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By Root 703 0

fraud and she knew it. What did she see in him? There was no mystery about what attracted him to her: she was beautiful, lovable, warmhearted and vulnerable; and if that were not enough, she had the body of a goddess. Anyone would have fallen for her. But him? He was not bad-looking, of course, and he knew how to wear clothes, but he had a feeling that sort of thing did not count much with Margaret. However, she was intrigued by him. She found his way of life fascinating, and he knew a lot of stuff that was strange to her, about working-class life in general and the criminal underworld in particular. He guessed that she saw him as a romantic figure, like the Scarlet Pimpernel, or some kind of outlaw, Robin Hood or Billy the Kid, or a pirate. She was extraordinarily grateful to him for holding her chair in the dining room, a trivial thing he had done without even thinking about it, but it meant a lot to her. In fact he was pretty sure that that was the moment when she had really fallen for him. Girls are peculiar, he thought with a mental shrug. Anyway, it no longer mattered what the original attraction had been: once they took off their clothes it was pure chemistry. He would never forget the sight of her white breasts in the dim, filtered light, her nipples so small and pale they were hardly visible; the riot of chestnut hair between her legs; the scattering of freckles at her throat....

And now he was going to risk losing it all.

He was going to steal her mother’s jewelry.

It was not something a girl could laugh off. Her parents were awful to her, and she probably believed their wealth should be redistributed, anyway; but all the same she would be shocked. Robbing someone was like a slap across the face: it might not do much damage, but it angered people out of all proportion. It could be the end of his affair with Margaret.

But the Delhi Suite was here, on this plane, in the baggage hold, just a few steps from where he lay: the most beautiful jewels in the world, worth a fortune, enough for him to live on for the rest of his life.

He longed to hold that necklace in his hands, feast his eyes on the fathomless red of the Burmese rubies, and run his fingertips over the faceted diamonds.

The settings would have to be destroyed, of course, and the suite broken up, as soon as it was fenced. That was a tragedy, but inevitable. The stones would survive, and end up in another suite of jewelry on the skin of some millionaire’s wife. And Harry Marks would buy a house.

Yes, that was what he would do with the money. He would buy a country house, somewhere in America, maybe in the area they called New England, wherever that was. He could see it already, with its lawns and trees, the weekend guests in white trousers and straw hats, and his wife coming down the oaken staircase in jodhpurs and riding boots—

But the wife had Margaret’s face.

She had left him at dawn, slipping out through the curtains when there was no one to see. Harry had looked out of the window, thinking of her, while the plane flew over the spruce forests of Newfoundland and splashed down at Botwood. She had said she would stay on board during the stopover, and snatch an hour’s sleep; and Harry said he would do the same, although he had no intention of sleeping.

Now he could see, through his window, a straggle of people in overcoats boarding the launch: about half the passengers and most of the crew. Now, while most people on the plane were still asleep, would be his chance of getting into the hold. Luggage locks would not delay him long. In no time at all he could have the Delhi Suite in his hands.

But he was wondering whether Margaret’s breasts were not the most precious jewels he would ever hold.

He told himself to come down to earth. She had spent a night with him, but would he ever see her again after they got off the plane? He had heard people talk of “shipboard romances” as being notoriously ephemeral: seaplane affairs had to be even more fleeting. Margaret was desperate to leave her parents and live independently, but would it ever happen? A lot