Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(13)

She pulled a small, black leather box out of her pocket and handed it to him, a little nervously. She knew there was a chance Jeff might take the gift the wrong way, and she desperately wanted to please him, to bring a touch of their old life back with all its fun and excitement.

“Let’s just say I went to a lot of trouble to get ahold of it.”

Jeff opened the box. Tracy watched, delighted, as his eyes widened.

“Where did you get this?”

She grinned. “Where do you think?”

“My God.” Jeff gasped. “It’s the real thing, isn’t it? I thought for a second it might be a really good copy.”

“A copy? Please.” Tracy sounded offended. “Copies are for the hoi polloi, darling. Only the best for you.”

Jeff stood up. Tracy thought he was coming over to kiss her, but when he looked up she saw that his eyes were alight with anger.

“Are you out of your mind?” He held the coin up to her face accusingly. In his hand was the silver coin of Cynethryth of Mercia, one of the British Museum’s rarest treasures. “You stole this.”

“Yes. For you.” Tracy looked confused. “I know how much it meant to you. Besides, you said it yourself. Nothing could be more Anglo-Saxon than a bit of looting.”

She smiled. Jeff didn’t smile back.

“That was a joke!” He looked at her aghast. “How did you . . . when . . . ?”


“The day your exhibition opened. I knew the other Saxon rooms would be totally empty. All anyone was interested in was Merovingian Treasures. So I set off the fire alarm, slipped into the south wing, and, well . . . I just took it. Those cases aren’t even alarmed,” she added, a note of disdain in her voice. “It’s like if it isn’t the Elgin Marbles or the Rosetta Stone, no one cares.”

“Everybody cares!” said Jeff furiously. “I care. In any case, those cases are locked. Where did you get the key?”

Tracy looked at him as if he were mad.

“I copied yours, of course. Really, darling, it’s not exactly rocket science. I Googled the coin, after you said you liked it so much, and I got a copy made at a little jeweler in the East End. Then I swapped it out for the original. Easy.”

Jeff was speechless.

Upset by his reaction, Tracy added defiantly, “And you know what? No one noticed the difference! No one except you even looks at that thing. Why shouldn’t you have it?”

“Because it’s not mine!” Jeff said, exasperated. “It belongs to the nation. I’ve been trusted to protect it, Tracy. And now my wife, my own wife, goes and steals it!”

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Tears welled up in Tracy’s eyes.

“Well, I’m not.”

She couldn’t understand Jeff’s reaction. Especially after she’d gone to so much trouble. He used to be proud of me when I pulled off jobs like that. No one had been hurt, after all. The old Jeff would have been pleased, amused, delighted. Tracy wanted the old Jeff back.

Jeff was staring down at the coin in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “Rebecca said she thought you seemed distracted on opening day,” he murmured. “I remember she asked me if there was anything up with you.”

“Oh, Rebecca said something, did she?” Tracy shot back angrily. “Well, bully for Rebecca! I’ll bet perfect little Rebecca would never sink so low as to steal a national treasure, now, would she?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” said Jeff.

“Because she’s not a dishonest con artist like me, right?”

Jeff shrugged as if to say, If the shoe fits.

Tears of anger and humiliation streamed down Tracy’s cheeks. “Your little girlfriend may be better than me—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jeff snapped. “Rebecca isn’t my girlfriend.”

“But if she’s better than me, she’s better than you too, Jeff. Have you forgotten who you are? You’re a con artist, Jeff Stevens. You may have retired, but you’ve got a twenty-year life of crime behind you, my friend! So don’t you come playing the high-handed saint with . . .”

Tracy stopped abruptly, like a child freezing in a game of musical statues.

“What?” said Jeff.

Tracy stared at him, her eyes wide and desperate, like a rabbit about to be shot. Then she looked down. Droplets of blood, dark and heavy, fell slowly from between her legs onto the floorboards.

She started to sob.

“All right, sweetheart. Don’t panic.” Jeff dropped the coin and put his arms around her. This was Tracy, his Tracy. What was he thinking, getting so angry with her in her condition. “It’ll be okay. Just lie down.”

Jeff ran for the phone. “I need an ambulance. Yes, Forty-five Eaton Square. As fast as you can, please.”





CHAPTER 4



BELGRAVIA WAS PARTICULARLY BEAUTIFUL in the springtime, Jeff Stevens thought as he set out from Eaton Square in the direction of Hyde Park. The cherry trees lining the Georgian streets were all in bloom, an eruption of white that mirrored the white stucco facades and laid a snowy carpet over the uneven paving stones. Frequent rain had left the grass in Chester and Belgrave Square a glowing, vibrant green. And everywhere people seemed cheerful and renewed, grateful to have emerged from another long, gray, relentless London winter.