Sealed With A Kiss. Kristin Hardy
do you have in mind?” He looked at her speculatively.
“Perhaps we could take it out in trade.”
“I can work with that. Let’s see,” he squinted at the label. “Well, what you’re looking at here is a stamp on a letter.”
Joss crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway to the display case. “You don’t say.”
“It’s true. If you want to hear more, I’ll need a deposit.”
It took her away, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his arms around her. It didn’t matter that they’d just spent a couple of hours making love. She wanted more, and more wouldn’t be enough.
Sounds echoed into the exhibits area from the next room, the voices of children in a school tour. Hurriedly, they broke apart.
“I trust you found that sufficient?” Joss pressed her lips together.
Bax grinned. “Well, we do have a minimum deposit, but I suppose under the circumstances I can waive it.”
“You’re so kind.”
They worked their way slowly through the museum, past rare stamps and printing presses, past relics of ages gone by. In the next room, Bax drifted past her to look at a perforating machine with its pointy-toothed wheels. Just inside the doorway sat a small safe on a pedestal, its thick, black door swung wide. Inside, on even tinier pedestals stood a pair of stamps.
Joss took a look and blinked.
One blue, one reddish orange. A white profile of a queen wearing a circlet around upswept hair showed on each; the words Post Office ran along the left-hand margin in white block letters and Mauritius on the right. The indigo stamp was twin to the one they’d installed in a bank vault earlier that day.
“Bax,” Joss said softly.
He was on the other side of the room.
“Bax,” she said again.
“What?” He walked over to stand at her side.
She pointed to the safe. “It’s them. The Post Office Mauritius pair.”
He studied them. “The queen doesn’t look the same on the orange one. Her hair’s different. They look more like sisters than the same person. Look, the one on the Blue Mauritius almost looks like she’s smiling.”
“So, what are the chances that we’d stumble across them here?” Joss commented.
“Not necessarily that surprising, when you think about it. Maybe seeing them here is what whetted Silverhielm’s appetite to have his own.”
“Maybe.” She continued to stare at the little squares of color, still vivid after all these years. So small, so fragile to have caused such grief. “I thought it would be a different color. More yellow, from what Gwen described.”
“Didn’t you ever see your grandfather’s copy?”
She shook her head. “It was always in the vault. The only reason I’ve seen the Blue Mauritius is because we brought it here.”
The two stamps sat on their little pedestals under the lights, the plump-jowled images of the monarch looking serenely off to the left.
“Hard to believe that people are willing to pay so much money for something like this, isn’t it?” Bax said.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a bit like owning a piece of history, isn’t it? A little bit of immortality. I think that’s what my grandfather finds so magical about them.” She stroked her finger down the glass protecting the contents of the safe.
“We’ll get it back,” Bax whispered. “One way or another, we’ll get it back.” He kissed her forehead.
First playful, now nice. Joss blinked back the sudden stinging in her eyes and blew out a breath. “Well, I think we’ve seen everything we need to here. You want to stop and get something to drink somewhere? Maybe that café we passed?”
He tangled his fingers in hers. “I’ve got a better idea.”
SLUSSEN, just across from Gamla Stan on the island of Södermalm, was a whirlwind of motion. Cars and buses converged on the transportation hub from a dozen directions. Ferries lined the waterfront, poised for journeys to the archipelago and beyond. After the charm of old town, Slussen seemed garishly modern, but even here there was the beauty of the water, the green of trees, the aged loveliness of historic buildings.
Joss and Bax sat in the broad public square in front of the Swedish state museum, watching pigeons search for crumbs among the cracks of the cobblestone-striped concrete. To their right, the bluffs of Södermalm rose sheer and high. On their left, bridges vaulted to Gamla Stan. Directly ahead of them, propped up at the far end by a fragile-looking tracery of iron, a slender finger of blue projected out from the building that climbed up the face of the bluff.
“What is that?” Joss asked.
“Gondolen. It’s a restaurant bar, very fashionable. The strutwork at the far end is the Katarinahissen, an elevator that takes you up to the public walkway on top. It’s a pretty amazing view.” Propped up on one side by the office building and across the street by the Katarinahissen, the restaurant hovered high in the air over one of the streets that fed into Slussen.
“It’s almost cocktail hour,” Joss said. “Why don’t we go on up and have a drink and you can show me?”
“In a bit. We’re here for a reason. Our friend Silverhielm has his city offices in the building attached to the restaurant.” Bax glanced at his watch. “I’m told he comes out between four and five every afternoon.” He rose and held out a hand to her. “Would you like a closer look at the Katarinahissen?”
Joss grinned. “Lead the way.”
Crossing the various streams of traffic between the square and the Katarinahissen took longer than she expected, but eventually they stood by the doors to the elevator, across from the office building. Bax led her a few steps along the sidewalk, staring out at the water. Without warning, he swept her into his arms, his mouth hard on hers.
It should have been different. They knew one another’s bodies now, they’d kissed plenty of times. It should have been pedestrian. It shouldn’t have sent her blood fizzing through her veins.
It shouldn’t have left her stunned with wanting.
“There, coming out of the doors,” Bax murmured against her lips and lifted her off her feet to spin her a little, as though he were a lover overcome with the moment. “Take a good look so you’ll know him later.”
Face pressed into his neck, Joss opened her eyes and looked across the street.
There was no doubt which one was Silverhielm. Bodyguards flanked him but he walked as though he were alone, head raised arrogantly as he approached the gleaming black sedan that sat idling at the curb. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, slate-blue with a chalk stripe. His hair was thick, wavy and entirely gray; his eyes were pale. About him, there hovered an indefinable air of implacability and menace.
It was a well-choreographed scene, like the footage she’d seen of presidents and prime ministers walking to vehicles. In seconds, he was safely ensconced in the car and his entourage was inside.
The sound of the car door slamming behind him echoed across the street. Joss shivered as the car drove away. “So that’s him.”
Bax nodded and released her.
It shouldn’t have shaken her. There was no good reason why it did. Joss walked away from the lift building to lean on the railing and look across the water to Gamla Stan. “He looked…ruthless.”
“He hasn’t gotten to where he is by being kind. So are you ready to step back from this and let me take care of things?”
“No.” She turned to him, shoulders squared. “I know who we’re up against