Into Temptation. Jeanie London

computer. Cellular phone.

      Hiking the bag higher on her shoulder, Lindy marked their path along Fifth Avenue, keeping her gaze on her target, admiring the way he affected the perfect blend of casual disinterest and purposeful concentration as he passed upscale stores.

      Admiring the man himself.

      Benedict moved with a boldness she knew would make him a native of any city on any continent. Confidence. He wore it as easily as the lightweight blue shirt and tan slacks—clothes that had clearly never seen a rack, judging by the way they molded the athletic lines of his body. If she could see his feet, Lindy knew she’d find him wearing something butter-soft and expensive.

      So far, the man fit his profile to a T.

      Except that she hadn’t expected him to be quite so handsome.

      When he stopped to await a signal to navigate another cross-street, Lindy slipped the digital-cam binoculars back up her nose and snapped a second image, just to see if she could capture his expression as he glanced up at a building, surveying his environs as skillfully and inconspicuously as she might.

      But there was no question in Lindy’s mind that he was taking stock of his surroundings. Something about the stone cut of his jaw, perhaps. Or maybe the furrow between those dark eyebrows that suggested a deliberation she recognized.

      It took one to know one—someone who was up to a lot more than he appeared to be.

      Hanging back a step, Lindy moved behind an older woman wearing a wide hat, who had just enjoyed a spree at Amali’s, according to her sacks. And when the traffic signal changed, she made her way around the woman with a quick smile and a cordial, “Lovely bonnet.”

      While she wasn’t sure precisely what to expect from Benedict, she’d come prepared for any number of scenarios. She knew why he’d come to town, but had no way of knowing how he would take care of his business.

      She’d come up with a few likely guesses, of course, but not one of them had led her to the sweeping spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Yet that was exactly where he was heading—right up the bloody front steps.

      Well, well, well. What business did her handsome target have with God today?

      Now there was a question she wouldn’t spend too much time mulling. Lindy wasn’t particularly religious, but she had been reared in the English countryside, where Sunday trips to the village church had been a way of life.

      As a result, she had a healthy respect for passing judgment and throwing stones in places where she herself wouldn’t want others passing judgment or throwing stones. With her work as an intelligence agent over the past decade, she’d found herself in enough situations that some might label morally questionable. Unless Joshua Benedict’s business with God had something to do with Henri Renouf, Lindy wasn’t interested.

      But she couldn’t help thinking a cathedral would be an ace place to hand off a stolen artifact, so she strode lightly up the steps and made her way inside.

      Given that her work covered every European city in what was once known as Christendom, Lindy thought old Gothic cathedrals pretty standard fare. While she didn’t know much about this one—and honestly hadn’t thought to research more—she did know the place was the seat of New York’s archbishop.

      Stepping inside the cool interior, she found the cathedral no less majestic than any other she’d ever been in—a tribute to the architects, as America was regarded as distinctly substandard in architectural grandeur.

      The bustle of a busy city vanished behind the heavy doors, and the silence—a tangible serenity that seemed a unique and integral part of churches everywhere—settled over her like the mist after a London rain.

      Sliding her digital-cam binoculars on top of her head, Lindy sighted her target. She attached herself to a small group of women, all hastily affixing lace chaplets onto their teased curls, and bowed her head reverently.

      Through her periphery, she watched Benedict stroll down the main aisle, taking in his surroundings almost absently, as though he made a habit of visiting churches. Sun spilled through stained glass, throwing light that splintered his handsome features with color.

      Had he come to this place to make a pickup?

      During mission briefing, Lindy had decided her target’s usual MO consisted of using busy public places to cover his shady business dealings. She’d watched video footage of the man strolling into Queen’s Cross as boldly as he pleased to take possession of Princess Charlotte’s tiara and scepter from a man believed to have conducted the museum theft.

      Unfortunately, even with the video footage, her agency didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute the thief or the man who allegedly had delivered the goods to Renouf.

      Joshua Benedict was bold, to be sure, but a cathedral? Maybe her prosaic upbringing made conducting shady business in a church seem to be tempting fate too closely for comfort.

      As long as it wasn’t her eternity at stake…Lindy followed her little holy ladies to a bas-relief statue of a saint.

      She watched him head to an altar flanked by two stone saints and several-dozen-odd tourists as if he owned the place, and her heart raced to think he’d take delivery of the stolen auction-house artifact in plain sight.

      Shades of Queen’s Cross?

      Disengaging from the holy ladies, she slid into a pew, knelt and lowered her head as if in prayer. She slid the digital-cam binoculars down her nose to watch her target move toward a station filled with tiers of votive candles.

      Lindy could see no one else approach, detected nothing about the man to suggest he might be searching for anything that had been left concealed for him.

      He made a donation and lit a candle.

      Lindy observed him, the moments stretching almost painfully as he stared at the flame, his expression thoughtful, an almost-smile playing around his lips.

      He did not meet with anyone to make a handoff.

      He did not reach underneath the station and come up with any small package.

      He just genuflected before the altar, made the sign of the cross then headed down the aisle the way he came, leaving Lindy staring after him with a narrowed gaze.

      Joshua Benedict had come to church to light a candle.

      Had she been made?

      Lindy had no choice but to consider whether this seemingly purposeless side trip was for her benefit. Instinctively, she stood and moved down the aisle before he reached the doors. Wouldn’t do to lose him now. Not until she could decide whether or not he was on to her.

      Timing her paces as he paused to hold the door for a couple, she veered sharply right and headed out of a side exit. She sprinted around the corner of the building, swung around a gate and onto Fifth Avenue just as he stepped onto the pavement.

      And headed straight toward her.

      Turning toward the curb, she raised her arm as if flagging a cab, clearing the path and covering her face from view as he swept past. So close that she caught a whiff of his aftershave—subtle, expensive, but all spice and warm male. That scent stuck with her as she spun on her heels to follow.

      No eye contact. No visible sign of any awareness. If Benedict had made her, he was exceptionally good at hiding it. But that didn’t really come as any surprise to Lindy. No man could elude capture for so many years without being good.

      Damn good.

      This time her target led her to a traditional co-op building overlooking Central Park, the sort of place Lindy knew consisted of upscale apartments with large rooms, high ceilings and thick walls that cost more than her accumulated salary since the day she’d signed on with Secret Intelligence.

      She recognized this particular building as the prewar variety, showplace of the wealthiest New York society families, modernized with a thrust of tall