Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (17 page)

“Doubtful, but the two killers had time to search before the cops arrived,” he said, probing the wood along the bookshelves. “Did René have any hiding places here?”

“None he told me about. Obviously he was keeping secrets, so maybe. If the police and the killers didn’t find anything, how can we?”

“You never know.” Coming from the bathroom, his voice was fainter.

She wandered into the kitchen. The smell of lemon cleanser drifted in the air. The pot she’d left on the stove sat upside down in the sink drainer. Empty fridge, no food packages on the shelves. Not the cops, she thought, but her landlady, beginning to ready the flat for a new tenant as soon as Cleo cleared out her belongings.

“Nada in the bathroom. Anything?” Thomas’s wide shoulders took up the doorway.

She couldn’t get enough of looking at him, his straight black brows framing his dark-gold eyes, his hard, square jaw.

Amusement crinkled his gaze. Damn, he knew she’d been staring, that she wanted him still. She cleared her throat. Finishing their search, packing her things and getting back safely to the hotel meant moving quickly, not indulging in a round of hot sex. No way did she want to make love with Thomas in the bed where she’d lain with René.

She shrugged. “Nothing. But René hardly ever cooked. If he hid anything, it’ll be in the bedroom.”

She whisked past him, through the living room to the bedroom. No hot sex in here anytime soon. Mattress stuffing poked up from slices in the bedding, puffs of foam dribbling over the discarded covers. Clothing, her paints and René’s toiletries lay strewn beside the upside-down drawers. The scent of his Borsari cologne wafted up from the floor. She gaped at the mess, a sense of violation creeping over her.

“Feeling nostalgic?”

“Some. But mostly the thought of those creeps handling my stuff makes my skin crawl.”

He squeezed her shoulders gently. “Don’t blame you. Take only what you need for tonight. The rest can be replaced. I’ll look through René’s stuff for anything that might help us. Not a hard job. The searchers piled everything on the floor.”

Nodding, she dragged her other small suitcase, a soft-sided shoulder bag, onto the ruined mattress and began sorting through her remaining clothing. In case René had stashed something in her belongings, she searched pockets and trinket boxes. “Nothing but wrinkles and lint.”

“Same here,” he said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Looks like René left
you
with the only clues.”

“We might as well have nothing. That’s what his mumblings are worth.”

After packing underwear—which she absolutely would wash out by hand tonight—and a couple changes of clothing, she picked up a discarded sketchbook and eyed her easel.

“Don’t think we can take that.” He grinned. “But I like the scene you started.”

She’d tried to capture the sun in a narrow courtyard as it spotlighted a carved door and a tabby cat sleeping among the flowers in a window box. “Thanks. I still have the preliminary sketches in this old sketchbook. Maybe I’ll try again sometime.”

“You said you were starting to sell. In a gallery?”

She dropped in the sketchbook and zipped up the bag. “The Calle della Vida Gallery, not far from the shop where I worked. I still have five paintings there.” She snorted. “Unless the
signora
sold them. If she thinks I’m dead, she probably doubled the price. Dead artist, you know. She’ll rake in all the profit.”

He rose, regarding her with that steady look that seemed to see inside her. “If we drop in tomorrow, she might be persuaded to return them to you.”

“If she hasn’t sold them.”

His offer soothed her prickly nerves and banished the remnants of her revulsion at the killers’ search. More, his concern for her surpassed protection. In his demeanor and in his words, she found true affection. They’d become friends once again, after all. She’d ignored that in her zeal to guard her independence.

“Ready to go?” She tried to sound what her mom would call chipper.

“Almost.” He straightened, again the alert soldier, and crossed to the bedroom window. “What’s the view out here?”

“The street. We’re above the entrance. Why?”

“Just because no one was hanging around out there when we arrived doesn’t mean they haven’t set up shop by now.”

“Oh.” Cleo said a little prayer of thanks for his security expertise, his almost eerie awareness of his surroundings, how he always knew to be vigilant.

He hustled her into the living room, turning off the bedroom light as they went. “Wait by the door while I check outside.” He waited until she was in place before he doused the rest of the lights.

Clutching her bag to her, she huddled in the darkness.

He parted the curtain a slit and peered out. After a few moments, he said, “Shit. There’s a man across the street in the doorway. Is there a fire escape?”

SHE STARED, THEN
shook her head. “Only the rear door past the trash room.” So much for chipper. She squeaked like a scared chipmunk. She drew a breath, willing calm and the strength of the ancient Cleopatra. These Centaur bastards would
not
beat her down.

Thomas crossed from the window and wrapped his arms around her. “I can’t see the guy clearly but judging from his size it could be the big guy Nedik from the green boat.” His lips moved against her hair, his warm breath infusing her with his confidence. “There could be another one staking out the rear.”

“Many buildings don’t have a rear exit or even a fire escape other than a rope ladder because of the canals. The rear door here opens onto a narrow
fondamenta
along the
rio
. A few of the tenants tie boats there. Maneuvering on foot would be tough, especially at night.”

“Right. Then we watch for trouble
inside
the building.” He tipped up her chin. In the dark she could see only the shape of his head. “Promise me you’ll do what I say.”

She started to object to his presumption she’d rebel, but thought better of it. “In this case, I’ll follow orders. But don’t assume anything from that, mister.”

“With you, babe, I never assume anything.”

“Good idea. Then let’s roll.”

“You’ve watched too many disaster movies.” He brushed her lips with a kiss that blipped her pulse a couple of beats. “Move as quietly as possible. Staying on the balls of your feet helps. Tap my shoulder if you hear a sound that doesn’t belong.”

As he opened the door, she winced in the dim lighting. They waited a moment while their eyes adjusted. Then he signaled her to follow. At nearly eleven o’clock, the building’s tenants were settling for the night. Cooking aromas had dissipated, replaced by the spicy tobacco whiff of an after-dinner cigar.

Glad she’d worn soft-soled shoes, she descended each step as he had suggested. Her pulse clamored like a church bell and her palms went damp. If a thug waited downstairs, Thomas would—what? Jump him, fight him, yes, but his fists couldn’t stop bullets. She inhaled and tried to block the image from her mind and concentrate on listening.

No babies cried and no TV programs blared to mask alien sounds. She strained to listen, but heard only the familiar creaks and groans of the old structure and the ordinary shuffling and muted voices of her neighbors behind their doors.

As they neared the ground floor, the scrape of a leather sole on the entry tile scrambled her pulse. She tapped Thomas’s shoulder and he nodded, clearly also alerted. They halted. She lowered her heels silently and pressed her bag to her side.

When he turned, she saw his mask of vigilance, the aura of power he always carried, but honed to diamond sharpness. He held up a hand, a tacit order to wait where she was, on the fourth step from the bottom, concealed by the stairwell wall. Only after she nodded did he continue downward.

A tenant would have walked on, to the trash room or out the door. If he’d gone back to a flat, he’d have passed them on the stairs. The footfall they’d heard had to be a bad guy. Thomas could be shot before he even saw the guy. She blinked against the image of him bleeding on the ochre tiles. Cold prickles scraped her spine. The muscles of her throat constricted, threatened to choke her. She’d agreed to do what he said. But dammit she couldn’t simply wait here forever and do nothing.

At the bottom of the stairs, Thomas held his breath, listening as he slid his windbreaker off and to the floor for more freedom of movement. Assured Cleo was staying put, he dismissed worry for her from his mind. Necessary to optimal function. Anxiety and questions faded as he clicked into the focused intensity of combat mode—the zone.

A crapshoot whether or not the intruder had a gun. Nothing he could do about that. He felt the weight of the sheath on his belt. At a street market that afternoon, while Cleo tried on jackets, he’d found an Italian army combat knife, about five inches long. Shorter but similar to his Ka-Bar. A longer blade tended to get caught in clothing while a short blade penetrated. Good to go.

He pictured the hallway, more dimly lit than the small lobby. Two doors on the right. Another at the end, the rear exit. His man had to be waiting back there, in the shadows beneath the stairs.

From the hallway came a new sound. A light clicking like a pencil on the tiles.

A trap? He slid the knife into his palm. Held his breath. Listened.

A small form streaked from the shadows. A gray tiger cat raced past him. Emitting a warning hiss, it flowed up the stairs and out of sight.

He exhaled a silent breath. He peered around to see Cleo, eyes wide and hands clapped over her mouth. She hadn’t uttered a sound, thank God. He shook his head and pointed toward the building’s rear. No cat had made the scraping noise they’d both heard.

She bobbed her head, seeming to understand.

From above came a woman’s voice. He didn’t understand the Italian words but he recognized the affectionate tone that scolded the wayward pet. The door clicked shut. Other than his own rough breathing, he heard only muted gonging in the distance and the murmurs of competing TV shows upstairs.

The cat might have set the ambusher off balance. Thomas counted on that and on the element of surprise. A rush—some called it a prison-yard rush—didn’t give the opponent time to get set. A better chance than waiting for an attack. He swung around the concealing wall and raced toward the back, his knife in a hammer grip.

A figure sprang from the dark corner. The overhead light glinted on a knife. Serrated edge. About two inches longer than Thomas’s blade.

He jabbed at the man’s side. The attacker thrust his knife at Thomas’s upper arm.

Thomas sidestepped and pivoted.

His opponent was smaller and younger, but wiry strong. Slicked-back hair and bulging eyes in a narrow face. His sly smile showed gaps in his teeth. Not the driver of the green boat. No one in the photo line-up. A local cutthroat.

The aim for the brachial artery meant the man had skill. One mistake and Thomas could be unconscious from blood loss in seconds. Dead in minutes. And he’d have failed Cleo.
Focus, Devlin.

The attacker stank of sweat and stress. He pivoted and came again.

Thomas turned to block the blow with his left arm. The attacker anticipated the move and struck the underside of his arm. A gash several inches long opened up. Blood welled. It would sting like hell later. Shallow but dangerous. Being jacked on adrenaline pumped the blood faster. He had to weaken the fucker, take him down.

He moved in fast, sliced across the man’s forearm, just above his knife hand. Crimson welled in the long gash. Deeper than Thomas’s wound. Blood dripped onto the tiles. Blood would slick the knife handle.

The attacker’s smile turned forced, tight, not as confident. They circled each other, blades glinting. The attacker slashed out but his reach fell short as Thomas darted out of range.

He feinted left, then slashed again. A second cut opened on the attacker’s forearm, just above the first. The man struck but without the force of his earlier attempts.

Thomas blocked the blow. Moved in close, grasped the knife hand with his left and pinned it against his own body. A knee blow knocked the knife loose. It clattered to the tile. Before the guy could react, Thomas yanked him up and over his back. Slammed him to the floor. The guy’s breath expelled on a loud groan.

Thomas lifted a foot to stomp his opponent but the guy moved fast. He grabbed Thomas’s foot and the hard floor came up to meet him at warp speed. At impact, he rolled, protecting his head, and kicked at the same time. His foot connected with the attacker’s head.

The man grunted at the glancing blow but slithered out of reach of another kick. His lost weapon lay on the tile, its hilt only inches away. He stretched for the knife.

A sneaker-clad foot kicked it away. The blade skittered into a far corner.

Thomas dove for the man. Smashed a fist in his throat and sat on his chest, pinned his upper arms with his knees.

The downed attacker gasped a choking breath. He froze, his bulging eyes froglike, at the blade pricking the tender skin below his jawbone.

Thomas’s chest heaved. Not perfect but he’d survived. And he had his man.

Cleo skirted him and his captive. Protecting her hand with tissues, she gathered up the knife from where she’d kicked it. He heard a gasp as her shocked gaze fell on his bleeding arm. “Oh, Thomas, he cut you.”

He gritted his teeth, slanting a quick glance her way. “You agreed to stay on the stairs.”

“Did I?” She held up the weapon and examined the blade. “Would you rather he’d reached this filleting knife so he could gut you?”

“Point taken. I’ll thank you later.” Maintaining his knife on his captive, he eased off the man’s chest. “Tell this lowlife to lock his hands behind his head and roll onto his belly. Add if he makes a move or calls out to his leg-breaker pal on the street, I’ll fillet
him
.”

***

Paris

As Lucas entered the building where the temporary Interpol offices were located, his phone chirped. SA Hunt looking for him already? Did the woman never sleep or eat? The pork tenderloin in mushroom cream sauce and the wine had deserved lingering over but he’d scarfed them down so he wouldn’t be late. Checking the time on the wall clock, he considered letting the call go to voicemail.

But the chirping insisted. Maybe Thomas calling. He unhooked the mobile from his belt and checked the screen.
Trudy Ingram.
Mimi’s mom. Was Mimi awake? Or was something wrong? He punched the elevator button and answered the call, hoping the connection would hold in the elevator.

“I’m so glad I caught you, Lucas,” Trudy said, almost as chirpy as his phone.

Nothing bad then. “Do you have news?”

“Absolutely. My baby is beginning to wake up.” Her voice broke on the last word. He heard her breath catch as she gathered herself. “She’s going to be fine. Lucas, she squeezed my hand and smiled.”

He closed his eyes briefly and let the tension drain from his shoulders. He was due in five minutes for a video-conference call. But he wouldn’t have skipped this call if his meeting had been with the U.S president. When he opened his eyes, the elevator had arrived. Three people exited carrying briefcases and handbags, their workday done.

The lift reeked of someone’s cloying aftershave. He wrinkled his nose as he pushed the button for the top floor. “Ma’am, that’s wonderful news. I know seeing your face has to make her feel better.”
Better her face than mine.

When the doors whispered open at his floor, he saw no one in the foyer so he wandered to the window. A block away from the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the modern office building sat at an angle offering a view of the fabled thoroughfare but too far east for a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe.

“She’s not completely awake. The doctors say she’s still in pain. I can’t imagine the headache from a bullet wound. They’re still keeping her sedated, but she opens her eyes every now and then.” Her voice was liquid. “She’s asking for you, Lucas.”

His throat felt tight. He no longer saw the spectacle below, only Mimi’s beautiful pale face, her still form in the hospital bed. He loosened his tie and collar. “Asking for
me
?”

“She keeps murmuring your name. When she can have visitors, you
must
come.”

How was it possible? She’d been unconscious. How could she have heard him, his meaningless ramblings? Seeing him would only disappoint her.

“Ma’am, I’m on assignment. I don’t—I mean, as much as I’d like to, I can’t get away.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer, young man.” Trudy Ingram’s voice rang with the same steel as SA Hunt’s. “Once my daughter is fully awake, the specialists will keep her busy with tests and therapy. We’ll have weeks here before she’s able to fly home. I expect you’ll find the time to make the trip to Venice.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do my best.”

Apparently satisfied, Mimi’s mother wished him a nice evening and ended the call.

He massaged the back of his neck as he sagged against the window sash. He was a damned coward. And a fool.

Marie—he still preferred that to Mimi—called his name. How could he deny her?

He wouldn’t stay long, just long enough to assure himself she’d be okay. Long enough to see her smile, see her eyes bright with life, hear her voice. Keeping it brief would ease the awkwardness of the meeting. They were strangers.

As soon as he got the word from Trudy she was awake, he would go. His part in the Centaur Task Force was nearly done. They knew where Marco Zervas was, in Venice, searching for Thomas and Cleo. A cat and mouse game.

Once they had his location, the Interpol cat would pounce. Lucas would join the team sent to do the pouncing, and then he’d have his visit with Mimi/Marie.

As the last of his five minutes of grace expired, he grabbed his tablet from his desk and strode into the CTF director’s office. Trace aromas of take-out meals hung in the air—wine sauce, beef,
frites
. He was still adjusting the noose around his neck. Damn, he hated ties and being an office wonk.