by Dee Brice
Nick put his laptop on the table, then turned it on. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll backtrack a bit. Check into Mr. Cartierri’s whereabouts at the time of the Paris murders. Sir James’ as well. It’s a short flight between London and Paris.”
“And Emilio’s too.” When Nick frowned, Damian said, “Tiff—Ms. Cartierri believes my godfather delivered the Belt himself. Which means he could have been in Paris at the time of the murders.” He waved off Nick’s objections, saying, “I know. It makes no sense. Why deliver the artifact, then murder to get it back? But, unless some complete stranger committed the crimes, our suspect list is shrinking.”
“In the interest of thoroughness, I’ll also check on Ms. Cartierri’s movements.”
“By all means, check out Tiffany. God knows she has every reason to want Charles Cartierri in hell.”
And he her, Nick thought. “Didn’t Reynard already do all this alibi checking?”
“No harm in checking again.”
Well, hell. If Reynard’s involved… Nick could imagine the headlines. Sex, lies, and…MURDER. The tabloids would love it.
* * * * *
“I expect,” Sir James said when he finished chewing his breakfast toast and wiped the crumbs from his lips, “you’ll want DNA tests done as soon as possible.”
“Pardon?” TC said, pulling her gaze from the scrambled eggs she’d been pushing around her plate. With a determined effort, she focused on his face and felt a smile twitch the corners of her lips. Sir James—her father, she reminded herself—looked remarkably like a cherubic guardian angel. His hair formed a silvery halo around his face, his cheeks were ruddy with good health, his gray eyes sparkled with merriment and—could it be?—pride.
“I said—”
“I did hear you, F-father, but DNA tests are unnecessary. Unless you want them?”
“Me? Why no, Tiffany, dear, I don’t require them. I only thought—”
TC crossed to the coffee table to retrieve a manila envelope. “There are some benefits to having a law enforcement officer for an ex-lover. Ian—Agent Hunter sent a copy of my birth certificate, presumably the real one, naming you as my biological father.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” A grim smile accompanied her quirked eyebrow.
“Indeed. I see that you don’t trust the information. I see that you believe your stepmother lied to you. Just as you think everyone has lied to you all your life.”
“Haven’t they?”
“To my eternal shame, yes.”
When he refilled their cups with fragrant coffee, she suspected him of stonewalling, so seized the moment herself. “Did you know?” He looked up sharply from his coffee cup, his eyes filled with such pain TC could feel it in her own heart.
“I should have known. Without going into maudlin detail, your mother and I had an affair. She had been married to Charles for five years and thought she must be barren. Ergo, we took no precautions.”
“I see,” TC said, her resentful feelings undone by his description. Underlying the banal, almost callous words, she sensed a long-suppressed sadness, an abiding love that even her mother’s abandonment of him had not vanquished. The pain that knifed though her was unfamiliar, but she recognized it. Jealousy. She was jealous of a woman she could barely remember, of a love she would never share with a soul mate of her own.
“I begged her to leave Charles, to run away with me, but she refused. My career was on the rise and she knew any hint of impropriety would ruin me. God, what fools we were! To convince ourselves that a career could replace the love we shared!”
Although she believed his sincerity, he ruined the effect with the hopeful look he gave her from under his brows. She wanted to laugh. Even more, she wanted to cry. There was no hope for her and Damian. His betrayal of her, his lies, had killed whatever chance for happiness they might have had.
“More than career problems are keeping Agent Hunter and me apart.”
“Such as?”
“A small matter of murder.”
“Nonsense. Damian himself cleared you of any involvement in Esmé’s death.”
She didn’t remind him of the two murdered people in Paris, saying instead, “What did Mother do after she left you?”
James shot her an exasperated look, but let her change the subject. “I never heard from her again. I tried to keep track of her through mutual friends, but they had formed a phalanx of silence around her. Years later, when I learned she had disappeared after giving birth to a daughter, I assumed she wasn’t barren after all.”
“You never dug any deeper?” Despite her efforts to smother emotion, disdain leaked into her voice. He must not have cared very much.
“No. I think I was afraid to know. I allowed myself to believe your birth, her vanishing, had occurred no more than a few weeks before I learned of them. I am so sorry, Tiffany. Or should I call you TC?”
“Why start now? Besides,” she forced a bright smile, “I’ve grown rather fond of the name Tiffany.”
“I imagine you have,” he said dryly, as if knowing Damian also called her by her real first name.
“Don’t start,” she warned.
“Well then, shall we get rid of the breakfast mess and talk about the future?”
Before she could say a word, he rolled the room service table into the hallway, returned to her side and then trundled her to the couch.
“You lied to me, Tiffany. You let me believe you’d turned rogue.” Unrepentant, she nodded. “Why?”
“I couldn’t trust you. When I came to you in London, right after the theft,” she amended as if he would have forgotten that momentous day, “you seemed crazed somehow. Like the Belt was more important to you than anything or anyone. You seemed to support Charles’ allegations that I had stolen the Belt. I had, of course, taken the fake one, but I didn’t feel—” She shrugged, once more feeling helpless and caught in the old, hated patterns of her childhood. She still couldn’t say or do anything to win the approval of the people she loved. Her mother had hated her so much—
No, she wouldn’t think about that now. Besides, intellectually, she knew relationships between adults were more complex than children could comprehend. Whatever her mother’s reasons for leaving, for deserting her daughter, Tiffany wasn’t completely to blame. Her only true regret, aside from never knowing her mother, was her lack of moral fiber. She should have refused to steal for Charles, should have confessed the first time the police questioned her.
Should have, but hadn’t.
Sighing, she met her father’s eyes and knew that, however much her words might hurt him, she had to say them. “And when Ian—Damian—confronted me with the Luxembourg blueprints, I thought—”
“I had sold you out. That I sent those security plans to Interpol,” Sir James said, his expression and voice heavy with disappointment.
“I’m sorry, but it’s how I felt.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Tiffany. I’m to blame for the misunderstandings between us.” When she started to protest, he raised his hand, forestalling her. “That day in London…” He stood, paced to the windows and stared out, much as he had that foggy afternoon. “Jean told me that morning that she had filed for divorce, that she was tired of living with two ghosts between us.”
“Two?”
“William and Marlene. For reasons known only to her, Jean always blamed me for William’s sexual preference. If I hadn’t carried Marlene in my heart, I’d have been a better father to William, taught him how to be a man… I don’t know.” He seemed to suppress a sigh. “I do know that I did Jean a great disservice by marrying her. I loved her after a fashion, but not the way I loved your mother.”
Tiffany remained silent. She knew a lot about guilt. She also knew that talking about the past, about feelings, helped to lighten their burden. In a millennium or two, she might be willing to tell her father about her own failures, about how the deepest love she’d ever felt was for a man
who’d betrayed her. But now wasn’t the time. Now was for her father and the love he’d shared with her mother.
“The theft of Isabella’s Belt was the final straw,” he said, at last continuing. “I saw everything I’d strived for crumbling around me. My work, my marriage, my life. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, it simply faded into nothingness and left behind an empty, lonely shell. Then in you walked, looking so much like your mother. So lovely, so fearless.”
“I was scared spitless,” he surprised her into admitting. “You in conference with Interpol. The Musée de Luxembourg staff intended to have the Belt authenticated the day before the exhibit opened, but I saw it when I went to the bank, examined and took the fake. The theft was discovered weeks before anyone should have known about it. Not knowing if you’d opened the package I sent from Paris in front of those two agents, or if you intended to trap me into confessing everything and then have me arrested…” She shrugged. “I just couldn’t trust you.”
They glanced at each other, smiled at the shared memory that had led to so much misunderstanding, yet had brought them to this new chance, to this new beginning.
“So, where do we go from here?” he asked.
“Well, Papa, I think we should put our devious minds together and figure out who stole the real Belt.” She crossed to his side, then, risking her heart, put her arms around his waist.
He stiffened, but she refused to pull away. One of them had to take this first step toward healing. If he wouldn’t, she would. She owed it to him. More, she owed it to herself.
“Papa, eh?” he said, squeezing her shoulders, then pressing her head to his chest and stroking her hair.
“I think you know why, Papa.” Unlike “Father”, the name held warmth and the abiding affection she always had felt for him.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Peace in her heart, Tiffany put aside her sorrow for the years they’d lost and celebrated the years they would have together. And if she mourned the loss of Ian Soria’s love, nobody would ever know it.
Especially not Damian Hunter of International Investigations, Incorporated.
“Now, what would you like to do today?” her papa asked.
“Other than strangle Damian Hunter, you mean?”
“Other than that,” he said through a chuckle.
“I don’t suppose we could leave Cartagena?”
“I don’t see why not. Unless…unless you want to see Esmé?”
“No! No,” she said in a calmer voice. “I want to remember her as she was. And I don’t want to risk running into Charles at the morgue or wherever they’ve taken Esmé.”
“Charles is being detained by Colonel Mendez. The colonel doesn’t think Charles was involved in Esmé’s death, but wants to give him time to cool off. Since Charles has no alibi, the colonel thought it best to restrict his movements.”
“But not ours.”
“Only minimally. We can leave Cartagena, but not Colombia. So, given that restriction, where would you like to go?”
He looked so kind, so eager to please, that the ice around her heart melted a little. She caught herself before it thawed completely. Over the last few weeks she had learned one thing—if it seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
“I think we should go back to Medellin. There are some things I need to return to Señor Santana.”
“Tiffany, you’re plotting something.”
“I haven’t yet, but I will. I will.”
Chapter Seventeen
Emilio Santana’s face flushed red with rage when he saw her, but Esmeralda Santana’s smile made Tiffany feel more than welcome.
“Señorita Tey Cey, bienvenido.”
“Señora Santana,” Tiffany greeted, leaning down to place a kiss on the older woman’s cheek. “I believe you already know Sir James Foster?”
Upon their return to Medellin two days earlier, Tiffany and Sir James had decided not to reveal their newly discovered relationship. Not only were they still uncomfortable with their new status, they suspected their relationship was, somehow, linked to the theft of Isabella’s Belt. They hoped to trap someone into revealing that knowledge and more.
“James,” Esmeralda said, holding out her hands to him, “welcome. I have not seen you in years.”
“You haven’t changed a bit. Still as lovely as ever.” He kissed her hands with an Old World charm that made the señora blush like a schoolgirl.
“Emilio,” James said, crossing the salon to shake his old friend’s hand.
“You are welcome here, James, but that…thief is not.”
“You’ve hurt your hand,” James said, taking Santana’s left hand, raising it as if to look under the bandage.
Emilio jerked away. “A mere scratch. An accident with a small pick. It is nothing. Please, you will send that woman back to the hell that spawned her.”
Opening her purse as she crossed the room, Tiffany extracted a small black velvet bag, then dropped it into Santana’s hand. “Unlike the emeralds that were planted in my hotel suite, these are real.”
“But how…? Where did you find them? So convenient for you, eh?”
“Colonel Mendez recovered them from a safe deposit box in the hotel,” James said before Tiffany’s temper got the better of her.
To Tiffany, Sir James looked as if he wanted to tear the bandage off Santana’s hand, expose him as Esmé’s killer and haul him off to prison. She suspected her papa had enough control to play the game to completion. And if Santana’s continued renunciation of her was a sham, it was a righteous one. At least in his and his wife’s eyes. Whoever had framed Tiffany for the theft of Santana’s emeralds—perhaps Emilio himself—had done a damn fine job of it. Only the desk clerk’s certainty that the guest using the box was considerably shorter than Tiffany had saved her from jail.
“Stop this bickering at once,” Esmeralda ordered. “This is my home as well as yours, Emilio, and I shall entertain my friends in it. If you cannot be civil, you may retire.” Sitting on the sofa where Tiffany had first seen her, she patted the plump cushion and beckoned Tiffany to sit beside her.
“I was so sorry to hear of Esmé’s tragic death. I did not know her well, but she seemed very…simpatico.”
“Nice?” Tiffany said, supposing that was as good a word as any to describe how Esmé must have seemed to others, Tiffany included. The last two days had been a lesson in how deceptive appearances could be. Damian’s betrayal of her. And now, based upon the desk clerk’s description, it appeared Esmé had tried to frame Tiffany for the theft of Emilio Santana’s emeralds.
“Poor Charles,” Esmeralda said, breaking into Tiffany’s wandering thoughts. “He must be devastated.”
“In a manner of speaking,” James said as he brought a sherry to each woman, then poured one for himself. “Colonel Mendez arrested him.”
“For what? Surely not for Esmé’s death? That was an accident, wasn’t it?”
Emilio Santana’s face lost all color and he swayed.
Interesting, Tiffany thought, watching him pour himself a drink. Not a delicate little sherry, but a potent whiskey, three fingers deep and neat. After he had downed it in one long gulp, he rubbed his left hand.
“Perhaps you should have a doctor look at that,” James suggested.
“I already have,” came the curt reply. Then Emilio Santana fled the room as if the three-headed Cerberus pursued him.
“Sir James experienced a severe dizzy spell when we learned of Esmé’s death,” Tiffany said when the silence threatened to become unbearable. “The hotel doctor declared him fit, but I’d like another opinion. Do you think your husband’s doctor would examine my father…-in-law?”
Esmeralda’s obvious indignation over her husband’s abrupt departure faded under her quick smile. “Of course, my dear Tey Cey. I’ll call him while you settle into your rooms.”
“He’s nearby?” Sir James asked. “We could drive to his office, if that’s convenient.”
“He won’t mi
nd coming here. And he can bring Rogelio with him. My grandson would never forgive me if I let you go without seeing him,” she added to Tiffany.
“Is he sick?” Tiffany said, concern for the boy bringing her to her feet with a suddenness that made her lightheaded. Had someone made another attempt on Rogelio’s life? Had the shooting at the Santana mine traumatized him?
“Rest easy, querida. Rogelio is merely spending time in his papa’s clinic. Like his father at that age, Rogelio shows a great interest in medicine. So perhaps I shall have two doctors to see me through my old age, eh?”
“I should have remembered,” Tiffany apologized.
“Why would you? José was not here the night you arrived and you were unconscious when he treated your gunshot wound.” Taking Tiffany’s arm, leaving Sir James to trail in their wake, she went on. “I have put you in rooms in the family wing. I would not want that previous unpleasantness to color your stay with us this time.”
Behind her, Tiffany could hear her papa muttering. “‘Gunshot wound’? ‘Previous unpleasantness’? Good Lord, she was safer before she retired.”
* * * * *
Damian slammed his fist on the top of José Santana’s Colonial-style desk and fought the urge to swear. “You have to tell me, José. Someone’s life could be forfeit if you do not.”
“Had your woman not betrayed my family, I might feel sorry for her. But I don’t. And I don’t have to tell you anything. There is, after all, the doctor-patient confidence.”
“Let it be on your head,” Damian said in an ominous voice, spun on his heel and then stalked out of the clinic. Head down, muttering under his breath, he collided with a small ball of energy.
“Rogelio, m’ijo, ¿que tal?”
“Hola, Ian. ¿Como esta—how is la señorita TC?”
“She’s here?”
“Abuela just called. La señorita and Señor Foster are at the big house. You give me ride, eh? But first I must tell Papa that he is needed at the house.”