Tracy leaned into him. She tried to remember if she had ever felt quite this happy before but nothing came to mind. I’m Mrs. Stevens. Mrs. Jeff Stevens! she told herself, over and over. The scam she’d run on Pierpont had gone perfectly. Now she and Jeff really would go straight and leave this crazy life behind them. Jeff could follow his dream of becoming an archaeologist, something he’d always been passionate about. And Tracy could fulfill her dreams too.
A baby. A baby of my own. Mine and Jeff’s.
They would settle down to a normal, domestic life together and live happily ever after.
Tracy closed her eyes and imagined it.
“I must say, I was pleased you went for such a traditional wedding,” observed Gunther, from the driver’s seat. “Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.”
“We did?” Tracy and Jeff exchanged puzzled glances.
“Why yes.” Gunther smiled. “Tracy used the ‘barred winner’ scam on Pierpont. Where she had the winning ticket—in this case the land ripe for development—but couldn’t claim the prize herself. That’s as old as the hills.”
Jeff grinned. “Okay, I get it. So go on, then, Gunther. What was new?”
“The money!” Tracy laughed.
“Quite so. The money is new. New to you, at least,” said Gunther.
“Tracy’s identity was borrowed,” said Jeff. “I’m getting good at this game. But what’s blue?”
Gunther Hartog arched an elegant eyebrow. “I imagine,” he said, “that Mr. Maximilian Pierpont is blue. At this precise moment, in fact, I should say that our old friend Mr. Pierpont is feeling very blue indeed.”
CHAPTER 2
LONDON, ENGLAND
ONE YEAR LATER
TRACY TORE OPEN THE plastic wrapper of the pregnancy test and sat down on the toilet.
She was in the downstairs bathroom at 45 Eaton Square, the beautiful Georgian house she’d bought with the proceeds from her first two jewel heists in the early days of her career. Gunther Hartog had helped her pick out the house and decorate it, and Gunther’s impeccable, if slightly masculine, taste was still in evidence everywhere. The red damask wallpaper and eighteenth-century gilt mirror in the bathroom made the tiny room feel like a luxurious boudoir. It reminded her of a time gone by. Before Jeff. Before marriage. Before trying, and failing, to have a baby had become the sole obsession of her life.
After peeing on the test stick, Tracy replaced the plastic cap and laid the stick flat on the tiles around the basin, waiting for the requisite five minutes to pass. In the beginning she’d watched the tiny square window the whole time, as if she could make that longed-for second pink line appear simply by willing it to do so. Now she looked away, forcing herself to think about other things.
She thought about Jeff, on day three of his new job at the British Museum, and how happy he’d been when he bounded out of bed this morning, like a puppy chasing a shiny new ball.
“Can you believe it?” he’d asked Tracy two weeks ago, when he heard he’d gotten the job. “Me! Officially employed as a curator of antiquities at the British Museum. Isn’t that a trip?”
“Of course I can believe it,” said Tracy loyally. “You know as much about those treasures as anyone else on earth. More than most professional academics. You deserved that job.”
The truth, as they both k
new, was that Professor Trenchard had pulled some serious strings to get Jeff the position. Tracy and Jeff had met Nick Trenchard, a world-renowned archaeologist, on their honeymoon in Tunisia. Jeff had signed up for a dig at a Roman hill fort that Professor Trenchard was heading and the two men hit it off immediately. Strangely perhaps, as on the surface they had little in common. The professor was in his early sixties, cerebral, shy and utterly obsessed with the late Roman Empire. Jeff Stevens was an ex–con man with no formal education, who could have written what he knew about the Emperor Constantine II on the back of a postage stamp. But his enthusiasm and passion for learning were quite astonishing, as were his natural intelligence and capacity for hard work.
“I wish all my students were like your husband,” Professor Trenchard told Tracy over dinner one evening at Jeff and Tracy’s hotel. “I’ve never seen such commitment from an amateur. Is he this driven about everything?”
“When he wants something badly enough,” said Tracy.
“I do feel guilty, monopolizing so much of his time when you’re on your honeymoon.”
“Don’t.” Tracy smiled. “We picked Tunisia because of its rich history. Jeff’s dreamed of going on a dig here his whole life. I’m just happy to see him so happy.”
She meant it. She was happy, watching Jeff thrive as they began their new life. She was happy when they returned to London and Jeff enrolled in class after class on everything from Byzantine sculpture to Celtic artwork to ancient Roman coins to Chinese ceremonial armor. Without effort it seemed, without sacrifice, he had traded the thrill of their old life as thieves and con artists, robbing only the bad guys and making a fortune for themselves in the process, for the thrill of acquiring new knowledge. And Tracy was happy. For him.
For herself, unfortunately, things were a little more complicated.
The truth was, she’d simply assumed she would get pregnant right away. She and Jeff made love every night of their honeymoon and often during the day as well, when Jeff would sneak away from Professor Trenchard’s dig for “lunch” at the hotel. She took a test as soon as they got back to London and was so astonished when it was negative that she went to see her doctor.