The Stolen Chalicel (8 page)

John Sinclair passed two portly NYPD officers in the hallway. The security was pretty tight this evening. He even had to show his pass to go to the men’s room!

As he reentered the hall, the beauty of the temple struck him all over again. The red roses and white Casablanca lilies had released their scent, and now the whole room smelled like an August afternoon.

Sinclair wound his way through the gilt ballroom chairs to his table. Passage was difficult. The gala committee had sold so many tickets it was almost impossible to walk between the tables. A big-band orchestra was starting to play, and everyone was getting up—some to dance, others to table-hop.

Charlie Hannifin leaned over to speak to Tipper. She was helping herself to more wine, clinking the bottle hard against the glass. Charlie took it from her and poured.

“I have an art deal to talk to you about.”

“Art? You know I don’t give a
damn
about art.”

People at the next table looked over at her. She put down her goblet. It was time to stop drinking. Dessert had been served—a dark chocolate tartufo in the shape of a sphinx, decorated with gold leaf.

She speared the confection with a fork. The frozen chocolate shell shattered and shards of dark chocolate shot out all over the tablecloth. Tipper picked up a fragment and popped it into her mouth, licking her fingers clean.

Charlie was looking at her in consternation.

“You may not care about art in general, but you will care about
this
kind of art.”

“What makes you think so?”

Tipper scouted around for another piece of chocolate and found one near the centerpiece of roses.

“I hear you are divorcing Ted.”

Tipper turned and stared at Charlie. “Who the hell told you that?”

“It was on the gossip page—Page Six in the
New York Post,
last Tuesday.”

She shrugged and picked up another piece near Charlie’s plate. “So what does the divorce have to do with anything?”

“Ted’s collection is worth a fortune. It could mean a lot to you.”

“Nope. Art is outside any settlement. It’s all spelled out in the prenup.”

“You have a prenuptial agreement?”
Charlie asked in shock.

“Sure do.”

“I thought you and Ted got married right after college. Who had a prenup back then?”

“We broke up about five years ago. During reconciliation Ted wanted a midlife prenup.”

“You mean when you ran off to Reykjavík with that bandleader?” Charlie asked unpleasantly.

“He isn’t a bandleader. He is a
rock star.
And it wasn’t Reykjavík, it was Glastonbury.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Glastonbury is in
England
. It’s perfectly respectable. Even
Ted
goes to England.”

“Yeah, but not for rock festivals.”

“Jesus, Charlie. Blades is one of the most successful commercial entertainment groups in the world.”

“I stand corrected,” Charlie said, smirking.

“What does all this have to do with art?”

“What would you say if I told you that you could get ten percent of the value of some of Ted’s art?” Charlie said.

“How would that work?”

Tipper took another shard of dark chocolate off the table.

“Art can be stolen.”

“You are going to
steal
Ted’s art?” she whispered, turning to stare at him.

“No, but there are people who would pay big money to know when and where Ted’s art collection could be”—Charlie paused to search for a word—“accessible.”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“Why should I tell people how to steal from Ted?”

“Because they would pay you millions in commission.”

Tipper let the chocolate dissolve in her mouth as she thought about it. Last year there had been rumors that Charlie Hannifin had lost his fortune in a stock swindle. Well, apparently they were true; Charlie Hannifin was so broke he was thinking about stealing art from his friends.

Sinclair came up to the table and saw Cordelia talking animatedly to the guest across from her. She pushed her dark hair back, exposing her beautiful shoulders. Tan from the expedition in Egypt, she looked fit and athletic.

Without question, Cordelia was one of the most beautiful women in the room. And that strapless dress was magnificent. Sinclair leaned over and spoke in her ear.

“You look so beautiful. I can’t wait for this party to be over.”

She smiled up at him, radiant.

“John, you’ve flown more than five thousand miles to come here, and now you want to
leave
? We could have stayed in Egypt.”

“We could have,” he admitted. “But I wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing you with the Temple of Dendur behind you.”

“It’s so beautiful,” Cordelia said with a sigh. “It almost looks like a movie set—except it’s
real
!”

He sat down and held her hand as they watched people dancing.

“You know, Delia . . . I’ve been thinking . . .” Sinclair started. But just then one of the other dinner guests leaned across the table and spoke.

“Pardon me, Miss Stapleton, but may I have this dance?”

Cordelia looked up, startled. She clearly didn’t want to leave, but she smiled graciously.

“Yes, of course,” she acquiesced. “Excuse me, John. I’ll be right back.”

Carter Wallace patiently bided his time through five dinner courses: squash soup with walnuts, seafood pâté, chicken breast stuffed with pomegranate and figs, Belgian endive salad with goat cheese. Finally,
the waiters came around with dark chocolate tartufo and coffee. Holly was nibbling on a piece of crystallized ginger when he decided to speak up.

He felt his face grow flush and a trickle of sweat creep down his back. She could laugh or refuse. He went for it.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you to dance.”

She looked at him, seeming to take his measure.

“Carter, I would be
delighted.
”

Her tone was cheerfully condescending, as if she were indulging the six-year-old ring bearer at a wedding. As she rose, he gallantly offered her his arm, but it was so crowded he had to abandon ceremony, and they threaded their way single file through the tables.

The orchestra was set up right in front of the temple—a stunning backdrop to the dance floor. When he reached the middle, they fell into step.

Wow! Dancing with Holly Graham! He never thought he would see the day. She seemed quite cool about it all, looking off over his shoulder, so he gazed out the glass wall at the beautiful night sky above Central Park. They kept silent for quite some time until he decided to venture a comment.

“I haven’t stepped on your toes yet.”

She smiled up at him. “No, you haven’t. In fact, you’re a very good dancer.”

John Sinclair sipped his wine and watched Cordelia’s progress on the dance floor. She was in the arms of a particularly short fellow who looked completely enthralled.

As he was observing, another couple moved in front of Cordelia, eclipsing his view—a stocky young man and a blond woman. The man said something, smiling down, completely smitten.

His heart stopped.
It couldn’t be her, could it?

He stared at the lovely back and knew that if she would just turn a fraction he would know for sure. She was wearing a white Grecian-style dress. Fantastic figure—her curves were deeply voluptuous yet graceful. Suddenly, the woman turned.
It was Holly Graham!

Sinclair felt as if he had been hit with an electric shock. It made sense that she would be here—Holly was one of the top people at the Brooklyn Museum.

On impulse, Sinclair headed to the dance floor, launched up the three stone steps, and wove through the crowd. When he got nearer, he circled around behind and tapped her escort on the shoulder.

“Sorry to cut in, but this lady is an old friend.”

Carter Wallace turned and stared at Sinclair.

“John!”
Holly exclaimed. “How nice to see you!”

The young fellow stood like a dolt, scowling at him and still clinging to Holly’s hand. Sinclair smiled pleasantly at him.

“I’ll bring her back, I promise.”

“Carter, excuse me for a moment,” she said gently. “John is an old friend.”

The fellow crumbled visibly, finally letting go.

“Of course,” he mumbled.

Sinclair deftly steered Holly to the middle of the dance floor, then took her in his arms.

Holly Graham.
Imagine!
He held her a bit closer than he needed to, but it seemed perfectly appropriate. They had history together.

Physically, they didn’t match; she was nearly a foot shorter than he was, her head barely up to his shoulder. Holly was so small, so delicate, but that only added to her allure. He danced silently for a while, falling into a dreamy reminiscence.

How long had it been since they first met at Wadi Rum? He remembered the day well. It had been beastly hot—110 degrees. But she had looked very fresh standing there in her white shirt and khaki shorts—a little blond doll—impossibly perfect. Her skin had been flawless, not a drop of sweat or a stain on her clothes despite the long journey by Land Rover to the middle of nowhere.

Someone had introduced her as Dr. Graham. Holly had shaken his hand politely, but under the shade of a broad-brimmed Tilley hat her blue eyes had been dismissive. I’ve seen plenty of guys like you, her look had said. I’m not easily impressed.

Of course, that aloofness had made her immediately irresistible. Sinclair had vowed on the spot to trump her professionally and
then
seduce her, in that order. An arrogant assumption, except it didn’t work out that way.

Holly was absolutely brilliant. She ran rings around him in the field. And when it came to seduction she reeled him in like a hooked trout.

During that archaeological season in Jordan, he had fallen completely under her spell. The more he lusted, the more she put on the ice-princess hauteur. At the dig during the day, his pulse would rapid-fire whenever she approached. And at night, as he lay on his cot, she became the woman of his fevered dreams.

Finally, she had spoken to him, asking him to come to her tent when the others were sleeping. He nearly fell to his knees in gratitude.