Shh! Top Secret Preview!
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Cass Temple and Adam Maddox are back in their very own mystery thriller! You can claim your ARC soon... Until then, enjoy this sneak peek of the unedited prologue... (and yes, the full novel will have some of Adam's thoughts about Lexi!) |
Working Title: Con Heir
Copyright: Camilla Chafer
Two rivals. One masterpiece. No rules.
Cass Temple is a retrieval agent — a thief to some, a hero to others. Her mission: return stolen treasures to their rightful owners. Elusive and calculating, Cass has never been caught. But that’s about to change.
FBI Agent Adam Maddox has traced the pattern, the signature moves, the impossible escapes. He knows where the mysterious thief will strike next — Paris, where The Pandora, a disputed masterpiece, has been unveiled for the first time in decades. What he doesn’t know is who she is… or that their pasts are already entwined.
From the glittering streets of Paris to the hidden vaults of Zurich, Cass and Maddox are drawn into a dangerous chase where nothing is as it seems and every truth has its price. As loyalties blur and sparks ignite, one question remains: when the final move is played, who will steal The Pandora — and who will steal a heart?
Cass Temple is a retrieval agent — a thief to some, a hero to others. Her mission: return stolen treasures to their rightful owners. Elusive and calculating, Cass has never been caught. But that’s about to change.
FBI Agent Adam Maddox has traced the pattern, the signature moves, the impossible escapes. He knows where the mysterious thief will strike next — Paris, where The Pandora, a disputed masterpiece, has been unveiled for the first time in decades. What he doesn’t know is who she is… or that their pasts are already entwined.
From the glittering streets of Paris to the hidden vaults of Zurich, Cass and Maddox are drawn into a dangerous chase where nothing is as it seems and every truth has its price. As loyalties blur and sparks ignite, one question remains: when the final move is played, who will steal The Pandora — and who will steal a heart?
PROLOGUE
Vancouver Gallery of Modern Art, Vancouver
One year ago
One year ago
The security guard paid little attention to the middle-aged mousy woman in the ill-fitting beige coat. He saw people like her all the time. Another tourist who had wandered into the small museum to escape the crowded sidewalks of downtown Vancouver. Or maybe she was one of those arty housewives who liked to stand in front of large pieces of artwork and sigh then scribble some notes and pretend she understood what she looked at before she picked up her squabbling kids up from school in the suburbs.
Whatever. He didn’t care. A flash of the old watch on his wrist showed it was almost time for his break, like his stomach hadn’t been reminding him for the last twenty minutes, and he wanted to get off his feet for a few precious minutes instead of answering inane visitor questions. He checked his watch again. Time to go. His colleague hadn’t turned up to relieve him but what the hell, it wasn’t like there was anything to steal here anyway. It wasn’t like they were stuffed with indigenous art like the Museum of Anthropology across the bay, or the new and upcoming like at the Vancouver Art Gallery around the corner in the old courthouse on Hornby Street.
Everyone knew the security guards here were glorified mannequins more suited to giving directions than catching thieves. Plus he badly needed a smoke. With one last glance at the mousy-haired woman, hands thrust into pockets, still staring at the dull landscape dominating the sparse wall, he creaked to a stand and abandoned his post, taking off for the narrow escalator.
The mousy woman had spent more time discreetly watching the security guard shuffle in his seat and check his watch than she had staring at the painting, noting that every so often his hand tapped his pants’ pocket.
The guard was a five a day smoker. No more, no less, and he was nowhere near quitting although he’d tried gum and patches after his family’s pleas. A stressful morning, aided by people he would never remember, ensured he was desperate for his break. When he broke away, making for the escalator before his colleague - waylaid deliberately - arrived, she smiled with just the slightest upturn of her lips. Just like she planned and right on time.
She had exactly three minutes to remove the painting and replace it without being noticed or triggering an alarm.
Piece of cake.
Five minutes later she stepped off the last step of the curved staircase, skirted around the strolling security guard aiming for the gallery she’d just departed, and headed across the marble lobby to the sliding glass doors. Unlike the real tourists she didn’t loiter at the gift shop or stop to snap photos she’d never look at again. Instead, as she stepped outside, she hung a left and ambled across the small courtyard towards the street nodding discreetly to the street busker trying to entertain a small group of Chinese tourists.
She didn’t move too fast, making no movement that would arouse suspicion, and drew the beige ill fitting coat around her. It wasn’t an attractive garment, entirely out of style, but the secret compartment inside it was a work of tailored genius. Just large enough to stow a few extras and expertly made to drape and conceal. Despite that, she would be glad to never wear such a clunky garment again. She would probably set it on fire. The wig too.
Turning onto Burrard Street, she caught a flash of expansive blue in the distance. The glimpse of the harbor, where Burrard gave way to the Pier, was always a welcome sight. Indeed the sea views from all angles of downtown where one of the many reasons she loved Vancouver so much. It was a shame she wouldn’t be coming back any time soon. This was a strict in-and-out job. Perhaps next time she would take a few days R&R: bike the Stanley sea wall, read a book while perched on a log in English Bay or head across the sound to hike Grouse Mountain. Yeah, she huffed to herself, like she’d get any free time to indulge any time soon.
Plus there was the small matter that someone might have alerted the authorities that she was in the city and on the hunt. She’d suspected for some time now that her movements were exposed. All the more reason to disappear.
She couldn’t risk any exposure. She would have to go the States instead or maybe Europe. Her French accent hadn’t had a work out in a while. Neither had her French passport, one of several nationalities and names she used.
Only a couple of blocks to go and she felt herself tense, small hairs on the back of her neck standing up.
Was this it? Had they finally found her?
She’d had the awful sensation of being watched several times since she arrived in the city. Before that she thought she’d been tailed through the US-Canadian crossing. And before that she’d turned down a job that seemed too good to be true.
She paused at the junction of Dunsmuir, hardly daring to turnaround. Don’t look. Act normal. Then someone brushed past her; a young woman with shiny hair, chattering into her cellphone in a high-pitched voice, ignoring their brush past.
The cross walk flashed green and she realized she was the only one not walking so she hurried after them, taking care not to slow her pace as she stepped onto the sidewalk. At the pier, she hung a left, following the route down to the harbor until she spotted the seaplanes docked in their small marina.
The pilot was waiting for her, casually stood by a a white seaplane rocking gently on the water. He wore khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, two buttons open at the neck like he was just a regular guy about to take a tourist for a tour. He didn’t wave and neither did she but the edges of his mouth flickered upwards, pleased to see her or amused at her get up. It was hard to tell.
“Beautiful day,” he said when she reached him. His mirrored aviators reflected her face, thick with make-up. Cass couldn’t wait to take it off. The dowdy, over-sized, clothes too.
“The sea likes calm,” she replied. It wasn’t code but it was a way of him asking and her telling that everything had gone okay, that there was no need for haste.
He reached for the door, opened it and she climbed inside the small seaplane, settling into the hard seat. Moments later he was in the pilot’s seat, lighting up the instrument panel, and adding a pair of thick headphones to his ears. He handed her a pair and she put them on over the wig.
As they taxied onto the water, the loud whoosh of the engine firing made her heart race. Little aircraft weren’t her favorite thing, seaplanes even less so, but she knew better than to show fear. No one showed fear in this game.
He spoke into his mic, confirming their takeoff and then they were going, zooming across the sea, creating white surf as they skimmed the water until they lifted off, heading away from the city and towards the mountains.
A few minutes later, he asked, “So?”
She permitted a smile as she wriggled around the safety belt and pulled off her coat, extracting the small painting from the hidden pocket.
He burst out laughing. “Shit, Cass! You stole the damn frame too?”
“It’s a nice frame, Nick,” she said, grinning at the wood encasing the canvas, then added, “and easier to take the whole thing than fiddle around removing the painting.”
“What did you leave in its place?”
“You don’t want to wait and read about it in the newspapers?” she teased.
“Nope.”
“A wish you were here postcard in a similar frame. Can you believe the sensor wasn’t even attached?”
Nick laughed, the rich, warm sound filling her ears through the headphones. Turning away, she smiled back at the city receding into the distance. Someone was going to be pissed that she’d stolen the painting from under their noses.
Probably a whole lot of someones but that wasn’t her problem.
Her problem was that someone wanted her to be caught.
Whatever. He didn’t care. A flash of the old watch on his wrist showed it was almost time for his break, like his stomach hadn’t been reminding him for the last twenty minutes, and he wanted to get off his feet for a few precious minutes instead of answering inane visitor questions. He checked his watch again. Time to go. His colleague hadn’t turned up to relieve him but what the hell, it wasn’t like there was anything to steal here anyway. It wasn’t like they were stuffed with indigenous art like the Museum of Anthropology across the bay, or the new and upcoming like at the Vancouver Art Gallery around the corner in the old courthouse on Hornby Street.
Everyone knew the security guards here were glorified mannequins more suited to giving directions than catching thieves. Plus he badly needed a smoke. With one last glance at the mousy-haired woman, hands thrust into pockets, still staring at the dull landscape dominating the sparse wall, he creaked to a stand and abandoned his post, taking off for the narrow escalator.
The mousy woman had spent more time discreetly watching the security guard shuffle in his seat and check his watch than she had staring at the painting, noting that every so often his hand tapped his pants’ pocket.
The guard was a five a day smoker. No more, no less, and he was nowhere near quitting although he’d tried gum and patches after his family’s pleas. A stressful morning, aided by people he would never remember, ensured he was desperate for his break. When he broke away, making for the escalator before his colleague - waylaid deliberately - arrived, she smiled with just the slightest upturn of her lips. Just like she planned and right on time.
She had exactly three minutes to remove the painting and replace it without being noticed or triggering an alarm.
Piece of cake.
Five minutes later she stepped off the last step of the curved staircase, skirted around the strolling security guard aiming for the gallery she’d just departed, and headed across the marble lobby to the sliding glass doors. Unlike the real tourists she didn’t loiter at the gift shop or stop to snap photos she’d never look at again. Instead, as she stepped outside, she hung a left and ambled across the small courtyard towards the street nodding discreetly to the street busker trying to entertain a small group of Chinese tourists.
She didn’t move too fast, making no movement that would arouse suspicion, and drew the beige ill fitting coat around her. It wasn’t an attractive garment, entirely out of style, but the secret compartment inside it was a work of tailored genius. Just large enough to stow a few extras and expertly made to drape and conceal. Despite that, she would be glad to never wear such a clunky garment again. She would probably set it on fire. The wig too.
Turning onto Burrard Street, she caught a flash of expansive blue in the distance. The glimpse of the harbor, where Burrard gave way to the Pier, was always a welcome sight. Indeed the sea views from all angles of downtown where one of the many reasons she loved Vancouver so much. It was a shame she wouldn’t be coming back any time soon. This was a strict in-and-out job. Perhaps next time she would take a few days R&R: bike the Stanley sea wall, read a book while perched on a log in English Bay or head across the sound to hike Grouse Mountain. Yeah, she huffed to herself, like she’d get any free time to indulge any time soon.
Plus there was the small matter that someone might have alerted the authorities that she was in the city and on the hunt. She’d suspected for some time now that her movements were exposed. All the more reason to disappear.
She couldn’t risk any exposure. She would have to go the States instead or maybe Europe. Her French accent hadn’t had a work out in a while. Neither had her French passport, one of several nationalities and names she used.
Only a couple of blocks to go and she felt herself tense, small hairs on the back of her neck standing up.
Was this it? Had they finally found her?
She’d had the awful sensation of being watched several times since she arrived in the city. Before that she thought she’d been tailed through the US-Canadian crossing. And before that she’d turned down a job that seemed too good to be true.
She paused at the junction of Dunsmuir, hardly daring to turnaround. Don’t look. Act normal. Then someone brushed past her; a young woman with shiny hair, chattering into her cellphone in a high-pitched voice, ignoring their brush past.
The cross walk flashed green and she realized she was the only one not walking so she hurried after them, taking care not to slow her pace as she stepped onto the sidewalk. At the pier, she hung a left, following the route down to the harbor until she spotted the seaplanes docked in their small marina.
The pilot was waiting for her, casually stood by a a white seaplane rocking gently on the water. He wore khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, two buttons open at the neck like he was just a regular guy about to take a tourist for a tour. He didn’t wave and neither did she but the edges of his mouth flickered upwards, pleased to see her or amused at her get up. It was hard to tell.
“Beautiful day,” he said when she reached him. His mirrored aviators reflected her face, thick with make-up. Cass couldn’t wait to take it off. The dowdy, over-sized, clothes too.
“The sea likes calm,” she replied. It wasn’t code but it was a way of him asking and her telling that everything had gone okay, that there was no need for haste.
He reached for the door, opened it and she climbed inside the small seaplane, settling into the hard seat. Moments later he was in the pilot’s seat, lighting up the instrument panel, and adding a pair of thick headphones to his ears. He handed her a pair and she put them on over the wig.
As they taxied onto the water, the loud whoosh of the engine firing made her heart race. Little aircraft weren’t her favorite thing, seaplanes even less so, but she knew better than to show fear. No one showed fear in this game.
He spoke into his mic, confirming their takeoff and then they were going, zooming across the sea, creating white surf as they skimmed the water until they lifted off, heading away from the city and towards the mountains.
A few minutes later, he asked, “So?”
She permitted a smile as she wriggled around the safety belt and pulled off her coat, extracting the small painting from the hidden pocket.
He burst out laughing. “Shit, Cass! You stole the damn frame too?”
“It’s a nice frame, Nick,” she said, grinning at the wood encasing the canvas, then added, “and easier to take the whole thing than fiddle around removing the painting.”
“What did you leave in its place?”
“You don’t want to wait and read about it in the newspapers?” she teased.
“Nope.”
“A wish you were here postcard in a similar frame. Can you believe the sensor wasn’t even attached?”
Nick laughed, the rich, warm sound filling her ears through the headphones. Turning away, she smiled back at the city receding into the distance. Someone was going to be pissed that she’d stolen the painting from under their noses.
Probably a whole lot of someones but that wasn’t her problem.
Her problem was that someone wanted her to be caught.