Buch lesen: «Into Temptation»

1

New York City, where the chic and commonplace clash along busy streets that make the perfect place to pursue a man.

“OH MY, MY, but the man is even more dishy in the skin,” Lindy Gardner said to no one in particular as she focused the digital-cam binoculars.

The device had been designed to look like a pair of stylish sunglasses, so she didn’t concern herself with the passersby on the street, but zoomed in on the tall blonde leaving the ritzy Piazza Hotel.

Joshua Benedict aka Stuart Temple. Approximately thirty-eight years old.

Origins: unknown.

Current residence: Nice, France.

Occupation: Fixer.

She produced the man’s stats by rote, but peering through those lenses, Lindy didn’t see a familiar image from the surveillance photos the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, had collected during recent months.

Life sparked the lifeless images she’d studied during mission briefing into a wholly 3-D man. He stepped onto the pavement, his smile dazzling as he inclined his head to the doorman and moved past with smooth strides.

Definitely a man her old school chums would have called a cut above bog standard.

With the depression of a button, zoom lenses magnified her vantage again. Startling black eyes and brows contrasted with his pale hair and tanned skin. His hair glinted in the late-afternoon sun.

Joshua Benedict looked as if he spent much of his time sailing, fishing and windsurfing on the deep-blue waters of the French Riviera.

According to her intel, he did.

But Lindy also knew he spent the rest of his time jet- setting around the globe conducting business.

Legitimate society believed this man to be nothing more than a businessman with many areas of interest. But the world of the Secret Intelligence suspected Joshua Benedict of conducting illegal business, which was precisely why he was in New York City on this bright spring afternoon.

And why she’d followed him here.

Tracing her finger along the binoculars in what would appear to the casual observer as an adjustment to her sunglasses, Lindy depressed another button and captured the man’s image as he moved beneath the Piazza Hotel’s marquee.

Target acquired.

Joshua Benedict appeared to be a tourist, looking for all the world as if he belonged in the crush of people that ebbed and flowed along the street.

Lindy knew there was nothing casual about this man’s visit, however. An informant had relayed reliable intel that connected Joshua Benedict to a recent auction-house theft.

Not as the thief, though.

This man maneuvered easily through the layers of society, from the wealthy glitterati to the shadowy underworld of international organized crime. He rubbed elbows with power brokers, from global financiers to old-money families who made up high society on three continents.

He had established his reputation as a man who could mastermind brilliant business deals, “fix” any sort of unexpected situation and leave behind no prosecutable evidence. Most importantly, he could keep secrets.

A regular Johnny of all trades.

The thought made Lindy smile. Ironically, his job description didn’t sound so far off from hers.

Except that Joshua Benedict worked for the bad guys, and one bad guy in particular.

Henri Renouf.

The man SIS wanted to apprehend in a big way.

In much the same fashion as Joshua Benedict, Henri Renouf was known to the general public as a businessman with a cutthroat reputation—a reputation built through rumor, innuendo and suspicion. Since Renouf had been around for over four decades, he’d established himself as a private and very powerful man whom most people didn’t dare to cross.

According to Secret Intelligence, the rumor, innuendo and suspicion surrounding Renouf was well-founded. The man was known to be an obsessive antiquities collector, but Renouf didn’t let the availability of artifacts deter his acquisitions. In Britain alone, he was suspected of “acquiring” numerous priceless relics from museums and private residences through thefts spanning several decades.

Since Renouf had the resources to conduct his shady actions through intermediaries, he protected himself with distance. But with each passing year, he got bolder. While no international agency had enough evidence to prosecute, after a recent rash of heists all over the globe, her agency, in conjunction with Interpol, had deemed the time ripe to make contact with one of Renouf’s associates.

Joshua Benedict was a means to an end.

With that thought, Lindy watched him cross the street then found herself suddenly on the move.

In her chic two-piece ensemble, she could have been any resident of this big city, where people favored practical walking shoes and relegated more stylish footwear into carryalls until reaching their destinations.

Her own carryall contained shoes, plus a few items that would mark her as a visitor to the Big Apple. Mostly cover essentials. Passport. Notebook computer. Cellular phone.

Hiking the bag higher on her shoulder, Lindy marked their path along Fifth Avenue, keeping her gaze on her target, admiring the way he affected the perfect blend of casual disinterest and purposeful concentration as he passed upscale stores.

Admiring the man himself.

Benedict moved with a boldness she knew would make him a native of any city on any continent. Confidence. He wore it as easily as the lightweight blue shirt and tan slacks—clothes that had clearly never seen a rack, judging by the way they molded the athletic lines of his body. If she could see his feet, Lindy knew she’d find him wearing something butter-soft and expensive.

So far, the man fit his profile to a T.

Except that she hadn’t expected him to be quite so handsome.

When he stopped to await a signal to navigate another cross-street, Lindy slipped the digital-cam binoculars back up her nose and snapped a second image, just to see if she could capture his expression as he glanced up at a building, surveying his environs as skillfully and inconspicuously as she might.

But there was no question in Lindy’s mind that he was taking stock of his surroundings. Something about the stone cut of his jaw, perhaps. Or maybe the furrow between those dark eyebrows that suggested a deliberation she recognized.

It took one to know one—someone who was up to a lot more than he appeared to be.

Hanging back a step, Lindy moved behind an older woman wearing a wide hat, who had just enjoyed a spree at Amali’s, according to her sacks. And when the traffic signal changed, she made her way around the woman with a quick smile and a cordial, “Lovely bonnet.”

While she wasn’t sure precisely what to expect from Benedict, she’d come prepared for any number of scenarios. She knew why he’d come to town, but had no way of knowing how he would take care of his business.

She’d come up with a few likely guesses, of course, but not one of them had led her to the sweeping spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Yet that was exactly where he was heading—right up the bloody front steps.

Well, well, well. What business did her handsome target have with God today?

Now there was a question she wouldn’t spend too much time mulling. Lindy wasn’t particularly religious, but she had been reared in the English countryside, where Sunday trips to the village church had been a way of life.

As a result, she had a healthy respect for passing judgment and throwing stones in places where she herself wouldn’t want others passing judgment or throwing stones. With her work as an intelligence agent over the past decade, she’d found herself in enough situations that some might label morally questionable. Unless Joshua Benedict’s business with God had something to do with Henri Renouf, Lindy wasn’t interested.

But she couldn’t help thinking a cathedral would be an ace place to hand off a stolen artifact, so she strode lightly up the steps and made her way inside.

Given that her work covered every European city in what was once known as Christendom, Lindy thought old Gothic cathedrals pretty standard fare. While she didn’t know much about this one—and honestly hadn’t thought to research more—she did know the place was the seat of New York’s archbishop.

Stepping inside the cool interior, she found the cathedral no less majestic than any other she’d ever been in—a tribute to the architects, as America was regarded as distinctly substandard in architectural grandeur.

The bustle of a busy city vanished behind the heavy doors, and the silence—a tangible serenity that seemed a unique and integral part of churches everywhere—settled over her like the mist after a London rain.

Sliding her digital-cam binoculars on top of her head, Lindy sighted her target. She attached herself to a small group of women, all hastily affixing lace chaplets onto their teased curls, and bowed her head reverently.

Through her periphery, she watched Benedict stroll down the main aisle, taking in his surroundings almost absently, as though he made a habit of visiting churches. Sun spilled through stained glass, throwing light that splintered his handsome features with color.

Had he come to this place to make a pickup?

During mission briefing, Lindy had decided her target’s usual MO consisted of using busy public places to cover his shady business dealings. She’d watched video footage of the man strolling into Queen’s Cross as boldly as he pleased to take possession of Princess Charlotte’s tiara and scepter from a man believed to have conducted the museum theft.

Unfortunately, even with the video footage, her agency didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute the thief or the man who allegedly had delivered the goods to Renouf.

Joshua Benedict was bold, to be sure, but a cathedral? Maybe her prosaic upbringing made conducting shady business in a church seem to be tempting fate too closely for comfort.

As long as it wasn’t her eternity at stake…Lindy followed her little holy ladies to a bas-relief statue of a saint.

She watched him head to an altar flanked by two stone saints and several-dozen-odd tourists as if he owned the place, and her heart raced to think he’d take delivery of the stolen auction-house artifact in plain sight.

Shades of Queen’s Cross?

Disengaging from the holy ladies, she slid into a pew, knelt and lowered her head as if in prayer. She slid the digital-cam binoculars down her nose to watch her target move toward a station filled with tiers of votive candles.

Lindy could see no one else approach, detected nothing about the man to suggest he might be searching for anything that had been left concealed for him.

He made a donation and lit a candle.

Lindy observed him, the moments stretching almost painfully as he stared at the flame, his expression thoughtful, an almost-smile playing around his lips.

He did not meet with anyone to make a handoff.

He did not reach underneath the station and come up with any small package.

He just genuflected before the altar, made the sign of the cross then headed down the aisle the way he came, leaving Lindy staring after him with a narrowed gaze.

Joshua Benedict had come to church to light a candle.

Had she been made?

Lindy had no choice but to consider whether this seemingly purposeless side trip was for her benefit. Instinctively, she stood and moved down the aisle before he reached the doors. Wouldn’t do to lose him now. Not until she could decide whether or not he was on to her.

Timing her paces as he paused to hold the door for a couple, she veered sharply right and headed out of a side exit. She sprinted around the corner of the building, swung around a gate and onto Fifth Avenue just as he stepped onto the pavement.

And headed straight toward her.

Turning toward the curb, she raised her arm as if flagging a cab, clearing the path and covering her face from view as he swept past. So close that she caught a whiff of his aftershave—subtle, expensive, but all spice and warm male. That scent stuck with her as she spun on her heels to follow.

No eye contact. No visible sign of any awareness. If Benedict had made her, he was exceptionally good at hiding it. But that didn’t really come as any surprise to Lindy. No man could elude capture for so many years without being good.

Damn good.

This time her target led her to a traditional co-op building overlooking Central Park, the sort of place Lindy knew consisted of upscale apartments with large rooms, high ceilings and thick walls that cost more than her accumulated salary since the day she’d signed on with Secret Intelligence.

She recognized this particular building as the prewar variety, showplace of the wealthiest New York society families, modernized with a thrust of tall windows that revealed the lobby chandelier and the stairwell rising to several upper stories.

Joshua Benedict handed a card to the white-gloved doorman then swept inside as if he were the crown prince expected for tea, leaving her to bimble about on the street while he conducted business where she couldn’t see him.

Sometimes she hated surveillance.

Today was one of those times. She needed to find a less conspicuous place to ride out her watch. She couldn’t be sure whether he’d led her here intentionally. He would know that any interested parties could easily find out the names of the building residents.

In fact, the job would only take about two minutes of uninterrupted satellite uplink on her notebook. But Lindy stuck to her spot. If her target reappeared on the stairwell, he just might cut that time in half by showing her what floor he went to…

Luck was hers.

He took the stairs two at a time, not at a bound but with the fluid strides of a strong, long-legged man. Since he didn’t use the lift, she knew he only headed up a few flights, so, slipping the binoculars up her nose, she enjoyed the show.

Those lead-paned glass windows showcased the man as if he’d posed for a bloody portrait—and quite the dishy one at that. Zooming in closer, she admired the way his thighs played against his slacks with his movements, how the fabric pulled enough to give her a clear shot of his backside.

Mmm-mmm. Joshua Benedict’s profile had missed the part about him having the nicest bum she’d seen in forever, the kind that made a gal think about smoothing her hands over it. Lindy might have laughed at her own unexpected reaction to a target, but her instincts chose that exact moment to go live.

She spun around just as a no-nonsense voice barked, “Excuse me, miss.”

Not at all used to being taken by surprise, Lindy schooled her expression and stared at the uniformed security guard who frowned down at her from his superior vantage.

“Hullo, Constable,” she said cheerily, letting a bit of her British accent leak out.

She slipped off the sunglasses—the magnification made the man look like the worst sort of Picasso—and maintained eye contact. “Lovely spring afty, don’t you think?”

The man’s gaze didn’t waver, which suggested he wasn’t going to fall easy victim to her charm. Good for him.

“Not interested in the weather this afternoon. I’m interested in why you’re loitering.”

“Loitering?” She gave a sparkly laugh and toyed with the idea of admitting she’d been staring at a man’s bum.

A definite first in her experience.

But as the security guard looked all tetchy and by the book—relatively new to his job, she guessed—Lindy opted for a more conservative approach.

“Actually, I’m here on business.” She patted her carryall. “I’m with Hampstead, Heath and Associates. We’re based out of London with offices all over Europe and Asia. We’re scouting a North American site. Of course, the CEO will need housing if we open a location here. That’s where I come in—I’m checking out the neighborhood.” She tossed a glance back at the building, and the guard followed her gaze, clearly wavering.

“Do you have identification?”

“Of course. If you’ll let me go into my bag, Constable, I’ll give you my card. And my passport if you need it.”

The man inclined his head then stepped back to give her space. She produced a passport and business card that supported her claim and stood quietly while he inspected her credentials.

Americans were hyper-security conscious nowadays and rightly so, but that this guard would catch her with her binoculars snagged on a pretty sight and her usually sharp senses blinded to her surroundings was just plain unlucky.

Lindy was a stellar field agent, which was precisely why she’d been assigned this case. But she hadn’t done much more than surveillance yet, and for things to go pear- shaped so early on…she hoped this didn’t foreshadow what lay ahead.

“All right.” The guard gave a curt nod. “What else do you need before you can move on?”

“Nothing really. I’ve already researched the demographics on this and the other buildings we’re considering. The big boys will let me know which leasing agencies to make contact with, but I’ll be sure to tell them this co-op has the best security of the bunch.”

That earned a smile. “Well then, good day, miss.”

It was an obvious effort to move her along, so Lindy returned his smile, hiked her carryall higher on her shoulder and shoved off with a bright, “You have a good one, too.”

She could feel the guard’s gaze follow her down the street, where she rounded the first corner and ducked inside a conveniently located subway station to regroup.

Lindy had to act fast because she had no intention of losing sight of her target now. She had to return to that co-op without drawing the security guard’s attention again. No problem. Lindy liked challenges.

She hoped Joshua Benedict proved to be one.

JOSHUA NOTICED the woman as soon as she entered the gallery. Amid the attendees of the Classical Greek Antiquities exhibit opening, she somehow managed to look…fresh—no easy job in this human sea of designer labels, artful grooming and cosmetically-enhanced perfection.

Curious, he studied her from his position near a marble diorama of the Graces, where he sipped Moët and chatted with the exhibit’s benefactress, Lily Covington.

Perhaps Lily chatting with him better described what took place, as the society matron hadn’t stopped to draw air in a while. But Joshua didn’t mind participating in any conversation that left him free to observe this beauty who paused to admire an oil painting of Artemus with a quiver of arrows.

Maybe it was her flawless skin, touched with only the barest color to enhance a mouth designed to kiss. She wore a chiffon gown to distinguish her from the crowd of the flashy sequins and beads that defined American haute couture, the filmy off-white gown clinging to her body with classic lines hinting at all the long curves below.

She was subtle seduction as opposed to bold temptation, a woman who made him imagine two bodies close in the darkness and the sound of breathless sighs. Soft brown hair fringed around her face and neck, sexy for the way it framed her features. His gaze followed the graceful lines of her throat, and the pulse beating there, another place ripe for kissing.

He would have noticed this woman even if the gala kicking off this new exhibit hadn’t been a bore. But he couldn’t fault his hostess. As a member of the Covington family—one of the mainstays on the NewYork society scene since somewhere around the mid-nineteenth century—Lily had perfected hosting philanthropic events into an art form.

Select members of the Westbrook Philharmonic filled the gallery with music. Le Kevin, hailed as Manhattan’s latest culinary genius, catered the event with a menu of shellfish flown in from Maine and delicate hand-pressed pasta that melted on the tongue. Champagne flowed.

But not even Moët could wash away the taste of the business that had brought him to New York.

No, he assumed all responsibility for his current mood.

Forcing a smile, Joshua mouthed all the polite responses to Lily’s comments about the Graces under discussion while covertly checking out the lady in white, as he christened her.

The sight of her, at least, improved his mood.

He watched her accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter, the gesture graceful, her smile fast and real. There it was again…that impression.

This woman struck him as having much beneath her surface that she didn’t bother to hide. It was only a sense he got from watching her, but he didn’t question his perception. He was an exceptional judge of character.

A skill that always served him well.

Putting that skill to work now, he sliced his gaze across the crowd, passing over several potential prospects to mark the wife of a state senator who’d captured his party’s interest.

“I see Carolyn Vandeveer came in from Washington to attend tonight,” he said.

“She and the senator are wooing support for their upcoming presidential bid.” Lily’s tone remained unimpressed.

But Joshua knew his hostess would credit the senator’s wife with the appropriate attention. Lily respected the status of her social standing, and presidential hopefuls were only a small percentage among those who sought favor from the Covington family.

So Joshua maneuvered Lily away from the Graces with questions about another artifact and steered her in Mrs. Vandeveer’s direction. He needed to get about the business that had brought him to this museum. Only then would he be free to enjoy the night ahead.

To make the lady in white’s acquaintance.

Hooking up Lily and the senator’s wife over an urn, he participated in their conversation for a respectable few beats then begged his excuses and headed across the gallery.

Resisting the urge to glance at the lady in white, who’d been drawn into conversation with Jeffrey Baldwin of the Boston metals conglomerate—a slick bastard who never missed a trick—Joshua nodded to an usher and stepped into the hall.

While turning, he pitched a nickel behind him with a surreptitious motion, and the tinkle of the coin hitting the floor resounded exactly where he’d meant it to—inside the gallery. When the usher turned around, Joshua vanished down the hall that led to the restrooms.

Chattering voices over the smooth strains of classical music soon faded, yielding to the muted silence of an after-hours museum. Glancing at his watch, he pushed open the restroom door and entered a foyer decorated in the fashion of a gentleman’s drawing room. Joshua peered around the corner to confirm he was alone then retrieved his cell phone from a jacket pocket. He depressed a series of numbers.