Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (7 page)

He withdrew the lock decoder. When his tech department supplied Lucas with the device a month ago, they’d insisted it would open any door that required a key card. Not strictly legal but one of the high-tech gadgets for the occasional Interpol gigs DSF did. Thomas had wanted Lucas to have every possible advantage pursuing Centaur.

And Marco Zervas. The small-time thief had gone big time. Zervas escaped the CTF’s raid on his London townhouse, but in his haste, he left behind a single print. The way Centaur operated, with total secrecy, now made sense. Thomas’s former weapons NCO had trusted no one in their team. Being paranoid about his teammates didn’t make for good morale. Even if the man hadn’t crossed the line, Thomas would’ve had him transferred.

He tapped in another code from the list. Universal-code cards used by hotel staff and ship stewards were designed to override the unique door codes. The decoder used the same principle but with a pad for keying in the universal codes.

His last chance. It had to work. He pushed Enter.

The tiny light above the stateroom number changed from red to green.

He yanked down the handle and stepped inside the room. As soon as he closed the door, he smelled her. Light scents of lilac and lemon, but also Cleo herself. Feminine yet full of zest.

Or else it was his imagination. And just the ship’s soap.

Cosmetics littered the counter beside the closet. Clothing draped chair backs and hung on the closet door. He’d seen the same disarray when he used to hang out with her brothers. Cleo Chandler had moved in.

No time to waste. He stared at the tracking button in his hand. Wafer thin and sheer, virtually invisible. He could track her using an app on his phone. But where to plant it so he could follow her tonight, figure out the best time to approach her? He dreaded her reaction. God, he’d hurt her so badly.

Since her sixteenth birthday, he’d tried to stay away from her. He was ten years older and a soldier, disciplined, hard and tough. Shit, hard was the truth. He’d stayed that way from the moment he came home on leave and saw her in a miniskirt. She was his buddies’ little sister, for God’s sake, the kid who followed them around with Andie. How could he lust for her like a stag in rut?

She was attracted too. That was the rub. When he’d joined Special Forces, she used the banter from her favorite author as a joke. Whenever he called her
Babe
, she mocked him with
Ranger
. She knew damned well Delta Force wasn’t the Army Rangers. When he protested, she only laughed. They teased and laughed but he’d kept his distance otherwise.

Until a few years later before he left for Iraq, when she’d come on to him strong. And hell, horny idiot that he was, he responded, laughing with her, flirting with her, looping his arm around her shoulders. They rode her brother’s motorcycle. He could barely straddle the cycle’s seat with her breasts snug against his back, her thighs tight against his, and her arms wrapped around his waist.

That night their two families—her parents and his dad—put together a send-off barbecue. Too many toasts and wishes for a safe deployment fogged his mind. But something must’ve happened between them that she interpreted as an invitation. He didn’t remember returning to his room over his dad’s garage. He didn’t remember getting into the shower. But he sure as hell remembered stepping out buck naked and finding Cleo in his bed and wearing nothing but a sheet.

The shock sobered him in a nanosecond. But not enough. He should’ve been diplomatic. He could’ve let her down easy. Instead he told her she was like a kid sister and he wasn’t interested. He ordered her out of his room. Her face flamed nearly as red as her hair but she didn’t cry. She nearly ripped her blouse and jeans getting dressed so fast. Then she called him a jerk and punched him in the gut before stomping out. When he looked for her in the morning to apologize, her mom said she’d gone to visit a friend and wouldn’t be home for a few days.

So for the last ten years, he’d alternated between kicking himself in the butt and wondering what crawling into that bed with her would’ve been like.

Well, hell, enough reminiscing. He’d attached a few tracking buttons to random bags and pockets but mostly he just spent five minutes reminding himself what an asshole he’d been. If Cleo showed up now, she could order him out of her room, like he did to her. But he preferred to have their first meeting in public so she would listen without slugging him.

His gaze hit on a sketch pad. No help there but he was curious. He leafed through a few pages. Some of furniture layouts and wall treatments. Mimi’s, he guessed. The next ones were totally different in every way. Not Mimi’s. Bold, sweeping strokes captured the drama of the Italian coast and the busy port of Naples.

He’d known for years Cleo had talent but not like this. Even in black and shades of gray, the sweep and passion of the sketches moved him.

No time to ponder that. He dropped the pad. How could he figure out what shoes, what clothes, what bag she’d choose tonight? Too many possibilities. He was about to give up and try to find her later when he spotted the white square of paper beside the hair dryer.

A seven-thirty reservation at the French restaurant.

CLEO TORE HER
gaze from the stairway. She’d caught only a glimpse of him.
No, it can’t be.

“Join us for the show tonight, Mimi,” Deidre held the elevator door open.

“The acrobats are supposed to be amazing,” Stacy said from behind her friend.

“Maybe.” Cleo blinked away the image. “I’ll see how I feel after dinner. I’m pretty tired.” True enough. Her feet hurt and her head swirled with the mosaics and frescoes of Palermo’s Royal Palace and the Archeological Museum. But mostly what had exhausted her was sustaining a cheerful yet reserved demeanor. She waggled her fingers in farewell.

As the elevator door closed, she looked at the stairs. Four people with DayGlo-yellow T-shirts reading “McCoy Family Reunion” and a woman wearing a swim cover-up and flip-flops were descending. No one going up. No rangy man charging up two steps at a time. Her heart still scrambled from the shock.

She’d glimpsed only the man’s back. Khaki pants and green polo. Nothing unique there, but worn like a uniform? And the tilt of his head, the set of his broad shoulders, the aura of power. She’d thought she was over him, over the infatuation and the humiliation, but the sense of recognition had lashed her like a whip. The stinging blow still burned inside her.

Probably the stress of the last few days. Tommy Devlin on a cruise ship? No way.

***

That evening the Cuisine d’Argent hostess led Thomas to Cleo’s table. The first sight of her stole his breaths. His blood rushed harder and his heart found a new rhythm. Or the rhythm he’d missed since the last time he saw her.

He took the seat opposite her and waited for the explosion. But seeing him turned her to stone except for the myriad emotions flashing across her sea-green eyes—shock and anger, and maybe fear.

He stared right back, drawn to the flame that was Cleo Chandler. Her elfin features seemed more defined. A ruddy flush highlighted her vivid coloring. Strange to see her in something other than jeans and a T-shirt, but of course she wore Mimi’s clothing. She’d tied her hair back. A tempting thought, reaching across the small table to free her fiery curls from their ribbon. He spread the snowy white napkin on his lap.

Recovering, she sputtered and looked around as if for rescue, but the hostess had skated away to greet another patron.

“Sorry, Cleo.” He smiled. “Unless you can top the fifty I gave the hostess to seat me here, you have a dinner companion.”

She sucked down a long swallow of her cocktail, a Campari and soda, if he wasn’t mistaken. An Italian aperitif, a long way from her usual light beer.

He gave her a minute while he checked out the scene. White tablecloths, candlelight and flowers, brocade wallpaper. Could be an upscale place in D.C. or New York, except the view out the window—moonlight carving diamonds in a shield of water.

Couples, a few families with older children. A single man in the corner engrossed in his mini tablet. No one watching Cleo.

Her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened, but high color stained her cheeks. “You wasted your money. My name is
not
Cleo.”

Thomas raised a hand and ordered a scotch. When the server left with his cruise card, he raised an eyebrow, pointed to the right sleeve of her blue silk blouse. “You can prove you’re not Cleo by rolling up your sleeve. If you have no band of butterflies there, I’ll leave you alone.”

“I have to prove nothing. You’re the one here under false pretenses. I could call Security.”

“Go ahead. But it will cause a scene, call attention to you. Raise questions about your identity. Do you want that, Cleo? Or should I call you Mimi?”

The server returned with the scotch. Thomas eyed her as he signed the drink chit and stowed his card. All color had drained from her face, leaving only the shock and a few ginger freckles. And highlighting the smudges beneath her eyes. Not sleeping. Probably not eating much.

They placed their dinner orders. He ordered Coquilles St. Jacques. Cleo chose Boeuf Bourguignon, the first entrée on the menu. She probably hadn’t even read the list. He added a bottle of Pinot Gris to the order, and the waiter left.

Deciding to wait her out, Thomas sipped his drink. Good thing they were stuck on a ship or she would hit the road.

She heaved a sigh and moved her small beaded bag from her lap to the table. “Why are you here and how do you know about Mimi?”

“I know what happened in Venice. Your father sent me to protect you.”

“My father? But how did he—? Oh, Greg called him.” She huffed. “But of course
he
couldn’t tear himself away to come in person.”

He’d hoped to save this until a more private place. “The admiral’s laid up with a broken leg. He’s in the hospital.” He recounted the rest of the conversation, ending with, “He hadn’t told your mom yet when I spoke to him Friday.”

She looked stricken, by turns guilty and afraid. Finally her gaze sharpened as if she’d set aside the emotion for the moment. “But why
you
?”

“I’m out of the army. I own a security company. The admiral thought you’d trust me more than one of my operatives. I didn’t tell him why you wouldn’t want to see me.”

The color found her cheekbones again. “You got that right. Tell my father I’m just fine. I don’t need your protection. I don’t know how you smuggled yourself onto this cruise, but you can smuggle yourself off at the next port.”

“That’s my plan but you’re joining me.”

“No way. As Mimi I’m safe on this ship.”

“You’re not safe anywhere. By now the bad guys have probably figured out where you are. Centaur will stop at nothing to obtain the missing necklace.”

“Centaur, like the mythological man-horse combo?”

Her puzzled frown told him the boyfriend hadn’t shared any of his dealings with Zervas’s organization. No involvement. One of the knots in his shoulders eased.

“This Centaur is a criminal organization that deals in contraband art and artifacts. The men who killed your boyfriend took the hard drive from his laptop. Only a matter of time before they trace you by messages between you and Mimi.”

“You’re making this up. I don’t believe you.” Her stricken expression belied her words.

Oh yeah, she believed him. After what had happened to the boyfriend and her cousin, she had no choice. She just didn’t want the messenger to be Thomas. But there too she had no choice. He had to persuade her to accept his help.

“Cle—” Better if he didn’t say her real name, even here. “Look, I know you. You want to believe you left behind all the danger and death, that you’re safe. Why do you think they suspect you know where the necklace is?”

She gave a small shrug. “Because of René, I guess.”

“Facebook.”

Her face went blank. Her eyes shifted away as she realized the ramifications of what she’d done. “The necklace. René took pictures of me wearing it. I thought it was jewelry he made on commission. Was it a copy or the
real
Cleopatra’s necklace?”

“So you know what the piece is?”

“I do now. I looked it up in the ship’s internet café. Egyptian archeologists discovered her tomb a few years ago, near Alexandria. The find included the necklace.”

He nodded. “After they catalogued everything, the government organized a traveling exhibit of jewelry and coins and busts. After all the turmoil and changes in government, they need money. The exhibit opened in London and then went to Washington, D.C.”

“But the necklace was stolen before the exhibit could return to Europe and open in Paris.” Her gaze sharpened. “This Centaur criminal gang… the art thieves?”

“The obvious suspects, yes. Moreau made at least one copy for them. The police found sketches and measurements in his studio. You could’ve been wearing either, but both the copy and the original necklace have vanished.” He leaned forward, laid his right hand on her small purse, and grasped her left hand with his right. A flash of awareness jolted him. “Let me get you to safety... Mimi.”

Tears welled in her pretty green eyes. She shook her head, pulled her hand free. “No, I’m safe on the ship. I’ll work something out myself.”

“These are dangerous men. You can’t pretend everything will be rosy like you used to do when you were a kid. Running won’t fix this. They’ll find you.”

She pushed her chair back, nearly tipping it over, and snatched up her purse. “Leave me alone. I need to think.”

Sidestepping the server delivering their meals, she ran from the restaurant. Her wrap-around skirt gave him a tantalizing glimpse of endless legs.

“Will
madame
be returning?” the man asked, his demeanor carefully neutral, as if a tearful spat was a normal occurrence.

Hell no. “Possibly. Leave the plate.”

On the back of her abandoned chair lay a black pashmina. Now that he’d planted his tracking button on her purse, he could deliver her shawl later. Her denial and suspicion were understandable. What she’d had to face would traumatize anyone.

But why didn’t she ask about Mimi?

***

Why, why, why did Tommy have to show up here?

Cleo gripped the ship’s rail with both hands and fought to suppress the sobs crowding her chest. She’d managed okay before he appeared. Playing the part of Mimi and laughing with Deidre and Stacy helped keep up the pretense for herself as well as for them, but Tommy had to come along and scrape the bloody scabs off, rub her face in Mimi’s death. And remind her of the fool she’d made of herself over him.

And could again.

The rush of water against the hull far below and the cool breeze in her hair should soothe her frazzled nerves. But in the black water she pictured Tommy Devlin’s compelling face. No,
Thomas
. Andie said everyone called him that now, even her. He was the reason she hooked up with so many losers, his opposites. She could keep a part of herself distant, so when they hurt her, the pain didn’t cut as deep. Oh great, she could analyze her issues but not fix herself. Dammit.

Rubbing the goose bumps on her arms, she jerked away from the rail and hurried inside to the forward elevators. She didn’t want to think about any of this tonight. If the damn man bribed the reservations clerk to locate her, he could also find her stateroom.

A few minutes later, she entered the darkened theater. Beyond the sloping rows of seats, the acrobats leaped about on the stage. Halfway down the aisle on the left, she spotted Deidre’s bright blond head. Safety. Escape. Perfect.

When the two women saw her, they scooted over to give her the aisle seat.

”I thought you were too tired,” Stacy said, leaning across Deidre.

“I felt better after I ate,” Cleo whispered.

She crossed her legs and focused on the gyrating figures under the stage lights. The small troupe executed complicated dance-like formations and tumbling to music. Her heartbeat slowed, finally settling.

Deidre elbowed her. She winked and jerked a nod toward Cleo’s right. “A hot somebody’s watching you.”

A charge kicked her heart rate into high. Across the aisle, Thomas Devlin smiled at her.

She frowned and mouthed, “
Go away.”

He pointed toward the stage as if to say,
“I’m only watching the show.”

“Keeping him a secret, huh?” Deidre said.

“I ran into him at Cuisine d’Argent. That’s all.”

“Looks like he wants to run into you again, hon.”

Stacy giggled. “And again.”

“Enough,” Cleo shot back. “Not interested.”

“Whoohoo, if I wasn’t happily married, I’d sure as hell be interested,” Deidre said.

Face burning, Cleo focused straight ahead on the acrobats. Not on Deidre or Stacy. Some protection they were, with tongues practically hanging out.

No wonder. Thomas was just as sexy as ever.

More. Shoulders impossibly broad in his crisp white dress shirt. Intense and very, very male. A few silver hairs gleamed in his thick brown hair, its unruly nature controlled by an expert haircut. Same square jaw and sensual mouth. Same eagle-fierce dark-amber eyes and slashing black brows. Same take-charge arrogance that used to piss her off, but with the edges smoothed into power and confidence. Confidence that tempted her to lean on him, rely on him. Like he wanted.

Not gonna happen. She was safe here, as Mimi.

She’d left her feelings for him behind her, or so she’d thought. Hot? Yowza. She flashed chills and fever just sitting across the aisle from him. And if his gaze penetrated her reaction to him, he would use his knowledge to get what he wanted.

He wasn’t finished trying to drag her back to Dad. To safety, he said, but the admiral hired him, didn’t he? Cut from the same cloth. The kind of man who would control you and steer you without you realizing until it was too late. If she gave in and let him take charge, she’d end up living under her dad’s thumb again, smothered, stifled, and stuffed into a box of his making.

But Thomas was right. This criminal gang Centaur thought she knew the necklace’s hiding place. Or did they want to kill her? Either way, her prospects were grim. The cruise would end, and she’d have to run for her life. And hide again, but how? She knew zip about being on the run, being anonymous. Maybe if she could get far enough away, somewhere else in Europe, she could go to the police.