Page 322 of The Romance Adventure

Thankfully, I have no such encounters before I get to the library with a climate control vent that will lead me to Von Dräger’s office, just like the hard-won architectural specs for this mansion indicated.

Unlike the rest of his treasure, he keeps this particular item hidden. After years of studying his habits, I believe he keeps it in his humidor. Somewhat ironic because it’s flammable.

From my hands and knees, I emerge into the room. Note to self: next time, wear a gown with a little more elastic.

Exhaling, I breathe in the scent of leather, wood polish, and the faint smokiness of a man who enjoys expensive cigars. I file that away because I’ve never been as close as I am tonight.

Striding across the room, I spot the box made of cherry wood with mother-of-pearl inlay on a table, along with crystal decanters filled with amber liquids.

My mind skips to a different man altogether, and the story I’ll have to tell about where I’ve been. Swallowing regret, I turn the little golden key and lift the lid on the humidor. Cigars line up neatly like soldiers, but they’re not wrapped in the piece of paper I seek. Lifting the upper tray, I reveal more cigars beneath it, but still no sign of what I’m looking for.

Smoothing my hand along the sides of the box, I wonder if there is a drawer or a hidden compartment. Sure enough, I feel a paper-thin seam and push it inward. It pops out with a click.

The clock is ticking, and I don’t have time to study the piece of paper with shock and awe. No, instead, I tuck it into the front of my dress and return the way I came.

Success!

However, from outside the library door, I hear the rise and fall of voices.

In Spanish, a man says, “Clear.”

“Office next,” a second man says in a low tone.

It’s safe to say they were just in the library, which means I have to make a quick escape while they’re occupied in the office. Peering out the window, there’s no ledge and even if I were to make the drop, the secondary measures in the event of a security breach include the activation of electrified wire mesh around the perimeter. I don’t want to trip it and alert anyone of my presence as I streak across the yard.

No, I’ll have to return the way I came, as originally planned.

Listening for activity from the hallway, the security guys must now be in Von Dräger’s office. I find it hard to believe he didn’t have the thing under lock and key. Then again, the drawer was hidden and even if someone found the torn piece of paper, they wouldn’t necessarily recognize it for what it is or think of it as useful.

I slip out of the library and hastily stride down the hallway with sconces glowing on the walls between more artwork, including a piece by da Vinci that I’ll have to add to the report.

I’ll wait until after I present Von Dräger with what’s sure to be the prize of his collection for everything he stole from others to be torn from his greedy hands. I don’t necessarily feel good about my decision, but it was the difficult choice I had to make once I realized who he was.

And there he is.

My stomach leaps into my throat—not something that happens often after nearly ten years in this business.

Completely unfettered by the supposed assault on his security system, he walks with the ease and confidence of a man who has multiple decades on me. His hair is mostly salt, but some pepper remains. Even at his age, he remains vigorous and imposing.

Glimpsing me, the corner of his lip lifts and he slows. In Spanish, he says, “Good evening.”

I smile and nod politely, trying not to make it seem like I’m avoiding eye contact even though I ought to. It’s a fine balance between not wanting to raise suspicion or risk him realizing who I am. There’s no mistaking the qualities we share.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, also in Spanish, when we’re less than a meter away.

“It’s a lovely party,” I say, replying in English and using my best American accent.

His dark eyebrow lifts. “Ah, a Yankee.”

“A Georgia Peach, actually,” I say, wondering where that came from. What happened to my original cover of being the daughter of the wealthy Spaniard or the French ingenue who doesn’t speak English?

I can’t afford to choke.

“But no southern accent?” His accent is Castilian but relaxed as he moves easily between languages.

I smile demurely. “Sadly, it’s a fading trait.”

“You’re as pretty as a peach, and just as valuable, no doubt.”