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wear on the security tapes from the Luxembourg. He could grow to like that
silly red feather stuck at a jaunty angle in the grosgrain ribbon around the
crown.
    She checked her raincoat pocket, he assumed for her room
key, then turned to him with a faint smile. “Are we dining in the hotel? If we
are, I’ll leave my hat and coat.”
    “I thought we would go just next door. If, that is, you are
not opposed to eating the finest prime rib in England. And if you can walk in
those shoes.” The highest heels he had ever seen did justice to her legs,
although he knew her legs and all the rest of her looked wondrous in nothing at
all.
    “I’ve been known to cover every inch of every floor in
Harrods in shoes like these,” she said, a hint of humor flashing in her eyes,
matching a lopsided dimple in her right cheek.
    “Then a short walk should not bother you.”
    “How short is short?”
    He frowned. “I do not understand the question.”
    “Londoners—maybe all Brits—give distances in terms of time.
But the distance depends on how fast a person walks, doesn’t it? So how fast
shall we walk?” She had that teasing glint in her eyes again.
    “A leisurely two or three minute stroll,” he said, once more
amused by her.
    “I think I can manage.”
    He helped her into her raincoat. Dodging his hands, she set
her hat on head, the jaunty angle at odds with her somber expression. To his
surprise, she linked her arm through his and urged him toward the lift. He
missed seeing her walk away, but decided pacing at her side was worth not
having to shorten his long stride to match hers. What else had he missed, all
these years dating women who were so much shorter than he?
    More an excuse to touch her, he took her hand in his and
slid both into his raincoat pocket. He was unsure but thought he heard her sigh
like a besotted schoolgirl.
    Surely not, he thought, glancing at her and finding her
expression stoic.
    * * * * *
    The restaurant was done in Tudor style, all white walls and
dark woods. It was also crowded, but the maitre d’ led them to a secluded
corner and pulled out a tapestry-covered chair for Tiffany.
    “It smells wonderful in here,” she said, her nostrils
flaring in obvious appreciation of roasting meat and the scent of baking
Yorkshire pudding.
    When they were seated and had placed their drink orders, he
said, “Is Sir James a good employer?”
    She took a sip of water before she said, “Sir James is not
as forthcoming as he should be.” She looked directly at him, her eyes a darker,
more mysterious green.
    “Meaning?”
    “He refused to tell me exactly what you want me to appraise
and how you fit in with the theft of Isabella’s Belt.”
    He glanced around them and decided no one was close enough
to hear their conversation. “I do not—”
    She smiled at their waiter when he set a glass of Chardonnay
in front of her, served Damian his double Scotch and then left them to study
their menus.
    “Don’t lie to me. You were in Sir James’ office with two
Interpol agents while they met with him. I don’t know a lot about police
procedures, but I doubt they would allow you to stay if you didn’t have a
vested interest.”
    “That is quite a supposition, Mrs. Foster.”
    “Mrs. Foster is Sir James’ wife. As I told you, I prefer you
call me TC. And don’t try to avoid the issue. Sir James may not have told you,
but I have a bullshit meter that’s better than a perfumer’s nose.”
    Damian stared at her for a long, silent moment and then
said, “Very well. I shall tell you what I can.”
    “Thank you.” But her eyes remained wary, the bullshit meter
obviously on full.
    “The Santanas—Emilio and Esmeralda—are my godparents. They
also own Isabella’s Belt. The Belt has been in their family for generations and
its loss has devastated them. Especially Emilio, who asked me to represent the
family here in Europe.”
    “And Señora Santana?”
    “Pardon me? I do not understand your question.”
    “Is