The two men did not. They took their time smoking and laughing. At long last, the first guard dropped his cigarette in the grass and ground it out with his foot. The second guard took one last drag, then did the same, the two finally moving off to continue their patrol.
Sam waited a few seconds after they rounded the opposite corner to be sure he’d given them enough time before making the jump. He caught the travertine balustrade, pulling himself up and over onto the balcony. Remi followed with her usual catlike grace, and he caught her hands, helping her over.
The balcony was just wide enough for the potted cypresses on either side of the window, but not much more. He looked for any obvious signs of an alarm but didn’t see anything. Of course, there was only one way to find out and that was to open the window. Perhaps with the party in full swing, and whatever was going on with this secret auction, the alarm—if there was one on this level—wasn’t set. He peered in the window, the curtain inside parted enough to see into the darkened room.
“Bedroom,” he whispered.
“It’ll be faster if we split up.”
She was right, but that feeling of foreboding wouldn’t leave him. Going against his instincts wasn’t worth the risk to save time. “We stay together,” he said.
Fortunately, there was only a space of a couple of feet from one balcony to the next, and he held Remi’s hand while she stepped across. She’d just swung her leg over the stone balustrade, sitting on the edge, when a light went on inside, illuminating the entire balcony. Before she had a chance to move, an audible click sounded as someone unlocked and opened the window.
53
Remi froze, as the floor-to-ceiling window opened out onto the balcony. She glanced over at Sam, who quickly moved behind the cypress on the other balcony, pressing himself against the wall. When she motioned that she should return to his balcony, he shook his head.
There was little she could do but wait and hope that whoever had just opened the window wasn’t planning on stepping out for a better view. Trapped between the potted cypress and the balustrade, she moved back against the wall, feeling the sharp stucco at her back, her pulse pounding in her ears almost too loudly to make out the voices inside. “My apologies,” a man’s voice said. “The room should quickly cool off, though.”
Once she realized they weren’t coming out, she inched closer to the cypress and the open window, peering through the spiny branches, now able to see inside the room. Two men, both wearing dark suits, their backs to the window, stood near a massive mahogany desk. “You were saying that you’ve already made arrangements for the car?” he asked. No doubt this was the broker who’d arranged the auction.
“I plan to have it shipped back to the UK,” the other man said. “One question I did have . . . Since I’ve no idea how you acquired the car for the auction—”
“We value the anonymity of our sellers as well as our buyers.”
“Which I more than appreciate. And not where I was going.”
“My apologies, Signore Wrent. What was your question?”
“While I appreciate your guarantee that this is the forty-fifty I was inquiring about, was there anything about who was the original owner? Photos, documents found in the car. Anything that will help prove the provenance?”
“It’s the same car. I question what good the documents, if there are any, will do. Surely you must realize that the car can’t be sold on the open market?”
“Very aware. I have no intention of selling it.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what’s so special about this particular vehicle?”
“I value history, which is why I’d like anything that seems of significance when it comes to the car’s past.”
“We’ll include everything we have on it.”
“I appreciate it.”
A barn owl swooped down from the rooftop, past t
he window, the wide expanse of its wings drawing the notice of both men. Remi ducked back, catching a glimpse of the buyer’s face as they turned to look.
The man from the elevator.
“If there’s nothing else?” Remi heard the broker ask.
“Where is the car? Rather than make an extra trip, I was hoping to see it in person before I fly home.”
“A warehouse outside of Paris, I’m afraid. Once the bank transfer is made, and the funds are placed in our account, we’ll contact you with the location.”
“Not before?”
“Surely you appreciate the position I’m in, Signore Wrent. While I believe you to be a man of your word, my commodity is not one that attracts the best of clientele. I find it safer for everyone involved to make sure all funds clear the bank before disclosing the location.”