Refocusing her plans on Madeline Moreau kept Adrianne up late, and had her up and on the job early. Figuring in the factor of Philip Chamberlain might have tilted the odds on the Fume job, but it didn’t mean The Shadow had to leave London empty handed.
As a thief, Adrianne was very successful. Part of the reason was caution. Another part, perhaps a larger part, was flexibility. The blueprints and specs she’d carried over from New York would wait. The Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund wouldn’t.
At eight forty-five, Madeline’s day maid, Lucille, opened the door to an attractive, bearded young man in gray overalls.
“May I help you?”
“Pest control.” Adrianne grinned through a sandy-colored beard and sent Lucille a broad wink. Under a battered cap she wore a straggly blond wig, a bit on the dirty side, that skimmed over her ears. “Got six flats to do this morning, luv, and you’re number one.”
“Pests?” Lucille hesitated, blushing as the exterminator gave her a long, interested study. “The mademoiselle said nothing about pests.”
“Building superintendent ordered it.” Adrianne held out a pink sheet. She wore workingman’s gloves, frayed, that reached past her wrists. “Got some complaints. Mice.”
“Mice?” On a muffled squeal, Lucille snatched her hand back. “But my mistress is asleep.”
“No skin off my nose. You don’t want Jimmy to kill the little buggers, I’ll just toddle along to the next on my list.” She offered the sheet again. “You want to sign this? It just says you didn’t want the service. Gets the super off the hook if any rodents crawl up your leg.”
“But no.” Lucille lifted a hand to her mouth and chewed on her nails. Mice. Even the thought of them made her shudder. “You will wait here. I will wake up the mistress.”
“Take your time, luv. I get paid by the hour.”
Adrianne watched Lucille scurry off. Setting down her tank, she moved quickly around the room, lifting paintings, shifting books. She smiled a little when she heard Madeline’s voice rise from a room down the hallway, apparently unhappy to have her beauty sleep interrupted. When Lucille came back out, Adrianne was leaning aginst the door, whistling between her teeth.
“Please, you will start in the kitchen. Mademoiselle wishes to leave before you go through the bedrooms.”
“At your service, luv.” Adrianne hefted the tank. “Want to keep me company?”
Lucille swept up her lashes. He was small, and skinny, she thought. But very pretty in the face. “Perhaps. After mademoiselle is gone.”
“I’ll be around.” Whistling again, Adrianne followed Lucille’s direction into the kitchen. Working fast, she slipped into the utility room. The alarm system was hardly more than a toy, making her sigh at the lack of challenge. Quickly, one ear turned for noise, she unscrewed the plate. From the deep pockets of her coveralls she took a pocket computer the size of a credit card and two spring clamps. Forcing herself not to hurry, she clamped the wires, cutting off the power.
She heard the click of heels, and dashed back through the door to pump a fog of organic rose dust into the air.
“Better give me another minute, luv,” she advised when Lucille poked a head into the kitchen. “This stuff needs to settle. Wouldn’t want to make those pretty eyes red.”
Coughing, Lucille waved a hand in front of her face. “Mademoiselle wants to know how long you will be.”
“An hour, tops.” She pumped more, hastening Lucille’s retreat. Counting five, Adrianne slipped back into the utility room and pulled out her wire cutters. It took under two minutes to feed the wires into her computer and change the security code. Getting in would be no problem, she thought as she replaced the face plate. Now all she had to do was find the safe. With the tank on her shoulder, Adrianne strolled back out to Lucille.
“Where next?”
“The guest room.” Lucille indicated the way, then was interrupted by a stream of French curses.
“Lucille. Goddammit, where did you put my red bag? Do I have to do everything myself?”
“Sounds like a real sweetheart,” Adrianne commented. Lucille only rolled her eyes and hurried off. If she threw a temper tantrum over a bag, Adrianne imagined Madeline would have apoplexy over the loss of her sapphire. Never pays to be greedy, she thought, then went off to search the guest room.
Twenty minutes later she heard the front door slam. It took her less than ten more to locate the safe in Madeline’s fussy red and black bedroom. It stood behind a false front in a vanity covered with pots and jars.
Standard combination, Adrianne mused with a cluck of her tongue. One would have thought Madeline would have spent as much on her security as she had on her wardrobe. Hefting the tank once more, Adrianne went out to find Lucille waiting for her.
The maid had spritzed herself with her best perfume.
“You have finished?”
“Any mouse that tries to sneak in here is dead meat.” This was going to take some delicate footwork, Adrianne decided as Lucille smiled at her. “The mademoiselle is gone?”
“She won’t be back for at least an hour.” The invitation was obvious as Lucille took a step closer. Adrianne felt a giggle well up and had to remind herself this was no laughing matter.
“Wish I had a little free time now. But I’ve got some later. What time does she let you off?”
“She has moods.” Pouting, Lucille toyed with the collar of Adrianne’s coveralls. She’d never been kissed by a man with a beard. “Sometimes she keeps me all evening.”
“She’s got to go to bed sometime.” Since Adrianne had plans for Madeline that evening, she thought it best to make some for Lucille as well. “Can you get out, say, midnight? You could meet me at Bester’s in Soho. We’ll have a drink.”
“Only a drink?”
“That depends.” Adrianne grinned. “I live right around the corner from the club. You could come by and give me … a French lesson. Midnight.” She ran a quick finger down Lucille’s cheek, then headed for the door.
“Maybe.”
Adrianne turned and winked.
An hour later, in a blond wig and pink sweater set, Adrianne paid cash for two dozen red roses and an elegant champagne dinner for two in a private dining room of a country inn an hour’s drive from London.
“My boss wants only the best,” Adrianne explained in a stern British accent as she handed a fistful of five-pound notes to the manager. “And, of course, discretion.”
“Of course.” The manager bowed, careful not to show too much enthusiasm. “And the name?”
Adrianne lifted a brow, a la Celeste. “Mr. Smythe. You will see that the champagne is properly chilled by midnight.” As she spoke, she added a twenty-pound note.
“Personally.”
Stiff-backed, head erect, Adrianne walked out to the car she’d rented for the trip out of London. She couldn’t prevent the briefest of smiles. By now Madeline would have received the first delivery of roses, and the romantic, mysterious invitation to a midnight supper in the country with a secret admirer.
Human nature was as important a tool as limber fingers. Madeline Moreau was very French, and very vain. Adrianne didn’t doubt for a minute that the Frenchwoman would step out of her flat and into the limousine Adrianne had arranged, leaving her flat empty. Madeline would be disappointed, naturally, when her anonymous admirer proved a no-show. But the Dom Pérignon and her own curiosity should occupy her for a while. Adrianne doubted if Madeline would return to London before two. By then Adrianne would have the sapphire, and Madeline a brilliant French temper tantrum.
It took her very little time once she was back in her rooms to go over notes and recheck her timing. The second delivery of roses, with a foolish, lovesick poem and another plea for an intimate evening would be arriving on Madeline’s doorstep within the hour.
She’d never resist it. Adrianne lit a match to her notes and watched the paper catch flame. Her instincts were right about this, she assured herself. Philip Chamberlain’s intrusion might have been simple coincidence, but The Shadow preferred tidy calculations. She smiled to herself. At this point Philip was giving her the best possible cover. She’d be seen going to dinner with him, then coming home again. She would make certain no one saw her leave her suite at midnight.
Adrianne was in the best of moods when she dressed for dinner. The basic black she chose was very slim, interest added by an explosion of multicolored mosaic beading along one shoulder. She clipped on royal blue glass earrings trimmed in gold that would be taken for sapphires by anyone but an expert. She stole the best, the most precious of jewels, but rarely bought them for herself. Only The Sun and the Moon interested her.
Standing back, she took a long hard look at herself. This image, like the image of Rose Sparrow, was important to her. She decided she was pleased she’d gone with the impulse to have her hair crimped, but changed her mind about her lipstick and applied a darker shade. Yes, she thought, that added just a hint more power. Philip Chamberlain might be a dangerous man, but he wouldn’t find her easy prey.
When the desk clerk phoned, she was ready, even looking forward to the evening. She insisted on coming down to the lobby to meet Philip.
He wasn’t dressed so formally tonight. The gray suit was Italian casual and only shades lighter than his eyes. Rather than a shirt and tie, he wore a black turtleneck, which set off his hair well. Too well, Adrianne thought. Her smile was very cool.
“You’re prompt.”
“You’re lovely.” He offered her a single red rose.
She knew men too well to be seduced by a flower, but couldn’t prevent her smile from softening.
She had a sable over her arm. He took it. As he slid the coat slowly over her shoulders, he let his fingers linger to free her hair from the collar. It was as rich and thick as the fur.
The warmth spread unexpectedly. Determined to ignore it, Adrianne looked over her shoulder. Her face was teasingly close to his. She let her lips curve as their gazes held.
She knew how to unnerve a man with a look, with a movement, he realized. He wondered how she’d earned a reputation as unattainable with eyes like that.
“There’s an inn about forty kilometers east of London. It’s quiet, atmospheric, and the food’s delightful.”
She’d expected a slick, sophisticated restaurant in the heart of the city. Could it be they would dine in the very spot where Madeline would be waiting for her mystery lover at midnight? Philip caught the sudden humor in her eyes, and wondered at it.
“You are a romantic.” Carefully, she stepped out of his arms. “But I’d like a drive. On the way you can tell me all about Philip Chamberlain.”
With a smile he took her arm. “We’ll need more than forty kilometers for that.”
When Adrianne settled in the Rolls, she let her fur slide down her shoulders. The brisk autumn air couldn’t compete with the warmth. The moment the driver pulled away from the curb, Philip took a bottle of Dom Pérignon from an ice bucket.
It was too perfect, she thought, and battled back another smile. Red roses, champagne, the plush car, and an evening at a country inn. Poor Madeline, she thought, greatly amused as she studied Philip’s profile.
“Have you been enjoying your time in London?” The cork came out with a muffled pop. In the quiet interior she could hear the excited fizz of air and wine rise in the neck of the bottle.
“Yes, I always enjoy it here.”
“Doing?”
“Doing?” She accepted the glass he offered. “Shopping, seeing friends. Walking.” She allowed him to spoon caviar onto a cracker for her. “What do you do?”
He watched her nip into the caviar before he sipped. “About what?”
Crossing her legs, she settled comfortably in the corner. It was the image she chose to project, lush furs, silk-clad legs, glittering jewels. “Work, pleasure, whatever.”
“What appeals most at the moment.”
She found it odd he didn’t elaborate. Most of the men she knew needed only the slightest opening to expound on their businesses, their hobbies, and their egos. “You mentioned gambling.”
“Did I?”
He was watching her, in the steady, disconcerting way he had before. It was as if he knew the Rolls was a stage and they were only playing parts. “Yes. What sort do you prefer?”
He smiled. It was the same smile she’d seen through the louvers in the Fumes’ closet door. “Long shots. More caviar?”
“Thank you.” They were playing a game, Adrianne thought. She wasn’t sure what the rules were, or what form the prize at the end would take, but a game was on. She took the caviar, beluga, the best, as was the wine and the car that was driving smoothly out of London. She trailed a finger along the swatch of upholstery that separated them. “Your long shots must pay off.”
“Usually.” With her he was counting on it. “What do you do when you’re not walking in London?”
“I walk someplace else, shop someplace else. When one city becomes tedious, there’s always another.”
He might have believed it if he hadn’t seen those flickers of passion in her eyes. This was no bored former debutante with too much money and too much time. “Are you going back to New York when you’re done with London?”
“I haven’t decided.” How dreary life would be, she thought, if she lived as she pretended. “I thought I might try somewhere hot for the holidays.”
There was a joke here, he thought. It was just behind her eyes, just edging the tone of her voice. Philip wondered if he’d find it amusing when he heard the punch line.
“Jaquir is hot.”
It wasn’t a joke he saw in her eyes now, but the passion, swift, vital, and quickly concealed. “Yes.” Her voice was flat and disinterested. “But I prefer the tropics to the desert.”
He knew he could prod, and had decided to when the phone interrupted him. “Sorry,” he said, then lifted the receiver. “Chamberlain.” There was only the briefest sigh. “Hello, Mum.”
Adrianne lifted a brow. If it hadn’t been for the slightly sheepish expression in the word, she wouldn’t have believed he had a mother, much less one who would call him on his car phone. Amused, she topped off his glass, then her own.
“No, I haven’t forgotten. It’s on for tomorrow. Anything at all, I’m sure you’ll look wonderful. Of course I’m not annoyed. On my way to dinner.” He glanced at Adrianne. “Yes, I do. No, you haven’t. Mum …” The sigh came again. “I really don’t think it’s—yes, of course.” He lowered the receiver to his knee. “My mother. She’d like to say hello to you.”
“Oh.” Nonplussed, Adrianne stared at the phone.
“She’s harmless.”
Feeling foolish, she took the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hello, dearie. That’s a lovely car, isn’t it?”
The voice had none of Philip’s smoothness, and the accent veered toward cockney. Adrianne automatically glanced around the Rolls and smiled. “Yes, it is.”
“Always makes me feel like a queen. What’s your name, dear?”
“Adrianne, Adrianne Spring.” She didn’t notice that she’d dropped her title and used her mother’s maiden name as she did with those she felt comfortable with. But Philip did.
“Pretty name. You have a lovely time now. He’s a good boy, my Phil. Handsome, too, isn’t he?”
Eyes bright with humor, Adrianne grinned at Philip. It was the first time the full warmth of her was offered to him. “Yes, he is. Very.”
“Don’t let him charm you too quick, dearie. He can be a rogue.”
“Really?” Adrianne eyed Philip over the rim of her glass. “I’ll remember that. It was nice talking to you, Mrs. Chamberlain.”
“You just call me Mary. Everyone does. Have Phil bring you by anytime. We’ll have some tea and a nice chat.”
“Thank you. Good night.” Still grinning, she handed the phone back to Philip.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mum. No, she’s not pretty. Her eyes are crossed, she has a harelip, and warts. Go watch the telly. I love you too.” He hung up, then took a long sip of wine. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The phone call had changed her feelings for him. It would be difficult for her to be cool to a man who had both love and affection for his mother. “She sounds delightful.”
“She is. She’s the love of my life.”
She paused a moment, studying. “I believe you mean it.”
“I do.”
“And your father? Is he as delightful?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
If she understood anything, it was the need to draw a shade over private family business. “Why did you tell her my eyes were crossed?”
With a laugh he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “For your own good, Adrianne.” His lips lingered there while his gaze held hers. “She’s desperate for a daughter-in-law.”
“I see.”
“And grandchildren.”
“I see,” she repeated, and drew her hand away.
The inn was all he had promised. But then, she’d chosen it for Madeline because it was quiet, out of the way, and unabashedly romantic. The manager she’d met just that afternoon greeted her with a bow and not a flicker of recognition.
There was a huge, ox-roasting fireplace where logs as thick as a man’s trunk blazed behind a gilt-edged screen. They kept up a hot, humming roar. Mullioned windows held out the blast of autumn wind that came from the sea. Huge Victorian furniture, the sideboards groaning with silver and crystal, seemed cozy in the enormous room.
They dined on the house specialty of beef Wellington while candles in heavy pewter holders flickered around them and music came from an old man and his gleaming violin.
She’d never expected to be relaxed with Philip. Not like this, not so she could laugh and listen and linger over brandy. He knew old movies, which were still her passion, though for now he skirted around her mother and her tragedy. They skipped back another generation to Hepburn, Bacall, Cable, and Tracy.
It disarmed her that he could remember dialogue, and could mimic it amazingly well. Both her English and her talent for accents had come from the screen, small and large. Since her love of fantasy had come naturally enough through Phoebe, she couldn’t help feeling kindred with him.
She discovered he had an interest in gardening, which he indulged both at his country home and in the greenhouse attached to his home in London.
“It’s difficult to imagine you puttering around and scouting out weeds. But it explains the calluses.”
“Calluses?”
“On your hands,” she said, and immediately regretted her slip. What should have been a casual observation seemed too personal, too intimate with candlelight and violins. “They don’t suit the rest of you.”
“Better than you think,” he murmured. “We all have our images and illusions, don’t we?”
She thought she felt the sting of a double entendre and neatly sidestepped with a comment about the gardens of Buckingham Palace.
They’d traveled to many of the same places. Over brandy they learned they both had stayed at the Excelsior in Rome during the same week five years before. What wasn’t mentioned was that Adrianne had been there to relieve a contessa of a suite of diamonds and rubies. Philip had been on one of his last jobs, acquiring a pouch of unset gems from a movie mogul. Both of them smiled reminiscently at their separate memories.
“I had a particularly lovely time in Rome that summer,” Adrianne remembered as they started back out to the car. A lovely time that had amounted to roughly three hundred and fifty million lire.
“And I.” Philip’s take had been nearly half again that amount when he’d bartered the stones in Zurich. “It’s a pity we didn’t run into each other.”
Adrianne slid across the plush seat. “Yes.” She would have enjoyed drinking heavy red wine and walking down the steamy streets of Rome with him. But she was glad she hadn’t met him then. He would have distracted her as, unfortunately, he was distracting her now. His leg brushed casually against hers as the car began to roll. It was a good thing her work at Madeline’s would be so straightforward.
“There’s a café there with the most incredible ice cream.”
“San Filippo,” Adrianne said with a laugh. “I gain five pounds whenever I sit down at that cafe.”
“Perhaps one day we’ll find ourselves there together.”
His finger grazed her cheek, just enough to remind her of the game to be played, and it wouldn’t pay to enjoy it too much. With some regret she drew back. “Perhaps.”
She’d moved only slightly, but he’d felt the distance grow. A strange woman, he mused. The exotic looks, that come-hither mouth, the quick flashes of passion he saw from time to time in her eyes. All real enough, but deceiving. She wasn’t the kind of woman to settle comfortably, pliably, in a man’s arms, but one who would freeze that man with a word or a look. He’d always preferred a woman who enjoyed an open physicality, an easy sexual relationship. And yet he found himself not only intrigued but drawn to the contrasts in Adrianne.
Philip knew as well as she the value of timing. He waited until they drove into London.
“What were you doing in the Fumes’ bedroom last night?”
She nearly jumped, nearly swore. The evening, the company, the warmth of brandy, had relaxed her enough to take her off guard. It was only the years of self-training that enabled her to look at him with vague curiosity. “I beg your pardon?”
“I asked what you were doing in the Fumes’ bedroom during the party.” Idly, he curled the tips of her hair around his finger. A man could get lost in hair like that, he thought. Drown in it.
“What makes you think I was?”
“Not think, know. Your scent’s very individual, Adrianne. Unmistakable. I smelled you the moment I opened the door.”
“Really?” She shifted the sable back on her shoulders while her mind scrambled for the right answer. “One might ask what you were doing poking about.”
“One might.”
As the silence grew, she decided it would only make it more of a mystery if she did not answer. “As it happens, I’d gone up to fix a loose hem. Should I be flattered that I impressed you enough that you recognized my perfume?”
“You should be flattered that I don’t call you a liar,” he said lightly. “But then, beautiful women are apt to lie about most anything.”
He touched her face, not teasingly, not flirtatiously as he had before, but possessively. His palm curved over her chin, his fingers spread over her cheek so that between them and his thumb her mouth was framed. Incredibly soft, incredibly desirable was his first thought. Then he saw what surprised him. It wasn’t anger in her eyes, nor was it humor or aloofness. It was fear, just a flicker, just an instant, but very clear.
“I choose my lies more discriminatory, Philip.” God, a touch shouldn’t make her feel this way, shaky, unsure, needy. Her back went rigid against the seat. She couldn’t control that. She barely managed to force her lips to curve into a cool smile. “It seems we’ve arrived.”
“Why should you be afraid for me to kiss you, Adrianne?”
Why should he see so clearly what she’d managed to hide from dozens of others? “You’re mistaken,” she said evenly. “I simply don’t want you to.”
“Now I will call you a liar.”
She let out her breath very slowly, very carefully. No one knew better than she how destructive her temper could be. “As you like. It was a lovely evening, Philip. Good night.”
“I’ll see you to your suite.”
“Don’t bother.”
The driver was already holding her door open. Without glancing back, she slid out, then hurried into the hotel, the fur swirling around her.
Adrianne waited until the stroke of midnight before she sneaked out of the service entrance of the hotel. She was still dressed in black, but now it was a wool turtleneck and snug leggings under a leather jacket. The stocking cap was pulled low, with her hair tucked beneath it. On her feet were soft-soled leather boots, and slung over her arm was an oversize shoulder bag.
A half mile from the hotel she hailed a cab. She took three of them, by winding routes, to within a mile of Madeline’s flat. She was grateful for the fog, knee-high now. It was like wading through a shallow river so that even as the mist parted and swirled at her steps, it dampened her boots. Her steps were silent on the pavement. As she approached the building, she could see the streetlights beam down, then disappear as the fog swallowed them.
The street was silent; the houses dark.
With one quick look Adrianne scaled the low wall at the back of the building and crossed the postage-stamp lawn to the side feeing west. There was ivy here, dark and smelling of damp. Melting against it, she scanned right, then left.
She could be seen if a neighbor with insomnia happened to glance her way, but she’d be hidden from any cars passing on the street. Competently, even mechanically, she uncoiled her rope.
It took only a few minutes to scale the wall to the second level, and Madeline’s bedroom window. There was a low light burning on the dresser, allowing Adrianne to see the room clearly. From the mess, it appeared that Madeline had had trouble deciding on the proper dress for the evening.
Poor Lucille, she thought as she took out her glass cutter. There was little doubt that the maid would bear the brunt of her mistress’s temper in the morning.
She needed only a small hole. Her hand was narrow. She used the adhesive to draw the circle of glass out. With her gloves as protection, she reached inside to trip the lock. Eight minutes after her arrival, Adrianne was crawling through the window.
She waited, listening. Around her the building settled, murmuring and creaking as old buildings do in the night. Her feet were silent over the antique Persian carpet at the foot of the bed.
She crossed to the vanity and pushed the spring that controlled the false front. Making herself comfortable, Adrianne took out her stethoscope and went to work.
It could be tedious work, and like most aspects of the job, it couldn’t be rushed. The first time she’d burgled a house it had been occupied, and her palms had grown sweaty, her hands had shaken so badly that it had taken her twice as long as it should have to crack the safe. Now her hands were dry and steady.
The first tumbler clicked into place.
She stopped, patient, cautious, when a car passed on the street below. She let out a slow breath, checked her watch. Five seconds, ten, then she focused her concentration on the safe.
She thought of the prime sapphire in the necklace. In its present setting it was a bit overdone. A stone of that caliber was wasted in the outrageously extravagant filigree work. Just as it was wasted on someone as selfish and self-serving as Madeline Moreau. Popped, it would he a different story. She’d already estimated that the stone along with its companion sapphires were worth at least two hundred thousand pounds, perhaps two fifty. She’d be pleaded to take half that on delivery.
The second tumbler clicked.
Adrianne didn’t look at her watch, but she thought, felt, she was well within schedule—just as the tingling in her fingers told her she was very close to finishing. In the jacket she was overly warm, but she ignored the discomfort. In moments she would be holding a cool quarter of a million pounds in sapphires.
The third and final tumbler clicked.
She was too skilled to rush. The stethoscope was replaced before Adrianne eased the safe door outward. Making use of her flashlight, she scanned the contents. Papers and manila envelopes were ignored, as were the first three jewelry cases she opened. The amethysts were rather sweet, and the pearl and diamond earrings elegant, but it was the sapphire she’d come for. It glinted out at her from a blanket of buff-colored velvet, intensely blue, as the best Siamese stones were. The main stone was perhaps twenty carats, circled by smaller stars of diamonds and sapphires.
It wasn’t the time or the place to use her loupe. That would have to wait until she was back in her room. Lucille’s patience might have worn thin by now. Adrianne would prefer to be out of the flat before the maid returned. If it was paste, she’d have wasted her time. Again, Adrianne held the pendant up to the fight. She didn’t think so.
After sliding the box in her pouch, she closed the safe and spinned the dial. She didn’t want Madeline to have a shock before she’d drunk her morning coffee.
Moving through the dark of the flat, she went back into the utility room. With care she disengaged the wires from her computer, and left them dangling.
As silently as she’d entered, she exited.
Outside, she drew deep breaths of cold, damp air but forced herself not to laugh. It felt good, so damn good. The accomplishment was everything. She’d never been able to explain to Celeste the thrill, part sexual, part intellectual, that came the moment a job was successfully completed. It was then that tensed muscles could relax, that the heart could be allowed to beat recklessly. For those few seconds, a minute at the most, she felt invulnerable. Nothing else in her life had ever compared.
Adrianne allowed herself thirty seconds of self-indulgence, then cut across the lawn, scaled the wall, and moved through the shifting fog.
Philip didn’t know why he’d come out. A hunch, an itch. Unable to sleep, he’d wandered toward the place where he’d first seen Adrianne. Not because of her, he assured himself, but because he had a feeling about the Fumes. And it was a good night to steal.
That was true, but it wasn’t accurate. He’d also come because of Adrianne. Alone in his house, restless, dissatisfied, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. A walk in the cool night through the streets he knew so well would clear his head. So he thought.
He was what he supposed his mother would call smitten. It wasn’t that unusual. She was elusive, exotic, and mysterious. She was also a liar. Such qualities in a woman were hard to resist, he thought, and wished desperately for a cigarette.
Perhaps that was why he’d found himself walking toward her hotel. As he rounded the corner he saw her. She stepped off the curb and walked across the deserted street. She wore black again, not the romance of the cape, but slim pants and a leather jacket with her hair hidden by a cap. Still, he had only to see her move to know it was Adrianne. He nearly called out to her, but some instinct held him back. Even as he watched, she slipped into the service doors and out of sight.
Philip found himself staring up at her windows. It was ridiculous, he thought. Absurd. Yet he stood for a long time, rocking back on his heels, speculating.