Page 37 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
From the bookcase, I remove a slender volume bound in dark-green leather, its title stitched in gold along the spine. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. The story of an orphan who escapes the workhouse to join a den of thieves. Our little inside joke.
The bookcase swings slowly open to reveal a stone corridor. I replace the book, and we walk inside as the case swings closed behind us.
The tunnel is damp, smells of mold and mice droppings, and is badly in need of repair. After two turns, it opens into a large anteroom which is bare of decoration except for a trio of beeswax candles burning in a tall iron candelabra beside an arched oak door so thick it could probably survive a direct hit from a cannon.
“Any trouble with your mercenary?” Reynard inquires, removing an old-fashioned skeleton key from his breast pocket.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
He flicks me an inscrutable look over his shoulder. Then he inserts the key into the lock. The door opens with a groan of rusted metal hinges to reveal a warehouse of staggering opulence.
There are so many priceless antiques, statuaries, paintings, sculptures, and artifacts from around the world stuffed into the space, it could make the Vatican turn green with envy. The first time I saw it, at ten years old, I stood gaping for a full five minutes, staring goggle-eyed like the rube I was.
Part of the complex of hidden tunnels beneath London used during air raids in the Second World War, the vast, brick-walled space has been repurposed as a drop for purloined goods in transit. A quarter mile of heavy-duty steel shelving is stacked in tall, numbered rows down the center. Wood crates and boxes of all sizes overflow with booty, glinting under the lights. The larger items are kept along the walls—or on the walls, in the case of some of the oversized paintings and tapestries.
Regardless of their size, all items are barcoded and entered into an inventory software system Reynard developed himself. Some pieces come to cool for only a few weeks before being shipped out to their new owners. Some, like the 1727 Stradivarius violin stolen from the Manhattan penthouse of a famous conductor and still too hot to sell, have been here for decades.
As with everything seen through the lens of familiarity, however, I barely notice the glittering bounty now. As Reynard once famously said, “If you’ve seen one gold-plated toilet, you’ve seen them all.”
I shrug out of my wet coat, shake the raindrops off, and drape it over the back of a velvet divan. Reynard turns on an electric kettle. The front part of the warehouse is set up as Reynard’s office. Heavy brocade drapes in bloodred cover the walls. French crystal lamps spill light in fractured prisms onto a Louis XVI desk inlaid with gold. The bare stone floor is covered by a thick Turkish rug.
It has the air of an upscale French bordello.
Reynard turns to look at me. “You’re not carrying anything.”
“Aren’t I?”
His gaze sweeps me up and down, gets snagged on my throat. He gasps. “Naughty!”
This time, my grin is sincere. “I couldn’t resist. Took it out of Khalid’s suite the same way.” From around my neck, I slowly unwind the heavy cashmere scarf I’m using to hide the ruby necklace.
“Good God. Spectacular. Come into the light, my darling.” Reynard waves me closer. He removes a pair of spectacles from a drawer in his desk and slides them onto his nose.
“Since when do you wear glasses?”
“Since I’m old, as you so charmingly pointed out. Turn left a little. There.” He examines the necklace without touching it. “Pity it’ll have to be dismantled. The craftsmanship is exquisite.”
I lift a hand and touch my finger to the center stone, a flawless twenty-carat ruby. It’s heavy and cool against my skin. It is a pity the stones will have to be removed and sold separately, the gold setting melted down for scrap, but pieces like this inevitably are. It’s simply easier to find buyers.
“Is that a love bite on your neck?” Reynard’s eyes narrow at the mark the American’s teeth left near my jugular.
“Me not bein’ sweet is gonna leave marks.”
I have to forcibly banish the memory of his face when he uttered those words. How his voice sounded, hot and rough with desire.
“I should be so lucky,” I say breezily. “It’s a bruise. Trek through the jungle, remember?”
“Hmm.”
I can’t tell if he believes me or not, but in another moment, it doesn’t matter, because he says something that makes my entire body go cold.
“Capo wants to see you. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” I repeat, my voice high. “He’s in London?” My heart slams against my breastbone, sending my pulse flying.
Reynard meets my panicked gaze. His voice is steady when he answers. “He flew in when he discovered you’d be here.”
I flush with anger. “You mean when you told him I’d be here.”
