2 Priceless

by Marne Davis Kellogg

  “I’m sorry I put you through what must have been an incredible escapade. I didn’t mean to. Please believe me, I was trying to protect you.”

  “ ’Incredible escapade’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. But it’s over.” I felt my anger begin to dissolve. “The Shamrock Burglar is totally and completely retired. History.”

  “Quite a finale, I must say.” He raised his champagne glass. “Brava.”

  I looked up and grinned. I couldn’t help it. “I thought you’d be in London with Giovanna, posing for the cameras with all your recovered loot.”

  “No. I’ve posed enough. But I thank you, Kick, for returning all the jewelry—there are some very happy people now. And the Samaritan Burglar card at the museum in Paris? A very nice touch.”

  “Thank you. I hoped you’d like it. I did it just for you.” We looked into each other’s eyes and I could see we both wanted the same thing. We wanted each other. We wanted whatever stood between us to go away.

  “You aren’t interested in telling me where you found that jewelry, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I didn’t think so. Well, would you like to give me a clue as to who the other Shamrock Burglar is? Or was?”

  “As I told you at the party, I’m fairly certain it was a phony Brazilian count named Alesandro de Camarque.” I would bite off my tongue before I’d betray Lucia.

  Thomas raised his eyebrows and started to laugh. “Alesandro? I know that’s what you said, and it’s so rich. He loved it.”

  “You know him?”

  “Of course. He’s the head of the Interpol Burglary Division.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.”

  “Well, then I have no idea who it was.”

  Thomas nodded his head. I knew he didn’t believe me and he knew there wasn’t anything he could do about it. “Well, at least the pieces are in the process of being returned to their owners.”

  “Good,” I said. “I hated that all those poor widows were being robbed. They didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

  “Well, your retrieving them was all quite smooth. Must have been gratifying.”

  I smiled. “It was fun. But I wouldn’t want to do it again.”

  Thomas smiled at me. “I love you, Kick. I missed you.”

  “I love you, too, Thomas.”

  “Can we get back to normal?” he said.

  “Not quite.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I pointed my cake past the row of cypress trees. “I’ve decided to put the tennis court over there. What do you think?”

  “Do you want a partner?”

  “Only if it’s you.”

  E P I L O G U E

  six weeks later

  “Kick?” Flaminia’s Persian accent was unmistakable. “Can you and Thomas come for dinner on Saturday? Just a few friends and their summer guests.”

  “We’d love to.”

  Life had returned to normal at La Petite Pomme. Thomas and I had completely forgiven each other (although every time I saw Giovanna McDougal on the news it still made me frosty) and were back to our regime of brisk morning walks, long lunches, reading, cooking, wine, and love in the afternoon.

  All the stolen pieces of jewelry had been returned to their owners, with one major exception. Occasionally, I wondered if Lucia ever wore the Queen’s Pet, and if she loved it as much as I had. Perhaps one day I’d tell her its history. I also wondered how she was and if she’d heeded her lesson.

  I’d reclaimed my Kashmir sapphire ring from her safe and decided to wear it to Flaminia and Bill’s dinner party, along with the matching brooch. They were perfect midsummer pieces, rich and ripe, full of color. The brooch sparkled from my white silk evening pajamas like a succulent cluster of blue, blue grapes—its leaves carved from emeralds. I put a gardenia in my hair.

  Thomas had on light gabardine slacks, a linen sports coat, and a regimental tie. That was my Thomas, a linen jacket and a heavy twill tie. I wouldn’t change him for anything.

  He put the top down on his Porsche and we roared through the summer evening to Ferme de la Bonne Franquette, Flaminia and Bill Balfour’s hilltop farm in Les Baux. Except for its yellow shutters, their low, fieldstone farmhouse was almost invisible behind masses of rosebushes and shrubs, and in back, the flower boxes along the top of the terrace wall were packed with bright red geraniums.

  “Kick! Thomas!” Flaminia greeted us. Her black hair was in a tight, rose-covered chignon. “Anyone you don’t know is a guest of a guest. I lost track after five or six. Just introduce yourselves. Bill, look who’s here.”

  Bill brought us each a Scotch and invited Thomas in to see the new piece of stereo equipment he’d just installed. It was a huge party, all the summertime grandees were there, and I moved into the group, greeting old friends and new. Until I came to Lucia—fortunately I saw her before she saw me. She was wearing the Queen’s Pet. I must say, she handled my arrival very well. I watched her process it all. The sapphire ring that I’d liberated from her safe that matched my brooch. I watched her mentally make the connection between the bracelet and the ring that she’d stolen from a nearby farmhouse during a benefit picnic.

  “Priscilla,” she said. A tinge of fear shot through her eyes. “I’m so surprised to see you again.”

  “Actually, Lucia,” I said. “My name’s not Priscilla. It’s Kick Keswick.”

  I watched the final piece drop into place in her mind, the final connection between being at Kick Keswick’s farm and stealing her jewelry.

  “I see.” She swallowed.

  “Are you enjoying your summer?”

  “Very much. I’m here visiting my friends the Barnharts for the weekend. Priscilla … ” Lucia saw Thomas wander onto the far side of the terrace and her concern intensified. “I mean, Kick. I … ”

  “You don’t need to say anything. Your secret is safe with me, as I know mine is with you.” I kissed her cheek. “You’re a wonderful girl, Lucia. I hope you decided not to risk it all by stealing—it’s not worth it. Just pick one or two of your paintings and sell them and get it over with. It’s a safer, and eminently more honest way of generating income.”

  “I did. When I discovered you were gone and that you’d somehow actually stolen the Millennium Star right in the midst of such tight security and then cleaned out my safe, I realized I was over my head. I told my father that if he didn’t agree to sell some pieces, I would move away and he could figure out how to support the collection. We sold two small Leonardo sketches, not too important, except of course they were Leonardo’s! And now we’re fixed for quite a while.”

  “I’m glad.” I smiled. “Tell me, are you enjoying your bracelet?” She grabbed her wrist, covering the Queen’s Pet with her hand. “Oh, Dio. I’m so sorry Please let me give it back to you.” I put my hand on hers and shook my head. “No. I’m glad you have it. Someday I’ll tell you its history”

  “Are you really her? The real Shamrock Burglar?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said. She and I looked into each other’s eyes. I put my hand on her cheek. “If you ever need anything, let me know.”

  “Kick.” Flaminia appeared through the throng. “Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  A few minutes later, out of the comer of my eye I watched Thomas saying hello to Lucia. He was, of course, oblivious to any of the subtleties. He was delighted to see her and I could tell there was no subtext in his greeting. He hadn’t a clue.

  Lucia was seated at a different table for dinner and I didn’t see her again.

  “Did you notice Lucia’s bracelet?” Thomas asked on the way home. “It looks just like yours.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice.”

  He opened his mouth to say something and then glanced over at me. “You finessed me, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  Thomas shook his head and laughed. “You’re good, Kick Keswick. You’re the best.”

  I put my h
and on Thomas’s. “I love you.”

  We rode home in comfortable, companionable silence.

  Ah, finesse, I thought. The mature art of being able to do something grand without appearing to have done anything at all.

  It’s not for children.

  Want to know more about Kick Keswick—international jewel thief, fabulous dresser, and gourmet cook? Marne Davis Kellogg online has details on all of Kick Keswick’s adventures.

  The fifth installment in the Kick Keswick Mysteries,

  THE REAL THING

  will be available in e-bookstores November 5, 2013.

  Visit Goodreads to learn more.

  A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S

  For many authors of fiction, writing is something they are compelled to do but they find no pleasure in it. For me, writing is a constant source of joy, like drinking good wine and eating dark chocolate cake. I can’t wait to get to work every morning and see what’s happened overnight. Perhaps that’s because my books are about luxury—Kick Keswick wears cashmere pajamas, steals fabulous jewelry, and her capers take place in some of the world’s most beautiful locales, to which my dearest darling, Peter, takes me for research. We cherish our happy, romantic times at the Hotel Ritz in Paris and the Hotel Splendido in Portofino researching this book.

  Priceless was also fun to write because of the talented people I am privileged to work with. In particular, I thank Sally Richardson, publisher, St. Martin’s Press, and Jennifer Enderlin, associate publisher and executive editor. Working with Jennifer is rich and rewarding—her vision, creative input, and enthusiasm are awesome and energizing. I also thank her assistant, Kimberly Cardascia, who is surrounded by artistes and remains organized and unflappable, and art director Anne Twomey for branding Kick so elegantly.

  I’m so grateful to my agent, Robert Gottlieb, president and CEO, Trident Media Group, and Kimberly Whalen, vice president and managing director of foreign rights. Kim is always available, interested, and thinking. I am very, very fortunate to be represented by such an outstanding, committed team.

  My continued thanks for guidance in the beautiful world of gems, jewelry, and jewelry-making remain first and foremost to Bob Gibson at Raymond C. Yard, Inc., in New York, and to Brien Foster at Foster & Son, in Denver. Both gentlemen are always generous with their time, knowledge, and expertise, and any mistakes that have been made are mine. Thank you, also, to Lana Lee of Neiman-Marcus Precious Jewels, Denver; Harry Winston, New York; Graff, London; and Van Cleef & Arpels, Place Vendome, Paris.

  Priceless makes mention of many exquisite French and Italian wines—some available and affordable, some rare and stratospheric—selected by our friends Blair and Suzanne Taylor, owners of the glorious Barolo Grill in Denver and Enotec Imports, Inc., one of the country’s leading importers of fine Italian wines. They also assisted with the Italian translations for the book.

  Armel Santens, French-born general manager of the historic Brown Palace Hotel in Denver, graciously took the time to make the French in this book idiomatically correct. Any mistakes are mine.

  I thank God every day for my family and friends—I am blessed by their loyalty, steadfastness, and support for my writing. My love and undying thanks to: Mary and Richard, who have bottomless bottles of rum and scotch and invite me to dinner even when they’d probably rather not, especially when they’re occupied with trying to get their sons married off to a couple of crackerjack girls; Mary Lou and Randy, who thrilled us all by getting married and still found the time to throw a sensational launch party; Marcy and Bruce, who not only have thrown spectacular parties for my books in Denver, but also got their friend Susan Parker in Oklahoma City to throw one, too; Mita Vail and the Norfolk Book Ladies, who whip up major champagne-driven literary fétés at the drop of a hat; Pam and Bill, whose faith and courage provide us with rock-solid love, continuity, and tequila; Sally Rippey, for her doggerel and her dogged support; Judith; Susan and Doug; Frank and Jane; the ladies of the Denver Debutante Ball; and the cowgirls of the National Western.

  My family is amazing—we are a tight group. I am so grateful for all the Connecticut Kelloggs and the Colorado Davises; for my mother’s grace and dignity; Hunter, Courtney, Duncan, and Delaney; Peter and Bede; our wire fox terrier, Kick, who makes me laugh all the lime, and, of course, for my beloved husband, Peter. Next stop, St. Moritz.

  Marne Davis Kellogg

  Denver, Colorado

  2004

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Marne Davis Kellogg is the international, best-selling author of 11 mysteries, including the highly popular series of capers featuring Kick Keswick, the world’s greatest jewel thief. In addition to her writing life, she is Executive Vice President of The Kellogg Organization, Inc. Marne and her husband, Peter, live in Denver and on their Colorado ranch in the summertime where she attempts to cook the decadent meals found in her books.

  www.marnedaviskellogg.com

  Please enjoy the opening chapters from PERFECT, the third book in the Kick Keswick series where Kick—international jewel thief, fabulous dresser, gourmet cook, and woman-about-town—despite her best intentions—finds herself drawn into the glamorous, dangerous world of jewels (and the people who covet them) …

  It should have been the start of a perfect sojourn in Provence. Kick Keswick had just settled down to warm chocolate soufflé with a decadent Grand Marnier sauce and a small glass of Armagnac when she received startling news: The personal jewels of the Queen of England herself have gone missing. And she wants Kick to get them back. Most of the world knows Kick as an expert in jewels and antiquities, having been the right hand at Ballantine & Company Auctioneers in London, but others know Kick as the world’s finest jewel thief, a woman who can stand out in a crowd at will, but who can also blend in when she wants to.

  Kick desires nothing more now than a quiet life, but Her Majesty requests her expertise (and Kick’s vanity is more than tickled). So the chase is on, in a race that takes her from Provence to Paris, London, St. Moritz, and Milan - and puts all her wiles and talents to the test as she faces a thief whose skills match her own. And with Kick Keswick on the case, there will be trouble afoot—of the multifaceted kind.

  With sophistication, wit, and insider details, PERFECT is a madcap adventure that takes you on a quest for the things that make life worth living … or at least worth talking about.

  P R O L O G U E

  “When did you last wear these?” Bradford picked up the long diamond-and-emerald earrings and held them close to his ears.

  “I’m not sure,” Elizabeth—Lilibet to her friends and family—answered. “Montreal perhaps? You’re the one with the list. What does it say?”

  Bradford put down the earrings and picked up his clipboard. “You’re right. Montreal.”

  “May I tell you something, Bradford? Strictly entre nous?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  She looked into his gray-blue eyes. “I don’t want to go on this trip. I’m actually quite dreading it. If you would change your mind and come along, it would make all the difference.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “Oh, ma’am. What can I say? If you order me to go, I will. But my back is in such terrible condition … “ He patted his midriff where a heavy back brace made an uncomfortable outline through his jacket. “I would be more of a burden than a help.”

  “I know.” It appeared for a moment that she might put her hand on his to comfort him, but then she remembered herself and withdrew the nascent gesture. “Of course I won’t make you go, but I’m going to miss you so.”

  A blast of icy wind threw sheets of cold London rain against the windows, making them rattle.

  “On the other hand,” he said, looking outside, “when I think of the stop in the Seychelles, that warm air on my aching back—perhaps I’ll resume my duties there.”

  “That could be arranged.”

  Although her formality—even with close friends and family—was legendary, she gazed at him with real tenderness, affe
ction, and heart-felt gratitude for his decades of service. He’d been her most-trusted servant and confidant. He’d never let her down, never been indiscreet, always there, right at her elbow, ready to do whatever she required or requested without complaint or question—all that in spite of his increasingly frail health, that in her heart of hearts, she attributed mostly to his hypochondria. He was her Rock of Gibraltar. She stepped to the next ensemble. “Let’s finish,” she said.

  “Evening clothes are last.” He picked up his clipboard and turned to the beaded gowns and silk evening suits that hung around the perimeter of her enormous dressing room like costumes from an extravagant opera. Each had a folding wooden camp table in front of it, arranged with the handbag, shoes, gloves, jewelry, and medals to be worn with the ensemble. All the elements of each outfit had been tagged and numbered and were accompanied with written instructions as to where and when they were to be worn. There was no possibility for mistake or confusion.

  Across the room, six black metal trunks the size of regular suitcases—they were, in reality, heavily armored transport safes—stood open on heavy-duty luggage racks beneath the windows, ready to receive the jewels as soon as they agreed each outfit was complete. At that point, Bradford would close the jewelry boxes—many of the pieces were still in the cases in which they’d been received, the leather and velvet linings worn with age and use, their original gift cards tucked inside—and place them in one of the trunks.

  “What are your plans?” she asked as he double-checked his list.

  “I’ll be at my cottage in Sussex. You know how I love to garden, and I have an excellent man helping me until my back gets stronger.”