Page 83 of To Love A Spy
A grudging laugh cut the tension between them. “God forbid. As head of the Merlins, I know better than to challenge your skill with a blade or bullets.” Lynsley’s twitching lips stilled. “Nonetheless, I must ask that you abide by your promise to follow my orders.”
She shook her head. “Not when your sense ofnoblesse obligeis putting the mission in jeopardy. It is because ofmethat you are compromising your decisions. Guilt is coloring your judgment.”
“You are fighting dirty,” he whispered after a long moment.
“That is what Merlins are trained to do. Those are the principles that you taught us to believe in—sometimes it is necessary to sacrifice personal feelings for the higher good.”
He turned to stare out up at the thickening clouds. Silhouetted against the storm grey hue, his profile was pale as carved marble. She had never seen him look so bleak. “I don’t need my words thrown back in my face.”
“Oh, but I think you do.” Valencia hated herself for doing this. She knew how much he was hurting inside. “The mission, Thomas. That is why both of us are here.”
“If—I repeat,if—I agree to this plan, you must in turn promise to let me work out the details and agree to abide by my instructions.”
“Yes,sir,” she quipped.
He didn’t smile. “I’m deadly serious, Valencia.”
“So am I, Thomas. And together we will bury Rochambert in the deepest pit in Hell, where he belongs.”
Chapter Twenty
Music drifted out from the ballroom, mingling with the lilt of laughter and the crystallineclinkof champagne glasses. Gliding past a group of guests heading to the card room, Valencia crossed the corridor and entered the gallerydisplaying Rochambert’s art collection, where she paused to admire a pair ornately framed paintings. Candlelight flickered across the canvases, adding a sensuous golden glow to the rich color of the pigments.
“You like Fragonard?” asked Rochambert, as he came up behind her.
As Valencia had hoped, the Frenchman had followed her. The heavy velvet draperies had fallen back in place across the doorway, muting the sounds of the sumptuous buffet being served in the main dining salon.
“Very much,” she answered. “I find the lushness of his figures appealing. As is their earthy enjoyment of the world around them.” Cocking her head, she drew out her study of the painting for a moment longer before meeting his gaze. “American art is so flat and colorless in comparison. It must be their Calvinist background.” She touched his sleeve. “They worship hard workand frugality. Enjoying the fruits of one’s labors seems to be a cardinal sin.”
“You make life in America sound very dull for a lady who appreciates art,” said Rochambert. His gaze sharpened with a speculative glitter.The predator on the prowl. Scenting his prey was ripe for the taking. “Would you care to see the paintings in my private gallery? They are even more interesting for those who have a discerning eye.”
She slid her hand to the crook of his elbow. “How can I resist such an offer?”
Rochambert led her into an alcove at the back of the ornate room, where a paneled door of polished oak was flanked by two gilded wall sconces. “Are you looking for something in particular from me, Madame Daggett?” he murmured in her ear.
“Why, an education on art,” she replied archly. “You are said to be quite a connoisseur in the field.”
A laugh rumbled deep in his throat. “I daresay my knowledge won’t disappoint you.”
“I was rather hoping you would say that.” Valencia added a a sultry laugh as she watched him slip a keyring from his coat pocket.
How interesting.It requires two keys to open the double lock.
She felt a sudden tickling at the back of her neck that had nothing to do with the hand that was now teasing down the line of her spine.
Rochambert’s art was unquestionably valuable. But enough so to require specially designed military hardware to guard against thieves? Valencia recognized the distinctive locking mechanism. Made by a small supplier in Marseilles, it was issued for use in highly sensitive areas such as a command headquarters, a cryptography copyroom . . . a munitions warehouse.
Sparks flared as the Frenchman struck a flint and lit the branch of candles set on a stone pediment inside the door.
No—on second glance, she saw that it wasn’t a pediment but an oversized penis, sculpted of pure white marble.
“Welcome to my private gallery room, Madame Daggett.” He drew her inside. “As you see, I take pleasure in being surrounded by things of great beauty.”
“Naughty man,” she scolded, taking care to sound not the slightest bit outraged.
“Come, let me give you a tour of my treasures.” Dropping all pretense of proper etiquette, he sidled closer, his touch growing bolder with every step. Already she could feel the flat of his hand creeping down herderriere. “Here are several of my most recent acquisitions. He pointed out a pair of nudes by Peter Paul Rubens. “What do you think?”
“They are magnificent. A feast for the eyes.”
