Honest Illusions

  Damn it, he hadn’t realized that disinterest could stimulate. “Try this. You join the luminaries for the auction after our performance. You’re an honored guest, anxious to bid on a few baubles.”

  “And you are?”

  “Attending to a few details at the theater, but I’ll be joining you. You bid spiritedly against a certain gentleman on an emerald ring, but he outreaches you.”

  “And what if other attendees covet that ring?”

  “Whatever the bid, he’ll top it. He’s French and rich and romantic and desires that ring for his fiancée. Mais alors.” Luke slipped into French so smoothly, Roxanne blinked. “When he examines the ring, as a practical Frenchman might, he discovers it to be paste.”

  “The ring’s a fake?”

  “That and a number of other items.” He linked his hands together, resting his chin on them. Over them, his eyes glowed with that old amused excitement that nearly tricked a grin out of her. “Because, my only love, we will have switched the take in those soft, dark hours before dawn. And while Washington and its very fine police force are abuzz with the daring theft of several million in jewels, we will quietly slip over to Maryland and relieve the aspiring senator of the philosophers’ stone.”

  There was more, a very important more, but he would time the telling as carefully as his staging.

  “Interesting,” she said in a voice like a yawn, though she was fascinated. “There’s just one little detail I don’t understand.”

  “Which is?”

  She funneled her hands and poured his coins next to his plate. “How the hell we break into a heavily secured art gallery in the first place?”

  “The same way we break into a house in the ’burbs, Roxy. Expertly. It also helps that I have what we could call a secret weapon.”

  “Secret weapon?”

  “Top secret.” He took her hand before she could avoid it and raised it to his lips. “I’ve always been a sucker for the taste of barbecue sauce on a woman’s skin.” Watching her, he traced his tongue over her knuckles. “Especially if it’s your skin. Do you remember the day we had that picnic? We lay on the rug and listened to the rain? I think I started nibbling on your toes and worked my way up.” He turned her hand over to scrape his teeth along her wrist. “I could never get enough of you.”

  “I can’t recall.” Her pulse jumped and scrabbled. “I’ve been on a number of picnics.”

  “Then I’ll refresh your memory. We shared this same meal.” He rose, drawing her slowly to her feet. “There was rain running over the windows, the light was gloomy. When I touched you, you trembled, just as you’re trembling now.”

  “I’m not.” But she was.

  “And I kissed you. Here.” He brushed his lips over her temple. “And here.” Along her jaw. “And then—” He broke off with an oath as a key turned in the lock.

  “What a town!” Jake barreled in, laden with shopping bags. “I could spend a week.”

  “Try another hour,” Luke muttered.

  “Ooops. I’m interrupting.” Grinning, he set his bags down and crossed the room to take Roxanne’s limp hand and pump it. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Would’ve popped into your dressing room last night, but it would have cost me my life. I’m Jake Finestein, Luke’s partner.”

  “Partner?” Roxanne echoed.

  “Roxanne, our secret weapon.” Disgusted, Luke sat and poured more wine.

  “I see.” She didn’t have a clue. “Just what’s your secret, Mr. Finestein?”

  “Jake.” He reached around her to cop one of the chicken wings. “Luke didn’t fill you in yet? You could say I’m a wunderkind.”

  “Idiot savant,” Luke corrected and made Jake laugh heartily in the peculiar hiccuping rasps that were his own.

  “He’s pissed, that’s all. Thought you’d fall right into his arms. Guy’s a pretty good thief, but he doesn’t know squat about women.”

  Roxanne’s lips curved in a genuine smile. “I think I like your friend, Callahan.”

  “I didn’t say he was a friend. A thorn in my side, sand in my shoe.”

  “A fly in his soup.” Jake winked and punched at his glasses. “Guess he didn’t mention how I saved his life in Nice.”

  “He didn’t mention it.”

  “You nearly got me killed,” Luke pointed out.

  “You know how things get twisted up after a few years.” Always ready to socialize, Jake poured himself some wine. “Anyway, there was a little disagreement in a club.”

  “It was a fucking bar fight.” Luke gestured with his glass. “Which you started.”

  “Details, details. There was a matter of an attractive young woman—I mean a-ttrac-tive—and a rather overbearing gentleman.”

  “A hooker and a john,” Luke muttered.

  “Didn’t I offer to beat his price? Business is business, isn’t it? It’s not like they’d signed a legal contract.” Though it still offended his sense of free enterprise, with a sigh and a shrug, Jake continued. “In any case, one thing led to another, and when Luke got in the way—”

  “When I stepped in to keep you from getting a shiv under the rib.”

  “Whatever. There was an altercation. It was me who bashed the big bastard with a whiskey bottle before he slit your throat, and what thanks do I get? I dragged him outside—rapped my shin on a chair, too, and didn’t walk right for days. The bruise.” He tossed up a hand. “Oiy! It was big as a baseball.” He scowled at the memory, sipped, then sighed it away. “But I’m rambling.”

  “What else is new?”

  To show there were no hard feelings, Jake patted Luke’s shoulder. “I find out Luke here’s a magician, and he finds out I’m to computers what Joe DiMaggio was to baseball. A heavy hitter. No system I can’t crack. It’s a gift.” He flashed his militarily aligned teeth and reminded Roxanne of a bespectacled beaver. “God knows where it comes from. My father ran a kosher bakery in the Bronx and had trouble with a cash register. Me, give me a keyboard and I’m in heaven. So one thing leads to another, and we hook up.”

  “Jake was in Europe running from a forgery rap.”

  “A slight miscalculation,” Jake said mildly, but color rose up his skinny neck. “Computers are my passion, Miss Roxanne, but forgery is my art. Unfortunately, I became overanxious and rushed.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” Roxanne assured him and earned his undying gratitude.

  “A woman of understanding is more precious than rubies.”

  “She’s passed precious little my way.”

  Roxanne arched a brow at Luke. “But you see, Callahan, I like Jake. I’m assuming that your skill with computers will get us past the security.”

  “There hasn’t been a system invented that can stop me. I’ll get you in, Miss Roxanne, and out again. As for the rest—”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time,” Luke interrupted. “We have a lot of work to do, Rox. Are you up for it?”

  “I can hold my own, Callahan. I always have.” She turned to Jake with a smile. “Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

  “It’s a pleasure I’m anticipating.”

  “We’re flying out tomorrow. I’d like you to come to dinner when it’s convenient for you.” She spared a brief glance for Luke. “I suppose you can bring him along.”

  “I’ll keep him under control.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Taking Luke’s glass she clinked it against Jake’s and made his beady eyes shine. “I think this is the start of a beautiful relationship.” She took one sip before setting the glass aside. “You’ll have to excuse me, I have a date. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  Jake pressed a hand to his heart as Roxanne closed the door behind him. “Oiy! What a woman.”

  “Make one move in that direction, pal, and you’ll be eating all your meals through a straw.”

  “I think she liked me.” Stars glittered behind the thick lenses. “I think she was definitely smitten.”

  “Check your glands, Fineste
in, and go get your tools. Let’s see how close you can come to Wyatt’s signature.”

  “Even his broker won’t know the difference, Luke. Trust me.”

  “I have to,” Luke muttered. “That’s the problem.”

  27

  It was perhaps the most difficult role he’d ever played. Certainly it was the most important. Taking a detour on his way from D.C. to New Orleans, Luke arrived at the Wyatt estate in Tennessee with his hat in his hand, and revenge in his heart.

  He knew it had to be done, the pleading, the humility, the face of fear. It might have rankled the pride, but keeping the Nouvelles safe well outdistanced the ego. So he would wear a mask—not the literal mask he’d worn off and on over the last five years—but one that would convince Sam Wyatt to accept Luke’s return. At least temporarily.

  He needed only a few months. At the end of it he would have everything he wanted. Or he would have nothing.

  He knocked, and waited. When the uniformed maid answered, Luke ducked his head and swallowed audibly. “I, ah, Mr. Wyatt’s expecting me. I’m Callahan. Luke Callahan.”

  After a brisk nod, she led him down the hallway he remembered and into the office where he had once witnessed a murder, and suffered his own small death.

  As he had five years before, Sam sat behind his desk. This time as well as the elegant furnishings there was an oversized campaign poster on an easel. The photographed smile flashed with sincerity and charm. In bold letters outlined in red and blue the caption read:

  SAM WYATT FOR TENNESSEE

  SAM WYATT FOR AMERICA

  In a cloisonné bowl at the edge of the desk was a pile of buttons featuring the same face, the same sentiment.

  As for the candidate himself, Sam had changed little. Luke noted that a few silvery hairs had been allowed to glint at his temples, faint lines crinkled beside his eyes as he smiled. And he did smile, hugely. Very much, Luke thought, as a spider might when he spotted a fly struggling feebly in the web.

  “Well, well, the prodigal returns. That will be all,” he said to the maid, then leaned back, still grinning, when the door shut behind her. “Callahan—you look remarkably well.”

  “You look . . . successful.”

  “Yes.” In an old habit, Sam turned his wrist so he could admire the gold cuff links winking at his cuffs. “I must say your call yesterday surprised me a great deal. I didn’t think you had the nerve.”

  Luke straightened his shoulders in what he knew would appear to be a pitiful attempt at bravado. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “Oh, I’m all ears.” Chuckling, Sam rose. “I suppose I should offer you a drink.” He walked deliberately to the brandy decanter, and his eyes gleamed as he turned back. “For old times’ sake.”

  Luke merely stared at the offered snifter while his breath came quick and loud. “I really don’t—”

  “What’s the matter, Callahan? Lose your taste for brandy? Don’t worry.” Sam toasted, then drank deeply. “I don’t have to doctor your drink to get what I want out of you this time. Sit.” It was an order, master to dog. While the fire burned bright in his blood, Luke let the brandy slosh in his glass as he meekly obeyed. “Now . . .” Sam leaned against the corner of the desk, smiling. “What makes you think I’d let you come back.”

  “I thought . . .” Luke drank as if to bolster his courage. “I hoped that it had been long enough.”

  “Oh no.” Reveling in the power, Sam shook his head. “Between you and me it can never be long enough. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough—what has it been? Five years ago. It was right here in this same room, wasn’t it? Isn’t that interesting?”

  Idly he wandered to the spot where Cobb had sprawled, bleeding. The rug was new. An Italian antique he’d purchased with his wife’s money.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten what happened here?”

  “No.” Luke pressed his lips together, averted his eyes. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

  “I believe I told you exactly what I would do if you came back. What would happen to you, and what would happen to the Nouvelles.” As if struck with a notion, Sam lifted a finger, tapped it against his lips. “Or perhaps you’ve lost your enchantment with the Nouvelles after such a long separation. You might not care that I can send the old man to prison, send them all if it comes to that. Including the woman you once loved.”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to them. There’s no need for you to take any of this out on them.” As if to steady his trembling voice, Luke took another sip. It was damn good brandy, he mused. A pity he couldn’t relax enough to enjoy it. “I just want a chance to come home—only for a little while,” he added quickly. “Sam, Max is really ill. He may not live long. I’m only asking you to let me spend a month or so with him.”

  “How touching.” Sam moved behind the desk again. Opening a drawer he took out a cigarette. He allowed himself only five a day, and only in private. In today’s political climate, smoking was a liability. He might have been well ahead in the polls, but he wasn’t a man to take chances with his image. “So, you want to spend time with the old man while he dies.” Sam lighted the cigarette, took one deep satisfying drag. “Why in hell should I care?”

  “I know—I don’t expect you to care. I hoped that since it would be for such a short time. A couple of months.” Luke looked up again, his eyes full of pleas. “I don’t see how it could matter to you.”

  “You’re wrong. Everything about you, everything about the Nouvelles will always matter to me. Do you know why?” His fierce grin spread into a snarl. “You, none of you, recognized what I had, who I was. You took me in out of pity and tossed me out in disgust. And you thought you were better. You were nothing but common thieves, but you thought you were better than me.”

  The old anger reared up, nearly choking him. It was the hate that had ripened with it which kept his voice clear.

  “But you weren’t, were you?” he continued. “You’re left without a home, even without a country, and the Nouvelles are saddled with a pathetic old man who can’t remember his own name. But here I am, Callahan. Rich, successful, admired and on my way to the top.”

  Luke had to remind himself of the plan, the long term, the satisfaction of a clever sting. Otherwise he might have leaped up then and there and twisted Sam’s neck. Because part of what Sam had said was true. Luke had no home. And Max had lost his identity.

  “You have everything you want.” Luke kept his shoulders slumped. “I’m only asking for a few weeks.”

  “You figure that’s all the old man has left in him?” Sam sighed, and tipped back his brandy. “A pity. I actually hope he lives a long time yet, a long, long time with his mind vegetating, his body shriveling and the entire situation pulling the heart out of his family.”

  He smiled suddenly, the glossy politician’s smile that lured voters. “I know all about Alzheimer’s. More than you might imagine. As I was inspired by Max’s predicament, part of my platform has been lending a sympathetic, even a compassionate ear to families dealing with the care and feeding of loved ones with minds like a turnip. Ah!” He laughed at the sudden flash in Luke’s eyes. “That offends you. Insults your sensibilities. Well, let me tell you something, Callahan, I don’t give a damn about Maximillian Nouvelle or any of the others like him. Turnips don’t vote. But don’t worry, once I’m elected, we’ll continue the . . . illusion,” he decided, enjoying the irony of the word. “We’ll continue to make promises—even keep a few of them—about research and state funding, because I know how to plan for the long term.”

  He settled back and let himself project, opening himself to the one man Sam was certain could do nothing to harm him. “The Senate seat’s only the next step—the next step toward the White House. Another decade, and I’ll have won it all. Once I have control, complete control, things will be run my way. The bleeding hearts will be bled dry, and all those whining special-interest groups can whine themselves into oblivion. In the next century Americans will learn t
hat they have a leader who understands control and power. A leader who knows how to use both and isn’t afraid of taking some losses when he does.”

  His voice had risen, like an evangelist who is bent on saving souls. Luke watched in silence while Sam drew himself in. Sooner or later he would snap, Luke mused. God help us all if Wyatt had any buttons under his thumb when he did.

  Sam drew on the cigarette again, then focused back on Luke as he tamped it out. “But I don’t imagine you’re interested in politics or the fate of a nation. Your interests are more personal.”

  “I made some money over the last few years.” Wanting Sam to see nerves, Luke moistened his lips. “I’ll pay you, give you whatever you want for a few weeks with Max and the Nouvelles.”

  “Money?” Delighted, Sam threw back his head and laughed. “Do I look like I need your money? Have you any idea how much I rake in every month in campaign contributions? That’s over and above what I have from my lovely wife.”

  “But if you had more you—you could increase your television campaign, or whatever it took to make sure the election went your