by Nancy Warren
Three minutes later, he had the safe open and was lifting some papers, ready to slide the necklace into place.
That was when he noticed the flaw in Lucy’s plan.
They’d forgotten the damned dog.
Nine
Lucy was doing her best, but she knew—if she’d ever been curious—that she wasn’t cut out for crime. Her armpits felt damp, her palms downright slippery, and the questions she posed to Edward Gimmel about the resort he’d invested in somewhere in the Bahamas couldn’t have been more brainless.
A couple more minutes, she thought, and they’d be out of here.
Then the barking started. The kind of barking that comes from a hysterical, hyper little dog.
“Princess?” Mrs. Gimmel shrieked. “We shut her upstairs when guests are coming. She can be annoying, but she’s a very good watch dog.”
“Where’s your son?” Mr. Gimmel asked, leaping to his feet.
“He’ll be back,” Beatrice said so serenely that Lucy had to give her credit. “Little dogs get excited about nothing, don’t they? We used to have a cocker spaniel . . .”
Gimmel wasn’t buying the diversion. With an ugly look, he jumped to his feet and ran out. He went first to the guest bathroom, but of course it was empty, then he charged for the stairs where the shrill, endless barking reminded Lucy of a car alarm that wouldn’t shut off.
Lucy had no idea what she was going to do, but she followed her host with the bad toupee. He went straight for the sound of the hysterical barking, which was coming from behind a closed door that had to be the bedroom where Claude was.
Damn and damn. Bloody dog.
“Mr. Gimmel, I was so hoping you’d give me a tour of the house. This is wonderful,” she said in a loud voice. If Claude could get out of the window or something, they could still salvage this. Gimmel ignored her and threw open the bedroom door. Still acting as imbecilic as she knew how—and it was amazing how much imbecility had lain dormant all this time—she pushed her way in front of him into the room. “Oh, is this your bedroom? What a lovely room. Oh, and this is your sweet dog.”
An over-coiffed Pekingese, jumping up at a door that presumably led to the walk-in closet, was yapping its fool head off.
“Good dog,” she said. “Quiet.”
She turned to say something inane to her host and then froze. He held a blunt-nosed pistol in his hand and it was trained on the closet door.
“Come out of there,” he ordered.
“Honestly.” She tried to speak loudly enough to be heard inside the closet while simultaneously beating back the panic dancing in her chest. “Why are you holding a gun? It’s probably a mouse or something.”
“Get away from that door,” Gimmel yelled. He pulled out a slim cell phone and before her horrified gaze called 911 to report a robbery in progress.
“I’ve called the cops,” he yelled. “Come out where I can see you.”
“Good,” said Claude, calmly walking out of the door, holding a sheaf of papers. “I think the police would be very interested in seeing this.”
“You bastard,” said Gimmel.
“What is it?” Lucy asked.
“A list of bribes paid to certain officials he needs on his side to get his development rammed through in an ecologically sensitive area. I always wondered how you’d got so far.”
“Too bad I shot you before the cops got here,” Gimmel said, slipping off the safety.
“No, you didn’t,” said Beatrice from behind them. She had some kind of semi-automatic weapon in her hands.
“This was in your desk drawer,” she said pleasantly. “I’m not the greatest shot, but at this range, I couldn’t miss.”
“Rose,” she said, when Mrs. Gimmel came gasping up behind her, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to withdraw my support of your nomination to the garden committee. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Beatrice, you were fantastic,” Lucy exclaimed later, when the three of them had enjoyed a late supper with an excellent bottle of wine Beatrice had dug out from her cellar.
“Thanks, honey. You were great, too, for a novice. With a bit of practice—”
“Mama.”
Lucy turned to Claude, mostly to shut him up. “Isabelle looked pretty happy when you handed her that list.”
His mother’s pleasure dimmed a notch. “I still can’t believe you put the necklace back.”
“I think we did more good for your frogs by uncovering this ring of corruption than selling that necklace would have.”
Beatrice sighed. “I suppose. And it was very exciting.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to going out in style and the beginning of my retirement.”
“May it last,” said her son.
“I was mostly bored, but I think things are going to get a lot more interesting around here.”
“Mama, I am now proposing to take Lucy next door to my house and I don’t plan to bring her back before breakfast. Does anyone have a problem with that?”
“Not a one.”
“Ah, no.”
Lucy missed her plane home. It took almost no persuasion for the mother and son tag team to talk her into extending her stay. She still had two months before school started again and she’d found a lot of research opportunities she might otherwise have overlooked. She’d booked a swamp tour and been horrified to find that the alligators she’d been so scared of followed the tour boat because the driver threw marshmallows overboard. The sharp-toothed creatures acted like puppies when the kibble comes out, sliding with prehistoric stealth into the murky water, jaws snapping—for marshmallows.
She’d toured old homes, eaten in amazing restaurants, drunk coffee and eaten beignets in the Café du Monde, and she’d met and interviewed dozens of newfound relatives.
She found herself falling in love with Louisiana—and with this most interesting branch of her family.
Today she’d left the university early and headed straight for the French Quarter. When her steps led her to her favorite antique shop on Royal, she went inside.
After a friendly greeting, Lana, the sales clerk out front, waved her to the back where Claude had a small office.
She walked through the shop, past the pale blue velvet sofa where she’d been when she first thought there was something special about Claude, to the open door. There he was, dark head bent over. A jewelry box lay open on his desk and she saw that he was cleaning a ring.
Her body tingled as it always did when she saw him. She wanted a minute to watch him when he wasn’t aware of her, but it was impossible. He glanced up even though she hadn’t made a sound. He could feel her, she knew. She wondered if it would always be this way between them and suspected it would.
The smile that lit his eyes was as intimate as the things they’d done to each other last night. Under his knowing gaze, her bones melted to syrup.
“Come on in,” he said.
“Thanks. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d take you to lunch, but it looks like you’re busy.”
“Never too busy for you. You look pleased with yourself.”
“I am. We’re celebrating. I got the assistant professor job.”
“Congratulations.” He rose to kiss her, and she threw herself into his arms. After she was so well congratulated she could barely draw breath, he said, “Does this permanent teaching job mean you’re giving up a life of crime?”
She shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I’ve never been so scared in all my life as when that man pulled a gun and I knew you were in the closet.”
They were still holding each other, so no one could see him when he ran his fingertip over her nipple so it perked to life. “Probably you should stick to teaching.”
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that whole jewel heist thing,” she said.
“Now’s good for me.”
She hiked a hip onto his desk and he settled back into his chair. She stroked the edge of the open jewelry box, feeling the old, frayed velvet. “When I found you wi
th that necklace in your hand, you let me believe you were a thief. I felt so angry and betrayed.”
“I know. And I couldn’t tell you it was my mom who was the thief, not me.”
“What if I’d turned you in to the police?” She shivered at the thought, which had been torturing her.
“You didn’t.”
She hated even thinking about those awful minutes. “I almost did, though. I almost told an NOPD detective that I’d seen you with the necklace. Once I’d told her that, you know I’d have shown her where the safe was.”
“I’ll never forget that moment, either. That’s when I knew.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Knew what?”
“That only one thing was stopping you. It had to be love.”
“Are you saying I love you?”
“I’d rather you said it.” He reached out and touched her hand. “A man likes to know his love is returned.”
She gazed at him and saw his heart in his eyes. The gorgeous, sexy man who made her dizzy with love, loved her back.
“Oh, I do,” she said, feeling her heart pound. “I do love you.”
He dropped his head and went back to polishing the ring, but she saw the glow of happiness on his face.
“What a beautiful ring,” she said, leaning closer. “How can you bear to sell something so lovely?”
“This ring’s not for sale. It belonged to my great—I don’t know how many times great-grandmother. I’d need a researcher like you to figure out the generations. It’s the ring her husband gave her before they left France for the new world.”
“Things probably didn’t turn out the way they thought.”
“Things in life rarely do. But they went on to have a dozen kids, most of whom lived, and, eventually, a pretty good life here in New Orleans. My grandmother left it to me when she died. She told me to save it for my wife.”
He held the ring up, letting the light catch it so it glowed deep red. “I thought I’d clean it up. You never know when you’re going to need a ring like this.”
She smiled at him. “No. You never do.”
“You like it?”
“I love it. I see it’s a ruby.”
“So it is.” He placed the newly cleaned ring into the box and then tucked it into his pocket. He took her hand and grinned down at her. “Let’s go have lunch.”
INGOOD HANDS
E. C. Sheedy
One
Dane looked at the clock on the lower right of his screen and cursed. He had five minutes to make up his mind. Either he went himself to pick up this Esme Shane person, or he sent Janzen.
He hit the enter key, transferred another hundred thousand, and rested his dark head on his high-backed leather chair. He wanted to close his eyes. Hell, he wanted to close his mind—but thoughts of his screwball sister skewed his normally sane and logical brain patterns. To clear the frustration nettling his chest, he let out a long sweep of air. How he’d let her sucker him into taking on this damned inconvenient houseguest, he couldn’t figure. He picked up a pen, tapped it on his desk.
Marilee was up to something. Had some Machiavellian plot up that designer sleeve of hers. He was sure of it.
If it had anything to do with the “amazing, incredible, brilliant, charismatic” Leonardo St. James, the guy currently ranked number one on her man meter, he’d strangle her—or worse yet, make a serious cut in her allowance. Dane might spoil Marilee rotten, but no way did his stupidity extend to investing in schemes involving her boy toys. She denied any form of subterfuge—naturally—but wariness being a big part of his genetic makeup, and guile being a big part of hers, he intended to be on his guard.
“Damn it,” he said to the bank of computer screens, double tiered in front of him.
When one of them beeped in response, he shook his head, again looked at the clock, and rubbed at the lines he felt deepening to wagon-size ruts in his forehead.
How the hell his sister Marilee always got the better of him was a mystery. One of those psycho-babblers would probably say their relationship got skewed after the death of their parents, and he’d had to take a more fatherly role in Marilee’s life. Maybe so, but fatherly or not, he’d indulged her escapades once too often. And this latest Leonardo scheme? To run some kind of sex shop, featuring body and sexual awareness seminars in New Mexico?
Not going to happen.
Apparently, this Esme woman—due to arrive on his island retreat within the hour—fell into Marilee’s breathless, “best-friend-ever” category, which meant she was probably as ditzy and irresponsible as his sister. Hell, it had taken him fifteen minutes to break through her singsong litany of the Shane woman’s virtues. He remembered the conversation....
“You’ll love her, Dane, I know you will. She’s led the most amazing life. And she won’t get in your way. She’s a mouse, a quiet little mouse. All she needs is two weeks near the Gulf Coast to finish some special project she’s working on—a beach book for kids or something. And it’s not as if you’re short of space. You’ve got at least twenty-five rooms in that godforsaken place of yours”—anything more than ten miles from the center of New Orleans was “godforsaken” in Marilee’s mind. “She’s just this ultra special person . . . good, kind, supportive when I needed her. I owe her, Dane. I truly do. When I broke up with Richard”—or was it Philip? Dane frowned, couldn’t remember—“I’d never have made it without her. She introduced me to Leonardo, you know.”
She’d announced the last as if it were the clincher, then gone on with the pleading, every word hushed, heartfelt, and packed with sincerity. His sister would make a hell of a trial lawyer—if she believed in work.
Dane idly scratched his neck. Chances were good Esme Shane was involved in this scheme of hers and Leonardo’s and would be angling for a fat check within hours. Saying no wasn’t a problem, the hassle was.
“You have mail,” Six murmured. Dane had decided early on not to humanize the hardware arrayed in front of him by giving them names, but needing some way to identify each computer unit, he’d chosen numerals. One through twelve did the trick.
He looked at the old-style mailbox flashing on the screen. South Africa. Another message appeared. Some village in Alaska. Neither appeared urgent, but . . .
He decided to send Janzen. That would give him at least a couple more hours on the computer before his unwanted guest arrived and he’d have to face all that . . . mousiness.
The phone rang. He glanced at the call display, looked at the ceiling, and let out a noisy breath. He picked up.
“I knew you’d still be there,” she accused. “I just knew it!”
Marilee. Damn. “I’m sending Janzen.”
“Don’t you dare!”
Marilee’s exclamation-point inventory was, as usual, overstocked. “The airport is a half hour away,” he said. “I’m sure Janzen can—”
“I told her you’d pick her up. She’ll be nervous, flying on that glorified tin can of yours.”
“It’s a Cessna. And Granger is a first-class pilot. She’ll be fine.” His attention flicked over the message from South Africa.
“Dane, I don’t ask you for much. I really don’t.”
Her pout seeped out of the receiver and bloomed in the room like a full-color hologram, forcing Dane to attempt a decode of Marilee’s definition of “much.” He came up empty. “Don’t start, Marilee. And for God’s sake, don’t turn on the waterworks.”
She sniffled. “I never cry . . . unless”—she sniffled again—“I absolutely have to.”
Dane’s lips twitched. God, she was good. “You are the biggest pain in the butt in Louisiana. You know that?”
“Of course I do.” She paused, and Dane sensed her smile. “Dane . . . please. She’s such a shy little creature. She’d be completely overwhelmed with the chauffeur thing.”
“Janzen’s not a chauffeur. He’s . . . security.” Among other things.
“Whatever he is, he’ll scare the daylights out of her. I know he does me. All t
hat ex-CIA stuff gives me the vapors.”
“The what?”
“Forget it. Just, ple-e-ase, don’t send Janzen. Go yourself. For me?”
“Like I said, you’re a—”
“Pain in the butt. Fine. But does all that name-calling mean you’ll go?”
Dane knew when he was beaten. He ran a hand over his too-long hair, his unshaven jaw, then he looked at his watch. “I’ll go, but it won’t be pretty. And if she’s coming at me for money—”
“You’re the prettiest man I know,” she said, cutting him off with the subtle precision of a chain saw. “And you’ll love Esme. Absolutely love her. You won’t even know she’s there. Thanks, big brother. I’ll call you later.”
Click.
Dane looked at the dead phone in his hand and shook his head. She hadn’t denied the money thing. Damn.
Suckered again.
Six burped up another E-mail. He scanned it quickly.
Maybe not quite so suckered after all.
The flight was smooth and the view from the window pretty, but Esme’s butt ached just the same. What with the bus, the airport, the fancy airplane, she’d been sitting for ten hours straight. She couldn’t wait to get on the ground, breathe some fresh air, and walk the soles of her Nikes off.
Again she studied the posh cabin of the sleek jet, everything in shades of gray. Cushy leather seats, gleaming lacquered bar with its display of crystal glasses—all aglitter under the afternoon sun beaming in through the plane’s windows—and deep, ultra-soft carpeting. Luxury on wings.
She shook her head. Hard to believe a man with this much money was so closefisted when it came to his younger sister, so determined not to help her and Leonardo. Still, that was his right and none of her business. She was just grateful to get this time on the Gulf. It was the last beach in the book due to the publisher within the month and perfect for her purpose. So far the illustrations had worked beautifully—or so Veronica, the book’s author, had told her when they’d last spoken.
And Esme so welcomed the change in venue.