It was the reference to finances that had bothered him, not that he was about to mention this to his mother. He and Remi were self-made multimillionaires, partly due to Sam’s inventions, including an argon laser scanner, a device that could detect and identify mixed metals and alloys at a distance. These days, he and Remi tended to focus most of their energy working for the charitable foundation they’d set up. Amazing, though, how every time an article that mentioned their fortune appeared in some magazine or on the internet, there was no shortage of friends and relatives who suddenly remembered vague connections to Sam and Remi, looking for funds to invest or hoping for a handout.
As much as Sam wanted to believe that someone wouldn’t try to get to him through his mother, he knew better. Up until two days ago when his mother had called, he’d never even heard of Viscount Wellswick. “Probably not even a real viscount,” Sam said, dropping his phone into his pocket. “What sort of British royalty stays at a motel?”
Remi held up the program. “The sort that’s forced to sell off cars at auction.”
“Since he’s not here now, it’s a moot point. Let’s just enjoy the day.”
They strolled across the grass, taking their time to appreciate the vehicles on display. Remi stopped to admire a row of classic sports cars, in every hue of the rainbow. “It just goes to show that museums aren’t the only places that house fine art.”
“These just happen to be on wheels,” Sam said. “Look at that motor. Now that’s a work of art . . . 630-liter engine—”
“Designed by Dr. Ferdinand Porsche,” Remi continued.
“Stop stealing my thunder.”
Sam was stepping aside for a photographer, who was trying to set up a shot of the vehicle with the Pacific Ocean in the background, when Remi tapped him on the shoulder. “Isn’t that Clive Cussler’s car? The one he finished restoring in 2010?”
“Sure looks like it.” They walked over to the sea foam green car, and Sam read the placard aloud. “1948 Delahaye Type 135 Cabriolet . . . I definitely like the color change. And the saddle brown leather interior works perfectly. The details . . .” He circled the car. “The Art Deco detail. That is Art Deco detail, isn’t it?”
“Okay, Sam, you can stop salivating. You’re like a kid in a candy shop.”
“Who wouldn’t be? Every year we come, there’s always something new.”
“I have to admit, it wouldn’t be August without a trip to Pebble Beach.”
Sam looked at his wife, about to comment on how fortunate they were that Clive always had guest passes waiting for them, when someone near the champagne and refreshment tent caught his eye. A dark-haired man about Sam’s age, mid-thirties—far too young to be the missing Viscount—watching every move the two of them made.
Considering how many people were around, Sam found the man’s interest odd. “How about a quick glass of champagne?” he asked.
“Before lunch? A bit of an early start to our day.”
“Yes, well, in this case,” he said, taking her arm in his, “we’ll need a prop to find out why we seem to be so interesting.”
“Intrigue. How fun. Who’re we interested in?”
“There’s a man wearing a yellow shirt with a green sweater tied around his shoulders at the far left corner of the champagne tent.”
“Yellow? Green?” She gave a casual glance in that direction. “Really. If you’re going to spy, why would anyone want to wear a color combination like that?”
Sam pretended interest in the 1937 Delahaye on their left as they strolled toward the tent. “Maybe he’s trying not to look the part of a spy. Or,” he said, leaning down close to her, “he’s simply entranced by your beauty and can’t take his eyes off you.”
“Hmm. Highly unlikely. The latter, in case you’re wondering. Too many far more striking women around here for me to be the center of attention, don’t you think?”
“Not in the least,” he said, glancing over at his wife. Remi had chosen a Dolce & Gabanna late-summer afternoon dress, in navy blue with white polka dots, with an off-the-shoulder neckline, and gathered sleeves that dropped to her elbows. The three-tiered gathered skirt was mid-calf, and the slightest breeze moved the delicate cotton voile. Perfectly polished red toenails peeked from her white Valentino sandals. Her straw hat matched a shoulder bag just big enough to hold the essentials: lipstick, comb, driver’s license, credit card, cell phone, a 9mm Sig Sauer micro-compact handgun, and a concealed-carry permit. “You’re a knockout, Remi. Always were, always will be.”
“Very wise answer, Fargo.” She gave him a dazzling smile, then turned her attention to the champagne tent. “We know he can’t be a spy spy.”
“A what?”
“Government intrigue and world conspiracy. More international jewel thief, dressed like that, wouldn’t you say?”
No doubt she was thinking about their last escapade, which sent them to South America searching for the lost Romanov jewels. “Unless he’s interested in your wedding ring, he’s going to be sadly disappointed.”
The way the man was watching them from behind one of the corners of the tent told Sam that he was definitely interested in something about them. He and Remi approached the table where a young woman in a crisp white shirt and black vest was pouring champagne into flutes. Sam picked up two, handing one to Remi. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.”
She lifted her glass and took a sip. “See you on the other side.”
Sam watched as his wife expertly weaved her way through the guests, waiting until she was halfway across the tent before making his way in the opposite direction, toward the man, who suddenly found his attention divided between them. When Remi raised her glass in a toast, Sam did the same, and the two closed in.