3

Her official biography put her age at forty-five. Nonetheless she looked astonishingly the same as when she'd last appeared in a film a decade earlier. Tall, thin, angular.

Intense blue eyes. An exquisite oval face, its sensuous curves framed by shoulder-length, sun-bleached hair. Smooth, tanned skin. A photographer's dream.

Ten years ago, at a press conference in Los Angeles after she'd won her best actress Academy Award, she'd surprised the world by announcing her retirement. Her marriage one month later-to the monarch of a small but wealthy island-kingdom off the French Riviera-had been equally surprising. When her husband's health had declined, she'd taken over his business affairs, doubling the tourism and casinos that accounted for his island's wealth.

She ruled as she had acted, with what film reviewers had called a style of “fire and ice.” Intense yet controlled. Passionate but in charge. In her love scenes, she'd always played the dominant role. The sequence in which she finally seduced the charismatic jewel thief whose attentions she'd persistently discouraged remained a classic depiction of sexual tension. She knew what she wanted, but she took it only when her desires didn't put her at risk, and her pleasure seemed based on giving more than she took, on condescending to grant the jewel thief a night he'd never forget.

So, too, her island subjects courted her attention. In response, she waved but kept a distance until at unexpected moments her generosity-to the sick, the homeless, the bereaved-was overwhelming. It seemed that compassion to her was a weakness, a fire that threatened to melt her icy control. But when politically advantageous, emotion could be permitted, indeed allowed in excessive amounts. As long as it didn't jeopardize her. As long as it made her subjects love her.

She smiled, approaching Savage. Radiant. A movie in real life. For his part, Savage admired her artful entrance, knowing that she knew exactly the impression she created.

She was dressed in black handcrafted sandals, burgundy pleated slacks, a robin's-egg-colored silk blouse (its three top buttons open to reveal the tan on the top of her breasts, its light blue no doubt chosen to emphasize the deeper blue of her eyes), a Cartier watch, and a diamond pendant with matching earrings (their glint further emphasizing her eyes as well as her sun-bleached hair).

She paused before Savage, then studied the remaining bodyguard, her gaze dismissive. “Thank you.”

The burly man left, reluctant not to hear the conversation.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she said, stepping nearer, permitting Savage to inhale her subtle perfume. Her voice was husky, her handshake firm.

“Five minutes? No need to apologize.” Savage shrugged. “In my profession, I'm used to waiting a great deal longer. Besides, I had time to admire your collection.” He gestured toward the glass-enclosed display of vases. “At least, I assume it's your collection. I doubt any hotel, even the Georges Roi II, provides its clients with priceless artworks.”

“I take them with me when I travel. A touch of home. Do you appreciate Chinese ceramics?”

“Appreciate? Yes, though I don't know anything about them. However, I do enjoy beauty, Your Highness. Including-if you'll forgive the compliment-yourself. It's an honor to meet you.”

“As royalty, or because I'm a former film personality?”

“Former actress.”

A flick of the eyes, a nod of the head. “You're very kind. Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable if we dispensed with formalities. Please call me by my former name. Joyce Stone.”

Savage imitated her gracious nod. “Miss Stone.”

“Your eyes are green.”

“That's not so remarkable,” Savage said.

“On the contrary. Quite remarkable. A chameleon's color. Your eyes blend with your clothes. Gray jacket. Blue shirt. An inattentive observer would describe your eyes as-”

“Grayish blue but not green. You're perceptive.”

“And you understand the tricks of light. You're adaptable.”

“It's useful in my work.” Savage turned toward the paintings. “Superb. If I'm not mistaken, the Van Gogh Cypresses were recently purchased at a Sotheby auction. An unknown buyer paid an impressive amount.”

“Do you recall how much?”

“Fifteen million dollars.”

“And now you know the mysterious buyer.”

“Miss Stone, I deal with privileged information. I'd be out of business tomorrow if I didn't keep a secret. Your remarks to me are confession. I'm like a priest.”

“Confession? I hope that doesn't mean I can't offer you a drink.”

“As long as I'm not working for you.”

“But I assumed that's why you're here.”

“To discuss your problem,” Savage said. “I haven't been hired yet.”

“With your credentials? I've already decided to hire you.”

“Forgive me, Miss Stone, but I accepted your invitation to find out if I wanted you to hire me.”

The sensuous woman studied him. “My, my.” Her intense gaze persisted. “People are usually eager to work for me.”

“I meant no offense.”

“Of course not.” She stepped toward a sofa.

“But if you wouldn't mind, Miss Stone.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I'd prefer that you used this chair over here. That sofa's too close to the window.”

“Window?”

“Or else let me close the draperies.”

“Ah, yes, now I understand.” She sounded amused. “Since I enjoy the sunlight, I'll sit where you suggest. Tell me, are you always this protective of people you haven't decided to work for?”

“A force of habit.”

“An intriguing habit, Mr… I'm afraid I've forgotten your name.”

Savage doubted that. She seemed the type who remembered everything. “It doesn't matter. The name I provided isn't mine. I normally use a pseudonym.”

“Then how should I introduce you?”

“You don't. If we reach an agreement, never draw attention to me.”

“In public. But what if I have to summon you in private?”

“Savage.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A nickname. The way I'm identified in my business.”

“And did you acquire it when you were in the SEALs?” Savage hid his surprise.

“Your former unit's name is an acronym, correct? Sea, air, and land. The U.S. Navy commandos.”

Savage subdued an impulse to frown.

“I told you I found your credentials impressive,” she said. “Your use of pseudonyms makes clear you cherish your privacy. But with persistence, I did learn several details about your background. In case I alarm you, let me emphasize that nothing I was told in any way jeopardized your anonymity. Still, rumors travel. The help you gave a certain member of the British Parliament-against IRA terrorists, I believe-is widely respected. He asked me to thank you again for saving his life. An Italian financier is similarly grateful for your skillful return of his kidnapped son. A West German industrialist feels that his corporation would have gone bankrupt if you hadn't discovered the rival who was stealing his formulas.”

Savage kept silent.

“No need to be modest,” she said.

“Nor should you. Your sources are excellent.”

“One of the many advantages to marrying royalty. The gratitude of the Italian financier was especially compelling. So I asked him how I might get in touch with you. He gave me the telephone number of-I suppose, in my former life, I'd have used the term-your agent.”

“You didn't learn his name, I hope.”

“I never spoke to him directly, only through intermediaries.”

“Good.”

“Which brings me to my problem.”

“Miss Stone, another force of habit. Don't be specific in this room.”

“No one can overhear us. There aren't any hidden microphones.”

“What makes you sure?”

“My bodyguards checked it this morning.”

“In that case, I repeat…”