CHAPTER ONE
Nice, France ~ 2015
There were some men who wore elegance like a second skin. Dante Malcolm was one of them.
He guided the cigarette boat through the black water like a knife, sending a fine spray of mist into the air. The moon was full, the stars bright, and the night crisp and clear. The smell of sea salt and lavender perfumed the air. It was the perfect night for a party. And an even better night for a burglary.
His tuxedo was hand-tailored and silk, his bow tie perfectly tied, and his shoes properly shined. His black hair was cut precisely, so that it would fall rakishly across his forehead instead of appearing windblown.
There was something about wealth that had always appealed to him—the glitter of jewels, the smell of expensive perfume, the not-so-subtle way the elite bragged about their latest toys or investments. It was all a game. And he’d always been a winner. But a small thorn had been growing in his side—or maybe it was his conscience—over the past few months.
Liv Rothschild. He was in love with her. Every stubborn, vivacious, persistent, gorgeous inch of her. And that was turning out to be more of a problem than he’d anticipated. Love had never been in the cards for him. Not until he’d crossed paths with a woman whose beauty had literally stopped him in his tracks. Her stunning features had lured him in, but her intelligence had kept him coming back for more.
She knew the world he was accustomed to—the world of the titled and wealthy British elite. Her father had been a prominent member of society, and he’d married an American actress who preferred the drama in her life instead of on the screen. Liv had a sister—a twin—and though he’d only been thirteen at the time, he remembered the news coverage when Elizabeth Rothschild had gone missing.
The guilt Liv carried from that day her sister vanished was what had forged her future. She’d never stopped looking for her. The investigations had turned up no clue to her whereabouts, and even Dante’s searches in the MI6 database had returned nothing. Not a hospital visit or a fingerprint taken. The assumption was that Elizabeth Rothschild was dead. He tended to agree.
But Liv had never lost hope, and Elizabeth’s disappearance had motivated Liv to go into law enforcement and ultimately join Interpol so she would have the resources she needed to find her sister. What had been a surprise to Liv was that she was a damned good agent. What had been a surprise to him was that he’d started looking forward to their paths crossing from time to time. Fortunate circumstances had combined their efforts on this case.
Which was why they were meeting at the Marquis de Carmaux’s château in the south of France. He enjoyed working with Liv, and if he had his way, they’d continue to work together. And play together. In his mind, life couldn’t get any better. He could have it all. And he did.
La Château Saint Germain was lit like a beacon atop the rugged cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, a pink monstrosity with towers and turrets and more than fifty rooms that rarely got used. Expensive cars lined the narrow road that wound up the mountain, headlights beaming for as far as the eye could see as their occupants waited for the valets to take the keys. He checked his watch, noting that Liv should already be inside.
Dante eased off the throttle, and the boat coasted up to the dock. He tossed the rope to the valet, who tied it to the mooring, and then he stepped up onto the dock, adjusting his cuffs and bow tie.
The pathway from the dock led all the way up to the château, the grounds divided into three steep tiers. The wooden steps were lined with hanging lanterns, and the trees were decorated with lights. Once at the top, Dante sauntered along the stone-paved walkway toward the house and retrieved his invitation from the inside of his jacket pocket to present to the doorman. It was time to work.
The Marquis de Carmaux had terrible taste in wine and women, but his art was exceptional. His personal collection was going on loan to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City for the next year, so he’d decided to throw a farewell party so the social elite could not only praise him for his generosity, but be envious of something they’d never be able to get their hands on.
Dante had been fortunate enough to be born into the British upper crust where wealth was passed from one generation to the next, easily accumulated with buying or selling real estate, and easily squandered on a whim. He was titled, a lord no less, and he’d been educated at the best schools, one of his classmates being the future king of England. He also had an unusual talent for math—he could solve any problem in his head, no matter how difficult. It gave him a natural aptitude for winning at cards.
He had many other talents as well—an ease with languages and the ability to see patterns amid what seemed to be nothing but random occurrences—which was why MI6 had wanted him so badly. To a wealthy young man of twenty-two who had multiple degrees in mathematics and was quickly getting bored of the party life that all his contemporaries seemed to live for, becoming an intelligence agent for his country had seemed like the right choice.
It had been around the same time that he’d met a man by the name of Simon Locke.
Simon had introduced him to the art of stealing. He’d given Dante something that no amount of money could provide, that seduced him as no woman had, and that international espionage couldn’t satisfy, though it came a close second. Simon had given him an adrenaline rush that was more intense than any drug and just as addictive.
Simon Locke had given him a purpose. Dante felt no remorse when it came to taking things that belonged to others. Because he only took from those who could afford to lose what he stole, from those who had taken what wasn’t rightfully theirs. His jobs always had a mission. He would collect the item that didn’t truly belong to the current owner, and he’d take a second piece of his choosing as his commission.
He’d met Simon in a Belgian prison while on assignment. MI6 had set up Dante’s arrest so he could get information from Simon’s cellmate, who was suspected of being part of a terrorist organization and supposedly had information about recent bombings in Brussels. Simon had been brought in after the police had done a sweep of drunk and disorderlies. He’d been neither drunk nor disorderly, but in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The cell was no bigger than a small closet, maybe eight by eight feet, and metal-frame bunk beds that had been bolted into the floor sat against one of the stone walls. The mattresses were paper-thin and dingy, and it was best not to think about what was on them. There was a metal hole in the floor for a toilet and a barred window that overlooked the guarded courtyard below. The cell was shrouded in darkness, but every twenty-seven seconds the spotlight from one of the towers scanned across the window, giving light to the shadows of the cell.
Simon stayed quiet while Dante drew information from their third cellmate, who had been drunk and disorderly, but fortunately was also loose-lipped. And when the man had passed out and was snoring obnoxiously in a corner, Simon had looked over and said, “It’s good to know British intelligence hasn’t changed.”
Dante had been speaking in flawless French to their other cellmate, but still Simon had known. And then he’d said something that piqued Dante’s curiosity.
“I was like you once.”
In his twenty-two-year-old arrogance, he’d responded, “I beg your pardon, but there’s no one else like me.”
Locke had smiled at him and moved into the light. He wasn’t a big man—maybe five eight or five nine—and his hair was slicked back and tied at the nape of his neck. Even in the holding cell, his black slacks were precisely pressed and his expensive shirt only slightly mussed. There was a nonchalant cockiness about him that Dante could appreciate. He wasn’t screaming about injustice like many of the others down the long hallway. He was calm and cool, his hands in his pockets.
St. Gilles Prison was overcrowded, its nineteenth-century cells never meant to accommodate so many prisoners. The holding cells were in the east tower. MI6 had assured Dante he’d be released early the next morning, but that was still hours away.
“Are they planning your release for the morning, Mr. . . .”
“Malcolm. I’m sure someone will post bond for me in the morning,” Dante said vaguely. “And you? Will you be released in the morning? I didn’t catch your name.”
Simon smiled again and jangled some change in his pockets. Dante was surprised they hadn’t confiscated the man’s belongings when they’d brought him in.
“You can call me Locke,” he said.
“The jailers are getting lax,” Dante said, nodding to his pockets, making Simon grin again.
“Not so much. My pockets were empty when I came in. I tend to travel light.”
Dante wasn’t sure how Locke could have acquired a handful of change, but he was getting tired of the man’s vagueness.
“I told you I was like you once,” Simon said. “What if I told you there’s something more for you than interrogating two-bit terrorists in a moldy jail cell?”
“I’d say they were right to arrest you for drunkenness.”
He shrugged. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens. What if I told you I can get us both released right now? A man like you isn’t used to places like this. I can see the disgust in your eyes. They give you these jobs because you’re young and don’t know any better than to take them. But wait until the rats come. You’ll learn to speak up then.”
The man was beginning to get under his skin, but Dante had to admit he was curious. And the idea of spending even a few more hours inside the dark cell grated against his sense of propriety.
“And how would you get us released?” Dante asked.
Simon took a copper cent from his pocket and held it up to the passing light. “Watch and learn.”
And he had watched. And he had learned. Simon had used that copper cent to remove the bars from the window. And Dante had followed him, knowing that he could at any moment be caught and shot, but there had been something compelling about Simon. He’d watched the other man scale the narrow ledges of the prison, counting the seconds before the spotlight would pass, and timing his movements precisely.
Dante had done the same thing, and he’d found it came to him as naturally as breathing. Then they were outside the prison, not a soul the wiser. Before they’d gone a block, Simon had slipped into the shadows as if he’d never been there at all.
Within a day or two, Dante had thought he might have imagined the whole event—except that he’d had a hell of a time explaining to his superiors why and exactly how he’d gone off book. He’d returned to London and his home, having delivered his report of the information he’d gotten from the terrorist, and when he walked into his bedroom, Simon had been sitting in the chair by the fireplace as if he belonged there.
It hadn’t taken long for Simon to convince Dante to become his protégé. He was nearing retirement and only had a few good years left before age caught up with him, Simon said, and he needed someone who was vigorous and sharp of mind.
They had more in common than Dante had expected. But he had drawn a hard line about certain jobs. He wouldn’t interfere if Simon targeted something specific on his own, but Dante refused to steal for the sake of stealing. There had to be a reason, and someone had to benefit. Simon had eventually acquiesced.
He’d taken over the persona of Simon Locke ten years before, when Simon felt Dante was ready to go out on his own. Dante hadn’t looked back once, and he’d never had a moment of regret.
But Liv Rothschild had been a surprise. He’d seduced her for his own pleasure the moment he saw her. But then he’d found himself being seduced. Interpol had been looking for Simon Locke for years, and as irony would have it, she was put in charge of the investigation.
It had been pure self-preservation that had caused him to involve MI6 in the hunt for Simon Locke. She’d come too close too often to discovering his true identity, and joining his MI6 resources with hers guaranteed that he always knew the steps she was taking. She was good. But he was better.
He could’ve stopped, of course. But when it came down to it, Dante didn’t want to. The thrill was in his blood. But Liv had become his oxygen. He needed both of them to survive, and he had no reason to think he couldn’t have everything he wanted.
There was no reason to confess and ruin everything. Some confessions could never be forgiven. Liv was a straight arrow. She was adventurous and liked the thrill of the chase—that was in her blood, just as thieving was in his. But in the end, law and order would take precedence.
He’d always enjoyed the Marquis de Carmaux’s château. It had been built in the eighteenth century to honor the palace of Versailles, and everything as far as the eye could see was decorated in French Baroque. It was overdone and gaudy, but as Carmaux liked to say, it was jolly good fun and women loved it. Dante and Carmaux had been friends for years, and he could attest to both of those statements.
The entryway was done in pink marble and was completely open to the second floor. The domed ceiling was painted with cherubs and erotic scenes that most people never noticed, although the other nudes painted in niches along the walls were harder to miss. The double staircase was the showpiece, also done in pink marble and flanked by pink marble columns. Whenever he walked in, Dante always felt as if he’d been swallowed whole and was lounging about in someone’s stomach.
He made his way through the growing crowd and into the ballroom—white, thank goodness, with gold-leaf trim and ceilings again painted with subtly erotic love scenes. It smelled of perfume and excitement, and couples were already moving around the dance floor. The ballroom opened up on either side—on one side was the bar and a smattering of high tables so people could rest, and on the other were the doors that led into the courtyard.
What Dante didn’t see was the one woman he was looking for. Then he felt her behind him, and his mouth quirked in a smile as he turned.
“You’re late,” Liv said.
“I’m never late, darling,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. And then he stopped and lingered when he got a good look at her.
Never had a woman had the ability to make his heart skip a beat. He’d always thought the phrase trite and impossible—foolish words of romance. But now he knew it to be true.
She was spectacular. She wore a long column of dark blue velvet—strapless and simple in its design—and the small train pooled at her feet like the darkest part of the ocean. Her white-blond hair was piled artfully on top of her head, and a sapphire the size of his thumb dangled just above her décolletage. His gaze lingered there, and all he could imagine was her wearing nothing but that necklace.
“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re likely to get in trouble,” she said, her lilting voice husky.
“Only if we do what I’m thinking about in front of all these people.” He released her hand and took two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, handing one to her.
“Are you sure he’ll be here tonight?” she asked, looking around the ballroom.
“I have a gut feeling. Carmaux has one of the premier art collections in the world, and after tonight, it’s going to be under museum security. If Locke is going to make his move, it’ll be tonight, when everything is out on display.”
“There are close to a thousand people here, and security is everywhere,” Liv said, bringing the flute to her lips to cover her words. “He’d be a fool to try to take one of these paintings. And Simon Locke is no fool.”
“Everyone has a weakness,” Dante told her. “And a challenge like this one is his. He’d go down in history as the greatest thief ever to live.”