straight into a con, blinded by good looks and a clever line. And when a girl was flat-ass busted in Eastern Europe, in a city where she could barely manage the simplest phrase in the guidebook, she did what she could to make ends meet.
She had one thing on her side, she thought now. She never made the same mistake twice.
In that regard, at least, she was not her mother’s daughter.
The little restaurant was brightly lit, and there were a few patrons scattered around the tables having coffee or a late meal. The company, such as it was, was a plus. Not that she was particularly worried about the Irish guy making a move on her. She could handle herself.
She spotted him at a corner booth, drinking coffee and reading a book, with a cigarette smoking away in a black plastic ashtray. With those dark, romantic looks, she thought, he’d pass for some kind of artist, a writer maybe. No, she decided, a poet. Some struggling poet who wrote dark, esoteric free verse and had come to the great city for inspiration as others had before him.
Looks, she thought with a smirk, were always deceiving.
He glanced up as she slid into the booth across from him. His eyes, a deep and crystal blue in the poetic face, were the type that shot straight to a woman’s glands.
Good thing, Cleo acknowledged, she was immune.
“You cut it close,” he commented and continued to read.
She merely shrugged, then turned to the waitress who stepped up to the booth. “Coffee. Three eggs, scrambled. Bacon. Toast. Thanks.” Cleo smiled when she saw Gideon studying her over the top of his book. “I’m hungry.”
“I suppose what you do works up an appetite.”
He marked his place, set the book aside. Yeats, Cleo noted. It figured.
“That’s the point, isn’t it? Working up appetites.” She stretched out her legs as the waitress poured her coffee. “How did you like my act?”
“It’s better than most.” She hadn’t removed her stage makeup. In the bright lights she looked both hard and sexy. He imagined she knew it. Had planned it. “Why do you do it?”
“Unless you’re a Broadway scout, Slick, that’s my business.” Watching him, she lifted a hand, rubbed her thumb and two fingers together.
Gideon took the half bill out of his pocket, then slid it under his book. “Talk first.” He’d already outlined how he wanted to approach the matter with her and had decided the direct—well, fairly direct—route would work best.
“You have an ancestor on your mother’s side. A Simon White-Smythe.”
More puzzled than interested, Cleo sipped her coffee, strong and black. “So?”
“He was a collector, art and artifacts. There was a piece in his collection, a small silver statue of a woman. Greek style. I represent a party that’s interested in obtaining that statue.”
Cleo said nothing as her breakfast was served. The scent of food, particularly food she wasn’t going to have to pay for, put her in a cooperative mood.
She scooped up a bite of egg, picked up a slice of bacon. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah. This client got a reason for wanting some little silver woman?”
“Sentimental reasons, primarily. There was a man back in 1915 who was traveling to London to purchase it from your ancestor. He made an unwise choice in his mode of transportation,” Gideon added as he helped himself to Cleo’s bacon. “And booked passage on the Lusitania. He went down with it.”
Cleo studied the selection of jams and settled on black currant. She slathered a slice of toast generously as her mind worked through the story.
Her grandmother on her mother’s side, the one family member who’d been human and humorous, had been a White-Smythe by birth. So his story gelled, as far as it went.
“Your interested party’s waited over eighty years to track down this statue?”
“Some are more sentimental than others,” he said evenly. “You could say this man’s fate was determined by that small statue. My job is to locate it and, if
She had one thing on her side, she thought now. She never made the same mistake twice.
In that regard, at least, she was not her mother’s daughter.
The little restaurant was brightly lit, and there were a few patrons scattered around the tables having coffee or a late meal. The company, such as it was, was a plus. Not that she was particularly worried about the Irish guy making a move on her. She could handle herself.
She spotted him at a corner booth, drinking coffee and reading a book, with a cigarette smoking away in a black plastic ashtray. With those dark, romantic looks, she thought, he’d pass for some kind of artist, a writer maybe. No, she decided, a poet. Some struggling poet who wrote dark, esoteric free verse and had come to the great city for inspiration as others had before him.
Looks, she thought with a smirk, were always deceiving.
He glanced up as she slid into the booth across from him. His eyes, a deep and crystal blue in the poetic face, were the type that shot straight to a woman’s glands.
Good thing, Cleo acknowledged, she was immune.
“You cut it close,” he commented and continued to read.
She merely shrugged, then turned to the waitress who stepped up to the booth. “Coffee. Three eggs, scrambled. Bacon. Toast. Thanks.” Cleo smiled when she saw Gideon studying her over the top of his book. “I’m hungry.”
“I suppose what you do works up an appetite.”
He marked his place, set the book aside. Yeats, Cleo noted. It figured.
“That’s the point, isn’t it? Working up appetites.” She stretched out her legs as the waitress poured her coffee. “How did you like my act?”
“It’s better than most.” She hadn’t removed her stage makeup. In the bright lights she looked both hard and sexy. He imagined she knew it. Had planned it. “Why do you do it?”
“Unless you’re a Broadway scout, Slick, that’s my business.” Watching him, she lifted a hand, rubbed her thumb and two fingers together.
Gideon took the half bill out of his pocket, then slid it under his book. “Talk first.” He’d already outlined how he wanted to approach the matter with her and had decided the direct—well, fairly direct—route would work best.
“You have an ancestor on your mother’s side. A Simon White-Smythe.”
More puzzled than interested, Cleo sipped her coffee, strong and black. “So?”
“He was a collector, art and artifacts. There was a piece in his collection, a small silver statue of a woman. Greek style. I represent a party that’s interested in obtaining that statue.”
Cleo said nothing as her breakfast was served. The scent of food, particularly food she wasn’t going to have to pay for, put her in a cooperative mood.
She scooped up a bite of egg, picked up a slice of bacon. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah. This client got a reason for wanting some little silver woman?”
“Sentimental reasons, primarily. There was a man back in 1915 who was traveling to London to purchase it from your ancestor. He made an unwise choice in his mode of transportation,” Gideon added as he helped himself to Cleo’s bacon. “And booked passage on the Lusitania. He went down with it.”
Cleo studied the selection of jams and settled on black currant. She slathered a slice of toast generously as her mind worked through the story.
Her grandmother on her mother’s side, the one family member who’d been human and humorous, had been a White-Smythe by birth. So his story gelled, as far as it went.
“Your interested party’s waited over eighty years to track down this statue?”
“Some are more sentimental than others,” he said evenly. “You could say this man’s fate was determined by that small statue. My job is to locate it and, if
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