The Stolen Chalicel (25 page)

“I don’t know, Hols. You two looked pretty cozy when you came into the meeting together. You sure nothing is going on?”

“John, I can’t believe you! The man is
married.”

“I noticed,” Sinclair said. “Did you?”

“You’re being ridiculous.
Stop!
”

“No, you’re the one who’s being ridiculous!”
he snapped.

The flash of irritation coursed through him. She had pretty much put him through a full range of emotions—lust, regret, sympathy, and anger—and he had been with her for only two minutes. Typical. No woman could get under his skin like Holly. He sat there watching the ice melt in his glass, trying to compose himself.

“You asked me to change my appointment at the museum,” she said. “The least you could do is explain why.”

“I just needed you to go on a different day. It’s no big deal.”

“You sounded pretty upset on the phone.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t
look
fine.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not your concern.”

“It has something to do with Cordelia, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“Second thoughts about her?”

“No, Holly, I’m in
love
.”

“Really?”

“Yes,
really.
”

Holly coyly took a sip of her martini.

“So why are you here with me?”

“Hols, listen. The reason why I asked you to change your appointment tomorrow is because I wanted to protect Cordelia.”

“You’re going to have to explain that.”

“I’m
trying
to explain. Delia had an appointment for us to go to the British Museum tomorrow an hour before you were supposed to show up.”

She threw her head back and laughed on a triumphant note.

“
Now
I get it. Worried about awkward moments in the hall, are we?”

“Well . . .” he demurred.

“Well, s
o what
if we run into each other? We’re all adults.”

“She doesn’t know you are in town,” Sinclair admitted. “I didn’t tell her.”

“Uh-huh . . . So you wanted me to change my appointment so she won’t find out.”

“Delia was upset when she saw us together in New York. She sensed something between us.”

“Well, no worries. There’s
nothing
between us. You just said so.”

“Holly,
please.
”

“Don’t worry, John. I won’t spoil things for you. I’ll keep out of the picture. Relax, I’m here only until the end of the week.”

“Good. We should be able to wrap up these meetings with VerPlanck quickly.”

“Right.”

Sinclair could see she wasn’t happy. He looked at her with regret. “I’m sorry, Hols. I don’t mean to make this difficult.”

“Me neither,” she said. “I hate to admit it, darling, but you still get to me.”

“The way I act?” He laughed, draining his glass. “I can’t think why.”

“Well, don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way,” she repeated unnecessarily.

He immediately signaled for the check. “Now that we’ve cleared the air a bit, I’d better get out of here.”

“Right. It’s late.” She picked up her purse and smiled ironically. “
Too
late.”

Holly stood with Sinclair under the Connaught Hotel canopy while the doorman flagged a cab. Torrents of cold English rain were drumming on the canvas awning overhead, making quite a din.

She stood close to him. In the cool night she could feel his body heat. He hadn’t worn a raincoat, just a blazer. His shirt collar was open. She could see the pulse throbbing in his neck. His skin was tan and smooth, and she remembered how it felt under her fingertips.

“Thanks for everything, Hols. I mean it.”

She looked up at him. His eyes were deep blue. The lines of his face
so familiar, the lips she had kissed a hundred times. To reach for him would seem perfectly normal. She stopped herself.

“Hey, I’m glad we had the opportunity to get on each other’s nerves again,” she managed. “Just like old times.”

“Exactly.” Sinclair laughed. Their eyes met, and the moment extended for an agonizing second.

Holly almost didn’t realize what she was doing as she leaned into him. But suddenly she was in his arms. He let her come to him, pulling her to his chest. He seemed to expect it. She clung to him and breathed in his scent, linking her arms around him. His body was leaner than she remembered but still as muscular. It felt so right.

And then she felt herself released, a kiss planted on top of her head. He stepped back.

“So, take care of yourself,” he said gruffly.

She nodded, flustered. Tried to collect her emotions. She hadn’t felt this way in years. Tears began to sting and she looked down.

It was then she noticed the flashing message light on her cell phone in the outside pocket of her purse.

“Excuse me while I check this, will you?”

“Sure,” he said, looking off into the dark street.

She took the phone out of her bag. Grateful for the diversion, she focused on the recorded message. The call log had come from the Brooklyn Museum. It was Carter Wallace. His voice was so strange. He was whispering, talking about some director of the Met. She punched voice mail and listened twice, just to make sure.

The whole story sounded crazy to her: a director of the Met involved in art theft? That didn’t seem plausible. Besides, Carter had his information wrong. She wasn’t meeting Charlie Hannifin tomorrow. She had never even
heard
of him.

By now, the hotel doorman had managed to get a cab and was waiting for them. Sinclair took her arm and walked her to the taxi.

“Anything wrong?” he asked, noticing her expression.

“Just a call from work. Nothing important. Good night, John. See you tomorrow.”

As she got into the taxi, she kissed him on the cheek.

In the town house on Grosvenor Street, the sun was streaming through the curtains and the grandfather clock was striking eight a.m. Cordelia woke up alone and stretched. Sinclair must be downstairs having breakfast already. He’d been sound asleep last night when she came in.

Before she got out of bed, she took a moment to think over dinner with Jim Gardiner. As he had sat across from her in the restaurant last night, leaning over a dish of Thai chicken, she found herself thinking it was a miracle he was alive!
Food
was his salvation. Jim’s passion for gourmet cooking was helping with his mobility much more than any therapy could.

It had been almost a year since the accident, and he really was improving. Paul Oakley was such a godsend. Paul had started as Jim’s doctor and was now his domestic partner. They were inseparable—an amazing couple.

Cordelia looked over at the bedside alarm. She’d better get dressed quickly! The meeting at the British Museum was at ten o’clock. She leaped out of bed and pulled open the door of her walk-in closet.

After the long summer months of scuba diving in Egypt, it took a real effort to dress like a London girl-about-town. She slid the hangers and selected a tailored suit. It was rather plain, but accessories would spice it up a bit.

On the bureau was a jewelry box, a beautiful red Moroccan case from Asprey. Everything in it was a gift from Sinclair, and her collection of expensive baubles was growing rapidly.

Cordelia’s hand went to her dress watch and then hesitated. Without really thinking about it, she picked up her diver’s watch. Bulky, with a luminescent dial and a digital GPS, this was the most familiar piece of jewelry she owned. She looked at it, holding it against her wrist, remembering what it was like to be on an expedition.

Who
was
she really? She paused, looking at herself in the mirror—was she a chic young woman or a marine explorer? Tall, slender, with green eyes, her face a pale oval framed by long, dark hair, she still
looked
the same. Yet there had been so many changes: the inheritance, Sinclair’s whirlwind courtship, the decision to move to London.

She looked away from the mirror and fastened the black nylon watch strap into place, then turned over her wrist to check the dial. It was so
late!

She was meeting Dr. Trentwell, a director she knew from previous visits. But the other person was someone from the board of the Metropolitan Museum in New York—Mr. Charles Hannifin.

John Sinclair sat in the backseat of the taxi and watched the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Central London was awash with rain, and the drive to Bristol and Overton Solicitors was taking twice as long as usual. That was good. He needed time to think.

This morning at breakfast, Cordelia had come in bright and happy. He’d had an awful moment of panic, remembering last night’s drink with Holly. Such god-awful guilt—but late-night cocktails with blondes will do that to you.

To compensate for his perfidy, Sinclair had made an effort to discuss the Alexandria Harbor project with Cordelia. As he talked, she had sipped her coffee, her eyes trusting over the rim of the Minton china cup. Cordelia had absolutely no idea that Holly was in London. Apparently Jim Gardiner didn’t mention it. Now,
that
was pure luck!

Sinclair told himself that last night was necessary. He
needed
to work things out with Holly. His intentions had been pure, and he had neither the talent nor inclination for infidelity.

Sinclair pulled up to the stately offices of Bristol and Overton a half hour late. VerPlanck and Holly were outside waiting for him on the steps.

“Sorry,” he said, slamming the taxi door. “Traffic was beastly.”

He glanced over and checked Holly’s expression. For some reason, he half expected her to look as guilty as he felt. She didn’t—she looked worried instead.

“He’s gone,” Holly said.

“Who’s gone?” Sinclair asked.

“Jim Gardiner,” VerPlanck clarified. “He left early this morning, for Scotland. Edinburgh. An emergency.”

“That’s odd.”

“What’s odder still,” Holly said, “he left an urgent message for us to meet him there.”

British Museum, London

J
UST AS THE
cab stopped on Great Russell Street, the skies opened up in a torrential downpour. Cordelia had to dash through the puddles, cold water seeping into her shoes.

She stopped under the columned portico to shake her umbrella and fold it. Ten minutes late! If she remembered correctly, the administrative offices were on the right. She found them easily and the assistant looked up as she came in.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I have a meeting with Dr. Trentwell.”

“Are you his ten o’clock?”

“I believe so.”

The girl squinted at the electronic calendar.

“Some woman called this morning to cancel, but the temp took the message. Now I can’t figure out who it was.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“You’re the lady to see him about the Egyptian . . .”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “Sorry, but I’m a little late because of the traffic. Would you please tell Dr. Trentwell I’ve arrived?”

“He’s already down in the Enlightenment Gallery with a Mr. Charles Hannifin. I can’t reach him.”

“How do I get there?”

“Down the corridor. Then a sharp left. Why don’t you leave your umbrella and raincoat on the rack.”