Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight
on his lips and the heat of her body reaching out to him. “Seven o’clock for dinner. That will give you time after your shop closes to add up the till or whatever.”
She started to say something and found herself kissing him instead. Though gentle, the kiss was even hotter than the first one. She could feel him straining at the leash he kept on himself, and she could feel herself pulling hard right along with him. When he lifted his head, she blew out a rush of warm air and wondered why this one man could get to her so fast and so deep.
“Seven o’clock,” Ian said huskily, lifting her away from the door.
She watched the door close behind him and asked herself what the hell she was doing, letting herself be seduced by Susa Donovan’s bodyguard.
Susa, who could uncover Lacey’s grandfather for the fraud he was.
Savoy Hotel
Thursday morning
22
L acey leaned against the expensive rare-wood counter of the hotel and waited for the manager to get around to her. She’d been waiting for more than twenty minutes, watching people hurrying through the lobby with armloads of stuff destined for one of the hotel’s seventy-nine rooms. Suites, actually. When accommodations started at four hundred dollars a night and went up fast, patrons expected enough room to spread out.
Scents from the restaurant adjoining the hotel drifted through the lobby—or perhaps the delectable odors were pushed by fans through the building’s ventilation system to lure more patrons. The pricey eatery had unofficially opened two weeks ago, but the media opening wouldn’t be until this Saturday.
“Ms. Marsh?” The concierge paused and said more loudly, “Ms. Marsh?”
Lacey jumped and reminded herself that she was Ms. Marsh. Sheturned toward the sleek Eurasian woman who was helping out behind the registration desk. “Sorry. I was daydreaming.”
The woman smiled. “It is a beautiful place to dream, is it not?”
Lacey sighed and wondered why some women got all the elegance and she got all the klutz. Her own blouse and worn fleece jacket were clean, if paint-stained, but only a connoisseur of garage-sale couture would approve of her jeans. The concierge’s accent and clothing were indelibly French, her looks riveting, and she carried herself like the unusual beauty she was.
“Mr. Goodman is on his way,” the concierge said. “Perhaps you would like some tea or coffee while you wait?”
“Mr. Goodman? Is he your manager?”
“No, but he is the one responsible for the security of the art for the auction. Our manager would like to help you with your request, but cannot, as it is Mr. Goodman’s responsibility. He will be only a few moments. May I show you to the cafe? It would please the hotel to offer you a complimentary breakfast.”
Lacey looked at her oversized wristwatch. The face of a vivid green Tyrannosaurus rex leered back at her. She thought the fluorescent orange teeth were a particularly nice touch, even if it made the dark hands of the clock look like roving tooth decay—and for fifty cents, who could resist? It kept hours and minutes just like the five-thousand-dollar models.
“I’m really slammed for time,” Lacey said. “I had no idea there would be any problem picking up my paintings. Surely someone here has a key to the storage room?”
“I am very sorry, Ms. Marsh.” The concierge smiled and made a graceful gesture with her hands. “I have not the authority, especially as you have not the identification.”
“I have a receipt signed by Mr. Goodman.”
“Yes, but without personal identification…” She spread her hands. “It is difficult, you understand?”
Lacey smiled without warmth. The concierge was polite, but it was a definite gotcha . Lacey had plenty of ID, and none of it was in the name of Ms. January Marsh.
“Coffee would be lovely,” Lacey said through her teeth.
No sooner had she been seated in the luxurious seventies retro cafe,with blandly psychedelic tableware, than Mr. Goodman came hurrying forward, looking worried.
“Ms. Marsh, this is most distressing,” he said, sitting down at her booth before she could stand up. “Is it something we’ve done? Are you unhappy with the way we’ve handled your paintings?”
Lacey tried not to sigh. “Not at all. I’ve simply decided to withdraw them from the function.”
“But why?”
“Does it matter? The paintings are mine and I’ll be taking them with me when I leave.”
“Oh, dear. La Susa will be terribly
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