“From doing what, Ms. Gallagher? Listening to you talk? She never once asked you a question. Technically, she’s not interfering.”
Not enough for him to waste valuable time by causing a situation that would end in another reprimand. He’d discovered the hard way that Cruz might be a handful, but her boss’s lawyers posed far more trouble.
“I’m already going to have to explain to Mr. Champion and Ms. Stone that their prized Greek Corinthian helmet has been stolen from under the noses of a senior employee and one of the best security companies in Philadelphia.” Anger sharpened Arnetta’s soft, refined voice. “I hope you had a very good reason for your actions, and that this woman’s presence won’t cause me any further trouble.”
“It won’t.” Not for Arnetta; for himself, he couldn’t be so sure.
“So why didn’t you stop her at the door?” the gallery manager demanded. “You’re a federal law enforcement agent. You have the authority.”
Matherson’s frown deepened, but he kept his mouth shut.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about. She’s on your side. Solving specialized crimes like this often takes a cooperative effort from many investigators, including those in the private sector.”
It sounded good, big words and all, and more dignified than explaining the FBI sometimes had to deal with the devil it knew in order to catch the devil it didn’t.
Guilt pricked again, and he added gently, “Look, it’s been a rough day for you and we’re done here. You should have a cup of tea or something before locking up. Try to relax. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions, and we’ll keep you posted if anything turns up. That’s about all we can do right now.”
Arnetta nodded, then reluctantly moved away, still looking a bit lost and frantic. Vincent supposed that if he’d had a chunk of bronze worth nearly two hundred grand disappear on his watch, he’d be a little green around the edges, too.
Once Arnetta was out of earshot, Matherson cleared his throat. “Okay, I’m not sure what just happened here, but that hot little number in red wasn’t someone you know?”
“I know her.”
The detective shot him a look of exasperation. “But she wasn’t authorized personnel.”
Matherson had no reason to know about Avalon, Claudia’s employer, and he was better off remaining ignorant. People who knew too much occasionally ended up dead. Or simply disappeared. “Somebody’s contracted her services. That’s all the authorization she needs.”
“So she’s like a private investigator?”
“You could call it that.”
Annoyance flaring, Matherson asked, “So why did you really let her walk in here and do whatever the fuck she wanted?”
Vincent shrugged. “Because I’ve got nothing to work with. She’s not one of us, so she doesn’t have to operate like us. Maybe she’ll get lucky—and when she does, I will.”
“Ah-hah.” Matherson drew out the word, nodding in understanding. “You’re tailing her.”
“There’s no place her sweet ass goes that I don’t hear about it. So that’s the plan.”
Or half of it; the other half was that he wanted to catch this woman in an illegal act—anything would do, no matter how petty—so he could make an example out of her. That high-handed bastard in Seattle needed to learn an important lesson: no one was above the law, not even the obscenely rich and powerful.
Next to catching this annoying little shit of a thief he’d been chasing up and down the East Coast for months, there was nothing Vincent wanted more than a chance—just one chance—to show Avalon they could no longer ignore the FBI.
Her floral scent still lingered, bringing to mind warm skin and lush female curves, a mouth in wet red lipstick and hair he could grab in both fists.
He blocked the image. Nope, there was nothing more that he wanted. And if he repeated it often enough, he might even start believing it.
Chapter Two
Claudia took her time crossing the busy street, hardly noticing the stares of men in passing cars and ignoring a few catcalls. Long gone were the days when she’d kick a car window or bust a nose over some disrespectful attitude from those with tiny brains and tinier dicks.
The only troublesome matter on her mind now—besides teleporting thieves and snake-eyed Feds—was the perspiration gluing her lace bra and thong to her skin, no matter how many times she pulled at them, manners be damned.
Philly in August was oven-hot, baking the asphalt and concrete and steel. Everyone she passed looked wilted, harassed, and in a damn big hurry to be back inside air-conditioned offices or cars.
Claudia pointed her remote at her rental car, unlocking it with a chirp. The inside was stifling, and she let out a small huff of annoyance. After she started the car, she flipped the air-conditioning fan to High . . . and noticed the light trembling of her fingers.
She wanted to lay the blame on a breakfast of Twinkies and Pepsi, but getting up close and personal with Mr. FBI Man hadn’t helped matters. Scowling, she kicked off her heels, then peeled off her stockings.
The smug bastard was tailing her. He’d all but admitted it, and that was the only explanation for why he’d been so . . . reserved. When Vincent DeLuca was shouting at her, threatening her, or when his dark eyes burned with loathing and fury, she had nothing to worry about. When he was quiet and polite, that meant big trouble was brewing.
It was much too hot for trouble. Any kind of trouble. Why didn’t anyone ever pull art heists in Antarctica, anyway? Antarctica sounded sooo good right now.
After digging through the bags and boxes scattered along the backseat, she retrieved a bottle of water and her work clothes. Not caring who might be watching, she wiggled out of her tight skirt and into a pair of shorts. She unbuttoned the suit coat with a sigh of relief and tossed it into the back. As she pulled a T-shirt over her head, tires squealed close by, followed by furious honking.
A woman shouted angrily, and Claudia flipped her off. “Like you never seen boobs before, sister. And I am wearing a bra.”
It wasn’t even see-through, for God’s sake. Then she grinned, a sudden thought coming to her. If Vincent was having her watched, she hoped one of his flunkies had gotten an eyeful and reported every salacious little detail to his big, bad boss man. She’d bet a week’s vacation that DeLuca would waste no time in giving her shit over it. The man was all too predictable.
Well, he was FBI and couldn’t help himself, poor thing. His type always came equipped with a self-righteous ego big enough to match any surplus of testosterone. And one look at the man told her he had plenty of testosterone to spare. Back in April, when they’d first crossed swords and territorial boundaries, she’d known he was going to be trouble even before he called her “Sheridan’s little bitch.”
That had seriously pissed her off. At five nine, she wasn’t little, thank you very much—and why did so many men need to call a strong-willed woman a bitch? Vincent had her on the first part, though. Ben Sheridan owned her soul, and she owed him more than she could ever repay.
Thinking back on that first meeting with Vincent, Claudia recalled how his eyes had gone from watchful neutrality to contempt when he recognized her. The average Fed wouldn’t have ID’d her, but he was with the FBI’s new Art Squad, and they knew all about Avalon. They were competing in the same territory, so she understood the hostility. She didn’t even hold it against him, because she knew what really chapped Mr. FBI Man’s self-righteous ass: Avalon had been at this game for years, and the FBI was still scrambling to match its efficiency.
Those art databases everyone was so proud of? Avalon had one as early as the 1920s and had computerized it a full decade ahead of any others. Then there was the fact that Ben had a wide, international net of contacts. Claudia suspected whoever used Ben as their front man were the ones who actually knew people, and they told Ben who to talk to and when. Avalon sometimes struck her as an old, exclusive men’s club, but whatever it was, it worked.
Most of the time.
Avalon didn’t have exclusive bragging rights on bagging bad guys, and they lost almost as many fights as they won. Art thieves were notoriously difficult to catch, and prosecuting them often proved even more difficult.
Claudia drained the last drop from the water bottle and pitched it into the seat beside her. Rummaging through her purse for a hair tie, she kept an eye on the bright red door of Champion and Stone, framed by hanging baskets of colorful petunias, and wondered how long Vincent would stay inside.
God, she wanted a look at the security camera data, but he’d only laugh in her face if she asked. Dealing with the FBI was such a pain in the ass. Too bad the local cops weren’t entirely handling this theft. She could work a local cop angle to her advantage, even if it took a little time and patience, but not the FBI.
The security data for this one was probably a lost cause. The best she could do now was wheedle or trick some shred of information about its contents out of Vincent. Hell, even a shred would be better than what she had.
Ben was getting impatient at her lack of progress with the series of thefts; she could tell by how his questions and their conversations kept getting shorter. Claudia hadn’t been the least surprised to find that under her boss’s classy cool bubbled a temper, a temper she respected and was careful not to trigger.
Too bad she couldn’t show the same restraint with Vincent DeLuca. Recalling the look on his face when she’d run her finger down his tie, she laughed softly. The man was a jerk, but damn, he was fine. Still, best to keep her focus on what she was getting paid to do.
Since Vincent most likely knew she was waiting, and was deliberately making her sweat it out, she might as well put the time to good use. She pulled her PDA out of her purse and reviewed her notes, adding details from this morning’s theft. Nine confirmed hits, all on the East Coast: New York, South Carolina, Massachusetts, Virginia, Maryland, and the first theft in Philadelphia back in April at the Alliance Gallery. Nothing for weeks, and now Philly again.
Random, except for these most recent three within the Philadelphia and Baltimore areas. The items taken had nothing in common beyond having been replaced by cheap replicas to delay discovery. So far, the thieves had made off with a colonial sampler, a rare atlas, several small paintings, a Japanese mask, a pair of nineteenth-century dueling pistols, a collection of Civil War–era photograph negatives, a French medieval chalice, and now a Greek Corinthian helmet.
If someone was trying to make money by supplying for a select clientele, then a few of these items should’ve surfaced by now. Thieves were usually greedier than they were smart, and not known for their patience.
Maybe sending the law dogs running around in circles was a deliberate plan rather than sheer luck. If so, the plan was working. Telling Ben she expected the next heist to occur on the east or southeast coast wouldn’t earn her any bonus pay.
She turned on the car radio, searching stations until she found a Nelly Furtado song she liked, then sat back, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the beat.
Not all art thieves were greedy, unimaginative, or spur-of-the-moment types. Some were eccentric, some brilliant, and a daring few—like Rainert von Lahr—even played games with the authorities. Several Art Squad agents were headquartered in Philly, so maybe the last three hits were an intentional slap in the FBI’s face. That might explain why Vincent was more bad-tempered than usual.
“And if it isn’t the devil himself,” Claudia murmured as the door of Champion and Stone swung open and a familiar figure stepped outside: six feet of edgy, dark-haired, dark-eyed, black-suited male aggression, framed by little pink petunias. The whimsical contrast made her smile, even more so because he was completely unaware of it.
He shrugged out of his suit coat, holding it and his briefcase in one hand while he tugged his tie loose and undid the upper buttons of his shirt. By the time he reached the sidewalk’s edge, he’d pushed up his sleeves, displaying strong forearms with a dusting of dark hair and the prominent veins of a man with a lean, mean build who worked out regularly.
Sexy as hell . . . The heat low in her belly didn’t lie, no matter how much she wished she could pretend she didn’t want to corner that man in a dark room, shove him up against a wall, and explore every inch of him. Preferably every hot, slick, naked inch of him.
The way he dressed always reminded her of grainy black-and-white news footage from the 1960s, and she’d come to think of the look as Mission Control Cool: slim black suit, white button-down shirt, and skinny black tie. Nothing about this man indicated he was the type who would pay attention to style, yet he must’ve made a conscious effort with his looks. Did anyone even sell ties like that anymore?
All thoughts froze as Vincent stepped off the curb toward her, grinning.
Oh, shit.
Showing that much tooth meant he was up to no good—or else he finally had enough evidence to break the case wide open. To keep her anger and frustration from showing, Claudia waggled her fingers and grinned back.
Did he have something? God, she hoped not. More than likely he only wanted her to think he did, in order to throw her off or panic her into doing something reckless.
Exactly the kind of dirty trick she’d try.
Vincent jogged across the street, adroitly avoiding the traffic. Her heart pounded with every footfall, as much from anticipation of a duel of insults as from purely feminine appreciation of a magnificent male animal moving directly into her target zone.
Resting his hands on the car, he leaned down and grinned. The bare forearms were even sexier up close, and the perspiration-dampened white cotton emphasized the long, lean line of his chest. A feathering of hair was visible where he’d unfastened the buttons over his undershirt, and Claudia unabashedly admired the view. The man had a very sexy neck, one that practically begged her to run her tongue up its salty, warm length to his jaw, and then kiss her way back down to that hollow between his collarbones.
Vincent hadn’t missed the quick survey—which she’d made no attempt to hide—and that toothy, predatory grin widened. Oh, yeah . . . dark, disheveled men with persistent five-o’clock shadows and broody eyes made her weak in the belly. But she’d be damned if they’d make her weak in the head, too.
Vincent rapped his knuckles against the window, interrupting her reverie. Claudia hesitated, then lowered it. “What?”
“My people tell me you stripped down in your car.”
Hearing him verify that he was watching her somehow made it more . . . stimulating. “Disappointed to hear that I’m not carrying concealed?” As his brow arched, she couldn’t resist adding, “Or are you just sorry you missed the show?”
“Is that what you think?”
“I could always arrange for a private showing, Special Agent DeLuca.”
His grin faltered, signaling she’d scored a hit.
“You do that again,” he said mildly, “and I’ll have the locals take you in for indecent exposure. I warned you, Ms. Cruz. And you know there’s nothing I’d like more than to toss your interfering ass in jail.”
Excitement sizzled head to toe and she flicked her tongue over her lips, pleased beyond all civilized decency when his gaze briefly dropped to watch. No matter what words he said, what he wanted wasn’t her ass in jail but in his bed. Or against any reasonably stable surface.
“Always so serious. All work, no play—”
“You want to play, Ms. Cruz?” A breeze drifted inside her car, bringing with it the smell of city traffic, hot asphalt . . . and him. He didn’t wear cologne, but the scent of soap, perspiration, and warm skin was heady enough. She shifted restlessly on the seat.
“Do you?” She matched his cool tone. “Because I don’t play so nice.”
His smile faded, lips settling into a thin, grim line. “Neither do I—although I won’t corner you in an alley and shoot you in the back.”
That he’d sink so low as to bring up ancient history irritated her, but defending herself, or pointing out he shouldn’t believe everything
the media chose to report, would be useless. He’d made up his mind about her months ago.
“And that’s exactly why your people always lose and why my people always win,” Claudia said flatly. “You’re just not mean enough.”
The window let out a low, electric hum as she raised it, shutting him down before he could respond. Not that it looked like he would; he only glared at her, the sinews of his forearms and neck tight with the effort to control his anger. She tracked him as he stalked away, and pulled out into traffic once he’d turned the corner.
Mr. FBI Man wanted to play rough, did he?
“Gloves are off, cabrón,” Claudia said softly. “You asked for it, you got it.”
Vincent spent the remainder of his day at the Arch Street field office, drinking coffee and chewing pen caps as he went over the case notes, photographs, and surveillance data. Nothing stood out in the Champion and Stone camera feed, but it had been a long day and he was tired and restless . . . best go over them again later.
He’d made numerous calls to other detectives and agents working the cases, and by the time he’d emailed a brief update to his supervisor and called it quits, his mood had deteriorated from bad to worse.
Despite reams of reports, tons of files and photos, massive megabytes of recorded data, and the combined brainpower of experienced detectives and the FBI, he still had nothing. When he stepped outside, he irritably scrubbed his palms over his tired, stinging eyes and swore under his breath as the heat hit, thick with humidity.
He needed a shower and a beer—and sex, considering his lingering reaction to the morning’s run-in with Claudia Cruz—but the chances of getting the first two were a hell of a lot better than the likelihood of getting the last one. His sex life was in a sorry state when it was easier to score a cold, satisfying beer than a hot, satisfying woman.
Traffic on 676 was slow despite the hour, and Vincent paid minimal attention to the radio news as he mulled over this case. Once off the highway, he stopped at a small market to pick up beer, frozen pizza, and a package of chips, then drove home through quiet streets lined with trees and brown brick houses.
Her Last Chance Page 2