Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (15 page)

“Not a story you want to hear.”

Back to control. Not gonna happen. Control and keeping his distance. On his terms. Interesting. “Or one you don’t want to tell? Classified?”

“The location is, but not the disaster.” He lay still for a moment as if deciding. Finally he turned to face her, scrunching the pillow beneath his head. “We’d left our transport and split up. A few of us headed into a village to talk to the head man. A regular army squad had supposedly cleared the way but they missed an IED beside the dirt road. The explosion killed one man immediately.” His breath hitched and his gaze seemed to turn inward. “The blast threw the rest of us into the next day. Made us a bloody mess.”

“One man dead. The rest survived?”

He nodded. “Long road back for a couple with traumatic brain injury and lost limbs. Lucas Del Rio has facial scars. He lost much of the hearing in one ear.”

Ah. The reason he left the army before Thomas did. “And you?”

“Lost a lot of blood, concussion, but no internal damage. I was lucky. I finished my tour. My last tour.”

More scarring internally, she guessed, after such horror and loss. He lost his mom when he was only a kid, maybe fourteen, fifteen, and had to grow up fast. Did he cry for her? Did his dad let him? And it looked like he blamed himself for the army deaths, for not leading flawlessly, but he’d come out of it strong and with new goals. A man who cared, a man who acted with cool competence—and control—in difficult situations.

“You’ve done so much with your life. I wish I could say the same about mine.” On a sigh, she flopped onto her back.

“You’re doing it now, Cleo.” He bent to brush his lips on hers, not a kiss of seduction, but tender and consoling. “And you’ve pursued your talent. I saw the sketches you did on the ship. As a kid you were always drawing or painting.”

“We sketched together once or twice summers when you were in college.”

Color flagged his cheeks above his beard stubble. “Right. When I saw the drama and depth in those simple drawings of yours, I knew then I’d fooled myself into thinking I had talent. When I returned the next semester, I switched my minor from art to art history. Made my dad marginally happier with my choice of studies. Cleo, your work is even more compelling and powerful now. You have real talent.”

His praise blipped her pulse. She smiled. “Thank you. You saying that means a lot.”

“Let me guess. Hoot never said it.” He brushed her hair back from her face, smoothed it across the pillow.

Her scalp shivered at the sensual touch. “Maybe when my paintings are hanging in the Met. Mom talked him into letting me do two years at SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design. Only time I recall she really stood up to him. But he kept harping on me needing discipline, structure.”

“In other words, the military.”

“Specifically the U.S. Navy. Even dragged me to recruitment lectures. They gave me the hives.” His smile, affectionate and sympathetic but not condescending, nearly undid her, but she swallowed the emotion.

“My dad did the same thing to Andie. She only rebelled more. She didn’t have a mother to intercede. And by then I’d gone away to college.”

Cleo had been very young when his mom died, but she remembered her as a lively and nurturing presence. The loss hit Andie and Thomas hard, cut adrift by Hoot’s absence for his navy duties. Comforting and supporting each other, except she remembered taking charge even then. It worked until Andie went off the rails. Thomas must feel guilty for leaving.

She soothed a hand down the ropy scars, up to trace a finger along the hard-hewn line of his jaw. “Andie’s going to make it. She’s doing all right.”

His gaze sharpened and he grabbed her finger. “And you know this how?”

“Andie and I talk on the phone all the time. We have for years. Well, except for the past few days. I know she gives you a hard time. Striking out is a defense mechanism and you’re the best target. That’s what her shrink says.”

“She’s afraid and angry now that she’s facing her problems. Dr. Olsen diagnosed depression as the cause of her rebellion and drug abuse. She felt deserted by both parents. The old man left her twice, once after Mom died and again when he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—handle Andie’s problems.”

No, he’d left them to his son. Thomas’s expression, a mix of anger and misery, said it all. He resented his dad’s desertion as much as Andie did. And mourned his mom’s loss—even if he denied it to himself.

He straightened his shoulders as if shaking off the funk. “Andie’s therapist says she’s keeping her appointments while I’m gone so I shouldn’t worry. I can’t help it.”

“You can’t control everything, including other people. Especially your sister. How does she feel about you being away?”

“Blasted me with a verbal IED before I left. But won’t answer my calls.”

“She’ll answer
my
call. I could use Mimi’s phone.”

He shook his head. “No calls. Zervas could track her phone like he did yours.”

“Your phone is secure, you said, and encrypted. I could call on that. If I leave a message, maybe she’ll pick up.”

“She’d know you’re with me. I can’t allow it.”

Ooh, that was a door slamming, a sound she knew only too well. She sat up, holding the sheet over her naked breasts. “I see.”

He went still, his eyes searching hers. “You have to admit my decision is justified.”

She threw back the sheet and hopped off the high mattress. “I don’t know why, given your attitude. Andie’s probably worried about why I haven’t called since Thursday. And why she can’t reach me. Instead of discussing it, you issue orders. Apparently I imagined you agreed we’d work together.”

Turning her back and clenching her fists, she stalked to the bathroom. Inside, she leaned against the door, shaking. Her heart slammed around inside her chest. She drew in a shuddering breath and, after a moment, washed up.

She was an idiot. His display of control should remind her not to confuse sex with softer emotions. She was falling for him again. Per usual, falling for the wrong man. No sleazoid like some of her mistakes, he was honorable and protective, unfailingly loyal. But controlling, issuing orders, boxing her in to conform to his plans. The wrong man.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Lips still rosy from his kisses. Beard burn. The picture of a well-loved woman. But the wall he was keeping between them—the ten year gap in age— bugged her. She chewed on her toothbrush while she chewed on the idea some more. A weak excuse, easily refuted.

He’d told her from the beginning there could be only sex between them. Hadn’t Andie told her he he’d had no lasting relationships and romanced only sophisticated society types? A shop clerk slash starving artist wasn’t anyone he’d want more than a few days, let alone long term.

And vice versa. So if all either of them wanted was a temporary hook-up, no other issues mattered. All she had to do was keep things simple. Sex, hot and uncomplicated.

Right, as he would say.

Venice

“THIS MOLDY OLD
place was the best you could do?” Zervas cast the geek a scowl.

Hawkins looked up from organizing his equipment on a contemporary computer desk, incongruous in a parlor with discolored crown molding and cracked marble floors. He hiked a skinny shoulder as if unconcerned. “You wanted fast. You wanted convenient. You wanted untraceable. Building belongs to a friend of mine. Rents out the other floors, keeps this one for ’olidays.”

The flat, in a residential section of Venice, was all three, Zervas had to admit, but only to himself. No hotel records and near the Grand Canal and transportation. Hundreds of years old—like everything in this water-logged city—and five stories of decay. He could feel mold spores clogging his nose, and damned if he’d eat fish that came out of that bay.

He wandered out onto the balcony, careful to stay near the French doors in case the fucking thing decided to give way. He had privacy all right. Shutters covered the neighbors’ windows and his view consisted only of a narrow canal and the adjacent buildings’ walls lined with small open boats. How their owners got to them was a mystery.

How the Chandler bitch got away was another.

His Sicily contact said that Chandler and a man who fit Thomas Devlin’s description had foiled their kidnap attempts. Gunshots sent the pursuing car over a cliff, killing one man and sending the other to the hospital. Then they vanished. Until a small boy on a beach told one of the Sicilians his dad had rowed a man and woman out to a fishing boat this morning.

Zervas smiled. No more hiding for Chandler. Devlin would persuade her to return to Venice for the necklaces, both necklaces. He would die, but not before Zervas made sure he knew his company lay in ashes.

He strode inside. “You have that computer running?”

“All set, boss,” Hawkins said, his fingers flying over the keys.

“Report on the take-over of Devlin Security Force.”

The hacker frowned. “Their IT guy is bloody good. Caught on fast my sniffers were in place. ’e’s blocked some portals but their credit is shut down. Bound to be more portals. I’ll find them.”

“See that you do.” Zervas crossed to a pair of contemporary sofas. They looked clean enough, but the oriental carpet under them might be as old as the fucking house. How much mold had slithered into the sofa cushions? He lowered himself gingerly. “What about Devlin? Got a trace on his movements?”

“Not yet. He doesn’t seem to be using a DSF credit or debit card.”

“Personal cards?”

“Got them. But no activity on either debit or credit since Friday in the States. Must have some other business cards I haven’t found yet. Checked on the sister who lives with him. Not using her cards either.”

Zervas’s head shot up.
Sister?
Devlin had a sister? Why didn’t he know that? He made a point of knowing everything about his enemies. “Tell me about the sister.”

***

After their arrival in Venice on an afternoon flight from Athens, Thomas arranged a meeting at the Santa Croce
Questura
. The interior of the central police headquarters could’ve been government offices anywhere. Painted a generic cream, the conference room smelled of some officer’s garlicky lunch.

Hoping for a detail he’d overlooked, he listened and watched intently as Cleo related the frightening events of last Thursday night. She gestured as she talked, as if reliving the jewelry forger’s bloody death, then Mimi’s shooting and the killers’ escape. But he gleaned nothing new.

She was tense and pale by the time she finished replying to
Commissario
Castelli’s questions. The detective didn’t accuse her of any crimes. Finding the suitcase in a dead man’s possession and identifying the hospital intruder had eliminated her as a suspect. Thank God.

Castelli arrayed six photographs of men on the rectangular table. “
Signorina
Chandler, do you recognize any of these men as the ones you saw in the street after
Signorina
Ingram was shot?”

The room’s glass door blocked most of the bustle of detectives and uniforms in the outer office, so Thomas could hear her shaky breathing.

She wore jeans and a scoop-neck orange top that showed her too prominent collar bones. The pressures of the past week had taken a toll on her appetite and carved fine lines around her pretty green eyes and her mouth. Yet with her hair in a single braid she looked as young as the image of her he’d carried in his head for years, and still scrappy. He closed his left hand over her right one, fisted on her knee.

She didn’t unclench her fingers but flashed him a small smile before bending her head to study the rogues’ gallery.

God, he wanted to pull her into his arms and shield her against all this crap. Only two nights with her and already he was addicted. Last night had ratcheted up his desire for her by mega degrees. Since then he’d been kicking himself for ruining the night by playing commanding officer. Damn, he should’ve known better. But fear for her had overruled good sense.

She’d had enough of her father’s iron-handed style. Thomas got that. The significance of her tattoo armband had escaped him but he got it now. Butterflies mean freedom. Getting back in her good graces might prove as difficult as their quest. If he wasn’t careful, she’d bolt.

In the photos, the six men stared into the camera with sullen expressions. Shaking her head, she flapped a hand at the pictures. “
Commissario, per favore,
I told you I saw only the backs of the men as they ran away with my suitcase. They confronted Mimi. You’ll have to ask—” She looked away.

“That’s enough, Detective,” Thomas said, curving an arm around her jittering shoulders. “She told you all she knows about that night. More than once.”

“Of course.” Castelli collected the photos. He punched the off button on the small digital recorder between them. “I wanted to be certain of the details.”

Thomas clicked off the tiny recorder in his windbreaker pocket. Having a backup of Cleo’s interview wouldn’t hurt. And it might help.

“What about my belongings, my passport?” Cleo asked as she handed over Mimi’s black quilted pack.

The detective slid forward a large manila envelope. “I can return your passport, keys, and purse. I fear we must retain the suitcase and its contents as evidence.”

She accepted that without a blink. “I understand.”

Castelli beamed his pretty-boy smile. “You are free to go. I shall notify you when your statement is ready to sign. You will remain in
la Serenissima
for a few days?”

Thomas doubted Venice was still the
“Most Serene.”
Too expensive to maintain. And much of the population had fled to the mainland.
He
sure as hell didn’t expect to find serenity here. “We’ll be at the same hotel where I stayed before, but only a day or two. You have my mobile number.”

Castelli dipped a small bow and thanked Cleo. “
Molte grazie, Signorina
Chandler.”

“Prego, Commissario.”

Handshakes all around before an officer escorted them to the water-side exit. The
Questura
had none of the elegance of Venice’s ancient buildings with their pastel paints and arched windows. The imposing façade with heavy brick and rectangular windows had all the ambiance of a jail. Thomas inhaled the briny air and noticed Cleo doing the same. Drawing a cleansing breath.

They walked along the dock past the blue-and-white police launches to the water taxi they’d taken from the mainland. The craft’s white sides and faux wood trim gleamed with polish. Thomas had chosen this taxi for security reasons—the privacy of its enclosed cabin and a clear view out the stern.

The driver, a fifty-something man with an angular build and craggy features, ground out his cigarette. Remnants of smoke mingled with the salty air. He gestured a welcome. Earning extra for waiting, no wonder he smiled. Thomas expected to see euro signs in his eyes. The man held out his hand to assist Cleo onto the rocking craft.

Comfortable on boats her whole life, she stepped easily down the steps and onto the teak decking. “
Grazie.”

“Prego, signora.”
The driver barely nodded to Thomas as he boarded.

Remaining in the cockpit, she pointed to a picture of a woman and two children fastened beside the gauges and spoke to him further.

The man beamed and replied in rapid Italian.

Once the love fest ended, Thomas followed her down the short companionway into the cabin’s interior. She charmed men everywhere. The hotel staff, this water taxi driver. Even Castelli, although he’d held his admiration in check for the interview. Their eyes were on her bright hair and brighter smile. Hell, she made the world brighter, happier. Including his world. He hoped to hell he could keep her safe.

Bench seats upholstered in a bright blue ringed the enclosure in a U, offering seating for eight. Cleo sat on the port side behind the driver’s open cockpit.

Thomas deposited his pack beside her and took out his phone to call Max. Monday on shipboard and yesterday on Santorini, checking his e-mail or even accessing the company Web site had been impossible. Perplexing. Should’ve brought his tablet, but he’d traveled light, expecting to collect Cleo and beat it back to the States.
Number not in service
, the screen said. Damn. Once he had Cleo settled in the hotel, he would try again.

He chose the opposite bench so he could angle himself there to watch their six. The twin engines whirred to life in the stern. Standing at the wheel in the open cockpit, the driver maneuvered them from the police dock. The required no-wake speed in the canals would make for a leisurely trip through the city.

“You did great in there, babe.” He raised his voice to be heard over the engines’ growl.

“I couldn’t have taken much more,” she shouted. “Worse than being grilled in the principal’s office.”

Buoyed by her earlier thaw, he leaned forward and tucked a finger beneath her lowered chin. “You’re damn tough. I’ve lived rough and seen more violence than anyone should, but you’re holding up better than a lot of soldiers.”

Her eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Thanks. I wish I could’ve recognized one of those pictures.”

Good. She hadn’t withdrawn from his touch. “Don’t know why he insisted on putting you through so much. The man who tried to enter Mimi’s room was in the photo line-up. Name’s Ricci. They have him on the hospital’s CCTV. He’s probably the taller man you saw. His rotund pal was found dead beside your suitcase. They wiped off the outside of your suitcase but not the inside. The cops have both their fingerprints. Career criminals. Probably Ricci offed the other man on orders from Zervas.”

She gawped. “Why didn’t Castelli tell me this?”

“He can’t share case information with civilians, but my Interpol connection gives me entry. I knew some of it but he filled in the rest while you were in the ladies’ room.”

“The one man, Ricci, he’s still out there?”

“Not for long. Castelli has put out their equivalent of an APB on him. After his screw-up at the hospital, he probably left Venice.”

“Probably.” She stared straight ahead, not at all mollified.

And she shouldn’t be. Zervas had connections everywhere. If Ricci left, plenty of other bottom-feeders would raise their hands to take his place.

As they’d left the mainland taxi dock, he’d noticed a dark green boat similar to the taxi but longer. He kept his gaze trained astern in case it popped back up.

Shortly they turned north into the Grand Canal. Barges, water taxis, and other work boats churned the waters around them into chop. Gondoliers steered their black gondolas among the motorized boats. The air smelled of salt and fumes. The mix of craft plying the canal made watching for a tail difficult.

He returned his gaze to her. “You’ve had a long day. We both have. Let’s go check into the hotel and have dinner. I’d like to put off going through your flat until tomorrow but the sooner we go, the less chance Zervas’s men have it staked out.”

“The studio too.” She nodded, shaking off her funk as she looked around. “Cruising the Grand Canal like this is great. Living here, mostly I walked the city. Couldn’t afford the
vaporetti
too often, unless I sold a painting.” A mischievous smile lit her eyes. “You can tell the admiral I’m starting to make money with my art.”

“I’d say you could tell him yourself. My phone is secure but I can’t be sure Centaur isn’t monitoring his calls.”

She shook her head vigorously, flipping her braid. “My mom must be frantic with worry. I’d love to talk to her but no way do I want to talk to Dad until this is over.”

Until she had success to show for the danger she’d placed herself in. “No surprise you’re selling. If your paintings are as good as the sketches I saw.” Seeing the pleasure in her pink cheeks warmed him in another area of the body. He shifted on the padded bench.

One of the big yellow water buses, loaded with tourists, headed toward them.

“Our driver has to give that
vaporetto
a wide berth,” Cleo observed. “It won’t care about us. I’ve seen small boats swamped.”