Page 18 of Undercover Star
He was a lot closer now. Close enough to see a small bulge marring the back of the man's' suit jacket, roughly where his waistband would be. "Would he be carrying a gun?"
Josh didn't answer his question. "Where the fuck are you?"
"I told you. Heading for the stairs. You should see me." There was an advantage to the peacock suit beyond giving the fans something to look at. It made it easier for his security team to keep an eye on him.
Matisse took his eyes off his target for a second, looking past the man to the stairs, hoping to spot Josh. The low grumbling in his ear didn't qualify as communication of any sort except to convey Josh's frustration. Had he been accosted by someone and couldn't get to Matisse quickly enough?
Matisse remembered a crowd in Hong Kong, surging so fast the four feet between him and Oats—usually a gap adequate enough to discourage anyone—had turned out to be as wide as an ocean, with each trapped on the opposite shore. He recalled Oats's eyes, the stare he'd levelled on the invading fans, and the almost-tackle he'd used to clear his way to Matisse.
He didn't want Josh to start a war in Kilbride House.
Four rapid steps took him to the thief's side. Another let him bump into the man, jostling the hand holding the flute of champagne. The pale gold liquid splashed onto the man's tux, and Matisse breathed a sigh of relief.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," he apologised immediately, keeping his voice low. "I wasn't looking where I was going. I had my eye on the seascape." He swiped aimlessly at the man's jacket and tried to indicate the painting in question at the same time, effectively blocking his target's way to the stairs. "I do beg your pardon."
"It's fine. Champagne doesn't stain." The man waved him off. He had a deep, rumbling voice, and a very distinctive Scots accent.
"I'm really very sorry. Let me get you another—"
"There's no need. I was just on my way—"
"But you really should take a look at this seascape. It's a Porcellis. Only one chance a year to admire it and—" Matisse's hand brushed over the edge of the man's jacket until he felt the outline of something hard and edged under his palm. The man jerked away, spun to face Matisse, and—
A hard grip on his arm yanked Matisse out of the way.
A glint of metal caught his eye, too quickly gone to decide what he'd seen.
A grunt.
A subdued curse.
And Matisse was left standing at the top of the stairs while Josh chased the thief towards the exit.
––––––––
DON'T RUN. WALK. AMBLE. Meander. Stagger, if you must. Just. Don't. Run.Matisse breathed the words like a mantra, over and over, as he made his way down the stairs, across the entrance hall teaming with expensively clad guests and to the side entrance. Josh had almost reached the wide doors when Matisse lost sight of him.
The two men had caused a stir, darting between guests, and Matisse had done his best to divert everyone's attention. He'd stumbled yet again, this time into one of the serving staff, sending a tray of canapés clattering down the stairs. No doubt he'd be reading about his disgraceful behaviour in the morning papers. Drunk, high, past his best, out of control, a disgrace to the music industry... he'd heard plenty of hyperbolic trash in the last ten years. He'd listen to it again if it helped Josh catch the man who'd taken the cross.
The silver, gem-studded cross with the large emerald at its heart. Not the delicate, sedate jet cameos.
Had Josh known the cross was the thief's real target and used the jet to distract Matisse's attention? Matisse didn't know. Couldn't think of a good reason why Josh would lie and let the thought go.
"A little fresh air, sir?"
If he'd been truly drunk, Matisse wouldn't have heard the malicious enjoyment in the man's tone. Since he'd only had one glass of champagne, he heard it loud and clear. The reporters wouldn't even have to ask. He smiled, as placidly as he could. "Yes, please." He even nodded his thanks when the man held the door for him. Out of sight of most of the guests, he took a deep breath of cool, unscented air and darted around the side of the house.
The front garden stretched to the gate with the semicircular drive a pale ribbon in the almost darkness. Josh was nowhere in sight.
Conscious of the blue and gold suit, Matisse took a few careful steps towards the street. The rustle and babble of the crowd reached him, and he hesitated, torn between following Josh and staying away from keyed-up strangers while he was on his own and dressed up like a sacrifice.
"Matisse?" Rigger's voice made him jump.
"Jesus. Warn a guy."
"Are you ready to leave?"
"I need to find Josh. He followed—"
