rolled her eyes and hurried off. If she threw a temper tantrum over a bag, Adrianne imagined Madeline would have apoplexy over the loss of her sapphire. Never pays to be greedy, she thought, then went off to search the guest room.

  Twenty minutes later she heard the front door slam. It took her less than ten more to locate the safe in Madeline’s fussy red and black bedroom. It stood behind a false front in a vanity covered with pots and jars.

  Standard combination, Adrianne mused with a cluck of her tongue. One would have thought Madeline would have spent as much on her security as she had on her wardrobe. Hefting the tank once more, Adrianne went out to find Lucille waiting for her.

  The maid had spritzed herself with her best perfume.

  “You have finished?”

  “Any mouse that tries to sneak in here is dead meat.” This was going to take some delicate footwork, Adrianne decided as Lucille smiled at her. “The mademoiselle is gone?”

  “She won’t be back for at least an hour.” The invitation was obvious as Lucille took a step closer. Adrianne felt a giggle well up and had to remind herself this was no laughing matter.

  “Wish I had a little free time now. But I’ve got some later. What time does she let you off?”

  “She has moods.” Pouting, Lucille toyed with the collar of Adrianne’s coveralls. She’d never been kissed
by a man with a beard. “Sometimes she keeps me all evening.”

  “She’s got to go to bed sometime.” Since Adrianne had plans for Madeline that evening, she thought it best to make some for Lucille as well. “Can you get out, say, midnight? You could meet me at Bester’s in Soho. We’ll have a drink.”

  “Only a drink?”

  “That depends.” Adrianne grinned. “I live right around the corner from the club. You could come by and give me … a French lesson. Midnight.” She ran a quick finger down Lucille’s cheek, then headed for the door.

  “Maybe.”

  Adrianne turned and winked.

  An hour later, in a blond wig and pink sweater set, Adrianne paid cash for two dozen red roses and an elegant champagne dinner for two in a private dining room of a country inn an hour’s drive from London.

  “My boss wants only the best,” Adrianne explained in a stern British accent as she handed a fistful of five-pound notes to the manager. “And, of course, discretion.”

  “Of course.” The manager bowed, careful not to show too much enthusiasm. “And the name?”

  Adrianne lifted a brow, a la Celeste. “Mr. Smythe. You will see that the champagne is properly chilled by midnight.” As she spoke, she added a twenty-pound note.

  “Personally.”

  Stiff-backed, head erect, Adrianne walked out to the car she’d rented for the trip out of London. She couldn’t prevent the briefest of smiles. By now Madeline would have received the first delivery of roses, and the romantic, mysterious invitation to a midnight supper in the country with a secret admirer.

  Human nature was as important a tool as limber fingers. Madeline Moreau was very French, and very vain. Adrianne didn’t doubt for a minute that the Frenchwoman would step out of her flat and into the limousine Adrianne had arranged, leaving her flat empty. Madeline would be disappointed, naturally, when her anonymous admirer proved a no-show. But the Dom Pérignon and her own curiosity should occupy her for a while. Adrianne doubted if Madeline would return to London before two. By then Adrianne would have the sapphire, and Madeline a brilliant French temper tantrum.