My mother ran up and hugged me. “I’m so proud of you, honey.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She looked me up and down. “We should’ve bought you a kilt, too. You look so serious in your black suit.”
“I was trying for understated elegance.”
“And that’s exactly what you achieved,” she said with a generous smile.
I laughed. I knew I would never be as flamboyant as my parents-or Robin, for that matter, who stood a few feet away wearing a short gold sheath that fit her like skin. But I thought the black silk pants and slim matching jacket I’d chosen suited my mood tonight. Just hours before, I’d struggled for my life with a homicidal maniac and his sociopathic sibling. Serena and Martin had been led away in handcuffs, and Helen had collapsed in the arms of the first constable on the scene and been taken to the hospital for observation.
I saw Royce across the room, having an animated conversation with the small group gathered around him. He wore a tuxedo and a rather rakish bandage around his head. Earlier, he’d made the mistake of arguing with Helen in the hotel lobby when Martin came looking for his wife. Martin had immediately concluded that Helen and Royce were also having an affair and decided to add Royce to his kill list.
I shook off those awful thoughts and instead watched Robin flirt with Angus. He’d also dressed in full kilt regalia for the occasion-or maybe for Robin, who’d expressed more than a passing interest in seeing him kilted to the max.
I’d had a debriefing session with Angus directly after the St. Margaret’s standoff. He’d relished the fact that Martin’s purpose in killing Kyle had been that oldest of motives, jealousy, pure and simple.
“Nobody kills over a book,” he reiterated.
I didn’t take it personally because he was right-this time. But who was to say that books couldn’t kill?
I took another sip of champagne as Mom and Dad discussed stopping at Stonehenge on the way back to London tomorrow. I was about to comment when I heard a whining voice somewhere close by, behind me. I focused my attention on the snippet of conversation.
A man was saying, “Why, it’s simply wonderful work, excellent inlay, superior gilding and the best example of-”
“But did she have to win first prize?” Minka whined.
Another woman asked, “Have you seen her book?”
“I saw it, I saw it,” Minka groused. “What’s the BFD?”
“One merely has to observe the outstanding use of-”
Minka interrupted with a sound of pure disgust and stomped away.
Ah, sweet. “More champagne, please,” I quipped, perky in victory.
“That’s my girl,” Dad said, happy as a man could be when dressed from neck to knees in red plaid wool.
A passing waiter stopped and held his tray steady as I traded my empty glass for a flute filled with sparkly liquid.
After the tense confrontation of that afternoon, the party atmosphere was infectious. I reveled in the laughter and cheer and made plans to meet friends in Lyon in the summer and the Lisbon fair next fall.
As I sipped champagne and shared an air kiss with the woman who ran the book-arts center where I taught classes back in San Francisco, a commotion erupted nearby. From out of the crowd, two men approached.
“Stop pushing me.”
“You’ll apologize now and be done with it.”
It was Tommy and Harry from the Robert Burns Society, my kidnappers from earlier in the week. They stopped in front of me and Tommy nudged Harry. “Now, tell her you’re sorry.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Hello, Brooklyn.”
“Hi, Harry,” I said. “Hi, Tommy. What’s going on?”
A waiter sailed by. Harry grabbed a champagne flute from the tray and drained it in one gulp.
He wiped his mouth, then blew out a heavy breath. “I’m to apologize for frightening you last night, miss. I thought I could get inside, grab the book and be done with it. Seems I was wrong.”
I gaped at him. “It was you?”
“Aye, it was me,” Harry grumbled, shooting a dirty look at Tommy. “And I’d’ve done it clean and quietly without causing you any pain and suffering if it hadn’t been for that other bloke. Where’d he come from, anyway? Bugger all, the man took ten years off me life.”
“You were going to steal the Robert Burns book?”
“Aye, he was,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “But it was for the greater good, love.”
“You frightened her very badly,” Derek said sternly. “I would strongly urge her to press charges.”
“You would?” I said, looking at Derek.
“Oh, now, miss,” Harry said in a rush. “That won’t be necessary. I admit it was a foolish thing I did, and I’ve learned my lesson.”
“He’d had a snootful in the bar with the boys,” Tommy whispered loudly. “He did it for Rabbie.”
“For Rabbie,” I said, and sighed. “I’ll let it go this time, Harry, but don’t ever do anything like that again.”
“Ach, no worries, miss. As I said, I’ve learned my lesson.”
“We’ll be off now,” Tommy said. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Brooklyn.”
“Likewise,” I said, and watched as Tommy nudged Harry toward the bar.
The chandeliers glittered, the champagne flowed and the big-band music brought a sophisticated flair to the festivities.
Derek checked his watch, glanced around, then leaned in close to me. “Can I drag you away from the celebration for a moment, love?”
“Okay,” I said, then was struck that this might be the last night I ever see him. And wasn’t that depressing? I forced myself to smile as I added, “I have no plans to do anything other than swill champagne and bask in the glory of the big win.”
“That’s my girl.” He was tall, dark and tempting in a beautiful suit that fit his wide shoulders and narrow waist to perfection. He took my hand and a little shiver of excitement passed through me. Was it the touch of his skin? His accent? His strength and virility? Something about Derek Stone always gave me a little thrill of anticipation, and I doubted the feeling would ever get old.
I sipped my champagne as we walked to the front desk. Derek asked for his package and the clerk handed him a small wrapped parcel.
The Robert Burns book.
I turned on him, miffed. “I left that in the safe. What are you doing with it?”
“Giving it to you,” he said, and handed me the book.
“Oh.” I held the book close to my chest. “Hmm. I’m not sure what I should-”
“Let’s go outside, shall we?”
Taking hold of my elbow, he walked me out to the valet area, where a deep purple Bentley limousine was parked. It was solidly built, like a Sherman tank.
The blacked-out back window slowly rolled down and a woman inside extended her expensively gloved hand out the window.
Derek turned to me. “May I have the book?”
“You’re kidding,” I whispered. I recognized the woman wrapped in shadows in the Bentley’s backseat.
“I never kid,” Derek said.
I stared at the Robert Burns book, its red gilded cover radiant in the reflected light of the old-fashioned streetlamps that lined the hotel’s drive. Then I met Derek’s gaze. “Are you sure it’s the right thing to do? The world should have a chance to see this book and read its contents.”
“This is the right thing to do,” Derek assured me.
Why wasn’t I convinced? “It doesn’t matter what I think. The book belongs to Royce McVee.”
“Yes, I spoke with him earlier. He’s thrilled to be rid of it, and when he heard who the buyer was, I thought he would spontaneously combust.”
“Oh. Well, that settles it.” Reluctantly, I gave the book to Derek and he turned to face the woman in the car. He placed the book in her open hand and bowed from the waist.
“Thank you, Commander,” she said crisply. After handing the book to a man sitting beside her, she gave me a minute nod and a queenly wave of her hand. The window began to rise and the Bentley drove off.