The
guards at the door snapped their heels together in
greeting. Istvan
Kerkay went through, nodding to the next set of guards in
the antechamber.
Then he burst through the door to the treasury proper, a
large hall
with tables covered in velvet, giant bank safes lining one
wall, another
hosting hundreds of secured deposit boxes.
Priceless
rugs, left behind by the Turkish invasion four hundred
years ago, were
kept in a climate-controlled chamber, along with some
elaborately studded
and painted war chests. Artwork that wasn’t on display at
the moment
in the palace was kept in a side room, exhibited there in
all its splendid
glory.
"Your
Highness." Chancellor Egon came forward and made the
introductions.
"Your
Highness." The woman measured up Istvan as she did a rather
understated
curtsy. She wore white gloves meant to protect museum
artifacts.
Probably
so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints. She wasn’t fooling him.
Once
an art thief, always an art thief—he believed that with his
whole
heart. As far as he was concerned, Lauryn Steler was only
one small
step above a tomb raider, which had been her father’s
sordid occupation,
in fact.
She
and her kind stood for everything he spent his life
fighting against.
"Miss
Steler." Greeting her politely took effort, but good
manners had been
hammered into all six princes at an early age. He did stop
short, however,
of telling her that she was welcome at the palace.
"Chancellor
Egon was about to show me the coronation vault." She
beamed, either
not noticing the slight or choosing to ignore it.
Fury
that had been rising inside him now bubbled dangerously
close to the
surface. "How kind of him." His voice had enough edge to
cut through
the seven-layer titanium allow that still stood between her
and his
heritage, the sacred symbols of his country and his
family.
The
Chancellor stiffened and took a step back, giving him a
worried look.
"Your Highness, I was merely—"
"I’ll
take over here. You may leave."
"Certainly,
Your Highness." The Chancellor backed out without argument.
He’d
lost a lot of his bluster and bossiness after the mishap
with Lazlo.
He wasn’t exactly malleable, but he no longer butted heads
with the
princes over every little thing either.
The
woman was still politely smiling. Her mouth was a tad too
wide to be
called aristocratic, but nevertheless, some people would
have found
her face pleasant. She didn’t seem to have caught a single
whiff of
doom in the air.
"This
is exciting," she said.
Either
she was beyond belief impertinent or incredibly dense.
Given her reputation,
Istvan didn’t think it was the latter.
"Isn’t
it?" He didn’t bother forcing a smile, welcoming or
otherwise. "I
imagine it’s the first time you’ve seen something like
this."
"Yes,
yes, it is." Her green-gold eyes looked a little too wide
with innocence.
Of
course, she’d been in a treasury before. In Portugal, he
seemed to
remember now something he’d heard about her a while back.
If half
the rumors about her were true, she’d been the best art
thief who
had ever lived.
She
certainly dressed like a cat burglar. A pair of tight-
fitting black
sacks covered her long legs, her black short-sleeved shirt
leaving her
toned arms bare. She was as perfectly proportioned as a
painting by
the grand masters, her eyes mesmerizing, her skin
translucent, her lines
magnificent. Her copper hair was pulled into a sleek
ponytail to make
sure it didn’t get in her way.
The
closer he looked, the easier he could see how she’d
bewitched many
of her victims in the past, even poor Chancellor Egon who’d
been taken
by her enough to open the treasury doors, of all things. No
fool like
an old fool, his father had been fond of saying.
Good
thing Istvan was always a lot more interested in what lay
beneath the
surface of things. And in her heart of hearts, Lauryn
Steler was a thief,
the worst kind of villain. He didn’t care if the whole
world had forgotten
that. He wouldn’t.
"I’ve
already seen a few pieces I would like to take," she told
him as if
she were at one of those abominable wholesale outlets of
her country
that sold mass-produced goods in batches.
"I’m
sure you have."
If
she weren’t a consultant for the Getty Center in Los
Angeles, one
of the most respected museums in the world, his answer
would have been,
Over my dead body. But the board at the Getty had asked
for a loan
of Valtrian artifacts for a special exhibit. Then the
treasure would
embark on a trip, residing for three months each in the top-
twenty most-prominent
museums of the world.
Chancellor
Egon has made cultural exchange his new quest. If he
couldn’t use
another row of royal weddings to cheer up the people and
raise the country’s
visibility abroad, then he would do it by parading
Valtria’s past
all over creation. A very bad idea, Istvan had been saying
from the
beginning, but somehow the Chancellor gained the Queen’s
approval
anyway.
Of
course, as ill as the Queen was some days, the Chancellor
could probably
manipulate her into any agreement. Istvan had said as much
to Arpad,
but his eldest brother brushed off his concerns. The Crown
Prince fully
trusted the Chancellor.
Maybe
he should have left the conference in Brazil and came back
to the palace
sooner, Istvan thought now, looking at the woman, still
unsure what
to do with her. She moved with sinuous grace as she
considered the display
cases, wandering away from him as if pulled by a magnet
toward his country’s
treasures.
"Magnificent,"
she said with awe that didn’t seem phony.
"And
protected by state-of-the-art security," he mentioned in a
note of
forced nonchalance, not at all approving of that throaty,
sexy voice
of hers that didn’t go with her sleek, crisp appearance.
Her
voice belonged to a seductress swathed in silk in a candle-
lit boudoir.
He blinked that ridiculous image away. He didn’t think Miss
Steler
spent much time reclining on satin pillows. He could,
however, see her
rappelling from high ceilings, or jumping roofs and
disappearing with
her latest loot strapped to her back, nearly invisible in
the night.
He
had a feeling that if quizzed, she could tell him the exact
number and
location of every security camera in the room, in addition
to the content
and worth of each display. The Getty sending her was a
stunning oversight.
Their
excuse was that none of her past transgressions could be
proven. That
they couldn’t punish her for her father’s sins. That even
if she
had a shady past once, she was reformed now, one-hundred-
percent trustworthy
and the best in the business.
"Shall
we?" she was asking with unbridled optimism, nodding toward
the safe
door that protected the crown jewels.
He
wished he could say, When hell freezes over.
Instead, he stepped
up to the iris scanner. "Istvan Kerkay," he said for the
voice recognition
software. And with a soft hiss, the hydraulic lock
opened.
The
lights inside came on automatically. He motioned for her to
proceed
first. As outraged as he was, he was still a gentleman.
She
gave a soft gasp.
He
didn’t blame her. The sight had the same effect on him, and
he’d
been in here hundreds of times. In glass cases that lined
the small
chamber were the most important treasures of the kingdom.
The crown
without which there could be no coronation and no knew
king. The specter.
The Queen’s tiaras. A ceremonial sword with a gold-and-
diamond handle
that he remembered his father wearing when he’d been a kid.
A robe
woven from threads of gold, once worn at coronation but now
put away
for all prosperity as it had become too fragile even to
touch.
There
were other treasures. The most important of the Queen’s
jewels took
up one long case. Another held the signet rings of all the
old kings.
She
moved in front of the main case.
"None
of those will be going anywhere, you understand," he told
her. "There’s
a law forbidding any of the coronation jewels to leave the
country."
If the Queen traveled to visit other heads of state, she
usually took
one of the lesser crowns or a simple tiara.
She
nodded, but seemed distracted, as if she’d barely heard
him. From
the corner of his eye, he caught her fingers twitching. She
was flexing
her hands inside her gloves.
Probably
thinking that he’d open one of the cases and let her take
something
out for closer examination. The temerity of her—He
stepped
back, ready to get her out of the vault. Everything about
her being
in there shouted wrong and went against his most basic
instincts. "So
now that we’re done here…"
That
green-gold gaze flew to him, still filled with awe. Her
delicate nostrils
were trembling. "One more minute, please." She wasn’t
exactly
begging, but she was close to it. There was a luminous
quality to her
all of a sudden, as if what she was seeing was lighting her
up from
the inside.
He
understood exactly how she felt and resented having even
this small
thing in common with her. But he couldn’t deny that he had
felt like
this dozens of times in the past when he stood over a new
discovery.
No amount of time would have been enough. And he wasn’t
about to indulge
her, in any case.
"Maybe
another time," he said, but thought, Not as long as I
live and
breathe.
She
walked out as if leaving physically hurt her, moving as
slowly as possible,
glancing back frequently.
He
sealed the door behind them and made a show of setting the
locks, then
pointed toward the back of the treasury. "I was thinking a
few paintings
and dresses." A number of those had been severely damaged
over the
centuries and had to be extensively restored. Save a few
square centimeters
here and there, little of them was original.
She
looked back toward the vault and drew a deep breath before
turning her
attention to him. "I understand that you’re reluctant to
let anything
go. But we have to keep in mind that whatever I take to the
Getty will
also be going around the world to represent your
country."
She
was making a play on his pride. Smart, but she wasn’t going
to trap
him as easily as that. "Be that as it may, the safety of
the artifacts
is my first concern."
"And
mine as well." Her chin came up, her eyes challenging him
to bring
up her past.
Of
course, she could easily dismiss anything he said as
malicious rumor.
A prince did not stoop to repeating rumors in any case. He
said nothing.
"I
was thinking some of the artifacts left behind by the
Brotherhood of
the Crown," she told him after a moment, wiping the small,
triumphant
smile off her face so fast he might have imagined it. "They
make a
compelling story. Eight brothers, princes, coming together
to save their
country. They were brave and dashing. It’s very romantic. I
think
their story is perfect to introduce Valtria to an American
audience."
Definitely
not artifacts of the Brotherhood.
She was beginning to give him a headache...