Read Online The Stolen Chalicel by Kitty Pilgrim - Free Book Online
Authors: Kitty Pilgrim
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couple of Dunhills in a silver case for the occasional jitters. To his mind, this evening definitely qualified as a legitimate time to light up.
The last time he saw Holly, she had been dancing with John Sinclair in front of the Temple of Dendur. He should have been dancing with her, instead of that damned interloper.
Of course, he knew who Sinclair was—the archaeologist was a legend, a titan in the field. The man had discovered more artifacts than any person alive. And now, rumor had it, he had located Pharos, the ancient lighthouse of Alexandria.
While Sinclair’s professional reputation was stellar, his personal reputation was notorious. He was a playboy, a real lady-killer. And if you listened to the excavation gossip, he had legions of ex-girlfriends from Khartoum to Kazakhstan. It was incredible that Holly had greeted him in such an intimate tone.
As Carter stood there, a woman exited the museum. With her pitch-black hair, golden skin, and high cheekbones, she could have been an Egyptian deity fleeing the scene of destruction. He noticed that she was attired in what looked like a modern version of an Egyptian kalasiris . Carter had never seen a dress like that, except perhaps carved on the wall of a tomb.
The woman carried high-heeled gold sandals in her hand and ran down the red-carpeted steps in her bare feet, lifting the hem of her dress as she moved. Carter could see she was not wearing stockings; her legs were tan and bare.
Several news reporters noticed her and the camera crews turned on their lights. The crimson silk of the kalasiris became as transparent as gauze.
“Will you look at that !” Carter said to himself in surprise.
He blinked, half wondering if he was hallucinating. She was wearing nothing underneath that dress!
“I’ll be damned, ” he said.
There were two policemen at the bottom of the steps, both portly,one short and the other tall. She stopped and spoke to them for several minutes.
Then the woman did something odd—she leaned heavily on the arm of the policeman to retain her balance as she fastened the straps of her evening sandals. The policeman didn’t seem to mind. He just kept talking to her. When she had finished putting on her shoes, the woman and the policemen started off together down Fifth Avenue. Carter had a final glimpse of the trio as they wove in and out of the parked patrol cars—an Egyptian goddess escorted by the two uniformed officers.
Ted’s search for Tipper was futile. The marble hall was packed with hundreds of people walking around aimlessly. Police officers were now urging people to move outside. Suddenly Tipper stood before him, ghastly, white-faced, weaving.
“Ted,” she demanded. “Take me home .”
His heart sank. Drunk again. Would it never end? Her first trip out into society and she gave in to the bottle.
He held her arm and escorted her out of the building. The stairs were going to be a challenge. Tipper kept her head down to monitor her voluminous skirts. Just as she navigated her way past the camera crew, she tripped and nearly fell. Ted caught her in time. Then she managed to wobble down the remaining twenty-eight steps without incident.
The doorman at 1010 Fifth Avenue was standing outside, gawking at the mayhem. When he saw the VerPlancks, he recovered himself and swung open the heavy iron doors.
“Good evening, sir.”
VerPlanck gave him a nod as Tipper sailed straight past him.
Inside the lobby, it was as cool and silent as a tomb. There were several large vases of calla lilies, which reinforced the impression of a sepulcher. Ted escorted his wife to the elevator. But it wasn’t until the doors closed that he finally spoke.
“Tipper, you’re drunk.”
Tipper pulled her arm away from him with irritation and stood in silence. As the elevator door opened, she stepped directly into the foyerof their penthouse, but ruined her haughty exit by tripping on the Persian carpet.
Ted leaped forward to steady her, but she waved
The last time he saw Holly, she had been dancing with John Sinclair in front of the Temple of Dendur. He should have been dancing with her, instead of that damned interloper.
Of course, he knew who Sinclair was—the archaeologist was a legend, a titan in the field. The man had discovered more artifacts than any person alive. And now, rumor had it, he had located Pharos, the ancient lighthouse of Alexandria.
While Sinclair’s professional reputation was stellar, his personal reputation was notorious. He was a playboy, a real lady-killer. And if you listened to the excavation gossip, he had legions of ex-girlfriends from Khartoum to Kazakhstan. It was incredible that Holly had greeted him in such an intimate tone.
As Carter stood there, a woman exited the museum. With her pitch-black hair, golden skin, and high cheekbones, she could have been an Egyptian deity fleeing the scene of destruction. He noticed that she was attired in what looked like a modern version of an Egyptian kalasiris . Carter had never seen a dress like that, except perhaps carved on the wall of a tomb.
The woman carried high-heeled gold sandals in her hand and ran down the red-carpeted steps in her bare feet, lifting the hem of her dress as she moved. Carter could see she was not wearing stockings; her legs were tan and bare.
Several news reporters noticed her and the camera crews turned on their lights. The crimson silk of the kalasiris became as transparent as gauze.
“Will you look at that !” Carter said to himself in surprise.
He blinked, half wondering if he was hallucinating. She was wearing nothing underneath that dress!
“I’ll be damned, ” he said.
There were two policemen at the bottom of the steps, both portly,one short and the other tall. She stopped and spoke to them for several minutes.
Then the woman did something odd—she leaned heavily on the arm of the policeman to retain her balance as she fastened the straps of her evening sandals. The policeman didn’t seem to mind. He just kept talking to her. When she had finished putting on her shoes, the woman and the policemen started off together down Fifth Avenue. Carter had a final glimpse of the trio as they wove in and out of the parked patrol cars—an Egyptian goddess escorted by the two uniformed officers.
Ted’s search for Tipper was futile. The marble hall was packed with hundreds of people walking around aimlessly. Police officers were now urging people to move outside. Suddenly Tipper stood before him, ghastly, white-faced, weaving.
“Ted,” she demanded. “Take me home .”
His heart sank. Drunk again. Would it never end? Her first trip out into society and she gave in to the bottle.
He held her arm and escorted her out of the building. The stairs were going to be a challenge. Tipper kept her head down to monitor her voluminous skirts. Just as she navigated her way past the camera crew, she tripped and nearly fell. Ted caught her in time. Then she managed to wobble down the remaining twenty-eight steps without incident.
The doorman at 1010 Fifth Avenue was standing outside, gawking at the mayhem. When he saw the VerPlancks, he recovered himself and swung open the heavy iron doors.
“Good evening, sir.”
VerPlanck gave him a nod as Tipper sailed straight past him.
Inside the lobby, it was as cool and silent as a tomb. There were several large vases of calla lilies, which reinforced the impression of a sepulcher. Ted escorted his wife to the elevator. But it wasn’t until the doors closed that he finally spoke.
“Tipper, you’re drunk.”
Tipper pulled her arm away from him with irritation and stood in silence. As the elevator door opened, she stepped directly into the foyerof their penthouse, but ruined her haughty exit by tripping on the Persian carpet.
Ted leaped forward to steady her, but she waved
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