Wicked Intentions(16)

Inside the shop, a man stands behind a massive oak counter carved with a relief from Beowulf of warriors on horseback battling a dragon. The man is examining a ring. He holds a jeweler’s loupe to one eye, holds the ring up to the light. He’s of average height and average weight with no distinctive features except an aquiline nose and an air of elegance.

His hair is more salt than pepper. His skin is lined around his eyes. His navy-blue suit is well tailored, but not couture. Judging strictly by appearance, he could be fifty…or seventy. Italian or Spanish. Scottish or Portuguese. Or pretty much anything else. He has no tattoos or scars, wears no jewelry or cologne, and is perfectly forgettable.

He goes by Reynard, a name borrowed from the trickster fox from medieval fables.

He taught me everything I know.

That I love him is irrelevant to our business arrangement. If I said it aloud, he’d admonish me for it, so I keep it to myself.

I step off the curb, avoiding a muddy puddle, and hurry across the street. My heels click against wet cobblestone. The bell over the door jangles cheerfully when I come in. I’m hit with warmth and the sweet, smoky scent of the incense burning next to a votive candle in a cubby on the wall. Amy Winehouse plays softly in the background, crooning you know that I’m no good.

Reynard looks up. Catching sight of me, he smiles. “‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’”

“It’s good to see you too, Reynard,” I say drily.

He abandons the jeweler’s loupe and ring to the counter and holds out his arms. “My darling.”

I don’t bother removing my rain-slicked overcoat. I simply go to him and let him enfold me in his arms.

“She’s wet,” he muses to himself, stroking my hair. “Silly child.”

I pull back, grinning because I’m so happy to see him. “People don’t catch cold from being wet.”

“I wasn’t talking about catching cold, my darling, I was talking about your hair.” He smooths his hand over my head, clucking in disapproval. “It looks dreadful. Why aren’t you wearing a hat? Or carrying an umbrella? One doesn’t go about with no head covering in the rain when one has a tendency to frizz—”

“Be quiet, old man.”

He blinks at me, insulted. “Old? Oh dear. You haven’t eaten. You’re light-headed. Shall I make us a cup of tea?”

“That sounds wonderful, thank you.”

I kiss his cheek, smooth as a baby’s behind. Then I have to suppress a rogue memory of the American’s rough cheeks and how delicious they felt grazing the inside of my thighs.

That’s what I’ve started calling him, my first and only lovely one-night stand. The American. It’s more impersonal, therefore less painful. I’m hoping in time the dull ache will wear off his memory and I’ll be able to sigh wistfully when I think of him, but for now it’s like a jagged pill I’ve swallowed that’s stuck just beneath my breastbone, slicing tiny cuts into my insides with every breath.

My body is sore in so many places from our lovemaking. My thighs. My lower back. My behind, faintly bruised by his hand.

My heart, bruised more than faintly.

Reynard intently studies my face. “Something’s happened. Tell me.”

This time, I have to force a grin. “I’m fine. Just tired from the flight. And the trek through the jungle to get to where I hid my bug-out bag. That resort was in the middle of nowhere! I was barefoot, if you can believe it. You should see the sorry state of my feet.”

A faint smile lifts Reynard’s lips. “Hmm. What’s his name?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. What’s that expression your face is attempting? It looks rather comical.”

I must be losing my edge. “Stop harassing me about my face, or I won’t give you what I came here for.”

“You’re in a delightful mood this evening, my darling. Let me go turn the sign.”

Moving with panther-like noiseless grace, he walks to the front of the shop, locks the door, and flips over the small white sign in the window. Then he leads me through the shop to a large bookcase under a staircase at the back.

Neither of us mention that I don’t have a choice about giving him what I came here to give him, but we act as if I do.

“Ladies first,” drawls Reynard, with a flourish of his hand.

From the bookcase, I remove a slender volume bound in dark-green leather, its title stitched in gold along the spine. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. The story of an orphan who escapes the workhouse to join a den of thieves. Our little inside joke.

The bookcase swings slowly open to reveal a stone corridor. I replace the book, and we walk inside as the case swings closed behind us.

The tunnel is damp, smells of mold and mice droppings, and is badly in need of repair. After two turns, it opens into a large anteroom which is bare of decoration except for a trio of beeswax candles burning in a tall iron candelabra beside an arched oak door so thick it could probably survive a direct hit from a cannon.

“Any trouble with your mercenary?” Reynard inquires, removing an old-fashioned skeleton key from his breast pocket.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He flicks me an inscrutable look over his shoulder. Then he inserts the key into the lock. The door opens with a groan of rusted metal hinges to reveal a warehouse of staggering opulence.

There are so many priceless antiques, statuaries, paintings, sculptures, and artifacts from around the world stuffed into the space, it could make the Vatican turn green with envy. The first time I saw it, at ten years old, I stood gaping for a full five minutes, staring goggle-eyed like the rube I was.

Part of the complex of hidden tunnels beneath London used during air raids in the Second World War, the vast, brick-walled space has been repurposed as a drop for purloined goods in transit. A quarter mile of heavy-duty steel shelving is stacked in tall, numbered rows down the center. Wood crates and boxes of all sizes overflow with booty, glinting under the lights. The larger items are kept along the walls—or on the walls, in the case of some of the oversized paintings and tapestries.

Regardless of their size, all items are barcoded and entered into an inventory software system Reynard developed himself. Some pieces come to cool for only a few weeks before being shipped out to their new owners. Some, like the 1727 Stradivarius violin stolen from the Manhattan penthouse of a famous conductor and still too hot to sell, have been here for decades.

As with everything seen through the lens of familiarity, however, I barely notice the glittering bounty now. As Reynard once famously said, “If you’ve seen one gold-plated toilet, you’ve seen them all.”

I shrug out of my wet coat, shake the raindrops off, and drape it over the back of a velvet divan. Reynard turns on an electric kettle. The front part of the warehouse is set up as Reynard’s office. Heavy brocade drapes in bloodred cover the walls. French crystal lamps spill light in fractured prisms onto a Louis XVI desk inlaid with gold. The bare stone floor is covered by a thick Turkish rug.

It has the air of an upscale French bordello.

Reynard turns to look at me. “You’re not carrying anything.”

“Aren’t I?”

His gaze sweeps me up and down, gets snagged on my throat. He gasps. “Naughty!”

This time, my grin is sincere. “I couldn’t resist. Took it out of Khalid’s suite the same way.” From around my neck, I slowly unwind the heavy cashmere scarf I’m using to hide the ruby necklace.

“Good God. Spectacular. Come into the light, my darling.” Reynard waves me closer. He removes a pair of spectacles from a drawer in his desk and slides them onto his nose.

“Since when do you wear glasses?”

“Since I’m old, as you so charmingly pointed out. Turn left a little. There.” He examines the necklace without touching it. “Pity it’ll have to be dismantled. The craftsmanship is exquisite.”

I lift a hand and touch my finger to the center stone, a flawless twenty-carat ruby. It’s heavy and cool against my skin. It is a pity the stones will have to be removed and sold separately, the gold setting melted down for scrap, but pieces like this inevitably are. It’s simply easier to find buyers.

“Is that a love bite on your neck?” Reynard’s eyes narrow at the mark the American’s teeth left near my jugular.

“Me not bein’ sweet is gonna leave marks.”

I have to forcibly banish the memory of his face when he uttered those words. How his voice sounded, hot and rough with desire.

“I should be so lucky,” I say breezily. “It’s a bruise. Trek through the jungle, remember?”

“Hmm.”

I can’t tell if he believes me or not, but in another moment, it doesn’t matter, because he says something that makes my entire body go cold.

“Capo wants to see you. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” I repeat, my voice high. “He’s in London?” My heart slams against my breastbone, sending my pulse flying.

Reynard meets my panicked gaze. His voice is steady when he answers. “He flew in when he discovered you’d be here.”

I flush with anger. “You mean when you told him I’d be here.”

Reynard removes his glasses and places them into his coat pocket. “We all have to sing for our supper, my darling,” he says gently. “We live and die at his leisure. You know this.”