Tess Gerritsen: Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

She pressed ahead, plunging determinedly into the Savile-Row-and-silk-scarf set. The smell of the polo field, of wet grass and horseflesh, was quickly overpowered by the scent of expensive perfumes. With an air of regal assuredness-pure acting on her part-Clea swept into the green-and-white-striped tent and glanced around at the well-heeled crowd. There were dozens of tables draped in linen, silver buckets overflowing with ice and champagne, fresh-faced girls in starched aprons whisking about with trays and glasses. And the ladies-what hats they wore! What elegant vowels tripped from their tongues! Clea paused, her confidence suddenly wavering. Lord, she’d never pull this off…

She glimpsed Delancey by the bar. He was standing alone, nursing a drink. Now or never, she thought.

She swayed over to the counter and edged in close to Delancey. She didn’t look at him, but kept her attention strictly focused on the young fellow manning the bar.

“A glass of champagne,” she said.

“ Champagne, coming up,” said the bartender.

As she waited for the drink, she sensed Delancey’s gaze. Casually she shifted around so that she was almost, but not quite, looking at him. He was indeed facing her.

The bartender slid across her drink. She took a sip and gave a weary sigh. Then she drew her fingers slowly, sensuously, through her mane of red hair.

“Been a long day, has it?”

Clea glanced sideways at Delancey. He was fashionably tanned and impeccably dressed in autumn-weight cashmere. Though tall and broad shouldered, his once striking good looks had gone soft and a bit jowly, and the hand clutching the whiskey glass had a faint tremor. What a waste, she thought, and smiled at him prettily.

“It has been rather a long day.” She sighed, and took another sip. “Afraid I’m not very good in airplanes. And now my friends haven’t shown up as promised.”

“You’ve just flown in? From where?”

“ Paris. Went on holiday for a few weeks, but decided to cut it short. Dreadfully unfriendly there.”

“I was there just last month. Didn’t feel welcome at all. I recommend you try Provence. Much friendlier.”

“ Provence? I’ll keep that in mind.”

He sidled closer. “You’re not English, are you?”

She smiled at him coyly. “You can tell?”

“The accent-what, American?”

“My, you’re quick,” she said, and noted how he puffed up with the compliment. “You’re right, I’m American. But I’ve been living in London for some time. Ever since my husband died.”

“Oh.” He shook his head sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

“He was eighty-two.” She sipped again, gazing at him over the rim of her glass. “It was his time.”

She could read the thoughts going through his transparent little head. Filthy rich old man, no doubt. Why else would a lovely young thing marry him? Which makes her a rich widow…

He moved closer. “Did you say your friends were supposed to meet you here?”

“They never showed.” Sighing, she gave him a helpless look. “I took the train up from London. We were supposed to drive back together. Now I suppose I’ll just have to take the train home.”

“There’s no need to do that!” Smiling, he edged closer to her. “I know this may sound a bit forward. But if you’re at loose ends, I’d be delighted to show you ’round. It’s a lovely village we have here.”

“I couldn’t impose-”

“No imposition at all. I’m at loose ends myself today. Thought I’d watch a little polo, and then go off to the club. But this is a far pleasanter prospect.”

She looked him up and down, as though trying to decide if he could be trusted. “I don’t even know your name,” she protested weakly.

He thrust out his hand in greeting. “Guy Delancey. Delighted to make your acquaintance. And you are…”

“Diana,” she said. Smiling warmly, she shook his hand. “Diana Lamb.”

It was three minutes into the fourth chukker. Oliver Cairncross, mounted on his white-footed roan, swung his mallet on a dead run. The thwock sent the ball flying between the goalposts. Another score for the Bucking’ shire Boys! Enthusiastic applause broke out in the viewing stands, and Sir Oliver responded by sweeping off his helmet and dipping his bald head in a dramatic bow.

“Just look at him,” murmured Veronica. “They’re like children out there, swinging their sticks at balls. Will they never grow up?”

Out on the field Sir Oliver strapped his helmet back in place and turned to wave to his wife in the stands. He frowned when he saw that she was leaning toward Jordan.

“Oh, no.” Veronica sighed. “He’s seen you.” At once she rose to her feet, waving and beaming a smile of wifely pride. Sitting back down, she muttered, “He’s so bloody suspicious.”

Jordan looked at her in astonishment. “Surely he doesn’t think that you and I-”

“You are my old chum. Naturally he wonders.”

Yes, of course he does, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica would probably spend his lifetime in a perpetual state of doubt.

The ball was tossed. The thunder of hoofbeats, the whack of a mallet announced the resumption of play.

Veronica leaned close to Jordan. “Did you bring them?” she whispered.

“As requested.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew the bundle of letters.

At once she snatched them out of his hand. “You didn’t read them, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Such a gentleman!” Playfully she reached up and pinched his cheek. “You promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Not a soul. But this is absolutely the last time, Veronica. From now on, be discreet. Or better yet, honor those marriage vows.”

“Oh, I will, I will!” she declared fervently. She stood and moved toward the aisle.

“Where are you going?” he called.

“To flush these down the loo, of course!” She gave him a gay wave of farewell. “I’ll call you, Jordie!” As she turned to make her way up the aisle, she brushed past a broad-shouldered man. At once she halted, her gaze slanting up with interest at this new specimen of masculinity.

Jordan shook his head in disgust and turned his attention back to the polo game. Men and horses thundered past, chasing that ridiculous rubber ball across the field. Back and forth they flew, mallets swinging, a tangle of sweating men and horseflesh. Jordan had never been much of a polo fan. The few times he’d played the game he’d come away with more than his share of bruises. He didn’t trust horses and horses didn’t trust him and in the inevitable struggle for authority, the beasts had a seven-hundred-pound advantage.

There were still four chukkers left to go, but Jordan had had his fill. He left the viewing stands and headed for the refreshment tent.

In the shade of green-and-white-striped awning, he strolled over to the wine bar and ordered a glass of soda water. With so much celebrating this past week, he’d been waking up every morning feeling a bit pickled.

Sipping his glass of soda, Jordan wandered about looking for an unoccupied table. He spotted one off in a corner. As he approached it, he recognized the occupant of the neighboring table. It was Guy Delancey. Seated across from Delancey, her back to Jordan, was a woman with a magnificent mane of red hair. The couple seemed to be intently engaged in intimate conversation. Jordan thought it best not to disturb them. He walked straight past them and was just sitting down at the neighboring table when he caught a snatch of their dialogue.

“Just the spot to forget one’s troubles,” Guy was saying. “Sun. Sugary beaches. Waiters catering to your every whim. Do consider joining me there.”