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When she’d re-emerged from the back of the venue, he’d thought to catch up with her and maybe take her for a drink or a late supper. That was what he would have proposed. What he really wanted was to take her back to his hotel and spend the rest of the night enjoying all the pleasure her body and temperament had promised. He moved toward her, but she was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
“Mr. Fletcher,” said the very honorable Edgar Pennington, the museum’s director. “I take it the necklace is back in safe hands?”
“As safe as we can make it,” he said extending his hand and shaking Pennington’s. “I appreciate your cooperation and assistance. Our man has the necklace and it is being transported to an airport north of here.” Fletch glanced at his watch. “He should be airborne within the hour.”
“I was surprised to see Lloyds and the other insurance carrier so keen to hire you to protect it.”
“There were some rumors that an attempt had been made previously. Nobody wants to see that thing stolen.”
“Wouldn’t it be hard to sell?”
“Not necessarily. There are those who like to acquire famous, or preferably infamous, pieces of jewelry just to enjoy for themselves. As I said, we believe there was a previous attempt, so we just wanted to be extra cautious.”
“Is there anything specific about the Grenadine Necklace that would make it a target?”
“It depends on who you ask. The necklace itself is an exquisite representation of art deco jewelry making, and the gems are close to flawless. Where it gets tricky—and what attracts some less than ethical buyers—is that it is heavily rumored to have been stolen by or for Mussolini, who gave it to his mistress. The current owner has provenance, but over the years there have been some questions as to its authenticity. Thank you, again.”
“It was my pleasure. I appreciate you pointing out some cracks in our security arsenal. It was most beneficial.”
“My pleasure.” Fletch glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry. I need to check in with my people.”
None of his people were in London—only one other member of the team was here. Fletch really didn’t have to check in with anyone, but he’d had his fill of officious people for the day. Pennington was all right in that old money, stick-up-his-butt kind of way, but he grated on Fletch. He wondered if the curvy brunette would have joined him for a burger and a brew. Good burgers were hard to find in London, but he knew all the best places.
Fletch had a sudden vision of the woman who had eluded him naked in the middle of his bed, eating a juicy cheeseburger and dipping her fries in ketchup. No, not ketchup. That was far too mundane. Ranch dressing? Blue Cheese? Sriracha?
As he made his way out of the building, his phone chimed. He glanced at the text. The package was airborne. He quickly texted his counterpart in Paris. That meant he was officially done for the day—technically yesterday, as it was a little past midnight.
He hailed a cab and made his way back to the Savoy. There were glitzier, flashier, more expensive hotels in London, but to Fletch, none compared to the Savoy. It was the only place he would stay when he was in the English capital.
“Mr. Fletcher,” said the concierge as he entered the building.
Fletch smiled but continued to his room without reply. Opening the door to his suite, he flipped on the light and got a look at himself in the mirror. She was right. The tuxedo didn’t fit well and looked cheap. If he continued to take these high-end security jobs, perhaps he ought to invest in a custom tuxedo.
He tossed the jacket and tie onto the chair, unbuttoning his shirt as he made himself comfortable on the settee. ‘Settee,’ he snorted.
We call them loveseats back in the States.
He turned on the television, searching for a twenty-four-hour news channel. Finding one, he opened his phone and pulled up the guest list from the party. He might not know her name, but with each ticket sold, he had a picture and dossier downloaded. He scrolled through the list until he found her—Claire Mitchell.
The photo was excellent. There was no doubt she was the woman he’d spilled the drink on, but other than that, the dossier seemed a bit sparse. She was an art restorer with an excellent reputation. There was a lot of information regarding her work, but little seemed to be known about her private life other than she had restored an old millhouse on the River Thames outside of London. It contained her private studio in the lower portion with the open concept living space being on the second level including a powder room and chef’s kitchen and two bedrooms, each with an attached bath on the third. The water wheel worked and supplied most of her energy needs.
Her ticket had been given to her as a thank you for a sizeable donation, but the RSVP and the ticket itself had not been entered until only a couple of hours before she ran into him—literally. Something about her had set off warning bells and red flags, and he’d planned to get a better look at her to figure out if she was someone he needed to be concerned about.
When she’d run into him, it felt like the perfect opportunity to spill his drink on her to check for any bugs, tracking equipment, or other electronic devices. There hadn’t been any he could see. He supposed he could have used the scanner in his pocket but dousing her with gin and tonic had the added benefit of revealing the gorgeous body that lay beneath her rather conservative gown. How he would have loved to unzip that dress so he could slip his hand inside and caress her ass.
Claire Mitchell had a lovely ass and a voluptuous body. She was, as they used to say in his unit, fine as fuck with dangerous curves. What was that oldBon Jovialbum…‘Slippery When Wet?’He was pretty damn sure he could get her wet enough that he’d slide right in and ride her hard enough to create the kind of friction that would make her scream his name and cling to him.
His cock throbbed with need. Fletch knew if he went down to the American Bar just off the lobby at the Savoy he could find an engaging companion for the night, but that no longer interested him. What had caught his attention was Claire Mitchell and her less than forthright dossier.
Fletch spent the next several hours running down information about the curvaceous woman with the long dark hair. By the time he was finished, he had a whole lot of nothing. Plenty about her business and skills as an art appraiser and restorer, as well as the house she had brought back from the edge of condemnation. The space was beautiful, but not as ornate as he might have thought, and her workspace had a kind of messy inviting quality.
He sat back and looked at the data he had collected.
Who are you, Claire Mitchell? And why do you call to me the way you do?
CHAPTER4
CLAIRE
