Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) Read online

  Tracy gave him a pained expression. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  “What do you mean”

  “My deal with Monsignor Cunardi closes tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m here, to oversee the transfer of the funds. If only we’d met sooner. Anyway, enough about business. I must be boring you stiff! I hear the desserts here are to die for.”

  She began to peruse the dessert menu. Maximilian Pierpont wore the expression of a man who could feel millions of dollars slipping through his fingers.

  “Look. I don’t need to physically see the land. You say you have the necessary planning permissions?”

  Tracy nodded gravely.

  “If you could get me copies of those tomorrow morning, along with the deeds to the property, that’d be enough. Do you think that’s possible, Valentina?”

  “Well, yes!” The Countess Di Sorrenti’s eyes lit up. “Of course. But surely you wouldn’t want to pay such a huge amount of money without even seeing the land? I mean, one has to walk there to understand the true magic of the place. Papa always said—”

  “I’m sure.” Maximilian Pierpont cut her off, unable to listen to another minute of her vacuous rambling. As if he gave a damn about the “magic” or her stupid dead father. He did still want to maneuver the countess into bed. But he’d better wait until the deal was done first.

  “Well . . .” Tracy smiled broadly. “I’ll send over the paperwork in the morning, then. I must say, this really is incredibly kind of you, Max.”

  “Not at all, Valentina. I’d hate to see your dream for that land slip away. Waiter!” Maximilian Pierpont clicked his fingers imperiously. “Bring us some champagne. The best in the house! Countess Di Sorrenti and I are celebrating.”

  THAT NIGHT JEFF CALLED Tracy’s cell.

  “I’m trying to reach the future Mrs. Stevens.”

  Just hearing his voice again made Tracy’s heart leap.

  “I’m afraid you have the wrong number. This is the Countess Valentina Di Sorrenti.”

  No man had ever gotten to Tracy the way that Jeff did. Not even Charles Stanhope III, the first man she’d thought she wanted to marry, back in Philadelphia, in another life. Charles had betrayed her. When Tracy was sent to prison for a crime she didn’t commit, Charles Stanhope III hadn’t lifted one powerful finger to help her.

  Jeff Stevens was different. Tracy trusted him with her life. And he had saved her life once. That was when Tracy first realized that he loved her. Every day with Jeff was an adventure. A challenge. A thrill. But the irony wasn’t lost on her:

  The one person on this earth that I trust completely is a con man.

  Jeff said, “I thought you said we were done with capers?”

  “We are. Just as soon as I’m done with this. It’s Maximilian Pierpont, for God’s sake!”

  “How long will it take?” Tracy could hear the pout in his voice.

  He misses me. Good.

  “A week. Maximum.”

  “I can’t wait that long, Tracy.”

  “Valentina,” Tracy teased. “Although you can call me ‘Countess.’ ”

  “I want you in my bed, not on the end of a telephone line.”

  Jeff’s voice was hoarse with desire. Tracy gripped the phone, feeling weak with longing. She wanted him too, desperately. It had been only a week since they had been together in Amsterdam, but her body was already crying out for him.

  “We can’t be seen together in Rio. Not until I’ve nailed Pierpont.”

  “Why not? I can be the Count Di Sorrenti.”

  “He died.”

  “Bummer. How?”

  “Jet Ski accident in Sardinia.”

  “What a phony. He deserved it.”

  “I watched it happen from our yacht.”

  “Of course you did, Countess.” Jeff chuckled. “How about I come back as his ghost?”

  “I’ll see you in church next Saturday, darling. I’ll be the hot girl in the white dress.”

  “At least tell me where you’re staying.”

  “Good night, Mr. Stevens.”

  THE LAWYER’S OFFICE WAS small and airless, tucked away in a small street off the Avenida Rio Branco in Rio’s Centro business district.

  “You’re sure these permissions are genuine?”

  “Yes, Countess Di Sorrenti.”

  “And complete? There’s nothing else I would need, legally, apart from the deeds here”—Tracy held up a sheaf of papers—“to begin work on this site?”

  “No, Countess.” The lawyer’s frown deepened. He’d explained the situation to the beautiful young lady multiple times now, but she still seemed unable to grasp it. The Countess Di Sorrenti might be rich and beautiful, but she was also clearly profoundly dim. He tried one last time. “You do understand, there is still the issue of—”

  “Yes, yes. Thank you.” Tracy waved an imperious hand before reaching into her vintage Louis Vuitton handbag for a gold Montblanc pen. “How much do I owe you?”

  Suit yourself, thought the lawyer. He’d done his best.

  FIVE DAYS AFTER HIS dinner with the Countess Di Sorrenti at Quadrifoglio, Maximilian Pierpont drove south of Rio, along the breathtaking Green Coast road, toward his latest acquisition. As good as her word, the countess had couriered over copies of the deeds to her property along with building permits the very next morning. Pierpont had wired the six million reals to her Swiss account within an hour, and the land was his. Go to hell, Monsignor Cheapskate! But he hadn’t had a chance to drive out and see it until today.

  Six acres of prime cliff-side property—six acres!—with its own private beach, easily accessible from both the city and from Paraty, Rio’s answer to East Hampton. Maximilian Pierpont could hardly believe his luck. Better still, he fully intended to nail the lovely Countess Valentina tonight, once he returned to the city. She’d invited him over to her apartment for dinner, always a good sign. The address was on one of the finest streets in Leblon, the most exclusive neighborhood in the whole of South America. Clearly neither “Papa” nor “poor Marco” had left the lady short of funds. The prospect of swindling the sexy young heiress out of still more millions, while availing himself of her smoking-hot body in bed, was giving Maximilian Pierpont the biggest hard-on he’d had in a decade.

  He reached the property just before noon. There were a few houses along this stretch of road, but no real standouts. Pierpont’s plot stood in splendid isolation at the very top of the bluffs. Valentina wasn’t kidding about the views. They were spectacular. On one side the ocean blurred into the cloudless sky, a symphony in limitless blue. On the other, mountains smothered by vivid green rain forest sparkled like vast heaps of newly polished emeralds. It’s even prettier than I imagined. Maximilian Pierpont congratulated himself again that he hadn’t lost out on this deal by listening to his dumb-ass lawyer.

  “It’s the first rule of real estate, Max,” Ari Steinberg had warned him. “Don’t buy a pig in a poke. You taught me that, remember?”

  “The problem is, some stupid monsignor’s already poking my pig. He’s got this chick wrapped around his little finger, Ari. I need to make a move before he does.”

  The lawyer was insistent. “You haven’t seen the land. You gotta see the land.”

  “I’ve seen the deeds. I’ve seen the building permits. And I know where it is. Prime coast, Ari, the best. We’re talking a Brazilian Malibu.”

  “But, Max . . .”

  “If we were talking about a ten percent profit, or twenty, or even fifty, I’d agree with you. But I can get this for peanuts! A fraction of what it’s worth. Wire her the money.”

  “I strongly urge you to reconsider.”

  “And I strongly urge you to do what the hell I tell you, Ari.”

  Maximilian Pierpont hung up.

  St
epping out of his Bentley, he ducked under the orange construction tape that marked the entry to the Di Sorrenti property. Make that the Pierpont property, he thought gleefully. A team of surveyors were already on-site. Pierpont walked up to the chief surveyor, smiling broadly.

  “Whaddaya think? Quite a view, huh?” He couldn’t help boasting.

  The chief surveyor looked at him steadily. “You can’t build a house here.”

  Maximilian Pierpont laughed. “What do you mean I can’t build a house here? I can do whatever I want. It’s my land.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Sure it’s the point.” Pierpont stopped laughing. This dweeb was starting to annoy him. “I got legal permits, set in stone.”

  “I’m afraid that’s all that’s set in stone,” said the surveyor. “The ground you’re standing on?” He tapped at the grass beneath their feet with a stick. “This time next year it won’t be here.”

  A chill ran down Maximilian Pierpont’s spine. “What?”

  “This is some of the worst erosion I’ve seen. Ever. It’s an ecological tragedy. Anything you build here will be down there before the walls are dry.” The surveyor pointed at the beach below. Reached by a charming set of winding wooden steps, its soft white sand looked mockingly perfect.

  “But this area, this stretch of the coast . . . prices are sky-high,” Pierpont spluttered.

  “Halfway up the mountain, sure,” said the surveyor. “You got this knockout view. But here?” He shrugged. “Here you are the view. Didn’t anyone say anything to you when you applied for these permits?”

  “I didn’t apply for them. The previous owner did.”

  The surveyor frowned, confused. “Really? That’s odd. Because they’re only a week old.”

  Behind Maximilian Pierpont, the leaves of the rain forest rustling softly in the breeze sounded uncannily like Ari Steinberg’s laughter.

  THE APARTMENT IN LEBLON took up the entire top floor of a grand Victorian mansion. The door was opened by a British butler in full uniform.

  “I want to see the Countess Di Sorrenti.” Maximilian Pierpont’s jowly face looked uglier than ever, like a bulldog chewing a wasp. That bitch is giving me my money back if I have to beat it out of her with a crowbar. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Valentina was so stupid, she probably didn’t realize herself that the land was worthless. It should be a simple enough thing to convince her to go back to the monsignor.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Who?”

  Maximilian Pierpont glared at the butler.

  “Now listen to me, Jeeves. I’ve had a bad day as it is. I don’t need any more aggravation. You go and tell Valentina that Maximilian Pierpont is here.”

  “Sir, this apartment is owned by Mr. and Mrs. Miguel Rodriguez. The Rodriguezes have lived here for more than twenty years. I can assure you, there is no ‘Valentina’ at this address.”

  Maximilian Pierpont opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, like a toad gaping uselessly at a fly.

  There is no Valentina at this address.

  There is no Valentina . . .

  Racing back to his car, he called his accountant. “The money we wired on Tuesday, to that Swiss account? Make some calls. Find out who opened the account and where the funds are now.”

  “Mr. Pierpont, no Swiss bank is going to reveal that sort of information. It’s proprietary, and—”

  “DO IT!”

  A vein began to throb in Maximilian Pierpont’s temple. It was still throbbing forty minutes later when the accountant called back.

  “I don’t have a name, sir. I’m sorry. But I can tell you the account was closed down yesterday and all funds were withdrawn. That money is gone.”

  GUNTHER HARTOG DROVE THE wedding car, a vintage 1957 Daimler Conquest, with Tracy and Jeff cuddled up in the back.

  “So, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. Where to?”

  “The Marina da Glória,” said Tracy. “We have a small yacht waiting there to take us to Barra da Tijuca. I packed us some clothes,” she added to Jeff.

  Jeff squeezed his wife’s thigh. “I can’t think why. You won’t be needing any for the next week at least.”

  Tracy giggled. “Tomorrow morning we’re on a private plane to São Paulo, then on to Tunisia for the honeymoon. It’s too dangerous to fly direct from Rio. Pierpont or his goons might be waiting at the airport.”

  Jeff looked at her lovingly. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, darling?”

  “I try.”

  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.