France— Paris
The Place Vendôme was a small city square of bankers, jewelers and shops that offered Paris’s most densely concentrated area of diamonds. Becca always passed up the Hotel Ritz for her favorite, the Hotel Regina, which was down the street from the Vendôme.
The Regina was not as opulent as the Ritz, which was why Becca liked it. It was homey in a rococo-trashes-art-deco kind of way. A huge fan of the deco period, she never missed an auction that offered an Alphonse Mucha original.
Tonight’s auction was actually being held at the hotel, with a festival of lights in the Vendôme following.
Dane hung back in the lobby, iPod and earbuds in place, picking through the pamphlets while Becca registered. She was greeted at the front desk with the usual élan.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Whitmore! So lovely to see you in our modest home again.”
“Bonsoir, Jean Paul. It is very good to see you again.” The boy-size senior ran the front desk, and was renowned for his work ethic. He was in his early nineties, but didn’t look a day over eighty. “Is madame feeling better?” Becca asked.
“Ah, très bien. Merci for asking. She settles into melancholy on occasion, but I have bought her one of those fancy bright lights to make her happy. You know of what I speak?”
“I do. The winter months can be bleak. I wish her much happiness.” Becca laid her Centurion card on the counter and he discreetly swiped it for her. “Were there any packages left for me, Jean Paul?”
Perusing his thoughts with a rolling of his eyes, he then tapped the air with a long finger. “But of course!” He turned to sort through the wooden files behind him.
Jean Paul returned with a breadbasket-size package wrapped in brown paper and twine. Inside would be all the tools a jeweler would need, plus there was a note from Vincent attached, which Becca discreetly tucked in her coat pocket.
“There was also a delivery to your room not an hour ago, Mademoiselle Whitmore. A tailor’s dress bag and a smaller box. Will you be attending the auction this evening…? But of course!”
“You know me well, Jean Paul. I’ll ring for room service as soon as I’ve settled in. Merci!”
As she and Dane walked up two flights to their hotel room, Becca’s cell phone rang, and she clicked on. “Yes?”
Lester’s whispers were barely audible. She plugged her other ear to better hear. “You’re where?”
“In the laboratory at the hospital. I can’t talk loud. I’ve snuck in here.”
“Where’s the MI-6 agent?”
“Getting a coffee. He’s a prick. I had to take a chance.”
“Does that chance include taking a look at the diamond?”
That got Dane’s attention. Walking the hallway toward their room, he turned and studied her.
“It’s remarkable, Becca. There was definitely something inside. Was being the key word. The structural integrity of the diamond has been faintly altered. Never would anyone pick up on it—the stone could be sold as flawless.”
“Go on.”
“It is the ion beam branding, but a completely new process. It’s got to be. I can detect a ten-micron line—that’s a tenth the width of a human hair. It’s part of something greater that was once there. You know? The ion beam process etches the nanolines into the diamond table, but it is permanent. You can’t erase it unless you grind it off. I think someone found a way to undo the permanence.”
“You think it was erased? Without grinding it off?”
Dane stopped at the door to their room. The tilt of his head told Becca he hung on her every word.
“It’s possible. Nanotechnology does some amazing stuff with different colored light sources. Whatever was originally on this stone—organic, is what I think—could have been excited by the UV light you shined on it, which may have led it to self-destruct.”
What Lester said made little sense. It was unbelievable. But she knew nothing of nanotechnology. Who was she to question?
“You said there was another diamond?”
“Yes.” Had she told him that?
“You need to get your hands on it,” Lester whispered. “And don’t shine the UV light on it until you’ve had opportunity to look at it under a high-powered microscope. Like I said, you might have inadvertently excited the nanodata, caused it to move, and erased it. Oh shit, I think someone’s coming.”
“I’ve arranged for a courier to pick up the diamond at the hospital. Maybe that’s her— Lester?”
“It’s not safe, Becca.” Static crackled in her ear. “I’ve got to go,” he murmured.
“Wait, Lester. It could be Agent Ar—”
The connection clicked off. Becca stared at the small platinum cell phone. What was Lester up to? He knew the danger in going against protocol. She couldn’t lose that stone.
“What’s up?”
She slid in the keycard and entered the room. “Lester.”
“Don’t tell me he lost the stone.”
“No, it’s safe.” Maybe. “He’s just checking in with me.”
Earbuds still in place, Dane followed Becca into her room and slouched into the Louis XVI chair next to an ornate mahogany secretary that might have felt the weighty decisions and royal palms of past kings.
Decorated in warm red-tapestried wallpaper and painted a soft cream, the room felt luminous and safe. Heavy red drapes, drawn back by thick tasseled ties, separated a sleeping alcove with twin beds from the living area. A marble-topped table held a bouquet of striped red lilies and fragrant white roses. The scent reminded Becca of Renee Dalton-Sinclair’s sitting room. White tea roses were her favorite.
In her bag Becca carried a Powerbook, which she slipped out and set on the secretary. She massaged her right shoulder. The ache would get worse if she didn’t take an aspirin or put something on it. A call to a pharmacy might become necessity, but a hot shower, and a session of deep breathing and focus, should dispel most of the pain.
She patted the smooth metallic laptop. The auction began at 8:00 p.m.—three hours from now. Contacting Zeek about Lester was first on the list.
“Nice digs,” Dane said, tugging out one earbud.
Guessing he wasn’t as far ahead of the curve as she, Becca thought to play with him.
“This is our room,” she said, setting the package from Vincent on the marble table. “They’re fully booked, but they always save a room or two for regulars or celebrities.”
Dane looked about. “I must see if I can get me one of those black credit cards. What’s the limit on that thing? Isn’t it a cool million?”
“If you have to ask…” She breezed about the room, checking the curtains and the corners of the ceilings with an eye for any sort of listening device. Lifting the phone, she inspected the underside. It looked tamper-free. She didn’t expect bugs, but one could never be sure.
“I know who you are,” Dane chanted in a singsong.
“We’ve already done the introductions, Agent Dane. You going batty on me?”
“Becca Whitmore,” he said, as if putting emphasis on her last name meant all the difference in the world. When she didn’t react, he tugged the earbud from his other ear and handed them to her.
She shook her head emphatically.
“Just give a listen.”
“Agent Dane, I don’t care to put whatever you’ve had in your ears in mine.”
“You are a stiff one.” He rubbed the white earbuds over his blue sweater, then, clasping the iPod, handed the whole thing to her. Apparently he wasn’t about to give up until she’d listened.
Becca took the tiny silver music player and surreptitiously rubbed the earbuds over her pant leg. Then she touched one earbud to her ear.
A luscious symphony in D minor filled her brain. She smiled, knowing the melody instantly, a childhood lullaby that she’d heard over and over.
“The Midsummer Serenade,” she said. It had been composed in her honor. Strange, how visceral one’s reactions could be to memory.
“Your father?”
“Yes. He wrote this when I was six. I used to perform the violin solo in the second movement.”
Which was long before she’d decided a career in music wasn’t for her. The memory made her chuckle. She’d been so precocious in her early teens.
She handed the iPod back. “You like this kind of music?”
“Love it. I like most music, even some country. I hadn’t picked up on your name until I started listening to this. So your father is the twentieth century Mozart?”
She shrugged at the name the world had coined for her genius parent. Reinhardt Whitmore had been born with music in his veins. And quite a lot of cash, thanks to his grandfather’s investments in Arctic oil. “Guess so.”
“I thought I once read or heard something about his daughter being equally as talented?”
“I can play any instrument you put in my hands.” But that didn’t mean she enjoyed it. Reading and performing music was vastly different from feeling the music.
Gemstones, now those she felt in her very soul.
“Really?” Dane twisted on the chair. Both wrists dangled over the arm, the iPod forgotten in his lap. “A flute?”
“Doesn’t every high school girl know how to play the flute?”
“Drums?”
“Keeping the beat comes naturally to me.” She tapped out a mock drumroll on her legs. “I think it’s definitely something I got from my father’s genes.”
“Plug it in.” She assumed her best rocker sneer. “And I can rock the house.”
“Well, well.” He nodded, impressed, tapping his finger to his chin and thoughtfully pursing his lips. “How about a harmonica?”
“I’d give it a try.”
“So…you’ll try anything once?” A waggle of his eyebrows clued her to his double meaning.
“So long as it performs to my standards.”
He took that retort with silent glee, cupping his palm under his chin and looking at her as if for the first time. “You’re quite the dichotomy, New York. Can’t imagine Daddy’s little girl chasing after the bad guys for a living. Especially when she doesn’t have to make a living. Daddy’s filthy rich, if I remember correctly.”
She offered a shrug as she finished her scan of the room. It was true; she didn’t have to work. But from early on her father had instilled a sense of self-productivity in her.
“We’ve got a few hours to make ourselves look auction-ready. You should ring up the front desk and have the concierge order you a tuxedo.”
“Joy. I like togging up. What about yourself? There’s no time to…ah.”
She followed Dane’s gaze.
A white gauze dress bag hung on a silver hook next to the bathroom door. Kristi Burke could work a miracle, even from three thousand miles away. Likely it would be couture.
Becca tingled with anticipation. It would be like opening a really good Christmas present.
The soft jingle of her cell phone prompted Becca to dig it out of her coat pocket. Caller ID flashed the name: Lucy. Becca’s personal assistant.
Lucy had worked for her two years, having been referred by a close friend who’d met her at a fall harvest charity event. Young, bubbly and overflowing with energy, the sassy redhead was like an extra limb to Becca. She was savvy when it came to planning events for Grace Notes, Becca’s charity, and thrilled to be given control—and Becca had no problem doing so, especially when a case took her out of town. Lucy had no clue to Becca’s alter ego as crime fighter.
Mentally mourning the plaid Burberry, she shrugged off her ripped coat as she listened.
Lucy started right in, as usual, forgoing even a friendly hello. “I’ve got the approval for the musicians. The building code doesn’t allow for candles. The tablecloth fiasco has been taken care of. I’ve found a dry cleaner to come directly to the hotel and steam them for me. The feathers have been shipped, half white and half red. They sound absolutely divine! The Krug arrived less than an hour ago. Will you want to check that out?”
“Lucy, hi, er…” Becca worked at the brown paper package, tearing it open and peeking inside the box.
“And Samantha Kyle’s mom called. She has to cancel her daughter’s music lesson tonight.”
Damn. Becca had missed only two lessons in the years she’d been working covertly—each time because she was out of the country chasing bad guys. But she’d always remembered to cancel, or managed a phone call at least a day before the student was to arrive.
“Did she reschedule?”
“Her mother said it would be fine to wait for next week’s lesson. Samantha isn’t feeling well and she didn’t want her to pass anything nasty along to you. Whew! I wouldn’t have been able to go near you if you caught a bug, Becca. Not that I’ve been near you lately. Could you imagine if I got sick before the gala? If we were both sick? No, I’m not even going there. Everything will be great. Right? I hope so, because—”
“Lucy, stop. Just…chill. The gala is going to be gorgeous and spectacular, and come off without a hitch.”
Every Gotham Roses club member was required to do fund-raising and charity work, and the undercover agents were no exception. Becca volunteered through Grace Notes by teaching music lessons to schoolchildren a few times a week.
She’d developed Grace Notes to introduce music to those children who would never have a chance to hear a live symphony orchestra perform. Twice a year, they’d fund field trips to Carnegie Hall for local schools. In September, the charity distributed instruments to the schools in all the boroughs. Entire bands had been formed in some schools thanks to donations and fund-raising they did at their annual charity gala in February, an event that was, unfortunately, this weekend.
“I’m sorry, I’m a bit tied up this week, Lucy. Fittings for the gala. Last minute invites to send out. Contributions to secure.”
Becca smiled at Dane, who watched her with fascination, his fingers propped in a steeple to his lips.
“Oh, Becca, I forget you are always so busy. You don’t need me bothering you with this minor stuff.”
“No, it’s perfectly fine, Lucy. You’re doing my job as it is. So keep bugging me. I’ll see you as soon as possible, okay?”
“Before tomorrow night?”
Who could make a promise like that? It was already Friday. If all went well with the auction, Becca could be on the next flight to New York. She glanced at Dane. He waggled a brow.
If all went well.
“I’ll call you, Lucy.”
“Thanks, Becca!”
Clicking off, Becca laid the cell phone on the table by the laptop. The spicy roses seeped into her senses on stealthy waves, but did not dispel her anxiety. “I completely forgot about that lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“I teach music to a few students twice a week.”
“A gemologist, as well as a music teacher?”
“It’s part of my charity foundation, Grace Notes.”
“Impressive.”
“No time for accolades. We’ve got work to do and I’ve got somewhere to be Saturday night. So, your tux?”
“Can’t I run across the street and buy myself a dinner jacket?” Dane asked, looking physically pained.
“The auction is a glamorous event. It’s followed by a full-dress ball at the Palais Royal, black tie and diamonds.”
“Got to love all those Kermits dressed to the nines.”
“Kermits? Ah.” Frogs. Frenchmen. He certainly was not PC. Stodgy Brit. “Do you think you can pull this off?”
“You want me to pull something off you?” He shot upright. “Just tell me which bit of clothing, love. I aim to please.”
She rolled her eyes and he slouched back down in the chair.
“Yes, I can pull it off. I shall watch my tongue, most uptight one.”
About to snap back with a protest, Becca kept quiet. Yes, she was uptight. And yes, she worried this evening wouldn’t go well. That was what she did. Worry, and then work her buns off—and Lucy’s—to achieve perfection. Becca Whitmore strove to be as flawless as a D grade colorless diamond. Only through her alter ego could she let her hair down. Let loose. Just…be.
“I think I’ll nose around,” Dane said. “Check out this auction room beforehand.”
Use him for his intel, then dump him.
“Strange that MI-6 doesn’t close it down and take the diamond into hand,” she stated, seeking a clue from him.
“We want to draw out the thief, love.” Nothing she didn’t already know. “But you wouldn’t know about that sort of covert action. You’re just here to look at the pretty stones for the CIA.”
“Sure. But you are going to sit tight while I order you a tux. I may not know about covert activities, but I do know it is important to look the part. I think I can guess your measurements. Stand up.”
“You just told me to sit tight.”
“Please? You’re about my ex-fiancé’s size.”
Dane stood and slipped off his coat, tossing it to the foot of one of the beds. “Fiancé?”
“Ex.”
“Interesting development in the saga of the heiress’s adventures across the sea as a secret agent.”
“I am a gemologist contracted by the CIA. I hope you’ll keep my connection to the spy business to yourself.”
“Just joshing, love. You do have a good cover story.”
“And what’s yours?”
“Cocky Brit.”
“Mastered,” she declared. “Lift your arms, will you? I’m going to check your height.”
Standing before him, she awkwardly curled her arms around his back and clasped her hands. He drew in a barely audible gasp. Face-to-face, Becca inhaled his warm scent— Burberry Brit cologne in the flesh.
His aquamarine eyes glinted with amusement and…curiosity? His mouth parted. Becca felt her heartbeat race. If this wasn’t the perfect moment for a kiss.
Don’t even go there.
If she wanted a kiss. Which she didn’t.
Yep, he was about the same hug-er size as David Chester. Both were trim, tall and…cocky. Both took ownership of said cockiness and wielded it like a samurai’s katana.
But the mistake of her engagement had taught her something. Men would never get it. A woman didn’t need a man to make her way in this world.
Not that she intended to forge through life single. The ideal mate would accept her as a partner and not a project to be improved upon. The ideal man would have the compassion of Reinhardt Whitmore, yet the self-assurance of, well… Batman. He would be someone she could trust completely. Someone she could bring into her secret world—
Hell. The ideal man might not exist. And if he did? Who was she to endanger him with her secrets?
Dane’s breath fluttered at her hair. “I’ve never had such a pathetic hug in my life, love.”
“I’m not hugging you, I’m measuring.”
“Step any closer and you’ll have plenty to measure.”
It was difficult not to slide her eyes down to his trousers, where she guessed said measurements were increasing. Such a move would sink her in this little competition.
Dane caught her in that moment of wondering. “What are you thinking, Ms. Whitmore?”
She stepped back and, toying with the gold choker, pretended she needed to do a visual study of him from shoulder to hem. “About the same height, too, I’d guess. Six feet two inches. Forty-inch chest and thirty-four inch waist?”
“Impressive.” He plunked back down into the chair, but this time dangled a leg over the arm. A swanky brat prince.
Becca scribbled the measurements on the pad of paper next to the phone.
“So why is that?” he asked her.
“Why is what?” She picked up the phone, prepared to dial the concierge and have him connect her to a tailor.
“The ex an ex?”
She and David had been all set to call the wedding planner. Until the night David almost discovered her secret. Why he’d been at the trendy new restaurant Cream by himself still bothered her. Becca, wearing a red wig and so close to getting the dirt from a local snitch, had excused herself to go to the bathroom at the sight of her fiancé’s curious gaze.
It was a moment later, while sneaking out the bathroom window, that Becca had decided to call it off. Love didn’t make sense when you couldn’t be totally honest with someone.
“Goodness, you’ve really got a lot on your pretty little mind. Tuppence for your thoughts?”
“A mere tuppence?” She smiled at the notion her thoughts could be worth so little. And yet she appreciated the token gesture. “I’m worth a little more, Agent Dane.”