Strike Force

by Beth Rhodes

  “Great way to start the day, Malcolm,” he said.

  “No kidding. I’m really batting a thousand this inning, aren’t I?” he answered himself.

  “Sure fucking thing. You should go adopt a dog, so you can kick it while you’re at it.”

  Malcolm took the stairs up, two at a time.

  What he really needed was to start the day over.

  Chapter Twelve

  Being pissed off made Marie leave her coffee behind, which pissed her off even more.

  And the air was barely warm down here by the water, so she wished she had a jacket, too.

  Thanks to Malcolm, she was in her favorite place with none of her favorite comforts.

  Closing her eyes, she leaned back on the natural stone chair against the cliff. The sun wouldn’t even touch this spot until midafternoon. As a kid, she’d come down here to fish. The pool next to her was quiet and deep, and it disappeared into the cave under the cliff, which had been her and Uncle Bert’s secret for years.

  She’d thought to show it to Malcolm. Last night, she’d thought they were friends. But the reprieve had been short-lived. His true colors seemed to be permanent. As the wind whipped by, she pulled her feet up onto the seat and hugged her legs, resting her chin on her knees.

  She was glad to be home.

  Hawk had been right. She needed a break. Too many months away made her forget who she was and what was important—family. Not even the Feur amulet trumped being here for her uncle.

  The sound of footsteps on the cliff above warned her of his approach. The bit of stone from the path landed on her head. She brushed it off as Malcolm finally came into view. She wanted to scowl but couldn’t.

  He might have pissed her off…but maybe he was right. He was right. Stealing was wrong. Her uncle had done his best, but even she couldn’t imagine bringing a young child into her lifestyle.

  But Malcolm’s mistake was in assuming she got her kicks by taking care of business. His mistake was in assuming she’d made acquiring things a career.

  “Hey,” he said, tossing her a sweatshirt before he sat down on the boulder next to her.

  Her heart softened. Dang it. “Thank you,” she said as she pulled the warm cotton over her head. She tucked her hands into the front pocket. Then she looked at him, but his gaze was out on the water.

  “So,” he started without looking at her, “I was kind of an ass this morning.”

  “Kind of?”

  “I blame the Țuică.”

  She didn’t believe him.

  He wiped a hand down his face, covering a pained expression, and sighed. “No, actually. You’re right. I don’t see outside the box very often.”

  Her heart stilled. The directness wasn’t unexpected, but the concession was.

  “It’s none of my business what your uncle has done, what you’ve done. How you lived your life. I admire who you are today—”

  “You admire me?”

  He pierced her with his dark eyes. “Maybe.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t believe—”

  He pulled her up and out of her seat to settle her in his lap, against him—chest to chest. He held her face. “You’ve proven yourself brave and honest—here and in Qatar. Sometimes I’m too stubborn to admit it, and that’s the prick in me.”

  “I never said prick,” she whispered, her breath caught in her chest.

  He kissed her, but it wasn’t like their time at the hotel. It was soft and slow. “I can’t get a dog. I apologized to your uncle, who heard everything I said to you this morning. And I’m going to try to not be a fucking prude.”

  She snorted. “And if I need to steal something?”

  He stood, visibly shaking off her words. “Maybe, if you get the urge, you can talk to me about it before you put your life on the line, your freedom in jeopardy.”

  She couldn’t agree, so stood with him and looked at the familiarity of the shore, sentiment choking her up. “Let’s walk.”

  He looked up and down the coast. “Aren’t we kind of stuck up here on this big rock?”

  She laughed, turned to him, and pressed herself to his front. Her hands automatically went to his sides, and she gripped him as she got on her tiptoes. Heaven forbid if he held her at arm’s length forever. If they were supposed to be running this physical attraction out of their system, then they ought to be acting on the lust. She kissed his lips, and her tongue tasted the coffee he’d had before leaving the house.

  “You’re never stuck on the rock, Malcolm. Even to jump off into the sea.” She rose and held out her hand to him. “Come on.”

  “Did you get philosophical with me?”

  She grinned and started climbing.

  The pool at the base of their property did create a barrier, but she’d learned as a kid how to climb the rock over the entrance of the cave to reach the sandy shore opposite them. “Watch your step here,” she said as her hand found the hold above her and she pulled herself up to find the foothold to her right. Like riding a bike, she thought as she jumped down to the small ledge a few feet later. She turned to watch Malcolm come the rest of the way, and even felt a little pride when he did so with no problem. “Good job.”

  He might have blushed, and he definitely rolled his eyes. “I can jump five feet.”

  She jumped from the ledge to the sand.

  He skipped the ledge and jumped straight down.

  “Show-off.”

  He grinned and flexed his stupid, tattooed arm muscles. Heat rose on her face and she sighed. Yup. She was a glutton for punishment. She was falling for this man who wanted to keep her in a little box—the thief box, the naughty corner.

  Not that she minded being in the naughty corner every once in a while, but hell, she didn’t want it to be because she had a propensity for stealing things. Especially since she hadn’t stolen anything in years.

  They walked south, and the sound of the waves on the sand and the rocky shore lulled her. When he took her hand, she let him. His was warm and big and pretty much swallowed hers completely.

  “Did you know in the 1800s a Dimitru married a Bălan?”

  “What?” She stopped and turned to him. “Where did you hear that?”

  He stepped up onto one of the big rocks, crossing their path, and pulled her up. “I was doing research on the Dimitru family the night at the hotel. I found it in some old family archives during a census year.”

  “Were you, like, saving that tidbit for later? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I forgot.”

  “You forgot.”

  “We’re not going to fight again, are we?” he asked.

  She scowled. “It’s always a possibility.”

  “They were both killed.” He hadn’t let go of her hand, and he tugged her across the stone platform and then let go to jump down. He put his hands around her waist and pulled her into his arms. “Death certificates say accidental.”

  “Really.” Her head went light. “Like my parents?”

  “Like the poor Bălan centuries ago…”

  “Holy—” Her breathing came short as visions of the accident night flashed in her mind. The thunder. The screeching metal. She’d been eight; the memories were merely snippets brought on by years of imagination interspersed with bits of truth. “Uncle Bert told you?”

  He pressed a hand to her back and forced her to lean over, which ended up being an okay thing. She took a deep breath and then another.

  “Do you know what this means?” She rose and gripped his arms. “Do you?”

  “Speculation on your uncle’s belief. Maybe they didn’t die by accident.”

  Her brain couldn’t register it. She couldn’t think with him touching her. And as if he knew, he let her go. She walked toward the water and stopped, ankle deep.

  Could it be right? Wouldn’t Uncle Bert have known? Lightning bolt. “Of course,” she whispered. Uncle Bert knows. “And he told you?” Betrayal ripped through her. “He suspected all these years. But he stayed quiet.
He kept his secret.” She turned back to Malcolm and stared at him. “Why you?” Her words sounded like an accusation. Maybe she’d have to apologize…

  But later. “I need to talk to Uncle Bert. Right now.”

  ***

  She charged into the house, full head of steam driving her on, building since she’d started the trek back.

  To give him credit, Malcolm had kept up, never letting her get too far head, but boy, she’d been thinking and thinking. And the walk had ended up being quiet. The fact he’d let her have her way made her love him a little more, which only pissed her off because it meant she was going crazy…probably.

  “Uncle Bert!” she called as the screen door slammed behind her.

  Her uncle came out of the kitchen, a towel over his shoulder. He looked so old, so innocent.

  But he wasn’t.

  “What is this about a Dimitru marrying a Bălan? And then both of them dying?”

  Uncle Bert stood straighter, and he focused behind her. On Malcolm.

  “Don’t look at him,” she demanded. “He was being a friend. And doing his job, I might add.”

  Her uncle’s glare came back to her. “When your parents died, it was my job to protect you. To hide you from anyone who would do you harm.”

  “Harm me. Like they—he—killed my parents?” She wanted confirmation, needed it.

  “Yes. They have been waiting for a Bălan heiress for two hundred years. They’ve come close—”

  “And the Dimitru who married a Bălan?”

  Uncle Bert squirmed and fidgeted at his loosened bow tie. “Now, dear. I don’t know all the details. But word came through Gordon Iliese that the son, Roman Dimitru, was an illegitimate heir.”

  Marie made a sound of disbelief. “Well, it was different in those days. So they killed them both, the son and the Bălan woman because—”

  “Because the power of the amulet runs through the Bălan descendant, and Roman wasn’t only illegitimate, he was angry and vengeful. He wanted the Dimitru name to have nothing.”

  “Did he actually love the girl?”

  Uncle Bert shrugged. “It’s only stories, but perhaps. And perhaps he wanted revenge more.”

  The silence screamed at her.

  “This is the twenty-first century, and we have investigations and police, law and—fucking—order. Why was no one ever arrested or charged with murder in my parents’ deaths?”

  “There was never any evidence, no proof. Nothing leading the police to even look for a culprit.” He started pacing. “You were there that night. Torrential rains washed away part of the road. They had to pull you out of the wreckage. The car slid off the road, an accident. Period.”

  She flinched, and the flash of memory made her eyes sting.

  “I had to let them go so Vladimir Dimitru didn’t get wind of your survival.” He pounded a fist into his hand. “You were mine to protect. Your parents were dead, Marie. There was nothing I could do to bring them back.”

  Rubbing at her forehead, she took a deep breath. And then Malcolm was behind her, his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading the tension away. She looked into her uncle’s face. All the facts she’d learned over the years, jumbled bits and pieces. Always the Dimitru and Bălan names. “My mother didn’t marry him.”

  Uncle Bert wrung his hands.

  “Vladimir,” she whispered. “We come full circle. What about the armband? I mean, what about the armband would make them still desire it so? The days of curses and feuds and spells is over. He can’t possibly believe owning the armband will bring him power.”

  Uncle Bert cleared his throat.

  “What?” she demanded, fed up with how crazy this entire conversation had turned.

  He hesitated again, and she could have sworn he was blushing. “The Dimitru family also believes it has the power of immortality.”

  “Oh, for the love of God.”

  Malcolm made a noise behind her, and she looked back at him with a frown. “Don’t even.”

  He shrugged. “Just interesting,” he said.

  “They also believe it holds a curse brought on by your great-great-great-grandmother, who was almost a hundred years old in 1808,” Uncle Bert said.

  “Oh, great,” Marie said. “Now the damn thing is cursed.”

  “No. The curse is not true. The Bălans weren’t ones to set spells and curses.” His accent had gotten thicker as the conversation continued. “Is coincidence and bad luck. That is all. I swear it.”

  “Okay, okay. I have to think. But please don’t tell me you believe in the immortality part.”

  He shrugged.

  “Uncle Albert!”

  “Fine. No. Not really. But there was the story of your great-great-grandfather who lived until he was one hundred and ten. And he would have lived longer if not for—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “—the Dimitru family.”

  She lifted her hands. “Aiy. This is why my mother moved away and married my very practical German-Irish father.”

  “It saved you in the back of the car. You held it in your lap, and I have hidden you all these years. Never allowing your identity to be connected to the Bălan name.” He hobbled over to the straight-back chair in the corner of the living room and sat with his elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in his hand.

  “But I wouldn’t have even known about any of this if Dimitru hadn’t stolen the armband a year ago. How did he even know—”

  “He can’t have it,” Uncle Bert said.

  “Go to the police,” Malcolm said, interrupting the growing heat of their conversation. Marie had almost forgotten he was there. He had stayed quiet, leaning against the fireplace, until now. “Leave Marie out of this.”

  She wanted to scowl at him. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he replied, earning him a point or two. “But you don’t have to. Besides, I doubt there is any chance Vladimir Dimitru doesn’t know you are a Bălan.” He pointed to the wall behind her.

  She turned and came face to face with her grandmother in the portrait behind the wingback chair. “Damn.” Marie bit her lip. “Would the new generations of Dimitrus even know a Bălan if they saw one? Vladimir can’t be more than ten years older than I am.”

  “More like twenty.”

  “Really? Geez, he looked good for forty-five.”

  Malcolm’s brow rose.

  “Well, he did… But okay. Okay. He might know who I am.”

  Uncle Bert nervously cleared his throat.

  “What?” Malcolm stood in the doorway, the mug in his hand, steam coming off the hot brew.

  “Uncle Bert,” she warned, even as he shrugged.

  “I have a friend who has contributed a few artifacts to the museum exhibit in Portland over the years.” He shrugged again. “I lent the armband and a few other items. This last time, a year ago.”

  Her head was starting to hurt. “Is this friend dead now?”

  Uncle Bert looked sharply at her. “No.”

  “Well, he’s lucky, then.”

  “She.” He blushed.

  “Oh, hell.” A gust of wind rattled the windows and shook through the ceiling above her head. “Of course. A woman. You lost the armband over a woman.”

  “A beautiful woman,” Uncle Bert said, his gaze slightly unfocused, a small smile on his face. “Who has an amazing…collection.”

  Malcolm cleared his throat as he tried to subdue his laughter, but not before she saw the amusement in his eyes. She turned with a scowl back to her uncle. “Ugh!” She threw her hands up. “Uncle Bert.”

  “We must get it back—”

  “Of course—”

  “Not that way.” Malcolm took a step toward her, putting himself between Marie and her uncle. “We can come back. We can bring the team. You can gather proof of provenance. We go to the authorities and get your family’s valuables back.”

  Marie bit her lip, but nodded. She knew he was right, even though, deep in
side, she wondered if doing it her uncle’s way would be easier. In and out. Quick and easy.

  Uncle Bert made a harrumphing sound and stomped away, back toward the kitchen.

  “He’s second-guessing himself about sending me to Hawk,” she said, watching him disappear through the doorway. “He didn’t expect it to mean being part of the team or going to Qatar. He’s scared. Shit.”

  Never in her life had she expected to be a disappointment to the man who had given up his freedom to raise her as his own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Malcolm tied up his still-damp hair at the back of his head and tossed his bag back into the corner of the living room. He folded the blanket on the couch and laid it over the arm.

  “So, you do know how to clean.” She stood in the doorway and broke into a smile. But it didn’t have the same sass he was used to. He hadn’t expected her to agree with him. “Back to being silent and brooding.”

  She goaded him—probably feeling a bit insecure—but he didn’t give in. It was her way of keeping things light, of pushing aside the worry. He had a better idea.

  “I want to show you something.” Malcolm took her hand and led her to the front door, where he grabbed her leather jacket and his flannel shirt. As he opened the front door, he handed her jacket off to her.

  “You’re going to show me something on my own property?” Her snide was back as she nudged him with her elbow. But curiosity lit her face when he stopped in front of the old barn.

  He pried the wide door open and set it back against the wall. He took her hand and led her into the dim, musty atmosphere of the old structure. “Uncle Bert showed me early last night, before we started the fire.”

  She shook as her hands reached for the 1976 Harley-Davidson. He loved seeing her like this, the anticipation, the raw emotion on her face. “It still runs?” she asked skeptically.

  Malcolm grinned. “Smooth as that gold armband. Or so your uncle says.” He switched on the light above their heads. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It was my dad’s. He bought it for my mom. It was a bribe”—her voice broke—“to get her to marry him.” She laughed then pressed her lips together. Her fingers rode the handlebars and then trailed down the body and up over the worn leather seat. “I thought it was gone.”