Hot and Steamy (2 page)

“Beastly American idiot.” The gentleman snapped fingers. “Stockton, the
convincers
, please.”

The larger man mutely raised the valise and managed to open it, all the while keeping his master's coat folded across his left forearm and his hat balanced on top. The gentleman reached into the leather handbag and pulled out two stainless steel rectangles about the size of a cigarette case, with the thickness of two stacked card decks. He set one on the back of his left hand and punched a button, then did the same with the other on his right hand.

With a whirring of gears, flaps opened and levers flipped. Metal rods covered the man's fingers to the first knuckle. More steel looped his palm, and then the boxes began to flip backward, somersaulting over his forearm and past his elbow. Slender rails clicked into place, paralleling his bones. Other metal hoops shot out, encircling his limbs. The skeletal supports covered him to just above his biceps, the stainless steel flashing in the streetlight.

Chance released the woman and clapped politely. “Those'll wrinkle your jacket.”

The slender man snorted. “Stockton is good with wrinkles.”

Chance's good eye narrowed as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “You couldn't have known I'd be here. You brought them to use on her.”

The aristocrat gave him a thin smile. “I am always prepared in case of chicanery. Virginia Greene defrauded me of £5,000.”

Chance smiled and looked back at her. “Ginnie, you've been very bad. Worse than Bremen. Who's the sport?”

He answered before she could. “I am Reginald Trent, Viscount Moulton.”

Chance canted his head. “Your reputation says you're a gentleman. You're just a common thug.”

Trent banged his fists together and smiled at the din. “I prefer to think of myself as pragmatic.”

Chance stepped back, exposing Virginia to her pursuer's view. “I ain't here to be her champion. I'll just hold her cloak as she cleans your clock.”

That got a chuckle from her and a hiss from Trent.

“Of course, for a sporting guy, there is an alternative. How'd she swindle you?”

“Chemin de fer.”

“Only £5,000?” Chance slowly shook his head. “Surprised you're bothered. That ain't much at all.”

The viscount hesitated. “It is the principle of the thing.”

“Yeah, I had you pegged as a man of principle. Here's the game, sport. Double or nothing on your losses.” Chance pointed up toward the well-lit body of the orbiting
HMAS Fortune
. “I'll stake you, then whip you for my money back. That's if you really is a gaming man.”

Trent sniffed. “As if they would even allow you aboard.”

“Wanna bet they won't?” Chance's right hand came out of his pocket and flipped something toward Trent. “You'll lose.”

The nobleman caught the disk awkwardly, then slowly turned it over in his palm. His lips parted and eyes widened. “A £10,000 chip from the
Fortune?
”

“That do as proof?”

“Marginally.” Trent lifted his head and sniffed. “I would have your name.”

“Tomorrow night, if I figure you earned it.”

“It shall be a pleasure to take your money.”

“A pleasure you ain't likely to know.” Chance turned and this time, instead of grabbing the woman's arm, he presented his to her. She smiled and slipped her right hand inside his elbow. She rested her head on his shoulder as they paraded off into the darkness.

Beyond the next corner, Virginia Greene, her eyes tight, looked up at him. “I would have known you even without the mention of Bremen. Shall I just use your old name?”

“The old one is fine.” She continued to watch his face, unseen, she thought, by him since his mechanical eye remained focused straight ahead. He shifted his voice, draining the growl from it. “ ‘Virginia Greene' suits you. I like it better than the other one. Good to see you're doing well.”

She laughed easily. “And you have come up in the world. No longer a mere stevedore.”

“Luck favors the bold.”

“I doubt you were ever a
mere
stevedore.”

“Charming as always.” Chance patted her hand, relishing its softness. “So how is it that Trent figured out your swindle? Taking money off him should have been simple. You were working the build-the-banco swindle, yes?”

“I don't know how he twigged to it. He fully believed I was blackmailing the man who maintains the Grand Casino's automaton dealers.” She frowned. The severe expression accentuated her vulpine beauty, inspiring a flutter in Chance's belly. “I took my exit at the right time, but he followed me instead of waiting for the kill. I appreciate your intervention. No hard feelings over Bremen?”

“Which part? Your seducing the Chief of the Constabulary to get out of jail or your abandoning me to the agents of the Lithverian prince?”

She stopped, turning to face him, her hand pressed against his chest. “I tried, but the Chief was jealous and thought you were my lover. Then the prince's men arrived.” She glanced down. “It broke my heart . . .”

The growl returned. “They worked on other bits of me.”

She lifted her face again, tears welling. “I am so very sorry.”

“I healed.” He nodded. “I gave as good as I got.”

“That was
you?
Oh, God,” she shivered. Her hand shifted, grabbing a handful of his wool coat's lapel. “Now you've come for me?”

“I need someone with your skills.” Chance smiled broadly. “I have some big fish to fry.”

Her face lit up. “I do so want to make amends.” She pointed toward the center of the principality. “I'll just return to my hotel—these events have fatigued me. We can meet for breakfast.”

“Ginnie, I was born at night, but not
last
night.” He led her across the square to
La Maison Rouge
. “I have the Imperial Suite. Wonderful view of the sea. I already sent for your things. The concierge was beside himself with joy that my
fiancée
was able to join me.”

“You presume greatly.”

“The Josephine Suite is yours. The hotel's top floor is ours and ours alone.”

“Oh.” Her lower lip pushed out into a pout and he resisted the urge to caress it. He led her up the hotel's broad granite steps and into a cavernous lobby. Marble pillars upheld a vaulted ceiling. Murals with cherubs and scenes from Greek mythology adorned the walls. Chance's heels clicked on the checkerboard marble of the foyer.

The lift operator, very sharp in his dark green uniform, touched his cap's visor. “
Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Bonsoir, Monsieur
Corrigan.”

“
Bonsoir
, Philippe. The suite, please. No one to go up or down until I call in the morning? No visitors.”

“
Oui, Monsieur. Je comprend.”

She said nothing as the operator closed the brass gate, then cranked the lever. The lift started upward with a squeal. Chance pulled her back with him against the warm walnut panels. Philippe stared straight ahead, but she remained quiet. Still, she watched him, searching his face with renewed interest.

They exited on the penthouse floor. When the lift began its descent, she tugged him around to face her. “You'll keep me a prisoner, will you?”

“Nope. Figured on Trent having half-an-idea that he could get his money back from you
and
steal my chip.” Chance raised his hands. “If you want to go, I'll get the lift. But I don't think you will.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“You may have run from Bremen but . . .” Chance unlocked her suite and threw the door open. “Run now and you miss the opportunity to take Reginald Trent for every cent he can beg, borrow or steal.”

A
hint of fear slithered through Chance's guts as he entered Virginia's suite. While he counted on avarice and curiosity to keep her in the hotel, it was entirely possible that she might have seen the virtue of escaping while he slept. In bringing her things over from her hotel, he had supplied her with the tools she needed to descend to the ground and vanish into thin air.

His original plan hadn't involved her. He'd not expected to find her in Monaco, but when he spotted her, he followed her and quickly learned of her association with his target. Having seen her at work before, and finding her a delicious distraction for Trent, he opted to bring her into things. To set it up, Chance had sent Trent the anonymous note exposing the swindle, precipitating the events of the previous night.

And yet, it was not just her utility that had made him seek her out. He knew better than to fool himself. The Lithverian adventure had indeed left him with painful memories, and yet they vanished when first he saw her again. His breath had caught, his scrotum tightened, when she'd come into view.

Chance, wearing a dark suit, white shirt with a blue ascot, held his head high. A folded paper was on the front room table beside a discarded napkin and her breakfast dishes. Beyond it, the door to her boudoir remained half open. A softly hummed tune drifted through it.

Without asking permission, or any expectation of receiving it, he crossed the front room and pushed the door open. “I hope the accommodations were to your satisfaction.”

She sat there before a vanity. The triptych mirror reflected her surprise—feigned at his arrival, genuine at his appearance and proper diction. She studied him for a moment, then quickly glanced down.

She had lowered her diaphanous white gown to the padded bench and had been brushing her long red tresses when he entered. Her hair, having been pulled forward of her shoulder, provided him a clear view of rounded hips, narrow waist, and strong shoulders. Supple muscles moved beneath creamy skin as she resumed brushing her long locks.

“A gentleman should have knocked.”

“Blame the stevedore.”

She laughed lightly, lifting her chin, exposing her throat. “I've missed that stevedore.”

“You've found other people to amuse you.” Chance smiled. “I understand swindling Trent. I just don't see how you can stand to do it.”

“Better that than surrendering to ennui.” She guided the brush through a copper cascade. “How is it that you'll take him for so much? I've left him with nothing.”

“It's simple. You'll go to him, apologize, and tell him that you knew me when I was a
luckless
stevedore. You'll say I got lucky and, on my travels, discovered a diamond mine that makes the Kimberley mines look like mud-puddles.”

“I'll convince him that I'll let him swindle you, and we split it all later, using the build-a-banco trick.”

Chance nodded. “I know you're more comfortable with cat-burglary, unless you've retired since Lithveria, but this will be an easy job. Your piece is £50,000. For an evening, that's not bad.”

She brushed with renewed vigor. “Acceptable. Why him?”

“Link in a chain.”

Virginia's lips pursed. “Assuming my split is half, you'd have to convince him that you've got at least £100,000. The chip was a nice start.”

“He has his convincers, I have mine.” Chance withdrew a small velvet sack from his pocket. The contents sparkled and rustled as he poured them into his left palm. With a magician's flourish, he let the ruby and diamond necklace dangle from his hand.

Her eyes widened. Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “The Queen of Hearts.”

“You've seen it before?”

“Not seen, but every woman in the world knows it. A one-hundred-fifty-carat, pigeon-blood Ceylonese ruby, heart-shaped, surrounded by a dozen thirty-carat diamonds, all set in white gold. Napoleon designed it for his Empress, basing it on tomb paintings of a necklace Pharaoh Seti I looted from Kadesh.” She stared at the necklace in the mirror. “That one was lost to antiquity. The Napoleonic necklace belongs to an American industrialist, Theodore Caine.”

Chance crossed to her, staring down at her reflection. He looped the necklace about her throat as she pulled her hair up. The ruby, darker than her rose-petal nipples, nestled between her soft breasts. Her hair spread into a veil against her back as a hand came up, trembling, to touch the stone. Her fingers drew back quickly, as if it were molten, and then pressed to it again.

“How did you . . . ?”

“Steal it?” Chance rested his hands on her shoulders. “I've not your skill for that sort of thing. I had this one manufactured. Its appearance should be enough for Trent to bring the real one out of hiding.”

“What?”

“Your blush betrays you, Virginia.” Chance kissed the top of her head. “Caine became overextended. He is using Trent as an agent to secure financing from the Rothschilds. The Queen of Hearts is meant as collateral of sorts. I don't know how you learned Trent had it, but I know you wished to steal it.”

“Trent is a fool, but not utterly stupid, curse my fortune.” Her blue eyes met his in the looking glass. “He has it locked away in the vault of the Royal Bank of Monaco.”

“And this will draw it out.”

Her hands came up, covering his. “And how shall we free him of it?”

“You work your swindle just as you planned. Leave everything else to me.”

Her smile grew, as did the pressure of her hands on his. How simple a thing it would have been to run his hands slowly down over her alabaster flesh. His thumbs would brush the ruby as his fingers caressed her nipples. She would draw him down into a kiss. He would fill his hands, squeezing firmly, his tongue seeking hers. She would turn on the bench to face him. Her robe would slip to the floor, seconds before she knelt on it. Those blue eyes looking up at him, at one moment widely innocent, in the next devilishly lusty.