The guilt came creeping back. She had no answer to that—she’d been unprofessional and knew it, and understood now the worry behind Ben’s gruff mood. He hadn’t explained everything, but Claudia could tell there was more going on than a tour guide’s disappearance, although that was bad enough.
She hated feeling torn between the man she was falling in love with and the man to whom she owed a tremendous debt. But she and Vincent would face separations like this over and over again. If they couldn’t deal with it now, they never would.
“Sorry,” she said quietly, meeting Vincent’s gaze. “I really do have to go.”
He nodded, his expression closed. “Sure.”
Claudia frowned, not liking his sudden change of mood. “I will be back. I already promised you, and nothing about that has changed.”
Ben, picking up on the awkward tension, said, “I’ll be waiting in the car. Make it quick. And, DeLuca? I believe you owe Avalon a favor, since my operative put her life on the line to save yours. You can rest assured I will collect eventually.”
Claudia squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think evil things about Ben and wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. He was only making matters more difficult between her and Vincent.
“I don’t like the way he talks to you,” Vincent said bluntly when Ben was out of earshot.
“Ben doesn’t own me. What you’re seeing is me feeling guilty as hell for letting down anyone who depends on me, no matter how good my reasons for doing so. We’ve been through this already, haven’t we? I will come back as soon as I can. Please trust me.” Leaning toward him, she kissed him softly, then added, “Believe in me. I’ll see you later.”
Claudia had begun to turn away when Vincent tugged her back and kissed her, a long, deep kiss that was also more than a little angry or desperate . . . or, more likely, both.
“Don’t keep me waiting too long, Claudia.”
Or what? He’d give up? Not sure what to say, or that there even was anything more to say, she turned and headed over to the SUV, its engine now humming quietly.
She climbed in beside Ben and snapped, “You said we were in a hurry, right? So let’s go.”
Ben put the SUV in gear and drove off. An uncomfortable silence settled between them until he sighed and said, “So you’re really serious about that asshole.”
“Who said he’s an asshole?” Claudia shot back, still angry. Anger was good; it held back the weepies.
Brow arched, he glanced at her. “You did. Quite frequently, as I recall.”
Belatedly, Claudia remembered that she had indeed called Vincent an asshole—and a whole lot worse. “Well, it so happens he’s my asshole, so nobody else can call him that. Got it?”
She’d never acted like this with Ben before, but maybe standing up for what she wanted, for the first time in a long, long time, had made the difference. All of a sudden, she didn’t feel half as intimidated in his presence.
To her further surprise, her boss said nothing more, and the ride to the airport passed in silence.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Thursday, Marseille
Rainert von Lahr leaned out the window of the small, quaint house that was temporarily providing him a safe hiding place. As the hot sun streamed down on his face, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath smelling of the sea. Marseille was one of his favorite cities, old and sprawling, with an overall impression of bright blue water and stately white buildings crowding the curve of the port.
In another few days he’d have a new identity and travel papers for himself and Vanessa, and then they’d fly to Jamaica. Once there, he’d decide where to go next.
Bad luck, that business in London. He’d managed to turn it to his advantage, but barely. It would be wise to lay low for a short while. All the plans he intended to set in motion over the next few months could be handled from anywhere, but a place where he could take off and land his own small plane would be best. Before long, he’d have to move around various countries in South America, and he’d need to do so quickly.
“What are you doing?”
He turned slightly from the window as Vanessa came up beside him. She was wearing his undershirt again, a habit it seemed she wouldn’t abandon, no matter how many clothes he bought for her. Nor was she wearing a bra, another habit that was beginning to bother him.
“Thinking,” he said, turning back to the view of the sea.
“Am I going to like the results of all this thinking, or are they going to terrify me to death?”
He shrugged, not really caring. “I know where to find Ben Sheridan. That’s never been an issue, even if getting to him is all but impossible. He guards himself too well.”
Sheridan Expeditions tour guides were easy pickings, however, if not quite as satisfactory catches as Sheridan’s operatives.
“In the past, I found it difficult to anticipate where any Avalon operative might turn up. As you can imagine, this is a constant source of frustration to me. But now, I’m thinking about how your little friend in Boston might provide me a way to work around that problem.”
Vanessa glanced at him, her expression filled with unease. “Mia, you mean? Are you going to do something to her?”
“Would you care if I did?”
“No, of course not,” Vanessa said, a little too quickly. “But I don’t see why you’d want to bother with her. She’s not with them, even if she is sleeping with one.”
“Precisely, and she was with Tiernay in London. Chances are she’ll meet up with him again or he’ll come to her, giving me the perfect opportunity to follow one or both. I’m going to have her watched. I’m confident that several of Vulaj’s associates, who are still in the area, would be willing to do their part in memory of their dear departed friend.”
She disliked it when he talked mockingly of Vulaj but this time didn’t react. Instead she asked, flatly, “And then what? You’ll kill them?”
“No, my bloodthirsty dear, I will not kill them.” At least, not for a while. “I will use them to gather information against Sheridan and, more important, against whoever is holding his leash.”
“I could care less about this Sheridan. I want Tiernay dead.”
“Yes, I know,” Rainert said, drily. “And so do Vulaj’s people. However, I need him alive for a while longer yet. Anything I can learn will be of use to me, and since I’m somewhat at a disadvantage—being a wanted criminal has its drawbacks—I need all the extra leverage I can get.”
“So your grand plan is get rid of these Avalon people?” She looked skeptical. “And then you can merrily go your own way once again?”
“I think merrily is too optimistic, but yes, I will be able to move somewhat more freely. They have been my primary opposition up until now.” He paused, frowning. “The Carabinieri have given me some trouble as well.”
“Why does Avalon want you so badly?”
“I’ve killed a few of them,” he said and shrugged. “Sheridan seems to have taken it personally.”
“Imagine that,” Vanessa drawled.
He looked over at her again, and noticed how the sunlight brought out the blond highlights in her hair and that the edges of her eyelashes were a paler color. She had freckles, along with a few lines of exhaustion marking her face, but he had to admit that the pale, thin British look suited her well.
“Sheridan is smart, but he has a weakness. Everyone has a weakness.”
“Even you?” she asked, a touch too impertinently.
He focused again on the water, on the mesmerizing sparkles, the near-blinding brightness of it. “Even me.”
“So are you going to tell me what it is?” From impertinence to teasing, in a matter of seconds.
“Not likely,” he answered, unable to hold back his amusement. “Have you ever heard of Sun Tzu, Vanessa?”
“Of course. He’s reputed to have written a treatise on war called The Art of War. Stupid title. Only those with a Y chromosome would consider bloody carnage to be an art.”
“I assume you’re trying to make some sort of point about nobly killing people in this war you’ve declared on Avalon?”
“They declared war on me first,” he said, stung a little by her scorn. She had quite the sharp tongue when she was of a mind to be disagreeable. “Sun Tzu wrote, and forgive me if I misquote him, ‘It is said that if you know your enemy and know yourself, you can win a thousand battles without a single loss. If you only know yourself, but not your enemy, you may win or you may lose. If you know neither yourself nor your enemy, you will always lose.’ ”
“Sun Tzu was a wise old bugger.”
“Very much so, yes.”
“Okay,” she said at length. “I take it you’re stuck at the second point, where you know yourself but don’t know squat about your opponent.”
“Precisely, and I intend to learn as much about them as possible.” One of the seabirds dove with breathtaking speed, skimming the water, then rising again with a fish in its beak. “I’m also a believer in another of his maxims: ‘If his forces are united, separate them. If sovereign and subject are in accord, put division between them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.’ ”
Vanessa leaned farther out the window, squinting against the bright sun, her warmth brushing against him.
He eased away. “Over the years, I’ve come to understand that Sheridan isn’t running Avalon because he considers himself to be like his predecessors—some crusading knight, righting the wrongs of plundered art and antiquities. He’s after something. Or someone.”
“But you don’t know what that something or someone is, I take it?”
He watched as she closed her eyes and tipped her face toward the sun, as he had earlier, and admired how the light made her hair almost glow.
“Yes, that about sums it up. But I will find out what it is he wants. And when I do, I’ll use it against him like a knife and make him bleed.”
Chapter Thirty
Friday, Philadelphia
In the days since Claudia had been whisked away by Sheridan, she’d called twice, both times in a hurry. She didn’t say much about what she was working on, and Vincent knew better than to ask. The conversation stayed strictly on mutually common concerns.
He’d updated her on Candy Bartowski’s condition when she’d asked—serious but expected to live—and passed on the disappointing news that several insurance carriers had already accepted the return of their clients’ stolen property and then declined to press charges. She made the appropriate noises of sympathy, which he appreciated, even though they’d both expected as much.
Vincent had asked her only once when she’d be back, and when her response had been vague, he’d let the matter drop, reminding himself that she’d said she would be back.
“Believe in me,” she’d pleaded, and he was trying. If it weren’t for the force of Ben Sheridan’s will and his sway over Claudia, Vincent wouldn’t have doubted her at all.
But after the week passed and she hadn’t called in several days, he resigned himself to the possibility that he wouldn’t see her again because it really was just too damn hard to make a relationship work.
Vincent never doubted it would be difficult, but if he’d been willing to try, why couldn’t she? He’d pegged her for a stronger woman that this, one who wouldn’t give up so easily.
By Friday—how could only a week feel like months?—Vincent was more than ready to fly to Columbia. Even long hours in court sounded better than waiting for his phone to ring or staring moodily into a beer. After his trip to Columbia, he’d take that vacation Cookson had suggested. He needed to get out and do something for himself. Maybe visit his folks; he hadn’t seen them in a while, and they weren’t getting any younger.
He’d already packed for the flight, so he didn’t need to go home first, and Joey Leone had promised to water the yard and garden. As he walked to his car in the parking garage, mulling over how he’d evade his eagle-eyed mother’s questions—she could always tell when he was in a blue funk—he noticed a human-shaped shadow shift against the ramp wall.
Memories, still fresh, rushed back, and he tensed, adrenaline pumping, until the shadow moved again and a shaft of sunlight glinted along copper curls.
“Hey. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to pull an all-nighter in that joint.”
All the knots of tension, of doubt and frustration, loosened in an instant and then vanished, leaving him almost giddy.
“You ever hear of calling a guy ahead of time?” Vincent demanded. Maybe his tone was a little belligerent, but he couldn’t hold back his smile.
“You sound like my mother. And my abuelita.” She made a face and pushed away from his car to meet him. “It was one crazy assignment. I’ll fill you in later on why, but I hardly had any free time at all. When I did, it was way too late to call. It was only a week, anyway. Don’t tell me you thought I was—”
He quickly said, “Why are you standing out here, anyway? You look hot.”
He stopped then and looked at her, really looked. She was wearing shorts and a tee, and, yes, she looked hot and sweaty—and so damn beautiful, it felt like a punch to the gut.
“And I mean that in every sense of the word,” he added, grinning, crazy-happy to see her.
She eyed him, a smile playing at the corners of those full, luscious lips. “You look surprised to see me. Did you think I wouldn’t keep my word?”
How could he have forgotten her persistence? Rather than dodge the question, he shrugged and said, “I was beginning to have a few doubts. Never claimed to have the patience of a saint.”
“Well, here I am. Making my point.”
Vincent wanted to take her in his arms, hold her close, and kiss her—and a whole lot more—but he sensed she had something else to say, so he waited.
“Me being here is making a point to my boss that I’m a good little worker bee and worth every penny he pays me, but that I also have my own life and I’m going to live it. Me being here tells you that I keep my word, and you should do a better job of trusting me.” She took a deep breath. “And me being here is my way of telling myself that I can do this—that we can do this, if we really want to be together.”
Again, a rush of relief, along with a sense of smugness. “Told you so.”
At his answer, she visibly relaxed. “There you go again, having to get in the last word.”
“Who’s keeping score? Not me.”
“Score?” She shook her head at him. “See? Control issues.”
He opened his arms, and she went to him, clinging a little more tightly than before. He was holding her more tightly than usual, too, judging by her sudden squeak, and he loosened his hold. It was so good to have her back in his arms, to feel her close against him.
“Maybe you can do something about all those imaginary control issues of mine,” he said after a quick kiss and unlocked the car door.
Claudia arched her brow. “Now?”
“Not exactly. I’m on my way to Columbia. You feel like hanging around South Carolina for a few days?”
“You want me to go with you?”
“Well, yeah. Unless you have other plans?”
“If I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing out here waiting for you in ninety-degree weather.” She took his tie, and unknotted it. “There. Much better. Did I ever tell you that you have the sexiest neck? It makes me want to do wicked, evil things to your body.”
“That’s cruel. I have a plane to catch.”
“Planes fly out all the time, day after day. Maybe we can catch a later flight. Or an early one tomorrow.”
He had padded his schedule with an extra couple days in case of any last-minute work. “We could do that.”
�
�Smart man.” With a small smile, she said, “So . . . how about we go back to your place and find out just how happy we are to see each other?”
Vincent grinned as he helped her into the car. “I like the sound of that.”
“I thought you would.”
Epilogue
Friday, Seattle
Ben was staring out his office windows, hands in his pockets, when Ellie buzzed him on the intercom. “A courier’s here with a package for you.”
Just what he needed—more drama. His trip to the Wilcox household had been even more difficult than he’d anticipated, and he’d set the bar pretty low on that.
Maybe he’d get lucky and it would be another pile of boring spreadsheets with sticky notes full of demands for explanations.
“Does he need to see me?”
“Yup, she does. It’s Beth, and she says it’s urgent and she has to return with your response.”
Ah, Beth. Not his favorite courier, since her arrival always signaled trouble. “All right. Send her in.”
As he sat, the courier walked in, wearing the usual dark blue Sheridan Express uniform. A cap with the company logo covered long blond hair drawn back in a ponytail.
“What have you got for me?” he asked as she shut the door behind her.
She dropped the flat envelope on his desk, then sat in the opposite chair, leaned back, and propped her boots on his desk. “We have a problem, Benjamin.”
“No shit. We always have a problem. Did Tiernay finally track down your mother and grill her about your great-great-uncle?”
“Yes, but that’s trouble we expected.” She motioned to the envelope. “This is not.”
He ripped open the envelope and drew out its contents. He’d already seen the photos, but that didn’t make looking at them again any easier.
Stuart Wilcox had been a big man in his early thirties, fit and alert. It wouldn’t have been easy to overpower him, so he’d been shot from a short distance away by a high-powered rifle. It had been a clean head shot, and he’d died instantly. Not that this would be of any great comfort to his grieving family: a wife, three kids, parents, a sister, and who knew how many friends.
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