Rebecca Mortimer! The girl from the British Museum. The girl Tracy had caught in her bedroom with Jeff, all those years ago. The girl who’d singlehandedly destroyed Tracy’s married life was here, not only in Los Angeles but in this very restaurant, sitting less than ten feet away from her!
Of course, she looked different. It had been almost a decade, after all. Her long red hair was now platinum blond and short, almost boyish. But there was nothing remotely masculine about her figure, especially when it was shrink-wrapped in an Hervé Léger minidress as it was today. Or in the coquettish toss of her head as she laughed at the fat man’s jokes.
I know who he is now, Tracy thought. Of course. That’s Alan Brookstein, the director. Which means those must be the famous Iranian rubies.
She couldn’t remember the whole story. But it involved a mistress of the former shah of Iran being tortured and strangled for her necklace, or something equally awful. Vanity Fair did a piece on it, and nobody came out well. Liz Taylor had tried and failed to buy the necklace before her death, after which it went underground again. Brookstein had bought it for his wife last year in a secret, possibly illegal deal, for an undisclosed sum. And here it was in the flesh, swinging around the woman’s neck at a casual lunch, like a mayoral chain!
Tracy summoned the maître d’.
“That’s Alan Brookstein and his wife, isn’t it?” she asked discreetly.
“Yes, ma’am. They’re regulars here.”
“I wonder, do you know the young woman dining with them?”
The maître d’ didn’t usually stoop to gossip with patrons. But the very beautiful Mrs. Schmidt was clearly far from one’s average tourist. She positively radiated class.
“I believe her name is Liza Cunningham. I’ve seen her in here before with Sheila . . . Mrs. Brookstein. She’s British. An actress.”
That’s about right, thought Tracy bitterly. A damn good actress.
Tracy watched the way “Liza” divided her attention between the director and his wife, expertly flattering them both. In her prior i
ncarnation as “Rebecca,” an innocent archaeology student, she’d played the doe-eyed, butter-wouldn’t-melt role equally well.
That’s when it hit Tracy like a thunderbolt between the eyes.
She’s not an actress, or a student. She’s a con artist, like Jeff and me!
She’s one of us.
It was so obvious now, Tracy couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t realized it before. Back in London. Back when it mattered.
She’s a con artist and she’s here to steal that ruby necklace.
“Mom? You look weird. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, honey.” Tracy had almost forgotten Nicholas was there. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glazed and her heart rate had started to rise, beating to a familiar but long-neglected beat.
I’m going to play her at her own game.
And this time I’m going to win.
By the time Tracy paid the check, the decision had already been made.
Tracy was going to steal Sheila Brookstein’s rubies.
IT WAS HARD TO say who enjoyed the next week more—Tracy or Nicholas. In between playing mommy and taking her son to all the L.A. sights, Tracy prepared for the job. Stealing the most famous ruby necklace in the world from a powerful Hollywood director’s wife was not exactly “easing oneself back in gently.” Long days running around town with her son were followed by equally long nights researching everything there was to know about Alan and Sheila Brookstein and the fabled Iranian rubies.
In two days she had a plan.
It was difficult, audacious and wildly risky. Worse, she had only ten days to pull it together.
TRACY AND NICHOLAS WERE at the Hollywood sign. Tracy’s phone rang.
“Hello?”
“So it really is you!” The man on the other end of the line gave a raspy chuckle. “I’ll be damned. I thought you were dead.”