by JoAnn Ross
"We had. Unfortunately, several employees called in sick with the flu that day, so there were a lot of last minute changes. Enough that no one realized one of the waiters had been paid a substantial amount of money to disappear."
"How does Drew know that?"
"The FBI caught the guy boarding a plane to Jamaica. With a hundred thousand dollars in cash."
"Someone paid all that money just to take his place?"
"Seems so." Caine's expression was grim. "The bureau is sending a police artist to the airport so we can help them work up a composite of the counterfeit waiter."
Chantal vaguely recalled a tall blond man with a neatly trimmed beard. A man who had seemed oddly familiar at the time, but intent on raising funds for her charity, she hadn't fully focused on him.
"Caine, one of the waiters was on the plane from France with me."
Every atom in his body went on red alert. Finally, something to go on. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. He kept staring at me through the entire flight."
"Why the hell didn't you tell me that in the first place?"
"Because at the time it didn't mean anything. I am quite accustomed to men's appreciative glances."
"Too bad you can't tell the difference between honest masculine lust and murderous intent."
It took an effort, but Chantal assured herself that Caine's gritty tone was solely due to concern for her safety. "You may find this difficult to believe, but accepting the idea that someone actually wanted to kill me was extremely difficult," she said quietly.
Caine knew he was being hard on her, but he couldn't help himself. If she'd only call off this damn tour… and what? Return to Montacroix? Was that what he really wanted?
"Well, hopefully once we get an accurate sketch, we'll be able to get a line on the guy."
The idea of all that money kept reverberating around in her head. "Caine?" Her cheeks were paler than they should have been, her dark eyes shadowed with an unmistakable dread.
"Yeah?" He took her hand in his across the table.
"Whoever he is, he's very serious, isn't he?"
Dead serious, Caine thought grimly. "Yeah," he said instead, "I think he is."
"But why didn't he just poison my dinner? Wouldn't that have been easier?"
"It also would have been too fast. There would have been no way to poison you and get out without drawing suspicion to himself."
"How did he know about the secret passages?"
"That's an easy one. Remember Blair telling us that her home had been designated a historical landmark and that the blueprints are on file at the historical society?"
"Vaguely."
"Although only members and scholars are admitted to the archives, one of the volunteers recalls a telephone repairman recently working in the room where the prints were filed."
Chantal fell silent for a long time, absently tracing circles on the crisp white linen tablecloth. "Surely this is not the work of a single man?"
"We don't think so."
"I don't understand. Why would anyone conspire to kill me?"
"I don't know." His fingers tightened on Chantal's. "But I swear, Chantal, that we're going to find these guys. And when we do, they're going to pay."
She didn't want to think about it. It had to be a mistake, some bizarre practical joke gone berserk. But as she watched determination harden Caine's eyes to cold, gray steel, Caine knew that this was incredibly, terrifyingly real.
Although Chantal had been to America several times, her visits had been confined to the coasts: New York, Los Angeles, with an occasional trip to Palm Springs and Palm Beach. Now, as she and Caine traveled across the vast country, she was discovering a myriad of surprises.
Milwaukee, which had always brought to mind beer and babushkas, proved to be a surprisingly cosmopolitan city, boasting an encyclopedic art museum containing collections ranging from ancient Egyptian to modern American. She was proud to have her own work displayed in such august company and pleased when the city proved more than a little generous when it came to contributing to her charity.
It was while she was in Milwaukee that Chantal received a jolt back to the past in the form of a telephone call from someone who had, for a brief time, been the most important man in her life.
Stephan Devouassoux was technically Burke's cousin, not hers, but he'd always seemed like a member of the family. Except for those turbulent teenage years when she'd had a raging crush on the tall, handsome Cambridge student.
"Stephan," she said delightedly, "how on earth did you track me down?" After the fire, her hotels had been changed and the new locations kept a closely guarded secret.
"I finally managed to convince Burke to give me your itinerary. Honestly, Chantal, his behavior reminded me of a mother bear guarding her cub."
"Burke's been worried about me."
"And rightfully so, which is why his overprotective attitude failed to insult me. How are you, chérie? Ever since I read about that terrible accident in Philadelphia, I've been worried sick." His voice over the long-distance wires possessed the same deep, velvety warmth that had succeeded in melting her youthful heart.
"I'm fine."
"Are you certain?"
"Positive." When Caine, seated in a chair across the room, scowled a warning, Chantal remembered that the official story was that the fire had been an accident. What no one but a select group of insiders knew was that the various empty gasoline cans discovered in the rubble had served as mute proof to the contrary.
"But you were hospitalized."
"Only for observation."
There was a pause. "Well, I shall be relieved to see for myself that you did, indeed, escape that horrible fire unharmed."
"'See for yourself'?" A smile claimed her face. "Don't tell me that you're in Milwaukee."
"Correct country, wrong state. I'm in Los Angeles and I have purchased a ticket for your exhibit."
"That's wonderful! But I thought you were living in Paris."
"I was until two years ago. I was approached by a group of individuals while attending the Cannes Film Festival. They were seeking funding to form an independent production company in Los Angeles, and since Paris had become boring, predictable, I decided to give California a try."
"And is California less predictable and boring?"
He laughed heartily. "What do you think?"
"I think, Stephan dear, that California would suit you perfectly. You always were the most flamboyant member of the family."
"Heaven knows I've done my best. But we all know that ever since your fifth birthday, I've come in a distant second to the most beautiful princess in the world."
She laughed at that, as she was supposed to. When Caine narrowed his eyes at the soft, musical sound, Chantal felt a surge of feminine power at the idea that he could become jealous.
Caine pointed down at his watch. "If we don't get going," he whispered, "we're going to miss the opening pitch."
Although he hated the idea of allowing her to mingle with the public, when Chantal decreed that she couldn't begin to understand his country until she had experienced America's national pastime, Caine had relented, agreeing to take her to a night baseball game.
Chantal nodded her acquiescence. "Stephan, I'm afraid I must run. But it was wonderful to hear from you, and I can't wait to see you in Los Angeles."
"On the contrary, ma chère," Stephan countered with that old-world gallantry she had once found so irresistible, "it is I who will be waiting with bated breath to see you. Au revoir, Chantal."
"Au revoir, Stephan," she said softly. She was still smiling as she hung up the phone.
"Stephan. That's the cousin, right?" Caine asked. "The one you thought you were in love with."
"It was a crush, nothing more."
"Did I hear you say you were meeting with him in L. A. ?"
"He's coming to the gallery," she confirmed.
"Why?"
"Obviously to see me. We were once very close."
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Caine arched a brow. "Exactly how close?"
"Are you jealous?"
"Of course not," Caine countered, not quite truthfully. As a matter of fact, he hadn't liked the way her expression had softened while she was talking to this alleged cousin. "Now, if you're ready, Drew has the car waiting downstairs."
As they took the elevator to the lobby, Caine decided to check out this Devouassoux character. It was only a hunch, but Caine had learned long ago to trust his instincts. Besides, if he was going to suddenly have a rival for Chantal's affections, he wanted to know what he was up against.
In yet another compromise, Chantal had reluctantly agreed to watch the baseball game from a private, glassed-in box at County Stadium, which precluded her mingling with the fans as she would have liked. There she discovered to her delight that beer and bratwurst were de rigueur in this town that still reflected a rich German heritage.
Chantal had always considered herself an intelligent woman. Even so, the game taking place on the diamond of bright green grass remained a mystery. Deciding that the smartest thing to do was simply groan and cheer along with the crowd, she found herself enjoying the evening immensely. Despite the fact that besides Caine and Drew, she'd been accompanied by a detail of blue-suited, unsmiling FBI agents.
"I'm sorry for the fans that their team didn't win tonight," she said later as Drew drove them back to the hotel. "And although I understand their disappointment, I find it difficult to believe the umpire was actually blind."
Plucking a peanut from the red-and-white striped bag she'd bought at the game, she cracked the shell and popped the meats into her mouth. As she crunched her expression was one Caine would have expected to see from a woman sampling imported caviar.
"He wasn't, was he?" she asked hesitantly. "I mean, surely that isn't possible."
"Of course he wasn't. And don't worry about the fans. If there wasn't at least one questionable call per game, they wouldn't have anything to talk about until the next one. It keeps interest up."
"Oh." Chantal pondered that for a time, deciding that it made sense. "Caine?" she said at length.
"Yeah?"
"May I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Have you ever been married?"
"No."
"Why not?"
From the way he dragged his hand through his hair, Chantal decided that it was not his favorite subject. "When I was in the navy, my work consisted of doing the kind of covert stuff that can end up being dangerous. I didn't think it fair to ask a woman to share that risk."
"And later?"
He shrugged. "Same story."
"But surely there are other navy men and Presidential Security agents who are married?"
"Sure, but they didn't grow up without a father. Having been that route, I swore never to inflict it on my own kids."
From his gritty tone, Chantal knew enough not to argue. "Have you ever thought about having a family?"
"Hasn't everyone?"
"What would it be like?"
He glanced down at her, half irritated, half amused. "What is this? I feel like I'm getting the third degree."
"You know about my marriage," she protested softly, understanding his tone, if not the exact meaning of his words. "I was just curious how you felt."
Caine linked his fingers behind his head and leaned back, considering her question. It had been so many years since he'd allowed himself to think about marriage that an answer didn't come immediately to mind.
"Marriage," he mused aloud. "Let's see. First of all, I'd live in the country."
"Not the city?"
"The city's no place to bring up kids."
"Then you do want children?"
He looked over at her sharply. "I thought this was a hypothetical question."
"It is," she said quickly. "So, if you were to get married, which you do not intend to do, you would want a home in the country with children."
"And a dog for the kids. None of those fancy little fuzzy toy things that spend all their time in dog beauty parlors. A real dog—an Irish setter or a golden retriever. Maybe a German shepherd."
"It sounds as if you'd need a very large house."
At the mention of houses, Chantal experienced a stab of guilt at the thought of Blair's lovely home. Fortunately, only the upstairs had suffered extensive damage, and with the help of the original blueprints, Blair and David intended to restore the house to its original glory. Chantal had talked to her friend only this morning, and although Blair had waxed enthusiastic about having a new project to embark on, she could not disguise the sadness in her voice. Immediately upon hanging up, Chantal had telephoned Burke in Montacroix, asking him to arrange for an unlimited line of credit with a prominent Philadelphia antique dealer.
"It should be roomy," Caine agreed. "Although nothing like what you're accustomed to. And it'd be white, with a wide front porch for watching your neighbors, rose bushes in the front yard and a big tree in the back for a swing."
"And what of your wife? What would she do with her days while you are out being a hero?"
He considered her question for a long moment. "She could work outside the home," he decided. "So long as it didn't interfere with her family duties."
" 'Family duties'? Cooking, cleaning?"
"Hell, no, we'd all pitch in with that household stuff. No, I was talking about the important part of a marriage. Loving me. And letting me love her."
Chantal drew in a breath. "It sounds wonderful."
Caine laughed, obviously embarrassed that he'd permitted a rare glimpse of his innermost thoughts. "It's not bad," he agreed. "For a hypothetical."
"For a hypothetical," she agreed quietly.
"One more thing."
"Yes?"
"It'd be a decided plus if she could darn my socks."
"I think it's a good thing you aren't really looking for a wife, Caine. That sort of thing went out with covered wagons."
"What are you talking about? I'll have you know, my mother used to darn my socks."
"Then why don't you simply send your holey socks to your mother?"
He grinned. "She gave it up the summer I turned twelve. I seem to recall her saying something about having always hated the job and me being old enough to take care of my own clothes."
Chantal laughed. "Your mother sounds like a very wise woman."
"The best," Caine agreed.
A comfortable silence settled over them.
"I had a wonderful time tonight, even if I couldn't understand all the logistics of the play," Chantal said after a time. "Thank you for taking me."
It had begun to rain in the bottom of the eighth inning, the moisture cooling the evening temperatures. The woodsy scent of oakmoss and sandalwood bloomed enticingly in the warmth of the car heater. Had it not been for Drew sitting in the front seat, Caine would have taken her into his arms and satisfied the hunger that had been escalating more and more with each succeeding inning.
Instead, he tugged lightly on the ends of her dark hair. "It was my pleasure," he said simply, meaning every word.
Denver also proved a city of contrasts. Having always thought of Colorado as a state consisting solely of rugged, snowcapped mountains, Chantal was surprised to discover that the mile-high city appeared to be situated on land as flat as a tabletop. To the east, rolling plains that seemed to go on forever gave the city an aura of isolation. To the west, the Rocky Mountains gave the city its mystery and brought to mind the gold and silver mining camps that had contributed to Denver's wealth.
She found the city's pioneer legacy strongly evident at the Museum of Western Art, which among action classics by Charles Russell and Frederic Remington, boasted pieces from the famed Taos school. For those who might tire of so many horses, the Denver Art Museum, where Chantal's exhibit was displayed, boasted one of the best contemporary collections in the United States.
"This is an amazing country," she said over a buffalo steak dinner at a restaurant founded by
one of Buffalo Bill's scouts. She'd just finished making certain that the paintings were properly recrated and on their way to the state of Washington, where they would be on exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum Pavilion.
"I've always thought so," Caine agreed.
"It's so large. And the diversity is dizzying." She glanced around the dining room. An astonishing herd of animal trophies—bison, elk, caribou, moose—gazed unblinkingly down from the wall.
"I imagine Montacroix is more homogeneous."
"Vastly so. But, of course, it's a very small principality. And most of its citizens share the same roots." She grew pensive, pushing her home fried potatoes around on her plate. "Some people might find such similarity comforting."
"While you, on the other hand, find it stifling," Caine guessed.
"A bit," Chantal admitted on a soft little sigh. "Although I don't want you to think that I don't love my country. It's just that lately, as I've begun to expand my painting, I've also found myself wishing for more…" She paused, seeking the proper English word for her feeling. "Space."
"Elbowroom."
"Excuse me?"
"Have you ever heard of Davy Crockett?"
"Of course. He is an old American hero, is he not? The man who wore the cap made from raccoon skins?"
"That's him. Anyway, old Davy wasn't much for civilization. Professing the need for elbowroom, he kept moving farther and farther into the Tennessee wilds."
"Elbowroom," Chantal murmured, pondering the term for a long, drawn-out moment. "I like it," she decided. "And you're right, that's exactly how I feel." She gave him a warm, appreciative glance. "Perhaps it is my American half who feels the need for this elbowroom."
"Perhaps. But it's the Montacroix princess who'll return home after the tour."
His words of warning had the effect of tossing cold water on what had been a vastly enjoyable day. The people of Denver had expressed appreciation of the works she'd brought to America with her, and she'd raised a great deal of money for the children, which was, of course, the important thing, she reminded herself.
"Are you angry with me?" she asked.
"Of course not."