2

"What do you mean it's a fake?" Esme didn't know whose cry of surprise was louder. Her own or that of the aging opera diva

standing next to her. Though, to be fair, the old lady's squawk trembled with a high-pitched vibrato Esme could never hope

to achieve. If any patrons at the hotel casino below heard, they would most likely chalk it up to one of the exotic birds

flapping about in the lobby's aviary.

The jeweler, a small mole of a man draped in entirely too much starched black for the Mediterranean climate, looked up from

his examination of the tiara. One brown eye squinted from the glare of the lamp desk while the other peered at them through

the glass of his loupe.

"I assure you, ladies, this is indeed a fake. LeRoi is a prestigious jewelry house in operation since the reign of King Louis

the Fifteenth, who marked us as the royal jeweler when he first commissioned a piece for his mistress, Madame de Pompadour,

in seventeen—"

"Do not presume to speak to me of mistresses." The diva flapped a wrinkled, impatient hand as she paced the room. "I know all too well about them."

Countess Rossalina Accardi was not a woman to waste time on inconsequential matters, such as the opinions of others or facts.

She demanded her own narrative with an iron will that had broken her free of the chorus when she was only fifteen years old,

cast her as a leading lady by eighteen, and made her known as a singing legend by twenty. She had wrestled fame to her bidding

and was now past the prime of her long life, lounging over her stardom as if the world should fall at her feet and praise

her for bestowing such a gift upon them. A musical Prometheus straight from the Olympic opera houses.

Once upon a time, perhaps she had been great. She certainly had the wealth to claim so, but whatever talent of range and charm

she once possessed had been lost under eighty years of wrinkles, a sagging bosom, and enough layers of theater makeup to prop

up an entire stage of ingenues.

"Madame Rothschild went to great lengths to ensure each of the pieces for her show were without question." Esme toyed with

the sleek hair curving her jaw as she propped a hip against the desk. Only on the very rare occasion was she wrong about a

jewel, and the sensation did not sit well with her pride. Though she would be the last person to admit it. "How could this

one have slipped in?"

The jeweler's mouth puckered. "It is an easy enough mistake when one does not know what to look for in real stones."

Countess Accardi's black pencil-drawn eyebrows arced like an irate beetle. "I have scores of jewels at my palazzi. All three

of them! Men used to throw emeralds and rubies at my feet. Rubies! Other singers were given flowers that wilted within a week,

but not I. Rossalina Accardi, world-renowned soprano, was gifted gems and furs and carriages. Do you think I do not know what

a real diamond looks like by now?"

The jeweler dabbed at the sweat beading on his pasty forehead. "I do not doubt your knowledge, Countess, but some flaws only make themselves known to a practiced eye."

A polite way of saying the old woman was blind as a bat. It was a wonder she could see anything past the thick black kohl

lining her eyes.

Esme leaned across the desk for a closer look at the headpiece. Despite her wearing it for nearly two hours at the party,

she'd had barely a moment to examine it for herself. Though Jasper had... She pushed away that bedeviled thought before

it had time to prick her.

"What kind of flaws?" she asked.

"The glass kind." His magnified eye blinked at her. "There are a few real diamonds interspersed, but the majority are glass,

I am afraid to report. Along with the gold metalwork being dipped."

"Dipped?" Countess Accardi clutched at the triple strand of jet beads looped around her neck as if this bit of information

was the last nail in the coffin. "Dipped!" Snatching the tiara from the table, she threw it on the tile floor and stomped

on it with her red T-strapped heel. Tiny bits of glass shattered and spewed across the floor like sugar granules.

"Oh! Do not do that, s'il vous pla?t!" The mole extracted himself from behind the desk and scurried around to brush the broken

bits into his doughy palm. His fingers barely missed being stomped on in his fervor.

Sighing, Esme crossed the hotel room and dropped into a scrolled-back chair covered in a material of blue-and-white print that reminisced the scenery out the large windows. Well, she imagined they did, as the countess had locked tight the windows and balcony door and drawn the curtains should anyone have binoculars that could angle up to the fifth floor.

The whir of the roulette wheels, shuffling of cards, and tossing of dice was muffled beneath the plush rug, marble bathroom

with its gold fixtures, and silk-draped bed large enough to roll around on and never find the edge. Pure luxury. But while

Esme enjoyed a soak in a claw-foot tub as much as the next girl, she'd rather be sinking herself into a Gin Rickey. Ice-cold

with condensation collecting in tiny bubbles on the glass. A thick lime wedge balanced on the rim. If she swirled it hard

enough, the clinking ice might drown out Countess Accardi's tirade.

It was but one of many tantrums Esme had witnessed since coming into the countess's employ, though of late they had increased

in fury. More screeching, more smashing of valuables. The woman's theatrics could rival any of London's East End brawlers

Esme had grown up watching in back alleys, but that was home, where she could settle into the comfort of knowing those same

brawlers would be sipping pints together at the pub once they'd had their licks. With the countess there was no such comfort,

and Esme had to keep her wits about her lest she end up with a flowerpot flying at her head.

"I have paid enough to do as I like." The old woman huffed as she pulled a case of cigarettes and a lighter from the bright

red sash tied low around her hips. Attaching the cigarette to a long black holder, she lit the end and drew in a breath of

smoke. "Just as I pay you enough to forget your moral scruples to LeRoi."

The jeweler, who had been gathering up the tiara's broken bits, straightened on his knees with a haughty sniff. "LeRoi is

a dignified employer."

"But not one that pays enough, which is why you take on side jobs for me."

The mole's eyes drifted to Esme, who merely shrugged. She had come to work for the countess a year and a half ago, lifting

some of the most glamorous pieces in her portfolio, but the jeweler had been enrolled only nine months ago. After all this

time working together, she really should learn his name, but then, the countess had never bothered to learn it either. In

this line of work, the less personal information offered, the less it could pin one down. A thief never wished to be pinned

down.

"The real one is still out there," Esme said, crossing her long legs and enjoying the feel of real silk stockings against

her skin after suffering through the war years with scratchy cotton. "I'll find it."

"Oh will you indeed?" The countess rounded on her, beetle eyebrows raising. Smoke curled from her dark lips, which were stained

a deep berry color that did little more than exaggerate the feathery lines around her mouth. "I already sent you to find the

prize for my collection and you return with i rifiuti ."

"Hardly rubbish when LeRoi claims it has some diamonds to its worth."

"Specks of dust." The countess raised her foot again to stamp on the stones but found they had been swept safely away by the

jeweler. She settled for grinding cigarette ash into the rug in front of Esme's shiny shoes.

Resisting the urge to swivel her feet away lest the countess think to stomp on them too, Esme smoothed the skirt of her ivory-and-ebony

dress over her knees. "You hired me because I'm the best. I have yet to fail in procuring prestigious additions for your collection,

and I don't intend to sully my reputation now."

"This is more than your silly reputation." The countess's eyes narrowed to kohl slits. "This is my life. It is a matter of personal honor to have it returned."

While a sparkler could certainly enhance a lady's life and joy, Esme could not understand the dogged determination and near

obsession the countess had with obtaining the Valkyrie. It was all the old woman had talked about for months as they waited

until it finally revealed itself as the headline piece for Madame Rothschild's event. Esme never bothered wondering the whys

of who bought and sold on the black market. Most were rich eccentrics with too much money, and as long as they paid her, it

mattered not what they did with a first-edition Dickens or ruby-encrusted bracelet.

Countess Accardi was different. She'd first bought an emerald brooch in the shape of a panther before asking if Esme could

locate a specific ring. Esme hadn't worked for clients directly as she preferred to lift what caught her eye and then sell

to the highest bidder, but the countess had offered a sum too tidy to turn down. Since that first ring, she'd been paid to

locate and procure more items for the diva, and the earnings had set her up quite nicely, enabling her to hop from one exquisite

hotel to the next—as far away from Wilton's Music Hall in the East End as she could get.

Esme didn't back away from the old woman's stare. "I'll find it."

"My grand return to the stage is two months away. It is imperative that I have the Valkyrie in hand for my performance."

Ah yes. The performance to top all performances, when the grand dame planned to pluck herself from retirement and reclusiveness

and foist herself into the stage's spotlight for one glorious, delusional evening to perform her most beloved rendition from

Wagner's Die Walküre . Hence the need for the Valkyrie tiara. Perhaps the sparkler was intended to distract from her soprano now sounding more like the song of an aged owl with its wing caught on a branch.

Smoke curled from the countess's lips. "After such a stinging failure, how do you plan to retrieve my tiara?"

"Leave those details to me. It's what I'm good at."

"So you said about this catastrophe." Countess Accardi cut her smoke-rimmed glare to the broken metal bits and stones the

mole was carefully separating into piles on the desk. She wouldn't be surprised to find a few of those pieces in his pocket

by the end of the evening.

Eager to leave before the woman's stare could sear her to the chair, Esme stood. "A temporary setback. One I shall rectify

at once." Right after that drink at the hotel bar.

"See that you do. The Valkyrie belongs in my hands. It is the culmination of everything, the pezzo forte to what I am owed. The wrong done by the one who stole it from me will finally be righted." A malicious light glowed in the

old woman's eyes.

Well, that was alarming. "What do you mean ‘righted'?"

"In my younger, benevolent days I had a distinct pleasure in ruining the reputation of anyone who dared to cross me, having

their names smeared to worthlessness. It often drove them to the despair of leaping off a balcony or throwing themselves in

front of a carriage. If they made themselves my enemy, there was nothing a drop of poisoned honey in their tea or suffocation

with a pillow in their dressing room could not resolve in my favor.

"Sadly, I no longer possess the patience for such endeavors, but for the Valkyrie I will make an exception. Poisoning is too gentle; suffocation not nearly satisfying enough." Her eyes blazed. "This particular double-crosser deserves something spectacularly violent for an ending, as befitting the legend of a Valkyrie."

Esme's stomach lurched. "I've never found violence to be the answer for anything."

"I have." The smile of a snake slithered across her face. "As I said, my patience for recompense has grown thin over the years,

and I have been forced to assign the deeds to another—with the exception of the Valkyrie, as only my personal touch will suffice."

She grasped the long rope of pearls dangling from Esme's neck and tugged, sawing the baubles back and forth across the back

of her neck. "Pirazzo's particular skill is strangulation, did you know?"

Throat dry and skin burning raw, Esme shook her head.

"Quite an art. I've watched him work a number of times, and the finesse and strength required in the fingers is astounding."

Dropping the pearls, the countess motioned to a shadow near the door. "Pirazzo, see our pennyweighter out."

Esme didn't bat a mascara-caked eyelash as the threat hit her square in the heart and slid into her cold belly. She had clawed

her way tooth and nail to escape destitution, hunger, and fear. Her street smarts had provided a way of survival and earned

her a prime living, but not only that, they had provided a life. A life of hopes and dreams where she wasn't begging for scraps.

With one snap of the countess's bony fingers, it could all end.

If Esme didn't find that tiara... How she wished to slip away and never deal with the old woman again, but she wasn't foolish

enough to pull such a stunt with the countess. Not when the shadow by the door stepped into the light and took the form of

a hulking man with a gun and a long silken cord strapped beneath the immaculate cut of his suit jacket.

Esme smoothed the front of her dress to cover the shaking of her hands. "No need to escort me, darling." She breezed out the hotel room door that Pirazzo held open for her. "I know the way."

"You better find it, Miss Fox." He stood at the door, immovable as a mountain, his dark eyes following her down the hallway.

Having worked as Countess Accardi's bodyguard for years, he was not a man to be crossed. "But if you don't, I'll enjoy showing

you how tight a silk rope can cinch."

Ice skittered through her veins despite the warm night air. She covered the alarming sensation by waving over her shoulder.

"Work on your sweet talk, Razz. That's no way to get a girl."

After rounding the corner, she slipped into the elevator and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart.

"Floor, mademoiselle?" the operator politely asked as he shut the cage doors and hovered a white-gloved hand over the operating

handle.

"Three— No, lobby, s'il vous pla?t." As much as her silk sheets and a hot bath called to her, so much more did a strong drink

to shake the tremor from her bones. Never had she been threatened with Pirazzo's particular talents in all the time she had

worked with the countess, but this tiara seemed to have everyone in a bother. The sooner she found it, the better. Straightaway

after that drink.

At ground level she stepped off the elevator and into the lobby, which put the title Grand Hotel into perspective. Designed to invoke the Belle époque, the room boasted marble pillars, pale-green and white walls with gold trim, cascading chandeliers, and painted frescoes. Fresh flowers blossoming in glazed pots perfumed the air with sweetness as the salty evening breeze spilled through the dozens of open doors leading to the terrace and, beyond, the midnight blue of the Mediterranean.

Esme's heels clacked across the marble floor, drawing stares from hotel guests lounging on the swanky couches and chairs.

She kept her gaze forward, her head tilted, knowing the striking image she displayed in her svelte black-and-ivory gown and

sleek bob. It wasn't vanity, merely truth. Above-average height made a girl stand out no matter her surroundings, so she'd

decided long ago to embrace it and never looked back. Or down, as it were.

She glided into the cool recess of the bar, slid onto a barstool, and ordered a Gin Rickey with double lime wedges. It was

that kind of night. The muscles strained along her shoulders and back from carrying the weight of those wings despite the

sense of awe they had imbued her with. It wasn't everyday she took on the role of a mythological warrioress, but she could

certainly see the appeal of such power.

"Here you are, mademoiselle." The bartender placed a tall glass filled with ice and pleasure in front of her.

She slid a generous tip across the bar. "Merci . " As she took a long sip, the refreshing blend of gin, lime, and soda water glided down her throat in an explosion of sparkly

bubbles that melted her cares away.

A gentle breeze kissed the exposed skin of her back where her dress dipped dangerously low. Turning on the stool, she surveyed

the intimate clustering of small tables and chairs, column-lined walls interspersed with towering palm trees, and the stained

glass domed ceiling. The entire back wall had been opened to a terrace that extended the space to outdoor seating where most

of the crowd was gathered to listen to a band.

"Good band."

Esme jumped, catching her drink just in time, and swiveled to face the man who had appeared on the barstool next to her. She covered her surprise with a cool smile.

"Jasper. Fancy seeing you here."

"A notch above many of the holes I've stayed in."

"Oh?" My, that black jacket and tie were the perfect touch for his charming smile. She took another sip for composure, but

this time the fizzing bubbles were more frenzied than refreshing. "Are you staying here?"

"I came for you." He met her gaze straight on. Confident and decisive with none of that wishy-washy uncertainty too many men

employed. It was one of the traits she had found most intoxicating about him during their whirlwind courtship. He was a man

who knew what he wanted, and he had wanted her. The thought had made her dizzy with desire. Even now, her heart gave a little

twirl. But she had been drunk on champagne and the victory of war then. There was no excuse now to trap herself into commitment.

Not when relationships were as reliable as candy floss in the rain.

Seeing him again at the party had been unexpected, to say the least, and terrifying at the very most. The man she had raced

to stand before a priest with and raced even faster to the nearest hotel, only to sneak out in the morning without a word.

Without a reason offered to him—her husband.

She had stood in that garden tonight arrayed in a warrioress's finest and waited for him to slash her with accusations and

anger. All of which she deserved for her cowardly abandonment, but she had again stepped into her customary retreat of leaving

before the other person left her.

She had wronged him by saying yes in the first place, but it was a mistake she was set to rectify. In the meantime she would enjoy returning his gaze, as handsome men were difficult to come by these days. "However did you find me?"

"I followed the trail of feathers."

"I wasn't wearing any feathers when I came here. Remember, you assisted me in removing them?"

He plucked a delicate feather from his front jacket pocket and twirled it between his fingers. Tan, long, and masculine. The

feather was but a white blur between them.

"Oh, I remember." That bronzed stare again.

Esme sipped her drink to cool the molten yearning swaying in her belly. "So you followed me?"

"Let's just say I'm rather good at locating things."

"To what purpose?"

"I figure we have a few things unsettled between us, and I hate loose ends." He released the feather and it floated to the

polished floor between them.

"Such as our marriage," Esme said.

"To state the obvious."

"A divorce would tie that up nicely." Best to cut him off quickly in case he had the dastardly idea of attempting marital

bliss. Or worse, trying to force her to it.

"It would."

The knotted ball of anxiety in the pit of her stomach eased. Good. He didn't entertain illusions of shoving a wedding ring

back on her finger. This might turn into the most amicable breakup of the age.

He signaled to the bartender and ordered a scotch, neat. The bartender poured the amber liquid into a squat glass and shot

it down the wood bar where Jasper caught it deftly in one hand. Passing the glass beneath his nose, he inhaled deeply and

sipped.

He had a strong profile, the kind that turned a woman's head. Cut jaw with the faint darkness of end-of-day stubble. Straight eyebrows with just the right amount of thickness. Aquiline nose hovering above perfectly molded lips, the bottom slightly fuller than the top. And those golden-brown curls that urged her to tousle them into unruly bits. The way she had last seen them flopped over his forehead while he slept.

"Like what you see?" He swirled his glass.

"As a matter of fact, I do." Propping her elbow on the counter, she cupped her chin and settled in for a proper appreciation.

If she was going to set him free, she might as well drink her fill now. "You look different out of uniform and sepia tones.

I've always thought that if a man can't don a uniform, then he should be in evening wear. Rather dashing, the looks, and no

better way to get a woman's heart thumping."

"You told me music does that too. I remember dancing in the Place de la Concorde when a brass band paraded down the Champs-élysées

an hour or so after armistice was announced."

She smiled. A happy day it was after four long years of mud, blood, and death. Laughter and music had filled the air. Jasper

had taken her in his arms and not let go. She had not protested. "They played ‘Daisy Bell.'"

The band on the terrace glided into a jazzy tune with swinging notes and a hot trumpet that melted through the salty night

air.

"Would you care to dance?" A dimple flashing in his right cheek, Jasper stood and held out his hand.

Her fingers flittered out to grasp his, but then pulled back. She had one too many strings with this man, and it was best

not to tie any more. "My pins ache after balancing those wings tonight. Another time perhaps."

With a gentlemanly incline of his head, he settled back onto his barstool and lifted the glass to his lips. Two sips, as if he was rationing them.

"It was quite the frenzy tonight after you ducked out. Madame Rothschild was beside herself when the tiara couldn't be found."

The knot in her belly clenched again. She ignored it with a lift of her eyebrows. "It's missing? Oh, poor Madame Rothschild!

To have the showpiece of her charity event disappear is horrible indeed." She rubbed her temples. "It was giving me such a

headache that I needed to take it off. I returned it inside the villa where the models had dressed. There were jewelers waiting

with secure cases to return the items to their proper owners or new buyers. After I took off the tiara and placed it on a

velvet tray, the man put it in his case and locked it tight. I can't imagine what became of it after that." She shook her

head in sympathy. Or what she imagined was sympathy since taking from the rich had never burdened her. "I do hope they find

it. Such a magnificent piece."

"So the crowd believed." Meeting her eyes over the rim of his glass, he drained it dry.

That was quite enough of that topic for the evening. In fact, his inquisitive brown eyes were far too direct for her peace

of mind, particularly during the evening.

Uncrossing her legs, she slid off the barstool and summoned a petite yawn. "Well, this has been enjoyable, but I'm afraid

the night's activities are catching up to me. Are you in town long? Perhaps we can do brunch and iron out the wrinkles for

a divorce. It's really for the best. Well, good night, darling."

She forced her pace to remain sedate as she left the bar and crossed the lobby to the elevator when all she wanted to do was tear toward the nearest exit. Jasper put her in a tailspin and if she wasn't prudent, she would nosedive straight into destruction. A fate she had sensibly avoided since birth. No strings. No commitments. No heartbreak.

The elevator doors opened and out stepped Pirazzo. He dipped his oiled head in acknowledgment. "Thought I would find you at

the bar."

"You only just missed me." She moved to step around him, but he placed a heavy hand on her arm. The alarming ice from earlier

that she had managed to melt in her drink came rushing back to freeze her insides.

"Do not act so glib, Miss Fox. The countess grows impatient."

Esme nodded calmly as if in perfect agreement and reached to smooth the dark hairs behind her ear, effectively dislodging

his meat hook from her arm. "I'm doing my best. Tonight was a minor setback, nothing more. Tomorrow I start a new search,

and before long I'll return, prize in hand."

"It is in the best interest of your neck if you do. Something so bellissima should not be broken, but your necklace..." His eyes dropped to her rope of pearls. "Should we see how many times it can

loop around your neck? White pearls against the blue and purple of your face as they cinch tighter?"

Her throat constricted. "Purple has never been my color," she said hoarsely.

"We leave tomorrow for Milan. Contact us there when you have it. And not before. Here. You forgot your bag upstairs." He handed

her the black velvet clutch and stepped back into the elevator. The gun flashed beneath his jacket. "Going up?"

Shaking her head, she backed away. "I'll take the stairs. Stretch my legs." How odd her legs were becoming the most convenient

excuse for avoiding awkward situations. " Grazie for the purse." And the ever-increasing threats on my neck.

She would not dwell on the bad. Not only did it spoil her mood, but it slowed her down, and if there was anything of value to a truly talented thief it was quickness. Once this tiara—the real one—was secured, she could hand it off in exchange for payment and skedaddle, leaving the countess and her beast in the dust for good.

The hotel stairs were a marvel. White marble with thin pink veins running through its creaminess and a gold runner sweeping

up the center. Lady hotel guests were known to use it simply so they could sway dramatically while the enthralled lobby looked

on. Esme had done it once or twice herself for her own amusement, but this time she rushed past the women posing in their

finery to the third floor where the bustling sounds faded away into a long hallway with lush palms and bright white doors

with brass numbers. Hers was all the way at the end.

"Are you going to follow me all night?" She turned at the sound of hushed footsteps several paces behind her.

Hands in pockets, Jasper grinned at her, the dimple digging deep into his cheek. "Isn't that what all ladies desire? A man

trailing her."

"Not this lady." Flirting was all well and good in a darkened garden and bar, but near her room was quite another matter.

"I understand we are still legally married; however, I intend to enter my room alone. Apologies if this upsets your marital

intentions, but as we have not been living as man and wife, you can hardly expect otherwise."

"It may interest you to know—instead of assuming—that I'm not here for that."

She ignored the slight flag of disappointment. "Oh?"

He closed the space between them. "Why were you talking to that man?"

Her disappointment sallied into amused irritation. "I never pictured you for the jealous type." Turning on her heel, she continued down the hall. "It doesn't do you justice."

"A confident man need not dabble in jealousy," he said, following. "Unless it's something worth his attention."

"Ouch."

"Nothing you should take personal. After all, you're not really my wife, are you?"

Clever. She'd forgotten that about him. A smile tugged at her lips as she pulled her room key from her purse. "Then what are

you here for? In the bar you claimed to be looking for me, but now you claim I'm not worth your attention. Do make up your

mind, darling. You make a girl dizzy." Stopping at her door, she inserted the key.

"The man. What did he want with you?"

"I really don't think that is any of your business. Estranged husband or not—"

His hand shot past her, twisted the key, and opened the door. He'd shuffled her inside before she could blink. Stepping in

behind her, he closed the door and locked it.

She took a step back into the sudden darkness that flooded them. "Now just a minute. I made it perfectly clear that this is

my room alone. You cannot barge in here—"

He whirled on her so quickly she was forced to take another step back.

"Gio Pirazzo is a hired thug. A torpedo. His business is strong-arming people to do as his employer says, and if they don't

deliver as promised, Pirazzo blips them off. Dead." He didn't move from the door, but he seemed to soak up all the air in

the room. "Tell me truthfully, what are your dealings with him, or rather, his employer?"

She crossed the room and switched on a table lamp. Golden light spilled across the softly colored sitting space. Tossing her purse on the low-slung couch, she poured herself a glass of water from the decanter on the side table before easing into a wicker chair as her mind spun for a reason plausible enough for him to believe while getting him out the door as quickly as possible.

"As I told you, I've been modeling. His employer is an eccentric artist who wishes me to try on her latest creations." A lie

was best when it stuck close to the truth. "I have no idea or interest in the security she hires."

"Nor the type of jeweler, I suspect."

"This artist does have expensive tastes."

"Ones that run to the black market it seems." He was watching her entirely too closely.

She draped her arm over the back of the chair. Languid, cool, precisely as her actress mother had shown her, and completely

opposite to the knot of panic tying up her chest. "Whatever do you mean?"

He gave a dry laugh and strolled over to the couch, dropping the room key next to her purse. "You'll forgive me, but this

has been a rather odd night. First, seeing you again. Imagine, putting a ring on a woman's finger and then four years later

discovering her strolling down a pond with wings and a tiara—a tiara that winds up missing. Then, the same night, you see

a notorious hit man and a jeweler who is known to take bribes for ascertaining pieces and their value on the black market."

Perching on the arm of the couch, he loosened the black tie from his throat. "The Valkyrie tiara is worth a small fortune.

On the black market it could fetch triple its originally commissioned price."

She shuddered on cue. "The black market, what a horrid thought."

"It would be if the tiara from tonight wasn't a fake." Tie loosened, he slipped the first button of his shirt free. "But you didn't know that, did you? Not until you brought it to this so-called artist and her bribed jeweler."

"How did you know it was a fake?"

"Because I'm hunting the real one. Same as you."

Esme's mouth dropped open to a very unrefined O. Not much in life surprised her after watching every possible scenario play

out on London's East End stages, and even more backstage as a child, but this took the cake. While Mimsy—the name her mother

preferred as she refused to be called anything as horrid as mum—taught her there was always another act to play, Esme was

quick enough to realize when it was time for the curtain to close on a performance.

Closing her mouth, she dropped the doe-eyed innocence. "Very well. I'm a jewel thief if you must know. The best, in fact."

"I beg to differ. Have you ever heard of the Phantom?"

"I take it that's you. An impressive résumé you have. Paintings from the Musée d'Orsay, artifacts from Cairo, diamonds from

the throat of a duchess. I heard you seduced her in her husband's opera box during the second act of Don Giovanni ."

"Intermission actually, and it was a bauble she hardly missed, considering the duke was at the time sailing on his yacht with

his mistress."

The absurdity of it all. Esme laughed. "Well, this is a pretty pickle if there ever was one. Two thieves. One tiara. Which

of us will claim the prize?"

"Depends on who is better at tracking down leads."

"And those would be?"

He matched her laugh. "What kind of thief would I be if I offered that information to my competition? No matter how beautiful she is."

Charming, handsome, and flirtatious. She saw right through it. "You don't know where the real one is."

He shrugged as if that made little difference to the outcome. "I will soon enough."

If anything was more mesmerizing than a man's confidence, she had yet to find it. Standing, she arched her back against the

aching muscles. Who knew feathered wings were so heavy?

"Make yourself a drink. I'm going to kick my shoes off. When I return we can discuss location possibilities for the tiara.

I'd like to imagine it's locked in a Swiss bank. I've always wanted to try breaking into one. A girl needs a challenge from

time to time."

He gave her that secret smile again, the one that offered a glimpse of his amusement while coyly hiding his thoughts. "May

I use your telephone while I wait?"

"Of course. It's just there." She pointed to the piece sitting on a low table next to the window before gathering her purse

and walking into the separate bedchamber and closing the door behind her. Sinking onto the fluffy bed piled high with pillows,

she let out a lengthy but quiet sigh. How many more ways could this evening go bottom-up?

Jasper's voice rumbled through the door as she kicked off her shoes and unhooked her stockings from their silky garter straps, then draped them carefully over the foot of the bed. Having spent the war years in a starched nurse's uniform and rationed cotton stockings, she would never take for granted the luxury of pure French silk. Though, to be fair, she wasn't a true nurse, not in the way those sour old matrons in white wimples were, but she did volunteer at the hospital changing sheets, rolling bandages, and reading to the soldiers as the task demanded. She didn't care much for the sight of blood, but king and country called, and she'd answered like the rest of the womenfolk left behind. It was either that or take to the stage like Mimsy suggested, for the boys. Oh, there was no losing one's knickers or hip swiveling in those places, although one girl did split her pantaloons after a dizzying number of cartwheels down the center aisle. Tickets sold out for weeks afterward in hopes she would do it again.

Behind all the glitz and glamour of the lighting, costumes, and music, Esme had grown up seeing the cracks and the weariness

such a life put on the soul. Premature wrinkles cracking makeup. Graying, dirty hair stuffed under wigs. Smiles that dropped

as soon as they stepped backstage. They only time those actors and actresses felt alive was on the stage. Everything else

was a disappointment as they survived from one performance to the next. Esme never wanted to live like that. She wanted to

set her own terms of comfort, and so she had. One stolen diamond at a time.

Now she was after the biggest prize of her life, only to run smack-dab into the man she had been avoiding for four years.

She flopped back on the bed and stared at the gilded sea creatures chasing one another around on the ceiling. What was she

to do about Jasper? Not get distracted from the tiara by his charming smile, that's what.

Excellent plan, Esme. Men were for flirting, not keeping. Now, what about the tiara? She frowned at a particularly lascivious starfish who watched the ceiling chase from his painted corner with voyeuristic

pleasure. Well, for starters—

The front door opened.

She bolted upright on the bed. Had Jasper left?

No, a second male voice entered the room followed by the door shutting. What sort of high-handed game was he playing by inviting

visitors into her private hotel room? She marched to the door and prepared to fling it open in dramatic fashion when the stranger's

excited voice stopped her cold.

"Valkyrie. New lead. Train tomorrow."

She dropped her hand from the doorknob and pressed her ear against the door to listen.