Chapter 2
2
As Celeste took an empty elevator up to the Sanderson penthouse, she fretted with her head wrap and dress. She had to remind herself that all jobs started this way; her stomach would always flutter with excitement, adrenaline or nausea. But once she got to work, her brain took over and told her stomach to hush. It also helped to have Beatrice in her earpiece, listening to every quiet mutter as she picked locks and squeezed her body through tight spaces.
“You’ll do well,” Beatrice said, reciting the same mantra from the past two years. “You’ll steal the fuck out of that crown.”
“Thank you,” she murmured softly as she stepped out of the elevator and into a brightly lit vestibule.
Time to perform and pilfer pockets.
Men with as much wealth and prestige as Victor Sanderson walked a thin line of either hiding it away in false modesty or displaying it with the same false modesty. The Sanderson fortune was as old as it was hefty. His heirs, and their heirs, would enjoy the same kind of luxury as Victor’s robber-baron ancestors had. First, it was steel, then came the newspapers; now who knew what kind of diverse portfolio Sanderson possessed? On the rare occasions when he did display his wealth and prestige, it was a brilliant display of opulence that almost made Celeste forget who she was.
As she crossed the threshold of his home and walked amongst the thirty-or-so people, she reminded herself of her goal. She needed to rub shoulders with those who had supposedly earned their fortune, titans of industry and philanthropists who tossed checks to the poor kids from developing nations. Tonight, however, charity was not on anyone’s mind.
They were all invited to look at a rock.
The Ring of Fire Emerald, as Victor called it, was discovered by his private excavation team. No doubt, a bunch of mercenaries who intimidated a local mining operation in Colombia. Celeste had very little interest in it but kept her eye on the shrouded display case resting on the main room’s grand fireplace. Victor would let the drama build until revealing the stone at 10:00 p.m. Until then, she would pretend to be excited about the hype, mingle with other collectors and sample the sumptuous spread.
“Find Victor and chat with him,” said Beatrice through the earpiece.
“Give me a minute,” Celeste replied, keeping her face immobile.
“He’s thirty paces ahead of you.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Celeste quickly swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and pushed herself farther into the throng of partygoers. This was a security nightmare for Victor and a delight for Celeste. She eyed the stairwell that she needed to make her way toward and bit back her smile. Nothing was roped off in this small museum, and people traipsed around the open area as though they belonged.
Of course, the guests had home training; they didn’t intend to steal from their host. And Sanderson was among his people. Any whiff of security would dampen the illusion of trust. So the very real Picassos, Chagalls and Matisses hung without concern. These priceless works were meant to be looked at, not talked about. The wealthy shouldn’t have to address the obvious.
Celeste took a quick sip of the crisp bubbly and held it in her dry mouth. She wouldn’t drink any more for the rest of the evening, but she would hold the glass as she spoke to people. One rule to conning: never become as intoxicated as your mark; only give the appearance of indulging.
As she approached the small clump of guests surrounding Victor Sanderson, she noted two familiar faces. The first was the assistant director of the Museum of Natural History, Kevin Phillips. His barking laughter was loud and crass, making Victor flinch as he looked for a way to exit the conversation. The other person who stood out made Celeste swallow her mouthful of champagne hard.
“Jesus Christ, is that the Commissioner of Police?” Beatrice asked.
Celeste ignored her and trained her face into a serene smile before stepping up to the small group of men. “Mr. Sanderson,” she announced, extending her hand past Commissioner Joseph Doyle.
Victor welcomed the distraction immediately. “Dr. St. Pierre,” he said with a white-veneer grin. He took her hand and pulled her into the circle. “So good of you to come.”
“Thank you for extending an invitation to me,” she said with an easy smile. Doyle backed up to make room for her as she took her place beside Victor. “Congratulations on your latest acquisition. I hear you’ve found quite the gem.”
Victor took her proximity as an invitation to rest his hand on her bare back. Celeste relaxed her muscles as she held on to her clutch and fluted glass. “Thank you. Though I’m afraid I cannot take credit for the discovery,” he chuckled. “Research members will be here to explain the events.”
“How fortunate for us,” she murmured into her glass. His hand, once at the center of her back, dropped to just above the small of her back.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Victor?” asked the assistant director. His glassy eyes roamed over Celeste’s body without a shred of subtlety.
“Of course.” Victor’s hand dropped as he made introductions. “Kevin, this is Dr. Celeste St. Pierre, of St. Pierre Antiquities. I found a mid-eighteenth-century Queen Anne cabinet made of the most exquisite pearl inlay at her store. Celeste, this is Kevin Phillips, of the Museum of Natural History.”
Celeste gave Phillips a quick and firm handshake, taking care not to stay in the man’s grip longer than necessary. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Phillips,” she said.
“Please call me Kevin,” he replied. “Surely, you’re too young to be selling antiques. You can’t be more than twenty-five!”
She gave a pleasant chuckle, touching her fingers to her neck. “You flatter me...”
“Jesus Christ...” Beatrice sighed.
Part of Celeste’s job was navigating these spaces where men were especially cloying. She smiled coquettishly to gain their trust and make them more relaxed, but her internal sigh reflex was always activated when men like Phillips wore wedding rings and flirted shamelessly.
“And perhaps you already know Commissioner of Police, Joseph Doyle?” Victor interrupted.
She turned to the tall, broad man who stared at her with the same intense interest as Phillips. A small smile appeared beneath his thick mustache as his cold blue eyes took her in. “Nice to meet you, Commissioner Doyle.”
He gave her one firm pump and a slight nod of his head. “Likewise, ma’am.”
Good. A short and sweet introduction to law enforcement was just what Celeste needed. She knew that Beatrice was holding her breath in the command center. She took another tiny sip of her champagne before turning back to Sanderson. “That reminds me, you should be due for another wood finish waxing. Please call my office so I can send someone by.”
“Or you could do it?” Victor said with a bright white smile. “I’m not sure I could trust such a valuable piece to just anyone.”
“I can send someone by,” she repeated, returning his smile. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” She left before anyone could object and wandered over to the buffet station. She needed a breather before she got to work, and schmoozing with Victor and his pals was a major distraction. Beatrice told her as much.
“Eat one of those giant shrimps and look cool,” her assistant said in a low voice.
Celeste looked down at the spread and rolled her eyes. “Easier said than done,” she whispered.
“Look at all that waste...” Beatrice admonished. “There’s more food here than most families from my neighborhood would see in a month.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Celeste helped herself to a small plate and immediately stuffed a prawn into her mouth. When she was a kid, and living with her Granny Jo, they were on a fixed income that didn’t allow for this kind of food. She remembered a steady diet of rice and beans, some chicken if the sales were well-timed and, for a treat, homemade baked goods. Even though her grandmother provided as best as she could, Celeste was always hungry.
Now that money was no longer a worry, she still found herself hungry.
Her eye was always on the next big prize and tonight would be no different.
Magnus arrived to the party and posted up at the bar, waiting for a suitable time to make his move. He could say what he wanted about Victor Sanderson, but the man knew how to throw a party, and he knew what kind of liquor to serve. Magnus nursed two fingers of Lagavulin while he watched the mingling revelers waiting on the unveiling, eating and drinking their fill.
The penthouse luxury was a far cry from his condo in Astoria, but none of it impressed him too much. When you really got down to it, Sanderson was also a thief. He had just worked within the bounds of what was considered lawful. A descendant of a robber baron was hardly clean.
A flash of black from the corner of his eye caught his attention. A Black woman several yards away, engaged in a conversation, made him take notice. She was the only woman of color in the room, making her very noticeable. With her back to him, she spoke in hushed tones. Her hands were like small birds, fluttering around and never settling at her sides. Magnus was not the only one watching her intently; the men and women who surrounded her were rapt. They smiled and nodded as she spoke, laughing occasionally. Whoever she was, she captivated her audience.
He was tempted to leave his perch and get a closer look, but that would mean engaging with people. Magnus settled with watching from afar. His eyes trailed down her body, starting with her long neck, which was free of jewelry. When she stopped speaking, he noticed as she twisted her neck to listen to the woman beside her. Magnus caught a glimpse of her profile and noted the black-rimmed glasses that covered her face. The low lights of Sanderson’s home complemented her brown skin, making it shine like bronze. And so much of that skin was exposed in her backless black gown. Her spine was straight with a natural confidence that affected the tilt of her imperious chin. The rest of her gown began again just above her bottom and hung elegantly to the floor.
Was that her thigh peeking from the slit of her dress? He craned his neck to get a better look and was delighted to discover her graceful leg stretching against the black fabric. Magnus took another drink to extinguish the rising fire in his belly. He was here to steal a crown. He would not let his dick lead him into interactions he wasn’t prepared for. But then she laughed. It was a deep, full-bodied chuckle that made her throw her head back and touch her chest with a fluttering hand.
The sound made Magnus’s blood run cold.
He could recognize that laugh anywhere. It had been five years since he’d heard it, but he knew those uniquely warm notes that dripped like honey. They fell in a beautiful cadence that struck him directly in the chest, forcing him to grip his glass tighter as he stared on. Celeste St. Pierre. It couldn’t be... Yet, he knew better than to go against his memories of her body, her laugh, the way she angled her head when she spoke. The hand gestures made sense now. Only Celeste spoke like that. As if she were constantly conducting surrounding people. The way she had pulled the strings of his heart years ago.
She spoke to the group for a moment longer before she pointed to something in the distance. She excused herself and walked a leisurely path toward a painting that hung near the stairwell. Magnus watched as she admired the Marc Chagall print. She took her time, leaning forward to take a closer inspection. The black turban she wore tilted to the side as she examined the bottom of the print. When she straightened up, she looked over her shoulder at the rest of the partygoers. Magnus froze as her gaze scanned the scene behind her. She didn’t make eye contact with him, but he did see her face better. His heart sank when he realized it truly was Celeste.
He let his gaze wander around the space of Victor’s living room and saw that Sanderson was engaged in a conversation with an older gentleman in NYPD dress blues. He snuck a covert glance in Celeste’s direction while the men stood not but three meters from her. She gave one last look at her surroundings and quietly made her way up the stairs. As far as he could tell, no one noticed her disappearing act but him.
Celeste wasn’t here for the free food and drink; she was working. Possibly the same job as he was. Five years ago, when they worked together, they were highly competitive. They tried to one-up each other until they lost focus on the actual prize. It didn’t surprise him that they had finally overlapped in jobs. If he had the resources to find out about Sanderson’s Romanov crown, Celeste would know about it, too.
In the five minutes he stood there thinking, Celeste had probably done the deed and was on her way out.
There was no security, no noticeable cameras trained on the stairway. These were perfect conditions for a thief like Celeste. He’d worked with her long enough to know how she completed a job. She charmed the pants off anyone she encountered. Her disarming smile and sincere laughter made people flock to her, while he usually stood off to the side and cased the joint. It was his attention to detail that made it possible for them to breach security systems. He found the vulnerable spots and exploited them, while Celeste made the grab. Who was she working with now? What alias was she going by?
He finished his scotch with one last gulp and followed her. After five years of not seeing her, Magnus had to know what trouble she was up to. His curiosity and her lure were too powerful to resist. He moved through the partygoers, trying his best to appear relaxed. He, too, stopped at the Marc Chagall painting and spent a suitable amount of time staring at it. Again, the wealthy people were in a world of their own and he was on the outside. No one would notice his disappearance, either.
As he ascended the darkened stairwell, he took care not to announce his presence with a heavy footfall. He passed the many open doors of the wide hallway before coming upon a closed door. Light shone from the crack at the bottom, letting him know that someone may be inside. Ahead, there was another stairway, leading to another floor. He looked up at the loft and rooms above him and assumed they were only bedrooms. Magnus was certain he had the correct door but waited before entering. He held his ear to the oak surface and listened for any movement on the other side. There was a small scratching sound. And then a creaking noise.
When he opened the door, he found her.
Her back was to him again as she stood beside a grand dark-stained bookcase that must have spanned the far wall by twelve feet. Magnus’s eyes darted around the room, searching for evidence of a break-in, but found nothing disturbed. Celeste was hanging a painting on the far wall, beside a massive oak bookshelf, and apparently missed the sound of him opening the door. Had she lost her edge or had she gotten sloppy?
A thrill shot through his body as he watched her furtive movements. He wondered how he would approach her after five years. What he would say to the woman he came uncomfortably close to loving. Magnus stepped forward and closed the door behind him.