Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  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.

  He stopped her cries with a hand over her mouth. With the other arm, he wrenched her left arm behind her back. Pain shafted through her shoulder. No knife but he shoved her forward. Oh, God, someone help me!

  She landed face down on the bed. A knee jammed against her spine, pressed her into the mattress. He flattened himself on top of her.

  His weight held her immobile. She couldn’t kick. Couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t get enough breath to yell. Foolish of her to talk to him today. All to taunt Thomas. She’d screwed up again. Her breath came in short gasps.

  The son of a bitch fumbled one-handed with something. Ripped at her shirt. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against her butt.

  Sick horror clawed at her throat. She knew what would happen next.

  A bang. Light spilled into the room.

  “Get away from her, you bastard!” a male voice roared.

  Thomas!

  The door swinging shut blanked the illumination. But the heavy weight lifted. She sucked in air and rolled onto her back as she registered the sounds of a struggle. The sickening sound of fists on flesh. Grunts. Furniture crunching. A ringing thump. A moan.

  Then silence. Only the rush of wind.

  She crawled up the bed. Groped for the bedside lamp button.

  Blinking in the flood of brightness, she scanned the room. The sheers blowing inward through the open slider, the broken table, the phone on the floor. Beside Thomas Devlin on all fours.

  Her hear jolted, then raced. She scrambled to him and grasped his shoulder. “Tommy! Are you hurt?”

  “Dammit,” he muttered as he stumbled to his feet. “Bastard whacked me with something.” He held onto the desk and rubbed his nape.

  Cleo shivered in the night air. Or maybe it was from fear her attacker could return. She closed the slider and jammed home the lock.

  Apparently still groggy, he let her guide him to sit on the loveseat.

  “He hit you with the phone.” She set the receiver on the cradle, cutting off its jarring beeping. Her knees gave way and she collapsed beside him as adrenaline fled her body. “He got away.”

  “I hope the fucker fell off the ship and drowned.” His eyes pinched in pain, he ran his gaze over her. “You all right, Cleo?”

  She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “I’m okay. Just...” She had no words for how she felt. “It’s not enough but thank you.”

  He shrugged off her gratitude as if he performed life-saving acts on a daily basis. Maybe he did. Like in Andie’s stories about him. He rubbed his neck. She would bring
him ice as soon as she could trust her legs.

  “Lucky I was nearby,” he said. “Did you see where the mugger went?”

  “Too dark. I forgot to lock the slider. Maybe he climbed the balconies and left the same way. He’s one of the acrobats. Sergio, the guy at lunch.”

  “Right,” he said, as if he knew. “Tell me what happened.”

  “The lights were out. He jumped me. From the bathroom, I think. He held a knife to my throat. He didn’t cut me, just told me to be quiet or he would. He held me so tight I couldn’t breathe.” She hugged herself to stop the shakes.

  “But I heard you scream.” He smiled. “Loud enough to summon the entire security force and the Italian navy.”

  “Security. I don’t want them to know, do I? They’d arrest me and not my mugger.”

  “Whatever they’d do, you don’t want the notoriety. Let me handle this. Go on.”

  She nodded. Not that she was agreeing to put herself in his hands. He saved her life, but she was agreeing to zip.

  “I took a self-defense course. I didn’t learn much but I knew to loosen his grip so I could yell bloody murder. Then he pushed me onto the bed and held me down.” Revulsion at the memory vacuumed all the saliva from her mouth. She fingered her torn shirt. “He... he was going to rape me. My own stupid fault for leading him on.”

  Chapter 10

  THOMAS SHOOK AWAY the horrific image her fear conjured. The stricken look in her eyes almost cracked his chest. “Maybe rape. Maybe something else.”

  He drew her hand away from the ragged sleeve and held on. Her palm fit perfectly in his. After a moment, the feel of her soft hand in his calmed him, stilled the turmoil and dread. Focused him.

  Holding onto her, he reached across the broken table and picked up an object from the floor. “Not your fault, babe. If you’d never spoken to him, it would’ve made no difference. He was ripping your shirt out of the way for this.” He held out the object he’d found.

  A syringe.

  Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her throat. “Poison? Why? He had a knife.”

  A knife the slimeball didn’t use except as a threat. He must have taken it with him. Another clue to Centaur’s plot.

  He held the syringe to his nose. Sniffed. Set it on the side table. “This is the kind of poison that subdues, numbs. This stuff has a sweetish smell. Maybe ketamine.” He shuddered inwardly. Ketamine had some nasty side effects, probably worse if injected. But now he understood what was going on. “Not rape. Kidnapping was more his aim.”

  She collapsed back into the seat, her face ashen. “Centaur?”

  “That’s my assumption. Marco Zervas keeps himself and his close aides isolated—paranoia about security, probably rightly so—but he has a wide network of contacts. Wouldn’t surprise me if that included Sicily. My people will look into it.” He took out his phone and texted Mara.

  “The Mafia.” She still looked shell shocked but more determined than frightened.

  “Right. Zervas is desperate for the Cleopatra necklace and he wants you tractable, not dead.” Yet. Once Zervas got what he wanted from her, he’d have her killed. Thomas wouldn’t allow that to happen. “Mimi being shot probably wasn’t his plan either. His thugs screwed up so she had to be eliminated. But now he knows where the real Cleo Chandler is.”

  She withdrew from his grasp and touched his nape where he’d been massaging it. “You have a nasty lump. You need ice.”

  He’d take ice but he needed a shot of something strong. From the way his body reacted as he watched the sway of her hips, he hadn’t taken a bad hit. She dipped a washcloth into the ice bucket and wrung it out. As if reading his mind, she poured him a scotch from the mini fridge. Observing him with a shrewd expression, she handed him both.

  “Thanks.” The ice felt good on his neck. The liquor felt even better in his throat.

  Returning to the other side of the room, she folded her arms. “I don’t know where the necklace is but apparently that doesn’t matter. They found me and the danger is real.”

  He nearly cheered. “So you believe me.”

  “After what just happened I’d be a fool not to.”

  “This Sergio knows your stateroom location. He could have partners. You’ll stay in my suite. Pack up what you’ll need for a couple days.”

  At his clipped words, she cocked her head and straightened her slim shoulders. Rebellion blazed in her green eyes before she banked her ire. Without a word, she turned toward the closet.

  Shit, here he was ordering her around like she was one of his SF team. He was more tactful with his employees. But they didn’t rile him or challenge him the way Cleo did. Or rock him with a surge of lust. He had use diplomacy with her. Not give her an opportunity to balk. Taking her to safety was the main thing.

  Then the necklace. And Marco Zervas.

  ***

  Arlington, Virginia

  “You were pretty angry with your brother when he left.” Maggie Olsen tucked a strand of brown hair into the loose bun at her nape. Another escapee trailed along one shoulder of her crisp green jacket.

  “So what.” Andie folded her arms. She knew what her shrink was up to, reflecting what she’d said. An old trick. But the doc had to agree Thomas deserted her.

  She glanced around the office. Bookcases crammed to overflowing and mahogany desk empty of all but a laptop, fitting for the therapist’s contradictory style. Sailboat prints hung on walls painted an earthy tan. Supposed to be soothing, but the décor didn’t work on her. The tightness like a malignant ball in her chest constricted her breathing and made her heart work harder.

  “Who wouldn’t be pissed off? He sprang that trip with no warning. He just left.” She kicked off her sandals and tucked her feet beneath her, pressing farther into the corner of the couch.

  “Have you called him?”

  “Fat chance of that. Mr. Control thinks he can jet off to God knows where and expects me to keep him posted on when I eat my Cheerios?” She snorted her disdain.

  “Do you think he’s worried about you?”

  He calls several times a day. I listen to every message, to the anxiety in his voice. “Maybe. Let him worry. He doesn’t trust me. I’m doing okay.”

  “Are you?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m clean. I have been ever since—”

  Olsen lifted her pencil from her pad. “Ever since?”

  Her shoulders sagged. She blew out a sigh. “Ever since Thomas dragged me off the streets and I kicked the pills and coke.”

  Dr. Olsen said nothing. Andie hated it when she just waited like this.

  “But I’ve had enough of his ragging on me about where I’ve been and what I’ve done. It chaps me I have no freedom. He probably monitors my phone calls.” Odd, but he’d never mentioned knowing she talked to Cleo almost daily.

  “Ah, but with Thomas away, you do seem to have freedom to come and go, to do whatever you want. Even cancel appointments?” A sly smile played on the therapist’s lips. “So how is it going without anyone monitoring you?”

  Andie rolled the question around in her mouth as if testing a sore tooth. “Okay, I guess. Work sucks but I get there on time. I do my job. All the other daily stuff. You know.” She’d even cleaned her room. Every day she pounded out miles along the Potomac. Like Thomas. Shit.

  “Good. That’s good. But you’re still angry.”

  “Hell yes. He deserted me and I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. Plus I can’t reach my best friend. I get out-of-service messages. And she doesn’t call.”

  “You rely on Cleo. Are you worried for her or for yourself?”

  “The all-about-me thing. Maybe a little of both. She’ll tell me what the deal is when she calls.” She hugged her knees to her chest. “But Thomas doesn’t tell me anything.”

  Dr. Olsen scrawled some notes on her pad. “What did he say when he left?”

  Andie shrugged. “Some bull about it being confidential.”

  “Remind me what sort
of work your brother does.”

  “Get real. He pays your bills, doesn’t he? Yes, security, so some of his work is confidential. We’ve been through this before.”

  “We talked last time about opening up to him more. Have you told him yet what you’ve been doing with your days for the last few years?”

  Andie chewed on her lower lip. “You know I haven’t. You’re the one who helped me with all that.”

  “You’ll have to make a decision soon. Unless you want to keep working at that bar, going on like this forever. Didn’t you just mention freedom?”

  “I’m just not ready. You know all that.”

  “But Thomas doesn’t.” Olsen put down her pencil. “Why do you think you haven’t leveled with him? Is it the same reason you lashed out at him for leaving? Is it the same reason you carp at him for staying, for what you call controlling your life?”

  Andie went still as the barrage exploded in her head. Her muscles ached from the way she sat curled into herself. Her heart rabbited so hard she couldn’t breathe.

  “Here, Andie.” The therapist pressed a glass of water into her hand. “Drink.”

  She sipped the water and squeezed her eyelids shut, noticing only then her lashes were wet. She sucked in air past the raw sensation in her throat. “It’s not anger, is it, Doc?”

  “Only you know that. Can you describe what you feel? Can you name it?”

  Fear. An awful dread that eats into my insides like battery acid. “I’m so afraid I can’t hold it together. Afraid I won’t make it.”

  Olsen leaned back in her chair. “Ah, now we have something to work with.”

  ***

  Crystal City, Virginia

  Max Rivera swung his leg off the upholstered chair and reached for his crutches. Time to call it a day. Damn, he couldn’t get this cast off soon enough. Even working his upper body in the company gym didn’t take the edge off. Running DSF in Thomas’s absence wasn’t his thing. Still, he was doing all right. Most of the field operatives already had assignments and reported in per normal. No sweat with the office personnel either. Earlier in the day, some computer snafus had popped up, but like any boss, he’d delegated. He’d had Francine refer the problems to the IT department.