“Not any that I could use. If you’re in over your head, tell me now, Claudia. I can help.”
“You’ve never helped me. You only used me. I lost Lucas because of you.”
“You lost Lucas because of your own actions. I didn’t help.”
“I repeat, Gordy. I’ve done nothing illegal. I never have. I don’t care if you believe me.”
“You’ve heard the term blood antiquities. That’s when the money that allows an ancient artifact to go on display in an elite Boston gallery such as this one turns up in the hands of violent sons of bitches who will use it to plot attacks in airports and cafés, to buy weapons and pay bomb-makers and—”
“Stop, Gordy. Just stop. My family’s collection is established. It has nothing to do with your so-called blood antiquities.”
“You’re playing in a dangerous sandbox.” He heard the intensity in his voice. “Walk away. Let me help you.”
Claudia tossed her head back and gave him a condescending look. “I stay away from people who could hurt me—including you. I’m sorry I called you. I truly am.” She squared her shoulders, going patrician on him. “Is there anything else?”
Gordy glanced around the gallery. “I never got the fascination with owning antiquities. Take mosaics, for instance. They were some rich guy’s floor.”
“Not always. You know that. And floor mosaics are often beautiful works of art depicting flora and fauna, mythological and allegorical tales, biblical stories—they provide fascinating insight into the lives of people from ancient Greece through the Middle Ages.”
“None of yours are missing?”
She looked genuinely confused. “My what—mosaics? What do you mean by missing?”
He shrugged. “Stolen.”
“Not that I’m aware of, no, but the collection is fairly scattered. Some pieces are on loan to various museums, others are in storage—there’s a room full of uncataloged items at the house in Maine. I have to go through them.” She waved a hand, clearly exasperated. “Never mind. You look tired, Gordy. Jet lag can be a bitch. They say it’s worse as you get older.”
“Thanks for that,” he said with a grin.
“We’ve never minced words with each other.” She smiled, relaxing visibly as she returned to her chair behind the desk. “I have a conference call in five minutes. I’m staying with the friends who own the gallery. Their apartment is a short walk from here. Why don’t I meet you there in an hour? I’ll give you the keys.”
“Your friends wouldn’t mind?”
“They’re out of town. You need a nap. They’d understand.” Claudia rummaged in her expensive tote bag on the desk and lifted out a set of keys. “I see you have your suitcase with you.”
“I checked out of my hotel. Haven’t figured out what’s next. Are you going to offer me a bed tonight?”
“It’s a one-bedroom apartment.” She handed him the keys. “You can have the sofa for a nap and for tonight if you need a place to stay.”
“Not like the old days, huh, Claudia?”
She ignored him and jotted down the address on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to him. “See you later.”
* * *
Gordy ate another handful of ibuprofen as he walked up Newbury Street, which was crowded with shoppers and diners on the beautiful May afternoon. He figured Claudia planned to blow him off but he needed a place to crash for a couple of hours. He was dead on his feet. He didn’t have any water to go with the ibuprofen, but he didn’t mind. He’d practically drowned himself sucking down two bottles of water after he’d gone back to his hotel to collect his suitcase. He was well hydrated. He had no interest in shopping and he was still full from lunch, which had been a bad idea, anyway, given his physical state. Hip or not, his burger had turned his stomach on top of the Kit Kat, coffee, water and being back in an FBI office. Matt Yankowski had his own little kingdom on the Boston waterfront. He needed to catch some serious bad guys or the new director would shut him down in a heartbeat.
But Gordy wasn’t a part of all that any longer.
He turned down a side street, his stomach lurching, his head throbbing. He needed to give the ibuprofen a minute to start working. He wanted a cigarette. He’d quit smoking at forty and hadn’t looked back, but he’d been tempted a couple of times since retiring. First time had been after his mother-in-law’s funeral last summer. His wife had cried her heart out, and his brother-in-law had been a horse’s ass, picking fights with everyone. Gordy had gone out for a pack of cigarettes. Emotions. He’d never been good at them. At least he wanted a cigarette now because he’d had his ass kicked.
He should be skipping the Sharpe open house and leaving Claudia to her own devices. At most, he could have shared his concerns with Emma over the phone. Claudia obviously had been taken aback when he’d turned up in London. She’d all but shut her door in his face. He’d checked into a hotel. He should have forgotten her and invited Joan to join him for a few days instead. They could have toured palaces and gardens, shopped at Harrods and dined at interesting restaurants. Been a normal couple in early retirement.
He walked down a residential stretch of Beacon Street, parallel to the Charles River. It was mostly apartments and condos but with a sprinkling of single-family mansions. He hadn’t spent much time in Boston. It was an attractive city, good for walking and packed with history.
The friends’ apartment was only another half a block. Thankfully. He needed to take a leak, puke and regroup, preferably in that order—although he hoped to skip puking.
The walk to the apartment didn’t kill him, but he figured the hike up the two flights of stairs with his suitcase would. Only when he reached the landing, huffing and puffing, and got the key in the door did he notice the elevator tucked in the far corner of the hall.
He was rusty. No question.
By Boston standards, the apartment was a palace, located on the top floor of a former single-family mansion. The front windows were bowed, looking out on a shade tree with spring leaves fluttering in the sunlight. For what Claudia’s friends likely paid, Gordy figured he could have a second home at the beach. Maybe two second homes plus tuition for the grandkids. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could afford a condo much less a home in posh Back Bay.
The living room had high ceilings, original dark woodwork, a formal brick fireplace and traditional furnishings, including a bust of some Greek god that he assumed was a copy. He left his suitcase by the coffee table and located a half bath down the hall and made urgent use of the facilities. He checked his reflection as he washed his hands. Not great but not awful.
The urge to puke passed.
When he returned to the living room, he noticed shelves crammed with books and framed photographs of ancient sites and yellowed maps of long-gone empires. Gordy doubted Claudia’s friends had a clue she had been a reluctant informant for the FBI.
For him.
He sank onto the leather sofa in the living room and took a few minutes to indulge his pain, self-disgust and self-hate. Then he sat up, leaned forward and dug out the envelope from the front pocket of his suitcase. He still didn’t want to open it, but he knew he couldn’t let fear and denial get the better of him. He’d already held back too much with Emma Sharpe.
With a heavy, resigned sigh, he ripped the top off the envelope and dumped the contents onto the coffee table.
Three four-by-six photographs landed faceup.
No note, no phone number to call, no commentary of any kind, but he wasn’t surprised. Words weren’t necessary. He got the message. Back off or these go public.
Same message as from his attacker last night, except this time the threat wasn’t limited to him.
Gordy blinked, his eyelids heavy with fatigue and pain. His head ached as he stared at the photographs. One mistake in his career—one mistake in his marriage—and
someone had proof of his screwup and was using it as leverage. Had his visit to London and Claudia prompted the threats? Running into the MI5 agent and this Oliver York character? His call to Emma?
Questions were easy. Answers, not so much.
The woman’s features weren’t clear, but she was unquestionably not his wife. The long legs, the shape of her hips, the glimpse of her breast...
No, not middle-aged Joan Wheelock.
Pain shot through Gordy’s eyes. He half hoped it was the start of a stroke, but if he died, there’d be a death investigation. The Boston police would find the photos. They’d call the FBI. Emma Sharpe would find out. Yank, that sanctimonious bastard.
“Save the stroke for after you figure out this mess,” Gordy muttered.
One memorable, mind-blowing, short-lived affair, never to be repeated—except in his mind. He loved his wife, but not a week had gone by since he’d ended things and retired that he didn’t remember the long, insane, perfect nights he’d had sex with beautiful, brilliant, slightly shady Claudia Deverell, breaking every personal and professional rule that had guided his life for decades.
Gordy had been harassed and threatened from time to time in his career, but never like this—never over something stupid and embarrassing. He’d had grandkids a year ago. What the hell had he been thinking?
And he loved his wife. They’d been going through a rough patch last year, both of them figuring out retirement, where to live, what to do. He had a feeling she’d stepped out on him—but he’d never asked. Didn’t want to know.
Joan wouldn’t want to know about this. They didn’t need a private truth-telling session and certainly didn’t need to be dragged into a public one. She liked being married to an FBI legend with a spotless record.
The only positive about the photos on the table in front of him was he looked pretty good. If whoever had delivered them went public, Gordy figured at least he could console himself that he’d been a hell of a stud right up until his retirement a year ago.
He grabbed the photos and returned them to the envelope. He gave himself a minute to calm his breathing, let his head and stomach settle down, and then leaned forward again and shoved the envelope back into the outer pocket of his suitcase.
He emptied the last of his ibuprofen bottle into his palm, downed the three pills and decided a nap was in order. He needed rest, a chance to clear his head.
You’re not as young as you used to be, Gordy. You injure more easily and heal more slowly.
His doctor, not two weeks ago.
Gordy hated his doctor. Hell, right now he hated everybody.
He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch.
Sleep, then it was time to start thinking again like an FBI agent.
7
Claudia retrieved her suitcase out of the back room, locked up the gallery and descended the front steps to the busy sidewalk. Thirty minutes after Gordy’s departure, she still had to force herself to breathe normally. It annoyed her. Hyperventilating wouldn’t solve anything. She had to remember he was as committed as she was to keeping their affair secret.
She crossed busy Newbury Street. Breathing in the spring afternoon air helped. Being among people. She entered an upscale coffee shop and ordered an espresso, the normalcy of her surroundings helping her at least to begin to relax.
She sat at a small table in front of the window and inhaled the pungent scent of the coffee. She took a sip, trying to identify the different flavors, as if it were a fine wine or whiskey. She swore she tasted citrus, chocolate, perhaps a touch of black pepper. She welcomed the round, velvety feel of the espresso as she savored every drop.
Slowly, she felt a restored sense of calm and purpose.
I’ll be fine.
She trusted herself to make the drive to southern Maine without devolving into a fit of uncontrolled breathing and passing out at the wheel. She’d hoped to have the Heron’s Cove house to herself through the weekend, but her father and brother had visited her in London last week and announced they would be there for the Sharpe open house. Her father had returned to Philadelphia for a few days and then flown up to Maine this morning. Adrian, her older half brother, had arrived about the same time from Atlanta.
An impromptu Deverell family reunion.
Claudia knew she needed to stay cool and get this trip to Heron’s Cove behind her. Staying a week or two in Maine seemed more ambitious now that she was on this side of the Atlantic than it had when she’d planned this trip in London. She hadn’t stepped foot in the small Maine village since her mad, brief affair with a senior FBI agent.
Liaison. That was a better word for her encounters with Gordy, she decided. An affair implied love. She hadn’t loved him and he hadn’t loved her. They’d shared a certain illicit passion, sparked by the hold he had over her and fueled by impulsiveness, risk and fear.
She remembered making love in the sunroom to the sounds of ocean waves, seagulls and the occasional lobster boat.
No, definitely not love, Claudia thought.
He’d been the one to end it. This was stupid and wrong. See you, Claudia.
A month later, she’d heard he’d retired and was moving with his wife to their small hometown on the North Carolina beach where they’d fallen in love as teenagers. Claudia hadn’t seen or heard from Gordy until she’d called him last week after Alessandro’s funeral and asked him about the Sharpe open house. She’d had to know if he would be in Maine, if he was up to his old tricks. Then he’d turned up in London, and now Boston.
She wouldn’t let him ruin her life again.
He didn’t have to want to ruin her life—she believed he hadn’t wanted to a year ago—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a proper job of it.
“Poor Alessandro,” she whispered.
He’d called her the morning before his death and asked her to meet him for tea that afternoon. They’d agreed on a tearoom near his apartment in Kensington. She hadn’t seen him in several months and had been shocked at how old and frail he’d looked. He’d been worried and preoccupied about illegal trafficking in antiquities from his former work sites—and convinced, as always, that Victoria Norwood Deverell’s only child was as kind, altruistic and scrupulous as she had been.
Claudia was well aware that her retired-FBI-agent ex-lover would have wanted to know about her tea with Alessandro, no matter the cause of his death. She’d learned the hard way that Gordy always wanted to know everything. He would use the most innocent omission as leverage to get what he wanted.
She finished her espresso and wheeled her suitcase out of the coffee shop and up the street toward her rental car, parked at a meter. Gordy would figure out she wasn’t coming back tonight. Maybe he’d take the hint and go home. Whatever he chose to do, she was going to pick up Isabel Greene at South Station and head straight to Maine.
Her ambivalence evaporated now that she was almost on her way. She couldn’t wait to be back on the rocky coast and in the rambling house she had so loved as a child. She hadn’t been back in years, but her mother had wanted to see Heron’s Cove before her death. Claudia had flown in from London, met her mother in Philadelphia and had taken her to Maine for one last visit. After her death, Claudia had launched her disastrous affair with an FBI agent and had her falling out with Lucas Sharpe, sullying Heron’s Cove for her. But it was time to go back and put the past to rest.
She couldn’t wait to explore the handful of ancient works her mother had stored at the Maine house, although she doubted she’d discover any hidden treasures. As she’d explained to Gordy, most works of any real value were on loan to museums or in professional storage near the Deverell home in Philadelphia. Value, though, wasn’t always a question of profit and money, especially with ancient art and artifacts. Regardless, steeped in antiquities from infancy, her mother had possessed an unerring eye and
a keen passion for the art and artifacts of the ancient Mediterranean past. Whenever Claudia touched an antiquity her mother had touched, she could picture beautiful, sweet-tempered Victoria Norwood Deverell.
Would her mother forgive her for her reckless behavior?
Would she understand the choices her only child had made—was making even now?
Fighting an urge to hyperventilate again, Claudia placed her suitcase in the trunk of her small rental. You’re fine, she told herself.
She almost climbed into the passenger seat but remembered she wasn’t in England and went around to the driver’s side of the car. For the past decade, she’d spent most of her time in sprawling London and had come to hate driving. She didn’t own a car, preferring to walk and take taxis and public transportation. Occasionally she’d rent a car for an excursion, but despite seldom getting behind the wheel herself, she had grown accustomed to seeing cars driving on the left. It no longer looked strange and disconcerting to her. She’d had no trouble driving on the left when she’d rented a car in Ireland last week.
She shut her eyes, grasping the steering wheel with both hands.
You’re doing the right thing.
The Sharpe invitation, Alessandro, her mad call to Gordy, Ireland, the sudden party at Claridge’s, the long, lonely flight to Boston, coping with her obsessions... Next it would be Heron’s Cove, the memories...Lucas.
Yes, you are doing the right thing.
You are, you are, you are.
Claudia opened her eyes, sniffling, and started the car. Time to get on with it.
She couldn’t wait to breathe in the fresh ocean air.
As she navigated the heavy traffic, she could see her mother standing on the front porch of her Maine house shortly before her death, looking silently out at the sparkling Atlantic. The sun had washed out her already pale skin and brought out the premature deep lines in her face. There’d been no denying the cancer eating away at her. She’d turned to Claudia. I want you to remember, Claudia, that never have I met a finer man than Wendell Sharpe.
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