Dane had suggested they take the Chunnel train to Paris. While the travel time wasn’t any shorter than a flight, the ticketing, boarding and waiting time was greatly decreased.
It was fifteen minutes until boarding. While Dane toddled off to the coffee shop to buy tea and hot chocolate, Becca parked her aching body on a stool before a curved blue plastic table.
She patted her Gucci bag with her laptop in it, glad it hadn’t been damaged.
Her kit of loupes and gem-gauging aids was a total loss. She would need replacements, and so phoned ahead to a friend in Paris. Vincent would hook her up, and leave the supplies at the hotel for her. He was one of her more shady connections—she suspected he was a jewel thief—but she didn’t question him. Nor had she been overly interrogative the one night following a gemstone auction when they had danced until dawn. As far as Frenchmen went, Vincent was classic. Refined yet raw. Stark yet soft. Seductive but cold. A panoply of opposites that had thrilled her, literally, into bed with him. Pity his aspirations appeared criminal.
She wasn’t a hedonist; rather refined, actually. But it was much easier to have affairs than relationships. She didn’t like to take names, and so rarely did, with the exception of Vincent and Zen.
Becca indulged in regular Zen sessions. He was tall, dark and able to spend an entire evening without taking more than one break from sex. Zen was not Becca Whitmore’s lover. He had sex with her lusty alter ego, who kept an apartment in the Village especially for those nights when she faltered from society’s rigid expectations and the all-seeing eyes of the paparazzi.
Lately, her work with her charity Grace Notes and her constant assignments for the Gotham Roses kept her far too busy to even think about a relationship.
A year devoted to one man—her ex-fiancé—had been a big chunk of her life. God knows she was entirely to blame for the breakup with David Chester, of Chester Jewelers fame, a year earlier. It was impossible to live a double life and expect to keep The Secret from someone you loved. When faced with the dilemma, instead of choosing to reveal her secret life with the Gotham Roses, she’d dumped her fiancé. Why? He would have never been able to handle the truth.
At least, that was her story, and she planned to stick to it.
After speaking to Vincent, Becca dialed up her favorite Paris hotel and made a reservation under her name. It was the one where the auction was to be held this evening. The staff knew her as a New York socialite who often visited the Place Vendôme to purchase gemstones. The truth. As a gemologist she was frequently hired by wealthy clients to attend auctions to verify rare gemstones, ensure they were not fake. Perfect cover.
A woman joined her at the curved table. “Batman?”
The silly code name she had chosen to identify herself to a fellow agent. Who said she didn’t have a sense of humor?
Becca surreptitiously took in the woman’s profile without turning to look at her directly. A dark scarf concealed the back of her head and her ear. Her jawline was sharp and her lips parted as if in wait of a cigarette. Dark sunglasses sat on a small face with little makeup, but a flawless olive complexion.
“Gotham City’s finest.” Becca gave the expected verification.
A simple nod. “Becca Whitmore, I’m Agent Arlowe. Zeek sent me. I’ve come to make the exchange.”
Becca kept her head forward, avoiding eye contact. Just a casual conversation between two strangers. Zeek had said she’d send someone to pick up the diamond.
“I don’t have it in hand.”
Arlowe’s lips compressed.
“It’s with Lester Price. He’s been admitted to St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“Zeek mentioned Price. But we assumed you’d not leave him alone.”
“MI-6 is babysitting. Price is trustworthy—a cyber genius I’ve worked with before. I sent the diamond along with him—best place to find an electron microscope. You should have no problem obtaining the evidence.”
“Right. If MI-6 is in a cooperative mood.” The agent tapped a clear-polished nail on the plastic countertop, paused in thought, then murmured, “Agent Dane’s intel is of value.… But I caution you against a full-out partnership with MI-6. Use him for his intel, then dump him.”
Becca nodded. No skin off her back. The sooner she got rid of her partner, the better.
Arlowe looked directly at Becca for a few seconds, with a flash of pretty gold eyes, before looking away. “I have info about your Paris stop. You’re authorized to bid, but not win.”
“Why not close down the auction, or obtain the stone beforehand?”
“Much as we’d like to acquire the second diamond, what is of prime import is to draw out the thieves. I wish you luck.”
Seconds after Arlowe had left, Dane arrived with cardboard cups of steaming tea and hot chocolate. Pressed between his thumbs was a sack of salted nuts.
“Who was that gorgeous bit of duck?”
“I don’t know.” Becca sipped the hot chocolate carefully.
Dane shook out a handful of salted nuts. “You were chatting her up like you knew her.”
And here she thought she’d been so discreet.
“She liked my coat. I gave her directions to Burberry on Bond Street.”
“Uh-huh. Right. Even though there’s a big slash in the back of it?”
“There is?” Becca tugged off her coat to discover she, indeed, wore a tattered coat.
Dane eyed Arlowe’s retreating figure. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. “Funny.”
Becca folded her coat in half and laid it on the stool. “What?”
“Duck is wearing Doc Martens and camo pants. Doesn’t look the sort to shop at Burberry.”
“Well, you obviously know her better than I do, because I just met her.” And that was the truth. If the CIA wasn’t keen on MI-6, then she could hold her intel as tight as Dane held his. “I’m going to need a new coat.”
“That one looks fine. From the front.” He smirked behind his tea.
“Ah. Humor. Not funny. I’ll meet you on the train,” Becca said.
Hooking her laptop bag over her left shoulder, because the right still hurt like a mother, she walked across the aisle for distance, dialing her phone as she did. The contacts the Gotham Roses used across the nation changed frequently, so she always went through base in New York with gadget and wardrobe requests. “Kristi?”
Kristi Burke designed all the costumes and managed wardrobes for the Gotham Roses. She was gadget guru Alan Burke’s sister.
“Becca, good to hear your voice. So you’re in London?”
“Dashing off to Paris in a few minutes. Can I ask a big favor?”
“Is it about fashion?”
“Always.”
“Then shoot.”
“I’ll need a gown for a gemstone auction tonight, a change of clothing, and a nice warm coat to see me through the Paris chill and rain.”
“Shoes or boots?”
“Both.”
“I’ll get in touch with my Paris connections. Alan is working on arranging some gadgets for you. You’ll need to communicate during the auction. Everything should be waiting upon your arrival.”
“You know where I’m staying?”
“Your hotel credit reservation just popped up on the grid.”
“Of course.” The strangest part of her life was the constant surveillance, be it by the paparazzi seeking the rich and famous, or the Gotham Roses. She couldn’t make a move without someone noticing.
And now she had a handsome Brit watching her every move.
No one had ever said this job didn’t have a few perks.