Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  Thomas slowed to scan the area. “There beyond the Métro railing, two men in dark jackets. Another team of thugs watching for us. The ones we lost must have guessed where we were headed and contacted them.”

  Definitely more bad guys. Who else would wear shades at night? Her stomach clenched. Cleopatra, hang tough. “Will our disguises be enough?”

  “Insurance wouldn’t hurt.” He tightened his grip on her arm as he crossed the street toward the Métro. “I have an idea but your French is better than mine.” He jerked a nod toward a woman struggling with a screaming baby and a stroller piled with bags. “She looks like she could use a couple of good Samaritans.”

  “D’accord.”

  The goons were surveying the cross street, at the moment toward the other direction.

  Cleo hurried over to offer her “husband’s” muscles to carry the stroller down the steps. The woman looked up, skeptical until she laid eyes on Thomas. No surprise, she melted and gushed her thanks. Quashing her own spurt of jealousy, Cleo cooed to the squirming baby, about nine months old, who smelled of a diaper that needed changing. Intrigued by his new conquest, he stopped sobbing and stared wide-eyed.

  The foursome descended into the subway before the thugs could turn back their way. At least, she hoped so. The baby was now nodding off. At the bottom of the stairs, his mom settled him into the stroller, thanked her helpers, and headed for the turnstiles. Voices and the click of shoes echoed off the white tile walls. The smell of rain and wet clothing laced the air.

  Cleo bought their fare cards while Thomas kept watch. “Where to?”

  “Del Rio said to the Victor Hugo stop, where we’re to wait at a café. We’ll take the long way. No direct route.”

  She slid in her smart card at the automatic gate. “If we want indirect, then we go north to Saint Lazare.”

  A shout from behind froze her.

  “Don’t stop!” Thomas pushed her through the gate.

  Her pulse rate shot up and she shot ahead as if from an automatic pistol. She searched the directional signs for the North Platform.

  At last. There! She tugged Thomas with her. “This way! But those guys—”

  “No buts. Let me worry about them. Just book it to the trains.”

  She didn’t risk a glance behind as they raced through the tunnels for the platform. Fewer trains ran this late at night. What if— No, just go, Cleopatra.

  They skidded onto the platform as people boarded a waiting train. Steam vents hissed and voices echoed off the curved tile walls. Her foot slipped on a wet patch, but Thomas held her up, kept her going.

  He had never once let go. Since leaving the CTF offices, she’d felt his heat, his hard body beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his arm beneath her hand.

  He pressed her on past the empty orange seats, past the slicker-clad commuters boarding the middle cars to a half-empty car. With him beside her, she leaped inside.

  “Away from the doors.” He pulled her along to a bench seat with two empty seats among other passengers.

  The stubborn doors stood open. Waiting. A cotton ball replaced her tongue and needles pricked her nerves. She turned toward the dust-streaked window. Peered out.

  The two black-jacketed men she’d seen above ground sprinted onto the platform.

  ***

  “Give me a moment to check the flat.”

  Thomas jerked a sharp nod to the agent who’d met them with their bags and a take-out dinner.

  Although they’d evaded Zervas’s goons at the Métro station, he’d take no chances. Luck and irate passengers had forced their pursuers to stop and buy fare cards. He gritted his teeth and kept a hand on his gun until he saw the doors close in the fuckers’ faces. A taxi and another Métro line took them to their destination. Del Rio was held up with the aftermath of the shootout, so the CTF agent met them at Café Victor Hugo. He’d driven them to the safe house, on the third-story of an ornate stone building a couple of centuries old.

  While he mentally timed the guy’s sweep, he curved an arm around Cleo’s shoulders. Fought to keep the embrace supportive and tender. He ought to be bushed, but energy hummed in his whole body

  On a sigh, she rested her head against his shoulder, ratcheting up his hunger to an ache. He’d known breath-stealing dread for her since the admiral had phoned him, but today’s threat revved it up to the stratosphere. Not because Zervas’s men were only seconds close to taking her. Not because she was more vulnerable. Not because she was terrified. Maybe she was but dammit because she terrified him, taking charge back there, her eyes bright with excitement and her face animated and trusting.

  Part of keeping that trust meant not being at the mercy of his DNA, too much like his old man, domineering with those he cared about. Cleo’d suggested the loss of his mother handed him too much family responsibility. Is that when it started, his need to be in control? Didn’t matter. Protecting Cleo was another thing entirely.

  That need had evolved into a much larger one, all encompassing and inescapable. Every fiber of his being screamed his need to take her, to possess her, to have her. Not a good idea on a hallway landing. But damned soon.

  The man returned with the all clear. “Someone will contact you in the morning.” He showed Thomas the security code. With a smart salute pegging him as former military, he stepped back into the ancient lift and folded the gate shut.

  Inside, Thomas locked up and set the security system. “Stay here,” he said. The Frenchman’s once-over had been too quick. Safe house or no, he’d do a more thorough sweep.

  The four rooms with the small closets typical of old buildings didn’t take long. When he returned, Cleo let out a breath. “Satisfied?”

  Not even close. But I will be. So will you.

  “Hardly. Locks are okay. Flat’s clean, but that security system couldn’t keep out a poodle. No cameras, only sensors on the door and windows. Another reason to stay here only one night.” He stalked toward her, ready to strip off her clothing.

  Eyeing him as if he were a tiger on the prowl—hell, maybe he was—she tossed off her coat, then whisked past him with the bag containing their dinner to the small dining table. “Smells wonderful. Veal ragout, that agent said. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving, but not for food.” He pulled her to him. Drove his hands into the glorious mass of her hair and ground his mouth on hers, feeding, devouring her, aching for more.

  She rose on her toes, gripped his shirt, meeting him with hunger of her own. “Dinner can wait,” she mumbled against his lips, one leg hooking around him. Her body ground against him as if she couldn’t get close enough.

  “You were incredible out there.” He backed her against the wall, slid his hands down to cup her butt. “Cleopatra.”

  A sly smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Cleopatra. Exactly.”

  He kept his mouth on hers while her hands made fast work of his jacket and shirt as well as her knit top. He groaned at the soft feel of her breasts against his skin, then filled his palms with their soft weight. His mouth watered, his breathing hitched, sanity rushed from his head.

  When she slid away to step out of the rest of her clothing, the oddity of her reply surfaced in his blood-depleted brain. “How’s that?”

  “Nothing. You talk too much.” Her hands went to work on his jeans.

  “Then we won’t talk.”

  He’d restrained himself with her so far. Didn’t want to scare her with the force of his need. He’d always wanted her, had never forgotten. But now what he felt made those earlier desires pale. “Now. I need you now.”

  He lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He slicked a palm up her thigh, her smooth, bare thigh, to where she was open to his touch. On a moan, she jerked in his arms. He smelled her arousal, tasted her desire in her kisses. Her hands feathered down his back, rubbed his skin while her tongue danced with his and her slick heat beckoned. Air sawing in and out of his lungs, his heart banging in his chest, he backed her against the wall and
ripped open the protection he’d taken from his jeans pocket.

  “Thomas, yes, now.”

  Her plea penetrated his craving. Hell, he couldn’t treat her like a barbarian, taking her against a wall. “The bedroom,” he gritted out between his teeth.

  “No, no, here, hurry.” She snatched the opened packet from him and reached down. The warmth and soft pressure of her strong artist’s fingers wrapping around him snapped his control.

  She filled his gaze with the bright light of her energy, the high voltage of her dark-centered gaze, the sweet scent of her arousal. Nothing could be more erotic. Light-headed, he plunged into her, groaning with the power of their joining. She gripped his shoulders, met him thrust for thrust, her legs locked around him, clenching him with her body. Her eyes went to smoke and her nails dug into his shoulders as her climax took her. Heat licked up his spine and he came in one long, shuddering spasm. He was lost in the shock waves, could think only of her, of how she found places in him he never before let anyone touch.

  Mine, you’re mine.

  He rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard. After a minute, he withdrew and helped her stand.

  She closed her eyes, remaining in the circle of his arms but propping herself against the wall. “Whoa, do they have tornadoes in Paris?”

  “Just this once.” Right. Hurricane Cleo. “I was out of control. Did I hurt you?”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. Something like triumph flared in her sea-green eyes. “I’m fine. You were perfect. We were perfect.”

  Too shaken to speak, he stood there holding her. For the past several years, she’d haunted his mind. And now in only days she slid into his head, into his bloodstream, into his heart. He wanted more than sex, a relationship lasting longer than this mission. A major change for him, sharing his life. The way things stood between them, would she go for risking her hard-won independence?

  * * *

  An hour later, Cleo watched Thomas from the doorway between the bedroom and sitting room while she pulled a comb through her wet hair. He sat on the tweed sofa working on the tablet computer Lucas had obtained for him. His dark hair, still wet from his shower, was finger-tousled, reminding her of the teenage boy she’d fallen for. But his sharp-edged intensity and wide shoulders that tested the fine fabric of his clean white dress shirt were all man.

  Out of control. Yes, he’d actually said it.

  A smile spread from inside her chest to her lips. Thomas did care, more than he wanted to. His disorientation after their mind-blowing sex proved it wasn’t just the danger painting them in hot hues. Could she risk a future? Would he? She couldn’t yet visualize that picture.

  What she did see was the fine lines around his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. “You look stressed. And no wonder,” she said as she crossed to him.

  “Just tired. The big chase today took its toll on these old bones.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes, thirty-eight, such an advanced age. My bones, my muscles are tired too. All the walking I did in Venice wasn’t the same as running. The difference in our ages was the Grand Canyon when I was a kid and you were a teenager, but now? Please.”

  He leaned against the sofa back. Eyed her, his mouth tight. “Cleo, that age gap is never going away.”

  “Of course not. And it’s a weak excuse I don’t buy. I wonder if you do, really.” Heat rose to her cheeks as her temper sent rash words to her mouth and coiled into a knot in her stomach. “You said from the beginning it could be only sex. Is it that I’m not too young to fuck but too young for a real relationship?”

  He jackknifed up straight, his brows beetled. “Ouch. Never what I meant.”

  “Sounded like it to me.” She folded her arms. “Then don’t bring up your age again. That race through the Paris streets had me huffing and puffing. You barely breathed hard.”

  “I run five miles or more almost daily. I’m used to it.”

  “My point exactly. Age shouldn’t be an issue. Age has nothing to do with us.”

  “Cleo, you deserve a guy more your own age.”

  She leaned to one side, then walked to the end of the sofa and peered behind it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he said.

  “Looking for who put you in charge of deciding what I deserve.”

  He tilted back his head and laughed, a rumble that rose from deep inside and crinkled his eyes with humor instead of stress or exhaustion. “Touché. You’ve made your point. I did it again, didn’t I?”

  “If you mean running things, making my decisions, yes.”

  He held up his hands. “I’ll work on that and I won’t bring up age again. Truce?”

  The only likely concession. Her ire dissipated but the knot remained, as painful as the issues between them. She took a seat beside him. “Truce. So what are you finding?”

  “Hard to say, but here’s what we know or think we know so far. Iranian terrorist Ahmed Yousef arranged for the theft of the exploding chip and contracted with Centaur for the Cleopatra necklace. Marco Zervas’s goons stole the necklace and some other items en route to Paris. Then he hired René Moreau to make a copy of the necklace and embed the stolen exploding chip in either the real necklace or its copy. And I doubt Yousef told him the nature of the chip.”

  “You think he had René embed the chip in the copy so he could keep the real necklace. No honor among thieves and terrorists.”

  “Right. But then Moreau heard rumors of others Zervas had killed. Your theory—and mine— is that he hid both necklaces in the Madame Tussauds production building on wax figures of Cleopatra.”

  She nodded, pleased he believed the theory. “Maybe because he once worked creating jewelry for Madame Tussauds, he figured the necklaces would be safe on the wax figures until he could collect them.”

  “Much more likely.” He handed her a yellow legal tablet. “No printer so all I have are just paper-pencil spreadsheets. The Cleopatra’s Tomb exhibit left Paris a couple of weeks ago for New York City. This is a list of all the upcoming exhibits with their dates. Madame Tussauds has fourteen museums around the world. According to the individual museum Web sites, the newest exhibit at ten of them is the Queen of the Nile. Looks like they’ve all shipped and are on exhibit.”

  She thought about it. “In the workshop, the figures might not have been labeled with their destination. And what would René have known about the chip?”

  “Less than Zervas. Moreau probably assumed it held government or industrial secrets. He’d have been close.” He peered at the screen image of the Cleopatra wax figure. “Odd so many Cleopatras at the same time. Her face looks familiar.”

  She bent closer, momentarily distracted by his scent. As soon as she saw the dark-haired figure wearing the now infamous choker, she smiled. “No wonder. The artist modeled her features from the star of the new movie, Queen Cleopatra. Way different from the old films. The screenplay’s based on a new biography. That and the tomb tour are probably the reason for the multiple exhibits.”

  “Hard to escape the hype about a blockbuster movie. One more complication.” He jammed fingers through his hair. “Cleo, judging from the Madame Tussauds’ Web sites, I’d say by two weeks ago, all the wax Cleopatras had left West Acton. Before Moreau’s trip.”

  She shook her head. “His mysterious trip last week wasn’t the first. He made one two weeks before that.”

  “You didn’t mention that in the meeting.”

  “Everything that happened afterward knocked it from my head. I just remembered.”

  “What did he say about it?”

  “The same thing he said about the second trip. Something to do with an important commission.” She slumped onto the cushions. “Assume both trips were to the Merlin studio. If he took the necklaces and hid them on the first trip, why did he go again?”

  “Babe, we may never know. Let’s hope for some answers tomorrow from the director.”

  “Thomas, no matter where the necklaces are now, more impor
tant is identifying Yousef’s target. And stopping Zervas.”

  “But Zervas doesn’t have an idea where the necklaces might be so he can’t deliver his commission to Yousef. Thwarting the terrorist plot and dismantling the Centaur syndicate are jobs for the CTF or one of their national law enforcement bodies. The Cleopatra necklace is my priority, whether or not finding it leads to Marco Zervas.”

  “Because stealing such an ancient treasure is stealing history.”

  “You remembered. Yes, its cultural value is infinitely greater than its gold and precious stones.”

  “If we find the necklaces, we find the stolen chip. Won’t Agent Hunt want our cooperation for that search?”

  “Makes sense to me. Del Rio’s working that angle.”

  “If Yousef is pressuring Zervas to produce the necklaces, he must have an impending deadline.” On a sigh, she blinked away the exhaustion hitting her hard. “Any ideas on that?”

  When he looked up from the tablet, his expression was grim. He tapped the screen and text appeared. “One, yes. Here’s a press release from the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art about the Cleopatra’s Tomb exhibit. They’re announcing a gala reception to open the exhibit, with two honored guests.”

  “Two.” she said. “Two high-profile targets for the price of one?”

  “Right.” He turned the screen toward her.

  Cleo inhaled sharply when she saw the guests’ names. “The U.S. Secretary of State and the President of Iran. The gala happens in five days.”

  “Ka-ching.” He picked up his phone.

  Chapter 23

  West Acton, London

  THOMAS STOOD BY while Lucas Del Rio presented the Madame Tussauds production director their identification.

  The middle-aged Brit looked up from the photo IDs and gave them each the once-over, his gaze lingering a bit longer on Cleo, at Thomas’s side. And no wonder, in a knee-length black skirt and a tight tee and with her russet hair flowing across her shoulders, she was spectacular.

  “All seems to be in order,” Walter Percival said, returning the IDs. “Just as Scotland Yard said. Corporate has instructed me to assist you. What is it exactly you need?” His unctuous smile struck Thomas as false. The man clearly wanted them gone. He could just be a self-important prick or he had something to hide.