Stolen. Tess Gerritsen
you’re at loose ends, I’d be delighted to show you ‘round. It’s a lovely village we have here.”
“I couldn’t impose—”
“No imposition at all. I’m at loose ends myself today. Thought I’d watch a little polo, and then go off to the club. But this is a far pleasanter prospect.”
She looked him up and down, as though trying to decide if he could be trusted. “I don’t even know your name,” she protested weakly.
He thrust out his hand in greeting. “Guy Delancey. Delighted to make your acquaintance. And you are…”
“Diana,” she said. Smiling warmly, she shook his hand. “Diana Lamb.”
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS THREE minutes into the fourth chukker. Oliver Cairncross, mounted on his white-footed roan, swung his mallet on a dead run. The thwock sent the ball flying between the goalposts. Another score for the Bucking’shire Boys! Enthusiastic applause broke out in the viewing stands, and Sir Oliver responded by sweeping off his helmet and dipping his bald head in a dramatic bow.
“Just look at him,” murmured Veronica. “They’re like children out there, swinging their sticks at balls. Will they never grow up?”
Out on the field Sir Oliver strapped his helmet back in place and turned to wave to his wife in the stands. He frowned when he saw that she was leaning toward Jordan.
“Oh, no.” Veronica sighed. “He’s seen you.” At once she rose to her feet, waving and beaming a smile of wifely pride. Sitting back down, she muttered, “He’s so bloody suspicious.”
Jordan looked at her in astonishment. “Surely he doesn’t think that you and I—”
“You are my old chum. Naturally he wonders.”
Yes, of course he does, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica would probably spend his lifetime in a perpetual state of doubt.
The ball was tossed. The thunder of hoofbeats, the whack of a mallet announced the resumption of play.
Veronica leaned close to Jordan. “Did you bring them?” she whispered.
“As requested.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew the bundle of letters.
At once she snatched them out of his hand. “You didn’t read them, did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Such a gentleman!” Playfully she reached up and pinched his cheek. “You promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“Not a soul. But this is absolutely the last time, Veronica. From now on, be discreet. Or better yet, honor those marriage vows.”
“Oh, I will, I will!” she declared fervently. She stood and moved toward the aisle.
“Where are you going?” he called.
“To flush these down the loo, of course!” She gave him a gay wave of farewell. “I’ll call you, Jordie!” As she turned to make her way up the aisle, she brushed past a broad-shouldered man. At once she halted, her gaze slanting up with interest at this new specimen of masculinity.
Jordan shook his head in disgust and turned his attention back to the polo game. Men and horses thundered past, chasing that ridiculous rubber ball across the field. Back and forth they flew, mallets swinging, a tangle of sweating men and horseflesh. Jordan had never been much of a polo fan. The few times he’d played the game he’d come away with more than his share of bruises. He didn’t trust horses and horses didn’t trust him and in the inevitable struggle for authority, the beasts had a seven-hundred-pound advantage.
There were still four chukkers left to go, but Jordan had had his fill. He left the viewing stands and headed for the refreshment tent.
In the shade of green-and-white-striped awning, he strolled over to the wine bar and ordered a glass of soda water. With so much celebrating this past week, he’d been waking up every morning feeling a bit pickled.
Sipping his glass of soda, Jordan wandered about looking for an unoccupied table. He spotted one off in a corner. As he approached it, he recognized the occupant of the neighboring table. It was Guy Delancey. Seated across from Delancey, her back to Jordan, was a woman with a magnificent mane of red hair. The couple seemed to be intently engaged in intimate conversation. Jordan thought it best not to disturb them. He walked straight past them and was just sitting down at the neighboring table when he caught a snatch of their dialogue.
“Just the spot to forget one’s troubles,” Guy was saying. “Sun. Sugary beaches. Waiters catering to your every whim. Do consider joining me there.”
The woman laughed. The sound had a throaty, hauntingly familiar ring to it. “It’s rather a leap, don’t you think, Guy?” she said. “I mean, we’ve only just met. To run off with you to the Caribbean…”
Slowly Jordan turned in his chair and stared at the woman. Lustrous cinnamon red hair framed her face, softening its angles. She had fair, almost translucent skin with a hint of rouge. Though she was not precisely beautiful, there was a hypnotic quality to those dark eyes, which slanted like a cat’s above finely carved cheekbones. Cat’s eyes, he thought. Panther’s eyes.
It was her. It had to be her.
As though aware that someone was watching her, she raised her head and looked at Jordan. The instant their gazes met she froze. Even the rouge couldn’t conceal the sudden blanching of her skin. He sat staring at her, and she at him, both of them caught in the same shock of mutual recognition.
What now? wondered Jordan. Should he warn Guy Delancey? Confront the woman on the spot? And what would he say? Guy, old chap, this is the woman I bumped into while burgling your bedroom…
Guy Delancey swiveled around and said cheerily, “Why, hello, Jordan! Didn’t know you were right behind me.”
“I…didn’t want to intrude.” Jordan glanced in the woman’s direction. Still white-faced, she reached for her drink and took a desperate swallow.
Guy noted the direction of Jordan’s gaze. “Have you two met?” he asked.
Their answer came out in a simultaneous rush.
“Yes,” said Jordan.
“No,” said the woman.
Guy frowned. “Aren’t you two sure?”
“What he means,” the woman cut in before Jordan could say a word, “is that we’ve seen each other before. Last week’s auction at Sotheby’s, wasn’t it? But we’ve never actually been introduced.” She looked Jordan straight in the eye, silently daring him to contradict her.
What a brazen hussy, he thought.
“Let me properly introduce you two,” said Guy. “This is Lord Lovat’s nephew, Jordan Tavistock. And this—” Guy swept his hand proudly toward the woman “—is Diana Lamb.”
The woman extended a slender hand across the table as Jordan turned his chair to join them. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tavistock.”
“So you two met at Sotheby’s,” said Guy.
“Yes. Terribly disappointing collection,” she said. “The St. Augustine estate. One would think there’d be something worth bidding on, but no. I didn’t make a single offer.” Again she looked straight at Jordan. “Did you?”
He saw the challenge in her gaze. He saw something else as well: a warning. You spill the beans, said those cheerful brown eyes, and so will I.
“Well, did you, Jordie?” asked Guy.
“No,” muttered Jordan, staring fiercely at the woman. “Not a one.”
At his capitulation,