Sweet Revenge

sweet.”
    “And true. In fact, I was hoping we could have lunch one day this week. Social for a change.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.” Since he was a nice man and only half in love with her, she meant it.
    “I read where you were getting engaged to some German baroness. Von Weisburg.”
    “Really? Well, I believe we had a five-minute conversation at a political fund-raiser last month. I don’t recall marriage coming up.”
    Dipping into her bag, she drew out a wrapped wad of hundreds. They weren’t new, nor were the serial numbers consecutive. The bills had the soft feel and sweaty scent of well-used money.
    “George, I want to make a little contribution to Women in Need.”
    “The women’s shelter?”
    “That’s right. I’ll want the contribution to be made anonymously, of course, through your office. I’m going to transfer a hundred and seventy-five thousand into my special account today. You’ll take care of it?”
    “Of course, Addy. You’re very generous.”
    Adrianne riffled a finger over the edge of the bills. She remembered other women in need. “It’s the least I can do.”

Chapter Eleven
    Behind him a lion roared more out of boredom than ferocity. Philip bit into a peanut and didn’t glance back. It always depressed him a little to see cats in captivity. He had an empathy for them, and more, for anything that found itself caged. Still, he enjoyed strolling through the London zoo. Perhaps it did him good to see the bars and cages and remind himself that he’d avoided looking through them from the inside throughout his career.
    He didn’t particularly miss stealing. At least not very much. It had been a good, steady profession while it had lasted, and had certainly provided him with the means to live well. That had always been Philip’s main ambition. Comfort was always preferable to discomfort, but it was luxury that soothed a man’s soul.
    From time to time he considered writing a thriller based on one of his more elegant heists. The Trafalgi sapphires perhaps. He had such fond memories of that particular job. It would be taken as fiction, of course. Truth was most often odder and more harrowing than make-believe. The pity was he didn’t think his present employer would see the humor or the irony of it. It was a project he could save for his retirement, when he was snuggled nicely in Oxfordshire raising hounds and hunting pheasant.
    He could see himself as a country squire with muddy boots and a faithful staff—as long as it was a couple of decades off.
    Popping another peanut into his mouth, he walked over to look at the panthers. Restless, angry, they stalked back and forth over the length of their enclosure, never quite able totake their captivity as philosophically as other cats. He sympathized. He was fond of their sleek lines and dangerous eyes. He’d been compared to one, by associates, by police, by women. In build and moves only, he supposed, because he was fair in coloring.
    He continued to nibble on peanuts and told himself that when a man was nearing thirty-five he had to think about his health. Cigarettes were a filthy habit and one he had done well to give up. He felt positively self-righteous about it. It was a shame he was so fond of tobacco.
    Taking a bench, he watched people walk by. Since it was remarkably warm for October, nannies and prams were in full attendance. He caught the eye of a young, pretty brunette strolling with a short-coated toddler. She smiled, gave him a quick flirtatious sweep of her lashes, and was more than a little disappointed when he didn’t follow her.
    As he might have, Philip thought, if he didn’t have a meeting. Women had always been of interest to him, not only because they wore, and owned, the bulk of the baubles, but because they were—women. They were one more of life’s luxuries with their soft skin and fragrant hair. He glanced at his watch just as the second hand swept up to the twelve. It was one exactly. Philip wasn’t surprised when a portly, balding man dropped onto the bench beside him.
    “Don’t see why we couldn’t meet at Whites.”
    Philip offered the bag of peanuts. “Too stuffy. You could use the fresh air, old man. You’re looking pale.”
    Captain Stuart Spencer grumbled, but took a nut. The diet his wife had him on was murder. If the truth were known, he was glad to be away from the office, from the paperwork, from the phone. There were days he missed fieldwork, though fortunately they were few and