Author’s Note: This is my favorite of these stories. Literally nothing in it is real, but I enjoyed writing Mikel Dayan (last seen in the 2 Live Crew Job). At several points in the draft process, Eliot glared off the page at me and said “You gotta be kidding.” Also: Christian Kane signs his autograph with a XX, which I discovered after writing this story.
She arrived back at the hotel to find Eliot was not there.
“See you tonight Peaches– XX Eliot” was all the note said, which was less than enlightening. She slipped it into her suitcase anyway, because she always kept his notes. He knew, of course, because there was very little in their life he didn’t know; he was flattered. And also thought about it every time he started to write a note, which meant his mind generally went blank of anything he wanted to say to her, so his notes were, he felt, unsatisfying to an alarming degree.
There was a light rap at the door. Probably not Eliot; even if he were to knock before opening the door, it wouldn’t have sounded like that. She had decided a while ago, when he was knocking on the door at her house like he was there for a raid, that it was charming. She checked at the peephole, surprised to see her favorite among the hotel staff waiting on the other side. The old bellman had taken immediately to Ophelia, going out of his way to pay her little compliments every time he saw her, even after Eliot started glaring at him.
“Mr. Orlier!” she exclaimed. “How can I help you?”
“It is I that am here to help you, Madame. I am here to escort you to your chariot.” He bowed deeply. “May I say you look magnifique this evening. Monsieur Spencer is a lucky man. Were I but younger, he would have a fight on his hands.” With that, he kissed her hand. She smiled indulgently.
“Thank you so much,” she answered. “Between us, you wouldn’t need to be all that much younger.”
He grinned enormously and held the door for her, pulling her gloved hand through his elbow once they reached the hallway. She asked questions about the dinner show until the elevator reached the second floor, where the door opened.
“Did we stop too soon?” she asked, peering out. They were on the fancy mezzanine level.
“A woman should be beheld descending a staircase for anyone to truly appreciate her beauty,” he explained, “and there is no better staircase in the world than this one, for it was once descended by a princess.”
She smiled at him for a moment before giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek.
“Tu es extraordinaire,” she replied.
“This is the worst French accent I have ever heard,” he chuckled.
“So I’ve been told,” she replied, but she smiled. “Are we ready?”
“Oui. We are.”
The crowd in the lobby didn’t actually stop as they descended the stairs, but it certainly got quieter. Eliot had been waiting (impatiently), alternately scrolling through his phone and wondering which of the two of them—him or the old man—was crazier. Eliot could have easily run up to get her and been back already. He realized with a start that the noise level around him had dropped considerably; usually that meant something had gone very bad wrong. He followed the gaze of the nearest person to see the world’s oldest bellman escorting Ophelia down the sweeping staircase like they had stepped out of a book of fairy tales.
He went to meet her at the bottom step, exchanging a brief look with Mr. Orlier, who bowed to Ophelia before he backed away. The same way one would back away from a princess.
Nobody put him at a loss for words the way she did.
“You’re not wearing a tie,” she said shyly, tapping him on the chest with one satin-gloved finger.
“It’s in my pocket,” he chuckled. He did have it in his pocket, but he liked to watch her blush at the idea. He took her hands in his then stepped back to look at her.
“You wore pink,” he said gruffly. Her dress was, in fact, half a dozen shades of pink, from a pink so light it was nearly white to a deep fuchsia that her lipstick perfectly complemented.
“Do you like it? I picked it for you.” She turned gracefully so he could see the dress from every angle. After a day of being treated in one of the most exclusive spas on the planet, she looked radiant, almost a shining, glowing pink herself. He wouldn’t have traded their wedding day for anything else in the world, except possibly this moment of just the two of them, surrounded by hundreds of people and accented noise and well-to-do mayhem, where he could barely smell her perfume knowing she could have decided anything in the world but wanted to be with him.
“I’m kinda sorry we’re going out,” he admitted, “but I hate for people not to see you.”
“You must not have seen yourself yet,” she replied. “You look amazing.”
To disagree would have been false modesty; Sophie had helped him choose this tuxedo. She wrapped both of her hands around his arm and grinned. Covering her hands with one of his, he led her out the front door of the hotel, where a line of horse-drawn carriages awaited their fancy passengers.
“You think? I had to put my cufflinks on myself. You do it so often for me I had almost forgotten how.” He turned one wrist for her to see that he was wearing a set of copper cufflinks shaped like the shield she had found for him. She had located the cufflinks too, and been very excited to present them. She had been too busy giggling at him to pay attention to what was happening outside the door; as the bellmen threw open the doors before them, she gasped.
“You did all this?” Carriages lined the entire front circle of the hotel, and extended into the street in front of it. “Eliot, how did you have the time?”
“I really want to take credit for all this,” he said, pleased with how impressed she sounded, “but it turns out this is how everyone goes. Taking a cab is…”
“Gauche?” she offered. “Unrefined?”
“Tacky,” he chuckled. “And they say it the same way you do, so I know it’s bad.”
From the line, a driver stepped out to signal them, offering Ophelia a hand into the open carriage. A crowd of tourists had gathered in front of the hotel to watch everyone swanning out in their fancy clothes. Formal clothing was required, but many people had brought their own. From their spot in the middle of the line, Ophelia pointed out clothing she knew to be designer, and even took some discreet pictures of women who were wearing real vintage. She and Amalia would spend hours exclaiming over these pictures later, and even longer trying to stalk down some vintage finery. But she didn’t feel like she was missing anything when Eliot spoke, reclaiming her attention.
“1937 called and said nobody ever looked like this in this dress,” he teased, tugging playfully at her skirt. “Did you design it all?”
“They had a lot of stock dresses based on real vintage patterns,” she said excitedly. Her excited patter about fashion and clothing was one of his favorite sounds. “A lot of them were simple, so they could be finished fast, but I recognized this one as a Maggie Rouff. And once I told them I knew that, they really got excited.”
He bet they had; someone who recognized a ‘30s designer garment was likely to want it a lot, no matter how expensive it turned out to be.
“Did they?”
“After that, they let me see the production room. They made this today, can you believe it? We took the pattern back to the head seamstress and I told her my ideas. I can’t believe they did it so fast!”
He could easily believe it, because the dressmaker made a fortune on cheap, easily altered dresses with a one million percent markup because the women here could afford it. They’d pay an indecent amount of money for a low-quality dress that was just above mass-produced to be able to say they owned a dress from Rue de la Monaco.
“You bought it, right?” he asked. “I meant to tell you before you left to pick something you’d like to keep.”
“I did,” she confirmed, “but they asked if they could have it back after the party tonight. This one won’t fall apart or anything, but the lady in charge said if I’m going to wear it again, she’d prefer it was a little more secure. So I think they’re going to remake it, because I had asked for some fabric they didn’t have right off, but said they could get. And then they’ll ship it to San Lorenzo.”
But not before they made a dozen copies, he figured. It wouldn’t matter how many copies they made, nobody would ever look like Ophelia in it. But then, nobody except Ophelia could have convinced them to make a high quality copy of their dress for the same price as the paper version.
“And they said they’d sell it to me for the price they would normally charge for this one,” she added hastily. “Which is expensive, and they’re probably losing money but—“
He leaned across the space between them to kiss her.
“Sounds like the right hand of the fairies wins again,” he grinned. “I’m glad you bought it. I can’t wait to see the real one. I’m glad you had a good time. Did you see anyone famous?”
The driver at the head of the line signaled that it was time to depart. The carriages moved away from the hotel and into the evening Monaco traffic as they did three nights a week: to the blaring horns of offended cab drivers who made a show of being outraged at having to stop as the meter ran up on unsuspecting tourists, many of whom leaned out the windows to snap pictures.
“I got you something,” he remember suddenly. He produced a square box.
“Jones! You didn’t have to get me a present!”
He didn’t have to, but he enjoyed doing it a lot more than she realized.
“I asked around today, and everyone said those would be helpful.”
She pulled a pair of opera glasses from the box.
“They’re beautiful!” she said. “I love them!”
They were an inexpensive pair he’d found in an antique store, but they were pretty and functional. He had pointed out to the at-first irate and then very apologetic store owner all the things about them that weren’t real; the owner of the shop had nearly paid him to take them once he realized that Eliot wasn’t fooled by any of the paste jewelry the owner was selling as the real thing either.
“I thought you might not have any,” he grinned.
The dinner theater had been converted from an actual royal theater, once a new and more secure theater had replaced the need for this one. The crowd going through the doors thrilled Ophelia’s vintage-loving heart, and she sighed over a number of dresses and hats, and in a couple of cases, vintage evening bags. She barely heard their names announced at the door, she was so busy looking around the renovated space. Whoever had renovated it had done so with an eye for becoming a very expensive tourist experience, but saved the architectural details that made the theater special.
A server in finer clothes than most people in the restaurant industry usually wore led them to a booth near the stage. It was a half-round booth with a lush interior designed for a small party. There were several flanking the booths for larger parties, many of whom were already seated. People waved at each other across the open dance floor, greeting friends they’d made while vacationing on the Riviera, greeting acquaintances from home, testily acknowledging bitter rivals.
Ophelia studied the menu; she’d been studying it for days, having found a copy on the internet. Eliot didn’t think it was necessarily peculiar to her, but she liked to know her choices in advance. Even though the selection was somewhat limited—although not nearly as much as the dinner show she had taken him to once, where there were no choices—she had pored over the menu for days trying to decide between one dish and another. But no matter what she picked, she was privately certain Eliot would make a better version of it.
“You pick something for us?” he asked idly, watching the crowd.
“Maybe,” she evaded. “Can’t decide between the pasta and the chicken.”
“Have the steak, Princess,” he grinned. “It’s vacation.” He caught the eye of a server, who couldn’t wait to help at the rate he was being paid, and ordered a bottle of champagne.
The floor show was completely adequate, the appetizers delicious, and even the salads were worth writing home about. Once the fake performance on the stage ended, the real show started, with actors and actresses representing historical people circulating through the crowd. As Eliot had suspected would happen, an actor playing a French aviator crossed the room to ask Ophelia to dance. She exchanged a glance with Eliot, who smiled at her while still managing to glower at the pilot, who took a step back and contemplated the decisions that had led him to this point. But in any case, he was being paid to act brave, and his hand barely shook as he invited Ophelia out onto the dance floor.
“Don’t let this guy trick you into getting into an airplane,” Eliot cautioned. “I’ll be at the bar.”
She grinned over her shoulder as she helped the suddenly very shaken pilot into the crowd, assuring him that Eliot really never punched people without provocation. Hardly ever.
Eliot made his way like a salmon swimming upstream in a very fancy sea of people. No need to drink champagne that Ophelia would enjoy quite a bit more, especially since they were taking a horse-drawn carriage back. He could watch the crowd better from the bar as well, and nobody could sneak up on him.
He leaned back against the bar to watch the crowd moving around the floor, the actors mingling freely with the tourists. He scrutinized the French pilot, fairly sure he recognized the exact moment the actor realized the pretty girl with whom he was dancing was not just a history professor (unusual in the Monaco crowd), but an author who had written six books about this period. It took no time at all for word to circulate through the rest of the cast; he could tell which actors were queueing up for their turn, which ones were trying to jump the line, and had his suspicions about who was going to start the fight. He was so busy watching his wife charm her way through the historical fiction crowd, he barely noticed the woman who took up a position next to him.
“She is very pretty,” the woman commented. Eliot’s grip on his glass tightened, his knuckles white. “And very popular. The whole cast is talking about her.”
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mikel,” he answered. “I had no idea you were here.”
“It is nice to see you too, Spencer. Is she the victim or the heroine?”
Ophelia had nearly burned up one night over a skinny girl who wanted to sing country music more than anything else in the world, and she hadn’t even seen a picture of her. Mikel Dayan, who could still drop her assassin gig to become a super model any day of the week, was not going to inspire a more subdued reaction.
“What are you even doing here? Like, I get the Monaco part. But this dinner show doesn’t seem like your style.”
“You see that Picasso over the piano?” she asked. “It was a fake. The owner swapped it out to hide it here. It is our dry run. And we are not moving until the second intermission, so I can stand here all night and ask why are you watching her. Are you her bodyguard?”
He took a deep breath and threw back the rest of his drink.
“I’m her husband.”
Mikel giggle-snorted into her cocktail.
“What?!”
“She looks very sweet,” Mikel commented. “I would not think she is your type. I would not think you are hers either.”
“What do you mean, I’m not her type?” Eliot snapped before he realized where he was. “Maybe I’m not—“
“Relax, Spencer. She looks happy. Are you?”
He took a moment to study her face, relieved she was asking questions and not beating him to death with the swizzle stick caddy.
“Yeah. I am.”
“I can see,” she agreed. “She make you this way. Does this mean you are out?”
“I mean, not out, exactly, but I’m—“
“What does she think you do?” Mikel asked, stirring her glass with one red-tipped finger and smirking.
“I mean, she knows I was a thief, and she knows that I–,” the song ended with the announcement that servers would be around asking for dinner orders momentarily. The guests started making their way back to the table, except Ophelia and an actor who appeared to acting the part of the Prince of Wales (actually the Duke of Kent) who was losing an argument to the actor playing Winston Churchill. The three of them were making slow but inexorable progress towards the bar. Mikel smiled and held her glass out to the bartender, who nearly fell over himself to refill it; Eliot understood the reaction.
“Thank you for a lovely dance, your highness,” Ophelia said, her glance at Eliot only slightly desperate. “And I will see you after dinner, Mr. Churchill.”
“The honor will be mine,” the portly man assured her. “Now unhand that woman immediately.”
“Is that how you address the brother of the king?” the first man snapped unwisely. Eliot reached into the fray to pull Ophelia out of it; they’d both be really embarrassed if a guest got trapped in the midst of a British actor slap fight.
“It’s certainly how I address you!”
“Sir, you are drunk!”
“I may be drunk, you ham, but tomorrow I’ll be sober and you’ll still be an understudy!”
At the bar, Mikel wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.
“Gentlemen,” Eliot offered as he pulled Ophelia behind him. Both men turned on him.
“Oh dear,” Ophelia sighed. Mikel shot her an appraising look.
“Certainly you think he can handle two actors,” she queried. Now it was Ophelia’s turn to look, which took longer than anyone in the room was comfortable admitting. “I am Mikel Dayan,” she offered. “Spencer will not want you to know our paths crossed on a job several years ago. He was not aware I was here, and I believe he wishes I was not.”
Two angry British men crashed to the ground; she stepped over them as they rolled towards the gleaming dance floor. Other actors with, apparently, multiple axes to grind started to gather around, pushing and shoving each other.
“I’m Ophelia Mason,” she answered. “It’s nice to meet you?” Her puzzlement was genuine.
“It is,” the assassin confirmed. “It is nice to meet you as well. And I offer you my congratulations. Spencer has told me you are recently married. I am glad for you both.”
“Thank you,” Ophelia returned, the hint of a question still unmistakable in her voice. She could see why Eliot would not want her to know about the existence of this stunning woman, but she seemed nice. Ophelia guessed. “What brings you to Monaco? Or do you live here?”
“I enjoy Monaco in the off season,” she said. Ophelia stepped out of the way of the two brawling actors who were now trying to get at each other through Eliot, who was trying to just separate them without getting involved and not succeeding. “But I am only here for a few more days, then I depart for somewhere else.”
“We’re staying in San Lorenzo for the winter,” Ophelia said. “This is our last night in town.”
“I hope you have enjoyed it,” Mikel offered. “Spencer? Do you need a hand?”
“No!”
She turned back to Ophelia.
“You seem familiar. We have met?”
“I think I just have one of those faces,” Ophelia answered vaguely. “People ask me that a lot.”
Two security men were now caught up in the actor fight; it was not clear who was fighting whom at this point, but a crowd had gathered. Money was changing hands.
“I want $50 on the hit man!” someone shouted.
“The cast is saying you are both a professor and a writer,” Mikel commented. “This is true?”
“It is true,” Ophelia nodded. “I retired from teaching, but I taught history. And I’ve written some books.”
“I have heard of them?”
One of the bouncers from outside, generally tasked with keeping unpaid and underdressed tourists out, was trying to help Eliot sort out the brawlers when the Duke of Kent slugged him. Eliot struggled to hold the security guard off the actor, who’d landed a very lucky shot with those skinny arms of his and that the bouncer would break like a toothpick if he managed to get both hands on him. At the bar, Mikel signaled that the bartender should give her new friend a drink.
“You might have?” Ophelia answered, nodding thanks to the bartender and declining to bet on the outcome of the fight. “It’s historical fiction.”
“I should be very interested to know that they are,” Mikel encouraged. She would, actually, be very interested to see what kind of author would marry Eliot Spencer.
“It’s the Ballroom Blitz—“
“You are OJ Mason?!” the assassin crowed excitedly, grabbing Ophelia’s arm. “But I love these books! I wish to be like Nina! You can introduce me? You can tell me what will happen next?”
Faintly, over the cheers of the crowd, Ophelia heard Eliot.
“Come on!”
“Really?” She was either going to have to speak to her agent about how these books were marketed, or speak to Eliot about what she’d done that attracted everyone in his circle. Mikel hadn’t loosened her grip, and Ophelia wondered if it was possible the bones in her arm were rubbing together now. “You’ve read them?”
“I love them! I have pre-ordered Blitzkrieg Bop! Did you know they are printed in Hebrew? This is very exciting! Can you make me a character?”
Her readers asked that all the time, and mostly Ophelia smiled and thanked them for their enthusiasm. She wasn’t entirely sure she could tell a woman who killed for a living (allegedly) that she couldn’t be a character because the series was finished.
“I’d love to, but I’ve already turned the last book in to the publisher. It will come out next winter. I’m so sorry?”
“It is going to end? This is terrible news!” She dropped her grip on Ophelia’s arm so suddenly that the writer almost pitched into the crowd.
“It’s worse than you think,” Ophelia confided as a man who would turn out to be the actual prince of Zafir set her back upright. “The story ends in this book. The next one is short stories that I couldn’t fit into the books anywhere.”
“No! I insist there is more to the story! You must be joking about this!”
Then Ophelia did something that went so much against her better judgement, she would wonder later if she’d actually lost her mind.
“I’m glad you like them so much,” Ophelia said. “Do you…do you have an address? I can have my publisher send you out a complete set of the advanced copies once London Calling is published.”
Mikel’s glass dropped to the floor as she grabbed Ophelia’s face with both of her well-manicured hands.
“You are serious?!”
“Yes,” Ophelia gulped. Perhaps this had been a mistake after all.
“I would love this! You are not joking?”
“I would never,” joke with a woman who would enjoy killing me, Ophelia answered. “Actually, if you’ll come back to our table, I’ll give you a bookplate and my address. That way when you…um…land somewhere, you can email me and I’ll send the books wherever you like. We’re doing an extremely limited collector set that comes packaged in what looks like Nina’s suitcase,” she offered, as if her initial offer hadn’t been enticement enough.
Mikel slid her arm around Ophelia’s waist and steered her around the crowd, which was dispersing now that someone (not Eliot) had pulled a fire extinguisher from the wall and turned it on the participants. The path cleared before them like the Red Sea before Moses, if Moses had a body count in the high three digits. Eliot was waiting for them at the table.
“I see you two have met,” he said, trying not to look concerned. Mikel was radiantly happy. It would take him a while to realize and get accustomed to the idea that Ophelia looked dazzled. Either way, he felt like this was going to go badly for him.
“Spencer! You did not tell me your wife is OJ Mason the writer! I have read all her books! How can you not tell me this?!”
“I…,” he looked to Ophelia, who had opened her bag to get a bookplate, an ink pen, and her card and was definitely not meeting his eye. “I’m sorry?”
“These books they are my favorites! I recognize her from her picture on the back,” she turned to Ophelia. “You do not change your name to Spencer?” Ophelia looked startled.
“I might change my name to Mason,” he cut in. “I think it’s cool she’s a writer.”
“I use Spencer with our friends,” Ophelia said hastily. “We’re still discussing whether I should—“
“You should definitely be Eliot Mason,” Mikel pronounced. “I approve this.”
The Spencers exchanged a glance.
“Here you are,” Ophelia offered a handful of paper goods up to the assassin goddess. Ophelia did not notice Mikel’s hesitation when the assassin saw her green diamond ring. Eliot did, but managed to keep his shudder to himself. Mikel flashed him a look to make sure he understood that she saw and knew. “These are the brand new bookplates. Nobody else has one yet. And here’s my email address.”
“I can use this?! You will let me email you?”
This was absolutely, without a doubt, the worst idea Eliot had ever heard, ever. If he lived to be one thousand years old, or if he lived through tonight, it would still be the worst. He would almost rather Ophelia became friends with a murderous dictator, then revised that when he realized that Mikel would love to do that as much as she would love to be pen pals with one of her favorite authors.
“Whenever you like,” Ophelia said blithely, like the other woman couldn’t kill her twice with a salad fork. “I look forward to hearing from you. And if you’d rather have digital copies, I can arrange for that too. Since you travel a lot?”
It was such a charming understatement that Eliot almost laughed, until he saw the glare Mikel turned on him. She threw her arms around Ophelia in a gesture that normally he would have considered a declaration of war.
“We are friends, yes?”
“Of course!” Ophelia answered, returning the girl’s embrace. Eliot could not believe this was happening. “I hope you’ll write! I’m about to start a new series, and I love to hear from my fans. I hope you enjoy Blitzkrieg Bop.”
“The new series? What is?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Ophelia confessed. “I’m still working on ideas.”
“You could write series about Israeli spy!” Mikel suggested. “And her adventures!”
Behind her Eliot shook his head emphatically.
“We’ll talk about that!” Ophelia responded. “Put it in an email!”
Mikel turned back to Eliot.
“It is nice to see you Spencer! I am glad you are here tonight!”
“Me too,” he answered insincerely. “Been way too long.”
“I must go, for work,” the assassin explained. “I will not see you again tonight. You will not delete my email?”
“I swear I won’t. Enjoy Monaco! It was nice to meet you!”
They exchanged a much briefer but not less deadly hug before the thief vanished into the crowd. They probably actually wouldn’t see her again tonight, although Eliot wondered briefly how the theft of the Picasso might affect the third act. A waiter came by to take their order, which Eliot gave without thinking, without consulting the menu, and without looking at Ophelia. Another waiter refilled her champagne glass. The remnants of the fight had been removed from the dance floor and the actors sent to separate corners to receive first aid and a sharp reprimand.
“Where do you suppose she put the—“
“You don’t want to know,” Eliot answered.
“Do you know how she got that—“
“Yes.”
“Do you think she’ll really—“
“Oh yeah,” he said. “She was not faking being excited. Like, at all.”
Ophelia leaned closer.
“Did you really do a job with her?”
“At best,” Eliot said, “I did a job despite her.”
A glance told him her curiosity was not satisfied with that answer.
“Remember Terrace at Night?” he asked tersely. Her face lit up like they were under a spotlight, which was the only way this could get worse. “She was in on that. I’ll tell you about ChaOs later.”
“The job was chaotic?” she asked, baffled.
“That’s one way to put it,” he muttered.
He managed to get the subject changed to who all she had danced with before the break. She talked enthusiastically and even pointed out some of the actors to whom she had spoken, but he could tell she was still looking for the pretty assassin. Eventually, their waiter came back around with hot plates of aromatic food. The noise level in the restaurant dropped considerably.
“How’s your steak?”
She poked at her food while watching the floor.
“You’re really not going to see her again tonight,” he advised. “And if you do, it’s probably best to get down.”
She returned her attention to her plate for a moment.
“Did Churchill walk away from that fight?” she asked, finally.
“He asked that you save him the waltz, Princess.” He knew there was very little on earth that would stop her from dancing with Winston Churchill, even one being played by an actor.
“Wallis Simpson asked about you,” she ventured.
“You can tell her Nazi sympathizers aren’t my type,” he chuckled. “Especially married ones.” She smiled back.
The rest of the night was uneventful, but after the first two acts, Eliot thought anything short of nuclear apocalypse was uneventful. Not only had word spread through the cast that Ophelia was a writer, but several imprudent whispers made it to the ears of other tourists, which resulted in a steady stream of people to their table through dessert, and a number of men lined up to dance with her that wasn’t the norm for this affair. More than one woman rushed up to Ophelia and another man on the dance floor to speak or ask for an autograph, which Eliot had to admit he didn’t mind so much. Some of the lesser European royals were more handsy than he cared to see, although he’d taught her enough self-defense that he didn’t expect she’d have any issues. He grinned into his drink when he watched one man’s face contort in a way usually reserved for cartoon special effects. Ophelia maintained her brilliant smile throughout the episode.
When the power flickered off for three minutes, he wasn’t surprised, although it was clear that all of the audience and most of the actors were. A voice on an overhead speaker announced there had been a mistake about the blackout, and the lights would be restored forthwith; it was met with nervous laughter. When the lights came back up, he glanced over to the piano to see that the Picasso had been replaced by a Monet, and that three men were clearly about to converge on the spot but acting as if they were not about to start arguing with each other. It must have taken a team with a lot of focus, he thought. They would not have kept Parker, for example, from lifting her body weight in jewelry on the way out. And there were plenty of real rocks here tonight; some of them were famous enough to have names, even.
Winston Churchill, gentleman that he was, returned her to Eliot at the end of their waltz. After a number of compliments that were anachronistic enough to be from the actor and not one of her beloved historical figures, he bowed and excused himself.
“My turn,” she smiled.
“Your turn for what, Princess?”
“My turn to dance with you,” she said, as if that should have been obvious. “I’ve been waiting all night.”
“But you might miss the rest of the show,” he answered. “The one after this one is the last dance.”
“Miss?” the bartender said, extending her a cocktail napkin. “Your autograph?”
He still didn’t know where she was keeping the pen.
“If you don’t dance with me, the only thing I’ll miss is the dance I came here to have,” she said patiently.
“But—“
“Look,” she interrupted in mock annoyance. “The Duke of Kent has a black eye. If I go tell him you won’t dance with me, he’ll have you beheaded.”
He chuckled and grabbed up a handful of cocktail napkins to stuff in his pocket, then offered her his arm to escort her onto the dance floor.
“What are those for?” she asked as they waited for a break in the stream of other couples whirling around the dance floor.
“I’ve been watching,” he said. “People have been coming up to you all night to get things signed.”
“OJ Mason has left the building,” she said, rubbing her face against his. “Ophelia Spencer is dancing the last dance with her husband.” He shifted his grip and squeezed her a little tighter.
They danced their way around the floor quietly. She hummed along to the music, because of course she knew it. He reflected on how underrated dancing like this could be. A man stepped out from the crowd of onlookers ringing the dance floor.
“I may cut in,” he decreed. Any other day, Eliot would have punched him just for his arrogance.
“You may not,” she answered without breaking step.
“Can you just say that?” Eliot whispered.
“I just did,” she grinned. “I don’t think there’s a dance jail. Unless you’re over this?”
He considered the way they were dancing, how close they were, how she’d been keeping time with the music by tapping on his shoulder. How she could have run away with either Churchill or the Duke of Kent if she’d felt like it.
“Never,” he said simply. Her only reply was to kiss him on the neck, not quite far enough up to avoid getting lipstick on his collar.
He supposed that, under normal circumstances, when there wasn’t a crew of art thieves plus a marginally well-known author in the mix (her words, not his), the transition from inside to outside was more orderly and more decorous. But tonight the process bordered on anarchy, with security desperately trying to locate a stolen painting without alerting the crowd to the act and numerous people declaring loudly that they were royalty and would not be handled so roughly while making their exit. Ophelia bemusedly agreed to being patted down, although Eliot finally had to step in and demand that a female security guard be found to complete the task. And he drew the line at her raising her skirts beyond knee-high. The police (undercover) and the security staff doubted that an American professor had been involved and let them go with only a token protest, and with barely even a glance at Eliot. He knew better than to question his luck on that one. They waited in their carriage while other couples argued more strenuously about their treatment, and chatted with the driver who was as confused as everyone else.
“This isn’t normal?” Ophelia asked.
“Not even a little,” the driver assured them. “Normally everyone just leaves, then there’s the procession back to the hotels. It never takes this long. But I heard there was a fight tonight. Maybe that has something to do with it.”
“Maybe,” Ophelia answered vaguely as she settled back against her seat.
“You won’t see her,” Eliot said quietly. She nodded her understanding, but didn’t scrutinize the exiting crowd any less. She didn’t ask any questions either.
The ride back to the hotel, once it got underway, was mostly normal. The tourists who were out still cheered as the carriages went by, and the occupants waved as if these cheers were their due. Ophelia loved it all.
They arrived back in their room to find a large, empty dress box in the sitting room of their suite. She stopped at the glass-topped table by the entrance to set her bag down and slip out of her shoes.
Eliot called the front desk to ask about it, putting them on the speaker so Ophelia could hear. Unusually, there was a hold tonight. The concierge returned to their call with many apologies; several guests had returned to find boxes in their room and had called for an explanation. Some of them, Ophelia deduced, had been more demanding of an answer than others, and also unwilling to return their finery even if (especially if, Eliot guessed) they had not agreed to pay for it. Eliot had shrugged out of his coat while they waited, having untied his bowtie in the carriage. She stepped closer, kissing him softly while she unfastened his cufflinks, only to giggle when the concierge had to repeat himself to get their attention.
“Rue de la Monaco requests you return your dress in the box they have provided,” the night concierge answered. “And they will deliver your new dress as instructed to San Lorenzo. If you can please have the dress in the box and out in the hall by 3 am, they will collect it tonight. This is the usual way they retrieve garments from the hotel,” he explained. Eliot, at least, appreciated the reassurance that this was normal. “We are accustomed to this.”
“Thank you so much,” Ophelia said. “We’ll have it out.”
“They have requested I pass along, again, their thanks for your custom. They said they enjoyed working with you and hope you enjoyed your gown.”
Ophelia lifted the lid of the box to find a sealed letter inside that reiterated what the concierge had told them in slightly more enthusiastic language, and with the promise of a speedy delivery of her new gown, along with their hope it was all she desired. She smiled as she read it, then passed it to Eliot so he could see it too. He was surprised, because there was no reason he should want or need to read correspondence between her and a fashion house, but appreciated that she could see there were aspects of tonight that he might have found taxing.
“Can you unzip me?” she requested. “I can’t reach.”
He studied the zipper for a moment.
“Nobody could,” he observed. “How are you supposed to put this on by yourself?”
“The lady who owned this would have had, at the least, a ladies maid to help her get dressed,” she reminded him. “I suspect I’ll have to get Amalia to do it.”
“Don’t you dare try on the new one before I get back,” he warned. She laughed as she strode back to their bedroom, holding up the dress with one still-gloved hand. When she returned, she was wearing his pajama shirt with her stockings, which he guessed correctly was for his benefit. And her gloves, which he wasn’t convinced she had just forgotten to take off. She refolded the dress carefully, patting it into place before putting the lid on.
“I’ll take it,” he said, because the last thing he needed was for the door to slam shut behind her, trapping her in the hallway in little more than her fancy underwear. This was not, he kept reminding himself, some kind of French farce. She was at the drinks cart when he returned, having poured him a scotch and herself a chocolate milk with rum, one of her favorite evening beverages.
“Thanks, Princess,” he said, taking the drink from her outstretched hand. “Want to have our drinks on the balcony?”
“I very much do,” she agreed.
They sat for a long while in silence, drinking and watching the nightlife. Eliot bore it until he had what Ophelia would call his Tell-Tale Heart moment, when the beating heart under the floor drove him crazy.
“You’re not even going to ask?!”
“She’s honestly not at all what I would have expected,” Ophelia admitted, not asking. “If you had mentioned her before. I mean, I never would have guessed. I would say she seemed nice, but I don’t think that’s the word you would use.”
He stared while she drank and remained oblivious to his growing agitation.
“I mean, I thought everyone said I wasn’t your type and you weren’t mine because we didn’t have all that much in common,” she continued. He choked on his drink. “I can totally see how she’d be your type. But she’s got to be almost everyone’s type, right? Like, if you don’t see her as just a little bit sexy, maybe you’re not human, right?”
He did not comment. Didn’t even blink.
She resumed crowd watching. He finished his drink.
“Do you think she’ll really email?”
He rose, tossed her over one shoulder, and picked up both glasses with his other hand.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“You’ve had enough,” he grumbled. “We’re going to bed.”
Much later that night, she stirred. He listened.
“I mean—“
“She once killed a guy with a mop handle.”
They were packing the next morning. He in his one suitcase, her in the Louis Vuitton vintage trunk she had found while out shopping one afternoon and also the suitcase she’d brought from San Lorenzo. The woman selling the trunk claimed it had been owned by Princess Grace. Eliot had raised one eyebrow at her; she suddenly remembered that this was incorrect, and possibly had been used by a visitor to the royal household instead, and noted that the price was mismarked, and nearly 50% higher than it should have been. Ophelia had been gleefully excited about her find. The owner closed the shop after they left. It was fortunate, he thought, that the dressmaker would be sending her new dress along later. Not only was her original suitcase full, but this new one was reaching capacity as well.
She returned from the living room, having retrieved her bag and shoes from last night; they were some of the last things to be packed.
“Have you been out this morning?” she asked. He often woke well before she did and went running or swimming or training or whatever he did when she wasn’t awake, so the question wasn’t completely without merit. Except that today it was.
“Been here all morning,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
She held up a pair of opera glasses.
“These aren’t the ones you gave me,” she said. “I didn’t know if you exchanged them.”
He reached for them, turning them over in his hand. They were, in fact, much nicer than the ones he had given her, and about twice as heavy. And they rattled, which was never a positive sign when it came to glassware. He unscrewed the lenses and turned them over, not even surprised when a pair of yellow diamond earrings and a matching bracelet tumbled into his hand. He recognized them even without Parker hissing hysterically in his ear. They were part of a larger, unimaginably expensive parure that had most recently belonged to a Parisian courtesan who received them from a Nazi general. At a minimum, this was the third time they’d been stolen.
“Oh. My.” Ophelia stared at the glittering jewels. Eliot was fairly certain they made her mouth water even more than the idea of croissants for breakfast. They were vintage. They were massive. They complemented her green diamond ring, which Mikel had let him know she recognized. He really should have known that glance would have consequences. Until right this second, he had just been grateful the assassin kept the rest of her crew away from their table and Ophelia’s green diamond.
Eliot called Devil over and fastened a box to his collar.
“Rings,” he explained.
“Let me see them,” Nate requested. He had a spare in case Eliot had chosen badly. Eliot flipped open the cover.
“Isn’t this overkill?” Far from being something cheap or gaudy, Eliot had selected for her a green diamond. The stone was flawless. The yellow diamonds on either side weren’t bad either. “This had to cost more than your house.”
“Parker found it,” Eliot shrugged. Nate lifted a skeptical look to him. “It’s not like she won’t like it.”
“Be sure to get a video of the moment you tell her she’s wearing a half million dollar ring to be a history professor at a state college,” Nate sighed. He didn’t ask where or how Parker had found it; he could guess, and Parker would just be offended.
Eliot was right: she adored the ring. She assumed the gemstones were fancy semi-precious stones, and had no idea about the Harry Winston certificate of authenticity sitting in Eliot’s safety deposit box that Parker had placed there. She never asked if they were diamonds, and after a while Eliot forgot that she didn’t know.
“Put these in your checked bag,” he instructed. “Not in your carry-on with the rest of your jewelry.”
“Do you think…?” Having started it, she had no idea how to finish the question, and he didn’t seem to want to offer a lot of insight this morning.
“You might as well keep them,” he answered, swallowing a sigh. “Someone wanted you to have them.”
Perfect, he thought. An international assassin had a girl-crush on his wife. Perfect. And he couldn’t tell anyone, because they wouldn’t stop laughing long enough to listen to all the ways this was bound to go wrong. In the meantime, he had to not think about the bedroom door being all the only barrier between where they were sleeping and where someone had broken in. The fact that they had left a gift made squat for difference to him.
The news in the café that morning was all about the blackout at the Royal Theater last night, and the number of police complaints this morning about missing valuables all over town. Ophelia read the English language paper while Eliot studied the French one and wondered how long he could ignore her wide-eyed glances. The sheer number of crown jewels that had gone missing before, during, and after the dinner show was staggering; the hunt for suspects had turned up nothing so far. And in what Ophelia felt must surely be unrelated news, the owner of the theater was being questioned about how much of his extensive art collection was actually fake. If Eliot’s luck held, and he felt certain it would, James Sterling would be swooping in momentarily to investigate for Interpol.
“You ready to leave this all behind, Princess?” he asked. She gave him a radiant smile.
“I love it, but I’m ready to see Devil, and our house, and our cabin,” she said. “It’s been wonderful. Are you ready to go?”
Right damn now, he thought.
“I almost hate to give it up,” he said. “We’ll have to come back.” But not any time soon.
He had never been more glad to see the bellman, whose love for Ophelia had not waned during the week they were here. He had already personally overseen their luggage being loaded into the town car; now he offered Ophelia his hand to escort her out while swearing his undying love. Braver men than him had withered under Eliot’s glare, but the wily old man had experience with more than one jealous husband. Ophelia kissed him on the cheek and declared their visit would have been lacking had it not been for him. He had even embraced Eliot and given him some terse instructions about what would happen should Eliot break her heart and he discover this villainy.
The length of their trip to the airport depended on who answered the question. Eliot, knowing that there was a crew of art thieves who had conducted a heist under some of the richest noses in Europe as a warm-up act and then stolen a boatload of other treasures for fun, felt it took three minutes short of forever, while Ophelia thought that it flew by. Before they even knew it (before she knew it. Eliot was keenly aware of time passing with the speed of a snail on lithium), they were back in San Lorenzo, where they were met by General Flores and Devil. It was hard to say who was more excited to see them.
“Amalia wished to come meet you,” General Flores said. “I tell her you might wish a moment of privacy. But she will call, as your picture was in the paper this morning.”
“Our picture?” Eliot asked. He tried to sound like this wasn’t the worst development since all the other bad ones, and failed. His question was practically a yelp.
“Only Miss Ophelia, my friend,” the general lamented, with an understanding nod for Eliot. “She was pictured in a lovely ball gown, about which Amalia wishes to know all the details. You, my friend, were not pictured. I am sorry.”
Ophelia bit back her grin as Eliot commiserated through what she could only call a tidal wave of relief. He didn’t care for his picture to be floating around, especially with his name on it. But today he seemed slightly more anxious than usual.
“I can’t wait to tell her about it,” Ophelia promised.
“How’s San Lorenzo, General?” Eliot asked. “Everything okay while we were gone? No unexpected visitors?”
Roberto studied him for a moment; Eliot Spencer was not jumpy, but he was clearly concerned about something.
“Nobody we did not wish to have, Spencer. And we are glad to have you back safe in your home away from home.”
“You have to get to work planning your thing with the thing, don’t you?” Ophelia prompted.
“This is the technical term for this exercise,” the general assured her. “You are certain you do not mind his absence?”
“I’ll miss him every day,” she assured him, which touched the general to the bottom of his very soft heart. “But he’s very excited to work with you and Tomas, and who am I to argue with that?”
“We will discuss the details later,” he nodded. “I am certain. But for now, I have secured for you a car and driver to take you home. We are glad you are back.”
Ophelia took Devil’s leash and walked him past baggage claim, where someone had been assigned to grab their luggage. Eliot waited until she was out the door to address the general.
“Sir, if you hear anything from Interpol,” he began.
“We are always willing to assist Interpol,” General Flores said. “Provided they do not enter this country.”
“I didn’t do it,” he said.
“Of course you did not, Spencer.”
“I didn’t!”
The general slung his arm around Eliot’s shoulders and shepherded him towards the exit.
“Spencer, I know about the art. And the jewelry. And the forgery. And the blackout And I know that you could not have performed these heists by yourself, nor would Ophelia assist you in this. You have nothing to fear. For what man with a wife such as yours would endanger himself or her in the commission of this crime?”
“It’s just there’s this guy with Interpol,” he tried again.
“You are concerned the name Eliot Spencer will draw suspicion to you,” the general interpreted. “My friend, it is clear you have not studied your passport. No man called Eliot Spencer has traveled to or from San Lorenzo.”
“But how—“
“We do not question these things, Spencer. We accept them. You understand this, yes?”
“I…do?”
“Yes,” General Flores nodded. “You do. Because Mrs. Flores would turn me in for a war criminal if I allowed your honeymoon to be disturbed further than I plan to disturb it. Go in peace, my son. Welcome back.”
“Thank you?”
“You are welcome. I must go. The business of the state waits for no man, and there is a very angry Interpol agent who has been calling from Monaco since early this morning. I will keep him on hold until I tire of him, then I will make sure he is put on another investigation.” The general walked away whistling something that sounded eerily like American Woman, which was one of Ophelia’s favorite songs.
Eliot joined Ophelia and Devil in the car, where Devil was in Ophelia’s lap, alternately licking her on the face and whining that he had not eaten since Halloween. When Eliot had his seatbelt fastened, Devil shifted so he could sit on both of them. Eliot petted his ears and gave him some peanuts from the flight back.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Everything’s great,” he said. “Welcome home.”