Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (9 page)

“Think about it. Your shell of denial won’t protect you from real danger.” He stopped in the tiny foyer and turned, less than an arm’s length away. “Lock up, Cleo. Including the balcony door. And don’t—”

“Open the door for anyone, not even stewards. I know. Good night, Thomas.” She ought to back away, far enough away not to feel his body heat and inhale his scent— salt air, evergreens… testosterone. But she stayed, absorbed, mesmerized.

She felt his gaze as a palpable touch, as if he reached inside her, completing that connection she’d once believed existed.

Hot awareness flashed in his eyes before he closed the gap and kissed her. She went utterly still as the blood leaped to her skin. His mouth captured hers, molded, and clung. He threaded his fingers into her hair and pulled her closer, tangling his tongue with hers, tasting her deeper.

Her muscles turned lax and her insides trembled. She wanted the kiss to go on and on and much, much more. When he ended the embrace, she couldn’t suppress a whimper.

“Good night, Cleo.” His gaze held hers for a long moment before he left.

She hurried to push the door shut with a firm click and set the deadbolt. Her breath hitched. So he did he want her after all. She huffed disgust at herself and walked out onto the balcony. Fresh air would clear the crazy notions from her brain. More likely that kiss was another way to get what he wanted— her cooperation.

She’d been an idiot years ago. Apparently she still was. How had she found the guts to fake her way through that apology? Simple. Pretending she’d been drunk humiliated her less than admitting she’d been trying to seduce him all weekend. And failed. Miserably.

Damn. If she left with him, hiding her feelings and avoiding more bone-melting kisses would be impossible.

He was right about hiding in her shell. Running and pretending to be Mimi didn’t make her feel any better, any happier, any safer— despite what she’d said to him.

No escape from guilt and grief. No escape from herself. And no idea what to do.

Venice

LUCAS STOOD WATCH
at the end of Mimi’s hospital bed.

“It’s Monday, Mimi. Your mom’s here. She’s in the doc’s office getting the lowdown on your injury. Nice lady. She’s really scared for you. Told me your real name’s Marie. Better. Classier. Like you.” He wouldn’t say so, but
Mimi
struck him as a stripper name. He tilted his head, examining her. Peaceful, the sleeping princess in that old fairy tale but with auburn hair.

Yellow flowers brought by Trudy Ingram brightened the bedside table. He bent to their light smell before taking his usual seat beside the bed. Medicine trays clattered as a nurse passed by the half-open door.

He tilted his head and linked his fingers with her slack ones, gave a gentle squeeze. The doc had said this human connection might help. Once or twice he thought Mimi returned the clasp. His imagination. Or wishful thinking. The cool touch of her small hand, so delicate, in his big paw sent a shiver over his skin. Damn, she was beautiful. Just looking at her took his breath away.

He cleared his throat. Worked up an upbeat speech. “Hey, Marie, I’m no expert but even I can tell the swelling’s down and your color is up. The chart says no fever, so no infection. Docs say you’re responsive whenever they lighten your meds. Soon they’ll bring you out of it but I’ll be gone. Now the bad guys aren’t after you, you don’t need me.”

He didn’t need her either. He needed to get back to work.

“Besides, I don’t want to scare you back into a coma with this mug of mine. Don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You’ll never know I was here watching over you.” That was the way he wanted it. The way it had to be.

His phone bleeped, startling him. Then he remembered the hospital’s tech people had given his phone the green light. On the screen,
Devlin.

He slipped his hand away, leaving her fingers limp on the green coverlet.

“Hey, Thomas, how’s it going? You make it on the ship okay?”

“Right. Mara should work her magic on Cleo.”

His boss’s frustrated tone had Lucas’s eyes widening. He grinned. The boss wasn’t in control? He’d have to meet this lady from Devlin’s past. “She’s on the ship, right?”

“As Mimi, like we thought. But she insists on staying on board and continuing her masquerade. She’s afraid but doesn’t grasp the situation.”

“You gonna kidnap her on Santorini?”

During the pause, Lucas could almost hear his boss shudder. “It won’t come to that. What’ve you got?”

Lucas knew better than to press the Cleo issue further. He updated Devlin on Mimi, aka Marie, and her mother’s arrival. “And I talked to
Commissario
Castelli. Workers renovating a building in Santa Croce found a man’s body along with Cleo’s suitcase. Suitcase had her passport inside.”

“Dead man a short, stocky guy?”

“How’d you know?”

“Cleo saw two men the night of the shootings. Zervas must’ve ordered the other guy to eliminate this one.”

“Castelli said as much. Shot in the head with a nine mil. Could be the same weapon as the other shootings. He suspected the killer counted on the building being abandoned. The construction crew wasn’t slated to start for another month so the find was lucky. Glad it wasn’t me who stumbled over the fragrant corpse.” Lucas wrinkled his nose.

“ID?”

“Not officially. But Castelli recognized the guy. Local hitter named Panaro. The hospital’s closed-circuit system caught his partner, once coming in the employee entrance and a second time lurking in the ICU hallway. From Rome, about five-nine, wiry like the second-story man he is. Two convictions. Name’s Ricci.”

“The thin guy Cleo described.”

“Good bet. Castelli’s on top of it. But I’m betting Ricci’s long gone. I checked with the task force. They connected the name to Centaur.”

“You’ve accomplished a hell of a lot in a short time, Lucas. You had time to arrange my transport too?”

“No sweat. Easy enough while I sit here with Ma—my principal.” He had contacts and what he couldn’t work out, the CTF did. “I set you up on Santorini.”

The two men spent a few minutes discussing security and travel arrangements.

“Now that the news is out about Mimi’s identity,” Devlin said when they finished, “you can return to duty with the task force. Slight chance the hit men will try again, but more likely their boss cares more about the necklace. Castelli promised a uniform would watch the hallway. About the CTF, you’d better get there A-sap. I’ve had two calls from Special Agent Hunt.”

Lucas groaned. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m ready to get back to work. Beats sitting around, for damn sure.” Except for one thing. As if Marie had touched his shoulder, he turned toward her. “But there’s no pleasing SA Jessica Hunt.”

“Ball buster, I’ve heard, but a crack agent. She’s moving forward on finding Zervas.” Devlin’s tone carried a grin. “I need you back there too. We need new leads on him now he’s skipped London. We have to know what Ahmed Yousef plans for the Cleopatra necklace and its copy.” He paused. “Mimi’ll be safe now. She’ll be all right.”

Did the captain read his mind? Wouldn’t be the first time. Would she be all right? The doc wasn’t saying. His gut clenched.

“Yeah. She doesn’t need me—my protection—anymore.” And it was better Lucas leave before she woke up. “I’ll fly to Paris this afternoon.”

***

Shipboard

Thomas clicked off his phone. Not good if Lucas was hung up on Mimi Ingram. Not professional and a potential conflict of interest. Deal with it later. Like he’d deal with his involvement with Cleo. No conflict of interest but damned unprofessional.

Why the hell did he kiss her? The darkening of her eyes and the flush on her cheeks had torpedoed his restraint. What began as a little taste became much more, kindling a hunger he couldn’t remember feeling for any other woman. Through sheer force of will he ended the kiss before he could take her back to the bed and finish what he’d begun.

She insisted her naked seduction in his bed was a result of too much alcohol. Thinking back, he didn’t buy it. Halfway through the evening she’d switched from light beer to Diet Coke. She’d wanted him then and she wanted him now.

Hell, once again she had him hot and aroused. He raised his face to the cooling breeze, hoping it would take the edge off the heat inside him. The weather in Italy had been warm but the farther south the
Emerald
sailed the hotter the temperature. Good thing he’d packed shorts. Baggy shorts.

The locator in his phone app showed him Cleo’s quilted backpack at the pool. He left the ship’s railing and followed the jogging track past the deck checker game and golf cage. Halting at the corner, he hung back in the shadows.

She lounged in the sun with her two friends, a prime spot on the far side of the Olympic-size pool. No missing her. She shone like the sun in that yellow tank suit. Charming the two women she’d made friends with. An open shirt kept her tattoo hidden but not her body. Her heat rays reached him all the way across the deck. The suit’s neckline dived too damned low. Now why did that bug him?

She sat up, a big smile on her face, and slid her glorious legs off to the side.

He followed her gaze to a nearly naked guy carrying a plate piled with food. He crossed the end of the pool and stopped at the end of Cleo’s lounge chair.

Thomas’s mouth tightened. Abandoning his surveillance cover, he strode to the pool-side buffet and filled a plate before taking a seat facing Cleo. She’d spot him soon enough. He was here to protect her. Seeing him nearby should remind her of that fact.

Who was this long-haired dude? Mediterranean coloring. Twenties, slender but ripped. Wore a fucking Euro thong. He and Cleo shared the plate of food he’d brought from the lunch buffet. She laughed at something the guy said. The sight twisted inside Thomas. Not his business as long as the flirtation was harmless.

But he’d take no chances. If he could get on the ship, so could a killer.

Something about Centaur sending a hit man to eliminate Cleo didn’t jibe with their search for the necklaces. He shook his head. His brain would work on it while she simpered at Mr. Thong. And while Thomas enjoyed his lunch.

He stared at his plate. Calamari salad? What the hell? He hated calamari.

***

Behind her sunglasses, Cleo watched Thomas take a seat in the lunch area at the pool’s end. His shorts and T-shirt emphasized the mouthwatering definition of his muscled chest and legs. Damn him,
he
was the reason for her restless night. And that devastating kiss that had made her tingle from head to toe.

His mouth formed a grim line and his eagle eyes were trained on her. And on Sergio. What? Did Thomas think Sergio carried a weapon? That thong bikini barely contained or concealed the man’s very nice package, let alone a knife or gun.

She smiled as she smeared more sunscreen on her arms.
Enjoy the show, Tommy.

“
Grazie,”
she said with an even wider smile when Sergio arrived with the plate he’d fetched for her. The aromas of grilled sausages and pasta salad ought to make her mouth water, but she’d lost her appetite.

He chattered away in Italian about seeing her from the stage last night and dedicating his performance to her. With Thomas across the aisle from her, she barely recalled the show, let alone a single acrobat’s leaps and bounds.

Keeping a low profile was her goal. Unavoidable and easy enough to carry on the Mimi charade with Stacy and Deidre, and she liked them. But a guy? Too risky. Not worth the hassle. Especially not with this guy whose breath smelled of fried sardines. A Venice favorite she could never force herself to like.

Goggle-eyed, the two women shifted on their chairs. Waiting for her to translate. They considered Sergio prime cut. To her only a hot dog. If her friends hadn’t accompanied her, she’d have avoided him. She’d learned the hard way how to spot a player.

She held up a chunk of sausage. “This is way too much food for me. I’ll share. Open wide,” she said in Italian. Was Thomas watching?

As his moist mouth closed over the sausage, he kissed her fingertips. Not Thomas’s firm lips. Stifling the urge to wipe her hand on her towel, she continued to smile.

She peered around Sergio. Thomas was gone.

***

Thomas ate an early dinner while Cleo remained in her stateroom. Later he planted himself behind a potted palm on the dining room balcony where he could observe her at dinner. Not with the thong guy but with the blonde and brunette. He ordered club soda and tipped the waiter to leave him alone. As always the first sight of Cleo punched him in the chest.

Why couldn’t this just be a job? Why couldn’t he stow his ache for her, his damned obsession with her? He signaled the waiter for another soda. After she was tucked in, he’d have something stronger.

By the pool earlier, he’d dumped his disgusting plate of boiled rubber and taken a burger from the grill back to his original surveillance post in the shadows. He hadn’t been sure what was going on, but Cleo gathered up her bag and towel and stood. She pressed a hand to her stomach and made apologetic gestures before hustling toward the nearest door. The guy watched her go, his pretty face skewed in bewilderment.

Thomas followed the transponder to her stateroom. He wondered if the guy slipped poison into her food, but through the door he’d heard her turn on the shower.

She was sure okay now, cleaning her plate of seafood paella and laughing at something one of the other women said. Whether she’d run off to escape the thong guy or to escape
him
, either way was cool. She’d left the phony stud flatfooted, mouth open.

When Cleo left the dining room, he trailed along at a discreet distance while she and her friends checked out the music at two of the lounges. No karaoke tonight, thank God.

By midnight Cleo closed herself in her stateroom. No one in the passageway. If she left again, the transponder would alert him. He turned back toward the elevators.

***

“Odd,” Cleo muttered as the door closed behind her. The stateroom was dark. The steward usually left some lights on after turning down the bed. She slapped the wall beside the door. Where was the light switch?

She heard movement a millisecond before a hard arm banded her waist. The attacker jerked her backward. The air burst from her lungs as she slammed against a muscled body. Another arm came around her shoulders. A sharp blade pricked her throat.

She stilled as if the adrenaline pumping through her system were cement.

“Do not make a sound or I will cut you,” the voice whispered in Italian.

That voice. Sardine breath.
Sergio.

Icy paralysis shifted to blazing heat.

She grabbed the knife-wielding hand with both of hers. Flattened it against her chest, down and away from her throat. She kicked backward. Heard a crack as her kitten-heeled pump connected with bone. He grunted in pain and loosened his grip on her body enough so she could breathe.

She screamed. And screamed again. And again.

The stateroom walls were thick but not the doors.