Her device was embedded in an earring. The wide, beaten silver loop tugged at her earlobe, but the slight drag was worth the convenience. A casual hand to her nape, a careless flick of her hair, and her thumb activated an instant channel to OMEGA's control center. The crystalline clarity of the voice transmissions thrilled Mackenzie.
"You sound like you're standing right next to me," she gushed to John when he answered the signal. "Where did you get these devices?"
"From NASA. They're part of the new, robust microelectro-mechanical system the space gurus have developed for interplanetary communications. Those little hummers transfer tens of billions of bits per second using secure wireless networks and clusters of interlinked satellites. I volunteered you and Lightning to field-test the first units."
"I hope NASA doesn't plan on getting these babies back any time soon!"
"Careful, Chief. They might hear you. Hang on, I'll take you secure."
Satisfied that both units worked flawlessly, Mackenzie slipped on the other earring and dropped the box containing the gold money clip into her purse. She'd deliver it to Nick personally after her shopping expedition.
A half hour later, she decided that a stroll down the rue de France was something every woman should experience at least once in her life. She wasn't much of a shopper, not one who would qualify for a platinum credit card, anyway, but the restrained elegance of the shops lining the tree-shaded boulevard almost made a convert of her.
Hermes. Chanel. Dior. St. Laurent. Lacroix.
All the famous French designers were represented, along with a host of Italians, Germans and Americans. Mackenzie formed the distinct impression that anything that couldn't be found on the rue de France wasn't worth buying.
She found the boutique she was looking for tucked between a perfumery and a jewelry store displaying a single, diamond-studded pair of men's cuff links in the window. The price tag accompanying the links was small and discreet and carried the same exclusive logo as the box in Mackenzie's purse. Gulping at the amount listed in both euros and francs on the tag, she entered the shop next door.
‘‘Bonjour, madame.''
A saleswoman glided forward, her expert eye taking in every aspect of her potential customer's wardrobe and, apparently, her nationality.
"May I help you?" she continued in flawless English.
"Perhaps."
Mackenzie's gaze roamed the shop. The artistry of the items displayed in the cases and on the shelves took her breath away. The beadwork on each piece was exquisite, the designs unique. She couldn't quite see herself carrying an evening bag in the shape of a roly-poly panda or a long-stemmed white rose, but the shimmering, iridescent clam-shaped number dangling from a braided black silk cord roused an instant, greedy longing in her breast. One glimpse of the price discreetly displayed next to the bag had her wrenching her gaze back to the saleswoman.
"I met a woman last night, a prima ballerina. She was carrying one of your bags. A black swan."
"Ah, yes. That was one of Marjorie's later designs. It's quite famous."
"Is it?"
"Madame Pelletier's daughters featured it in their book about their mother and her work." Smiling, she gestured to the lavish edition resting on a glass-topped table. "Would you like to leaf through it? I'll bring you some coffee, yes? Or champagne?"
"Coffee, please. With milk."
Mackenzie settled in a tufted white chair and pulled the heavy volume toward her. She knew it wouldn't be this easy, didn't really expect to flip open the fly leaf and find a butterfly-shaped design staring her in the face. Still, she couldn't suppress a tingling sense of anticipation as she leafed through the pages.
Familiar faces gazed back at her from every page. Brigitte Bardot, who’d, made the Riviera her private playground. Wallis Warfield Simpson, the duchess of Windsor. Even the notoriously dowdy Mamie Eisenhower was there, beaming at the camera as she displayed her tasseled, fan-shaped original.
The designs became more exotic as the forties and fifties gave way to the sixties and seventies. So did the customers. Mackenzie recognized an American starlet who'd traded Hollywood for a veil and marriage to a Middle Eastern prince, as well as the world-renowned animal-behaviorist who carried a beaded orangutan slung over one rather muscular shoulder. Grinning at the similarity between the purse and its owner, Mackenzie sipped her coffee and skimmed the rest of the book. She found the ballerina and her black swan, but no butterfly.
"That's quite a collection," she remarked, deciding on a direct approach. "I'm something of an amateur entomologist myself. Did Madame Pelletier or her daughters do any designs in the shape of bugs?"
"But of course."
Smiling, the saleswoman retreated behind a counter and withdrew a box bearing the shop's distinctive logo. Nestled inside was a ladybug in glistening red and black.
"It's beautiful, but I was thinking more along the lines of a butterfly."
"Ahh, yes. Madame Pelletier did several variations of le papillon. Her daughters also. But none, I think are as beautiful as the first. It was quite, quite lovely. So sad that it was lost."
Mackenzie's pulse tripped. "Lost?"
"It was stolen years ago. The countess was very distraught."
Excitement burst like bubbles in her veins. Hiding it behind a bland look, she probed for more information.
"Would that by any chance be Countess d'Ariancourt?"
"Yes. Do you know her?"
"I attended a party at her villa last night. How unfortunate that she lost one of these beautiful creations."
And how interesting!
‘‘I understand it was a gift to her from one of her many, ah, admirers," the saleslady volunteered. "She used to call or come by the shop occasionally to see if it had surfaced. If anyone had been photographed with it, or been seen carrying it, we might have been able to verify that the bag belonged to her. Each piece is numbered, you understand."
"You say she used to call or come by. Not anymore?"
"I haven't heard from her in some months. After so many years, one can only assume she gave up hope of having the bag returned."
Or she finally tracked it down to a pawnshop in Cannes, Mackenzie thought on a spike of sheer adrenaline. She couldn't figure the connection between the stolen purse and the recent attacks on her and Nick, but she'd bet her last dime there was one. There had to be one.
Anxious to get to Nick, she started for the door. "Thanks for the coffee. I've got to go."
"Don't you wish to see our latest catalogue? It features a variation of the butterfly design that..."
"Sorry. I don't have time now. Perhaps later."
"Bien." Too well-mannered to show regret at losing a fat commission, the clerk smiled and wished her a good day.
Once outside, Mackenzie slid on her oversize sunglasses and played with her earring. Mere moments later, her second-in-command's hearty voice filled her ear.
"Control here. What do you need, Chief?"
"The street address of Countess d'Ariancourt."
She remembered it was located off the twisting road called the Upper Corniche, but needed something more than that to give a taxi driver. John came back with the requested information a few seconds later.
Hailing a cab, she gave him the address and settled back on worn leather seats smelling of garlic and cigarette smoke. Of all the times not to be in direct communication with Nick. Was he still at the villa, interviewing the staff? Or had he and the inspector moved on to the guests? With a distinct feeling of regret that she'd removed the tracking device from his watch, she watched the red tile roofs of the city drop below the cab and tried not to think about the last time she'd traveled this narrow, winding road.
The countess's butler met Mackenzie at the door. His face set in rigidly disapproving lines, he related that Monsieur Jensen and Inspector Picard had departed the premises some fifteen minutes ago.
"Mademoiselle must have passed them on th
e drive up," he said with something close to a sniff. Evidently the man didn't appreciate being questioned by the police.
Mackenzie eyed the taxi she'd kept waiting and made a spur-of-the-moment decision. ‘‘Is the countess at home? I'd like to speak with her."
"If you'll wait in the downstairs salon, I'll see if madame wishes to receive you."
Not exactly a gracious welcome, considering that two of madame's guests had nearly been splattered down a steep slope not far from here. Nick and Inspector Picard must have raked the man and his underlings over the coals.
After paying off the cabdriver, Mackenzie followed the majordomo into a cozy, irregularly shaped room just off the downstairs hall. It was tiled in black and white, with an elegantly faded area rug to absorb the echoes, and furnished in dark woods. A glass-fronted armoire held a collection of Faberge eggs, some small, some ostrich-size, each on its own stand. Mackenzie was admiring one done in glowing red and navy cloisonne when the sound of footsteps in the hall announced the countess's arrival.
It wasn't the petite, raven-haired aristocrat who strolled into the salon, however, but her companion. His stunning male beauty hit Mackenzie all over again, almost like a smack to the face. She blinked, reared back a little, and let out a slow breath.
Damn! The way this gorgeous creature had filled out his tux last night was mind-boggling enough. That was nothing compared to hot and sweaty and just off the tennis courts. His white knit shirt clung to his chest and muscular shoulders in damp spots. His shorts...
Mackenzie had seen shorter shorts on a man, but he'd been suspended over the side of a navy cruiser at the time, struggling to fix a navigational beacon under the broiling equatorial sun. She suspected the countess must have chosen this tennis ensemble for her companion with the sole intention of showing off his trim, tight butt.
"Mademoiselle Blair!"
Tossing his tennis racket onto a chair, he came across the room. "You look well," he murmured, brushing his mouth across the backs of her fingers, "for having so narrowly escaped death last night."
Strange how the slightest touch of Nick's mouth on her flesh started small eruptions of heat just under her skin, yet Alexander's kiss left her stone-cold. Tugging her hand free, she shrugged off her lacerated knees and elbows.
"I got a few scrapes, but nothing a few Band-Aids and Mercurochrome couldn't fix. Unlike our driver," she added. "He's still in a coma."
"So I've heard." His black, liquid eyes held hers. "He has not spoken, then? Said what happened?"
"No."
"A police inspector was just here, I'm told. And your friend, Nick. The idea that any of her staff or guests might have slipped your driver a drink or some drugs will no doubt be upsetting to Dianthe."
The countess would probably be even more upset if the purse a young, sticky-fingered Nick stole from her years ago turned out to have some connection to a murderous attack by two gunmen.
Mackenzie thought momentarily about mentioning the evening bag to Alexander. Just as quickly, she discarded the idea. For one thing, he would have been in diapers when the theft occurred. For another, she hadn't had time to run a background check on this guy and find out just where he was coming from.
He gave her a hint at that moment, moving in closer.
Too close.
Mackenzie held her ground, but she didn't care for the way his combination of musky cologne and healthy male sweat teased her nostrils. Nor did she like the sudden intensity in his dark, penetrating gaze.
"Who are you, Mademoiselle Blair? What is your connection to Nick Jensen?''
"I thought we established that last night," she returned coolly.
"Ah, yes. You say you are his...friend."
And then some.
The searing memory of Nick tipping cognac onto her stomach had put a whole new spin on the term friendship. To Mackenzie's consternation, her muscles tightened at the remembered rasp of his tongue on her belly. Desperately, she tried not to think about the other spots he'd rasped. Despite her best efforts, heat warmed her chest and stained her cheeks.
For Pete's sake! She couldn't believe she was standing knee-to-knee with the countess's latest lover and blushing like a teenager. Nor could the countess when she sailed into the salon some moments later.
In an ironic reversal of roles from the night before, the black-haired, flawlessly made up aristocrat interrupted what had all the earmarks of an intimate tete-a-tete. Her young stud leaned over Mackenzie, intent and intense. She stared up at him, no doubt looking as flustered as a fifteen-year-old after her first real make-out session.
"Well!" The countess stopped on the threshold, her eyes widening. ‘‘Have you changed your mind, Mademoiselle Blair?"
"About what?"
"About joining Alexander and me in a little frolic?"
"Sorry. I'm not into frolics."
Not with these two, anyway. The idea of getting naked and indulging in some afternoon delight with Nick, on the other hand, held a definite appeal.
A malicious smile curved the countess's lips as she strolled across the room. Running a red-tipped nail down her lover's arm, she wrinkled her nose.
"You're so deliciously sweaty, my pet. Did you work up that manly stink on the tennis court? Or here, with Mademoiselle Blair?"
"You heard her. She's not interested in the kind of games we play, Dianthe." His mouth took on a twist every bit as cruel as his mistress's. "Nor should she be. She has the look of a woman well loved this morning, does she not?"
The countess threw Mackenzie another look. Her lips thinned for a moment before pursing into a pout.
"Indeed she does."
"Or perhaps that's not whisker burn on her neck and chin," Alexander continued, his gaze still dark and intent. "Mademoiselle Blair indicated she took some bad scrapes when she tumbled down the slope last night."
"Such a dreadful accident!" Oozing concern, the older woman crossed the room and hooked her arm in his. ‘‘We heard the explosion here at the villa. I was sure a gas main had gone up, wasn't I, my pet? That happened only last month," she went on, not waiting for his answer, ''down in the Old City. Several people were injured. But this..."
A shudder rippled down her slender frame.
‘‘This is so much worse. My darling Nick could have been killed. You, too, of course."
Witch, Mackenzie thought. She could at least try for a little less insincerity.
"Did you wish to speak to me about the accident?" the countess asked solicitously. "Nick has already done so. He and a police inspector." Her glance shifted to the man beside her. ‘‘Too bad you missed them, my sweet. Someone on the staff mentioned that you issued the order for more refreshments to be served to the waiting drivers. That seemed to interest the police inspector."
"Did it?"
"I explained to her that you're always so thoughtful. And so thorough." "Yes, I am."
The hair on the back of Mackenzie's neck prickled. She sensed undercurrents swirling around her, deep and more than a little dangerous. Swiftly, she jettisoned the idea of querying the countess about her stolen bag.
"Since you've already spoken with Nick and the police inspector, I won't take up any more of your time."
She started for the door, only to have the countess disengage her arm from Alexander's and glide into her path.
"You mustn't run off so quickly. Stay and have lunch with us."
"Thanks, but I..."
"I'm afraid we must insist."
She sensed rather than saw the movement behind her. Whirling, she read the intent on Alexander's face. Her arm came up in an instinctive move to shove him away.
His caught her wrist and wrenched it behind her back. Pain shot up her arm as he jerked her against him, pinning her hard against his chest.
Mackenzie could have sworn she caught a flash of regret in his dark eyes, but by then both anger and adrenaline had kicked in. With a smothered curse, she brought her knee straight up.
He
twisted sideways just in time. Snarling, she bent her upper body back as far as the brutal hold on her wrist would permit. A head butt would hurt her almost as much as it did him, but she was damned if she'd let these two play their games without putting up a good fight.
Before she could smash her forehead into Alexander's nose, something sharp bit into her upper arm. Twisting, she shot a look over her shoulder and saw the countess plunge down the stem of a syringe.
"What is that? What did you give me?"
"Nothing too debilitating, darling."
"Benzodiazepine. Is that benzodiazepine?"
The older woman merely smiled. Mackenzie managed one last curse before the room began to blur and her knees went out from under her.
Chapter 12
When Nick returned to the Negresco just past two that afternoon, the concierge handed him an embossed envelope. The heavy vellum gave off a whiff of lavender as he unfolded the enclosed note and skimmed the bold script.
Darling—
Join us for cocktails on the Sea Nymph. We'll cruise the bay and watch the sun set. Mackenzie's already aboard. Call the harbormaster, and we'll send the skiff in to pick you up.
D.
Strange that Mackenzie hadn't left word that she'd gone for cocktails with Dianthe, Nick mused after letting himself into their suite and taking a quick glance around. Stranger still that she hadn't made arrangements to get him the replacement for his smashed transmitter. He saw the box, which confirmed the equipment had arrived, but no sign of the new devices.
Tossing his key and Dianthe's note onto the desk, he booted up the laptop computer and connected to OMEGA's control center. The young, bright face of Mackenzie's latest recruit—a math wizard right out of MIT—flashed onto the screen. After verifying Nick's voice and digital face prints, she matched them to the authorization code he keyed in.
"Control here. Go ahead, Lightning."
"Just checking in. What's happening?"
"Not much, sir. We received a sit rep from the CIA indicating a potential anti-American demonstration in Singapore, but other than that it's been quiet."
To Love a Thief Page 11