THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  Sli­ding a hand in­to the poc­ket of his su­it co­at, he pul­led out a shel­lac­ked star­fish.

  "This is go­ing down the bas­tard's thro­at."

  The spiny fish Marc had con­fis­ca­ted from Trish's desk went back in­to his poc­ket as a bel­lman es­cor­ted them to the Qu­e­en's Apar­t­ments.

  Des­pi­te the short no­ti­ce, the three-tho­usand-squ­are-fo­ot su­ite had be­en re­adi­ed for the la­te-night ar­ri­vals. Bo­uqu­ets of fresh flo­wers per­fu­med every ro­om. Cham­pag­ne, ca­vi­ar and straw­ber­ri­es dip­ped in whi­te cho­co­la­te wa­ited on a mar­b­le-top­ped tab­le in­la­id with twen­ty-fo­ur-ka­rat gold. A hand-writ­ten no­te from the ma­yor of Val­let­ta wel­co­med Sig­nor Slo­an to his city.

  Marc saw no­ne of the trap­pings his we­alth and ye­ars of hard work had ear­ned him. His tho­ughts we­re tur­ned in­ward, still dark, still mur­de­ro­us. They had be­en sin­ce he'd ac­com­pa­ni­ed Trish's bro­ken­he­ar­ted pa­rents to the city mor­gue to vi­ew what re­ma­ined of the­ir da­ug­h­ter.

  Fin­ding her kil­ler had now be­co­me a per­so­nal qu­est. The bur­ning ne­ed in his gut in­vol­ved mo­re than wan­ting jus­ti­ce for a bright, bubbly yo­ung wo­man who sho­uld ha­ve had long ye­ars of li­fe ahe­ad of her. Trish had be­en his em­p­lo­yee, one of the few trus­ted to work in the in­ner san­c­tum of Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering's cor­po­ra­te of­fi­ces. So­me­one had stal­ked her, had de­li­be­ra­tely se­du­ced her, to ga­in ac­cess to that in­ner san­c­tum, and Marc in­ten­ded to ma­ke him pay.

  "I will turn down the beds for you and Sig­no­ra Wal­ker, yes?"

  The po­li­te qu­es­ti­on wren­c­hed him from the dark fury that had bro­ught him ac­ross the At­lan­tic. Sho­oting a glan­ce ac­ross the ro­om at the wo­man lin­ge­ring be­si­de a bo­uqu­et to sniff a frag­rant blos­som, Marc wres­t­led with a dif­fe­rent prob­lem.

  Mat­ters had mo­ved so fast with Di­ane. He was still trying to re­con­ci­le his sle­ek as­sis­tant with the writ­hing, gas­ping wo­man who'd wrap­ped her legs aro­und him and blown his world apart.

  And he hadn't qu­ite re­co­ve­red from her sug­ges­ti­on they wa­it to for­ma­li­ze the­ir par­t­ner­s­hip.

  Arro­gant jerk that he was, he'd tho­ught she wo­uld jump at the idea. She was the one who'd la­id her palm aga­inst his che­ek. She'd mur­mu­red the L word.

  Marc wasn't su­re he'd re­ac­hed that sta­ge yet. His dis­mal re­cord when it ca­me to long-term re­la­ti­on­s­hips in­di­ca­ted he pro­bably wo­uldn't re­cog­ni­ze it if he had. All he knew at this po­int was that the ad­mi­ra­ti­on and res­pect he'd al­ways had for her mind we­re now all mi­xed up with a fi­er­ce cra­ving for her body.

  The sa­me body so en­ti­cingly bent over the mas­si­ve dis­p­lay of gla­di­olas and iri­ses. Just lo­oking at her ele­gant li­nes pus­hed his we­ari­ness asi­de and sent his tho­ughts in a dif­fe­rent, if equ­al­ly tur­bu­lent, di­rec­ti­on.

  "Yes," he in­s­t­ruc­ted the at­ten­dant in a to­ne that ca­me dan­ge­ro­usly clo­se to a growl. "You can turn down the bed. The one in the mas­ter bed­ro­om."

  Di­ane lif­ted her he­ad and snag­ged his ga­ze. Marc half ex­pec­ted her to co­un­ter­mand his or­der. When she didn't, the ac­he col­lec­ting in his gro­in got se­ri­o­us.

  She se­emed to sen­se they both ne­eded re­li­ef from the fi­er­ce emo­ti­ons that had grip­ped them sin­ce le­ar­ning abo­ut Trish. At le­ast Marc ho­ped that was what mo­ti­va­ted her to gat­her her han­d­bag and the cro­co­di­le bri­ef­ca­se he'd gi­ven her for Chris­t­mas a few ye­ars ago.

  "I'll go up with the bel­lman," she sa­id qu­i­etly. "Co­me up when you're re­ady."

  He pa­ced dow­n­s­ta­irs un­til the ho­tel at­ten­dant re­tur­ned, his bed-ten­ding mis­si­on ac­com­p­lis­hed. Pas­sing the man a wad of fol­ded li­ra, Marc flip­ped the de­ad bolt and to­ok the sta­irs two at a ti­me.

  The­re we­re three bed­ro­oms, each with pri­va­te bath and sit­ting area. The mas­ter su­ite was se­pa­ra­ted from the ot­her two by a set of do­ub­le do­ors with or­na­te latch han­d­les et­c­hed in gold. When Marc pus­hed on the han­d­le and step­ped in­si­de, the first thing that grab­bed him was the bed. It was a mon­s­ter, with he­ad- and fo­ot­bo­ards car­ved from gilt-trim­med ro­se­wo­od and yards of shim­me­ring crim­son silk dra­ped from an ho­nest-to-God crown.

  But it was the wo­man stan­ding be­si­de the bed that grab­bed his he­art. Marc felt it squ­e­eze hard and tight in­si­de his chest as she tur­ned to him, her eyes alight.

  "Are you fe­eling ro­yal to­night?"

  Marc cros­sed the ro­om and cur­led a knuc­k­le un­der her chin. "I wo­uldn't des­c­ri­be what I'm fe­eling right now as ro­yal, exactly."

  Her bre­ath hit­c­hed. "Oh, I don't know," she rep­li­ed on a shaky la­ugh. "I sus­pect I co­uld find so­met­hing of prin­cely pro­por­ti­ons if I se­ar­c­hed for it."

  "I sus­pect you co­uld."

  The amu­se­ment fa­ded and he­si­ta­ti­on to­ok its Pla­ce. The­ir al­te­red re­la­ti­on­s­hip must still fe­el as stran­ge to her as it did to him. Then the­re was the gu­ilt. He'd sen­sed the reg­ret bu­ri­ed un­der her gri­ef, se­en it in her fa­ce when she'd em­p­ti­ed Irish's desk.

  Di­ane had all but ac­cu­sed him of ha­ving an af­fa­ir with Trish. Yet she'd ac­ted as the girl's men­tor and as­sig­ned her in­c­re­asing le­vels of res­pon­si­bi­lity in the of­fi­ce.

  But that was Di­ane. All co­ol, calm pro­fes­si­ona­lism on the out­si­de. In­si­de…

  Insi­de was such a fi­res­torm of pas­si­on Marc co­uldn't ima­gi­ne how he'd wor­ked with her all the­se ye­ars and not be­en sin­ged by it.

  He fully in­ten­ded to ma­ke up for lost ti­me now, tho­ugh. No way he was let­ting the­se sa­tin-smo­oth she­ets and crown go to was­te.

  He and Di­ane ma­de up for so much lost ti­me they we­re both still spraw­led in na­ked aban­don when the pho­ne be­si­de the bed jan­g­led. Grun­ting, Marc stret­c­hed out an arm and fum­b­led for the old-fas­hi­oned ivory-and-gold in­s­t­ru­ment.

  "Slo­an."

  "You wan­ted to go along if I de­ve­lo­ped a le­ad on Ad­ri­an Mo­ore," Do­no­van sa­id wit­ho­ut pre­am­b­le. "I might ha­ve so­met­hing. Me­et me in the lobby in ten mi­nu­tes."

  "Ill be the­re."

  Slam­ming down the pho­ne, Marc rol­led out of bed and sco­oped up his watch. The di­al re­ad ni­ne-twenty, and the bright glow aro­und the ed­ges of the drawn dra­pes told him that was a.m.

  As he pul­led on his shorts, a half-awa­ke Di­ane strug­gled up on one el­bow. "Who was that?"

  "Do­no­van."

  "What did he want? What's hap­pe­ning?"

  "He might ha­ve a le­ad on Mo­ore." Marc step­ped in­to his slacks and yan­ked up the zip­per. "I'm me­eting him dow­n­s­ta­irs in ten mi­nu­tes."

  "Ten mi­nu­tes!"

  Scram­b­ling on­to her kne­es, she do­ve un­der the she­et to se­arch for the va­ri­o­us pi­eces of her clot­hing she'd lost last night. Marc al­lo­wed him­self a few se­conds to enj­oy the vi­ew of her ba­re pos­te­ri­or whi­le he drag­ged on his shirt and re­ac­hed in­to the clo­set for a navy bla­zer. When she pop­ped out aga­in, he bro­ke the news.

  "Do­no­van sa­id he wan­ted me to me­et him. You we­ren't in­vi­ted."

  "I'm co­ming with you."

  He didn't ha­ve ti­me to ar­gue with her. "No, you're not. This co­uld be dan­ge­ro­us."

  The lo­ok she ga­ve him un­der­s­co­red mo­re cle­arly than words the­ir al­te­red re­la­ti­on­s­hip. It com­bi­ned im­pa­ti­en­ce and scorn, fla­vo­red with a flash of pu­re tem­per.

  "I may not pos­sess the sa­me skills as Cleo North, but
I'm not en­ti­rely hel­p­less. Nor am I stu­pid. I won't do an­y­t­hing to put myself or you at risk, but I'll be dam­ned if I'm go­ing to sit he­re twid­dling my thumbs whi­le the three of you track down Trish's kil­ler."

  "Di­ane…"

  "Do not le­ave the­se apar­t­ments wit­ho­ut me!"

  When the bat­h­ro­om do­or slam­med be­hind her, Marc's own tem­per fla­red. He'd al­ways be­en the one in char­ge. He was used to is­su­ing or­ders, not ha­ving his exe­cu­ti­ve as­sis­tant bark them at him li­ke a drill ser­ge­ant. The ur­ge to re­as­sert his aut­ho­rity to­ok him out of the bed­ro­om and in­to the hall.

  The re­ali­za­ti­on that he'd ha­ve to le­arn to gi­ve and ta­ke ca­ught up with him on the sta­irs. Swe­aring, he slo­wed his step.

  Eight mi­nu­tes. He'd gi­ve the wo­man eight mi­nu­tes.

  20

  A bel­lman had de­li­ve­red the ele­gantly in­s­c­ri­bed in­vi­ta­ti­on. The bri­ef no­te had sent Jack to the pho­ne to call Slo­an and Cleo rus­hing in­to the bed­ro­om to slit­her in­to her jun­g­le-print dress.

  Span­dex and spiky san­dals we­ren't exactly what she wo­uld ha­ve cho­sen for cof­fee at the ho­me of one of Mal­ta's fo­re­most pat­rons of the arts, which is how the bel­lman had des­c­ri­bed the aut­hor of the no­te, Lady Mar­s­ton. Se­e­ing as Cleo's only ot­her op­ti­on was je­ans and a tank top, she fi­gu­red the thigh-skim­ming fern-gre­en-and-jun­g­le-red tu­be wo­uld do. An­c­ho­ring her ha­ir atop her he­ad with a plas­tic clip, she dus­ted on so­me fa­ce pow­der and grab­bed her pur­se.

  Jack was frow­ning down at the em­bos­sed in­vi­ta­ti­on when she emer­ged from the bed­ro­om. The mes­sa­ge was bri­ef-a po­li­te re­qu­est for Ms.

  North to jo­in Lady Mar­s­ton for cof­fee at ten, fol­lo­wed by a sin­g­le li­ne in­di­ca­ting Mar­s­ton might ha­ve in­for­ma­ti­on re­gar­ding the in­di­vi­du­al Cleo so­ught.

  That bom­b­s­hell had prom­p­ted Jack to thre­aten Cleo with anot­her squ­irt of sub­du­ing agent if she even tho­ught abo­ut slip­ping out of the su­ite to me­et with this wo­man alo­ne. It had al­so prom­p­ted his call to Slo­an. For re­asons Cleo had yet to fully com­p­re­hend, Jack had ap­pa­rently ac­cep­ted Slo­an in­to the­ir small fra­ter­nity.

  "I'm re­ady."

  He glan­ced up then, and the frown blew away. "Damn! And I tho­ught you lo­oked hot in tho­se bo­xers."

  "E­at yo­ur he­art out, Do­no­van. I ne­ed a we­apon."

  "You're we­aring one, ba­be."

  "Get se­ri­o­us. I didn't bring my Glock and In­s­pec­tor Aruz­zo con­fis­ca­ted my ebu. Do you ha­ve a bac­kup for yo­ur SIG?"

  "I might," he sa­id ca­uti­o­usly.

  Sig­hing, Cleo ex­ten­ded the tru­ce they'd ne­go­ti­ated just be­fo­re craw­ling all over each ot­her last night. "I won't use it on you."

  Unless ab­so­lu­tely ne­ces­sary.

  Do­no­van de­ba­ted for se­ve­ral mo­ments be­fo­re prop­ping a fo­ot on the rung of a spindly an­ti­que ar­m­c­ha­ir and hi­king up his pant leg.

  His war­d­ro­be cho­ices we­re evi­dently as li­mi­ted as Cleo's. He wo­re the je­ans and lig­h­t­we­ight sport co­at he'd ar­ri­ved in, pa­ired with a fresh, sky-blue Ox­ford shirt left open at the thro­at. He'd bro­ught the ne­ces­si­ti­es with him, tho­ugh. In ad­di­ti­on to the ni­ne mil­li­me­ter SIG Sa­u­er nes­ted in its un­de­rarm hol­s­ter, he pac­ked a ne­at, snub-no­sed.38 in an Vel­c­ro an­k­le pack.

  He pas­sed her the Vel­c­ro pack, a glint in his blue eyes. "I can't wa­it to see whe­re you're go­ing to strap this."

  Even with her newly trim sil­ho­u­et­te, the an­k­le band wo­uldn't fit aro­und her thighs. She was for­ced to slip the.38 in­to her pur­se but kept the zip­per par­ti­al­ly open for in­s­tant ac­cess.

  "What did you find out on this Mar­s­ton wo­man?" she as­ked as she ar­med the in­t­ru­si­on-de­tec­ti­on de­vi­ces.

  "Not much. The Ope­ra­ti­ons Cen­ter is still wor­king her. All they've be­en ab­le to pull off so far is es­sen­ti­al­ly what we le­ar­ned from the bel­lman and the front desk. Her first na­me is Johan­na. She's the wi­dow of a Bri­tish mem­ber of par­li­ament, the ow­ner of a flat in Lon­don and a se­asi­de vil­la in Mal­ta, and a ge­ne­ro­us con­t­ri­bu­tor to the Ope­ra Fund."

  The first ima­ge Cleo co­nj­ured up was one of Mar­ga­ret That­c­her in a ti­ara and long whi­te glo­ves, on her way to an eve­ning of Mo­zart or Puc­ci­ni. The se­cond, a slen­der, dark-ha­ired wo­man of abo­ut for­ty-fi­ve with a wi­dow's pe­ak hol­ding a small, let­hal auto­ma­tic.

  That was the ima­ge that sta­yed with her as she fol­lo­wed Jack in­to the hall and pun­c­hed the but­ton for the ele­va­tor.

  "Did Ops dig up a pic­tu­re of this Lady Mar­s­ton?"

  "They did. They sent it to me via my cell."

  He ret­ri­eved the in­s­t­ru­ment from his in­si­de co­at poc­ket and flip­ped up the lid. A qu­ick flick of the call but­ton lit up the scre­en. Anot­her flick bro­ught up what lo­oked li­ke a so­ci­ety-pa­ge co­lor shot of se­ve­ral ele­gantly clad in­di­vi­du­als.

  "Lady Mar­s­ton is the se­cond from the right. Use the bot­tom left ar­row to zo­om in on her fa­ce."

  Cleo was all set to zo­om when the pic­tu­re sud­denly dis­sol­ved and anot­her ima­ge to­ok its pla­ce. One glim­p­se of tho­se bushy brows and bul­ldog jaw put Cleo in an in­s­tin­c­ti­ve, squ­are-sho­ul­de­red bra­ce.

  "J­ack!" she whis­pe­red. "Ple­ase tell me this isn't cle­ar-st­re­aming vi­deo!"

  The fer­vent ho­pe that she was vi­ewing a sta­tic pho­to di­ed when tho­se thick brows plun­ged in­to a de­ep V and Ge­ne­ral Bar­nes squ­in­ted in­to the scre­en.

  "Is that you, North?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Damn! All the­se ye­ars, and the Old Man still yan­ked a "sir" from her.

  "Whe­re's Do­no­van?"

  "Right be­si­de me."

  "Tell him to go vo­ice only and put the pho­ne to his ear."

  "In a mi­nu­te."

  Cleo had re­co­ve­red from the shock of se­e­ing the ge­ne­ral's craggy fa­ce smo­os­hed in­to two squ­are in­c­hes of scre­en. Bat­ting asi­de Jack's hand, she re­ta­ined a firm grasp on the in­s­t­ru­ment.

  "First I'd li­ke to re­mind you that I'm no lon­ger un­der yo­ur com­mand. I don't an­s­wer to you or an­yo­ne el­se for my ac­ti­ons, and I cer­ta­inly don't ap­pre­ci­ate you sen­ding Do­no­van over he­re ar­med with a sub­du­ing agent and or­ders to ke­ep me on ice."

  "He used the ju­ice on you?" The V di­sap­pe­ared. Ge­nu­ine de­light ap­pe­ared on the ge­ne­ral's fa­ce. "Go­od man. Put him on."

  Tho­ro­ughly dis­gus­ted, Cleo han­ded Jack the pho­ne. His smi­le was sar­do­nic as he swit­c­hed to vo­ice only and put it to his ear.

  "Yes, sir?"

  He lis­te­ned a mo­ment, his ga­ze on Cleo.

  "No, not yet."

  The smi­le sta­yed in pla­ce, but his sho­ul­ders shif­ted un­der his sport co­at. Cleo knew him well eno­ugh now to sen­se his sud­den, sub­t­le ten­si­on as he chec­ked his watch.

  "Twen­ty-th­ree hun­d­red Zu­lu. Got it."

  The ele­va­tor do­ors slid open. Ne­it­her Jack nor Cleo ma­de a mo­ve to step in­si­de. Jack lis­te­ned for a mo­ment lon­ger be­fo­re ter­mi­na­ting the con­ver­sa­ti­on with anot­her glan­ce at Cleo.

  "Ro­ger that."

  The pho­ne flip­ped shut and went back in­to his poc­ket. Thrus­ting out an arm to ke­ep the ele­va­tor do­ors from shut­ting, he mo­ti­oned Cleo in­si­de.

  She knew bet­ter than to de­mand an ex­p­la­na­ti­on whi­le they we­re un­der the eye of the ca­me­ra mo­un­ted in a cor­ner of the small ca­ge. On­ce in th
e lobby, tho­ugh, she ho­oked his el­bow and tug­ged him be­hind a me­di­eval su­it of ar­mor com­p­le­te with co­ni­cal hel­met, shi­eld and bat­tle-ax.

  "Okay, Do­no­van. Re-port."

  "The cyber-cri­mes unit tra­ced the ser­ver our hac­ker went thro­ugh when he used Trish's pas­sword to ac­cess Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering fi­les. Pre­li­mi­nary in­di­ca­ti­ons are the tran­s­mis­si­on ca­me via sa­tel­li­te from Cyprus."

  "Cyprus?"

  "It's an is­land abo­ut fi­ve hun­d­red mi­les due east of Mal­ta."

  Cleo ma­de an im­pa­ti­ent cluc­king no­ise. "I know whe­re it is. What's the sig­ni­fi­can­ce of Cyprus to our op?"

  "It hap­pens to be the Pit­sen­bar­ger's next sche­du­led port of call."

  "Ho­oo-boy Let me gu­ess. The Pits pulls in­to Cyprus at twen­ty-th­ree hun­d­red to­night."

  "Bin­go."

  "I don't know abo­ut you, Do­no­van, but I think we sho­uld pro­bably be on hand to gre­et it."

  "Funny you sho­uld say that. The ge­ne­ral thinks we sho­uld mo­sey on out and talk to the cap­ta­in be­fo­re he ma­kes port."

  "We?"

  His grin slip­ped out, the one that sent her bre­ath sli­ding back down her thro­at.

  "Ac­tu­al­ly, he'd pre­fer I zap you with anot­her do­se of knoc­ko­ut ju­ice, but he ag­re­es it might not hurt to ta­ke along so­me bac­kup. He's sen­ding a chop­per from the navy ba­se in Nap­les to pick us up."

  "Be­fo­re or af­ter we ha­ve cof­fee with Lady Mar­s­ton?"

  "Af­ter." He shot anot­her lo­ok at his watch. "But we ha­ve to mo­ve it. Whe­re the hell is Slo­an?"

  As if in an­s­wer, the ele­va­tor do­ors ope­ned aga­in and Marc emer­ged…with his exe­cu­ti­ve as­sis­tant.

  The nor­mal­ly well-gro­omed Di­ane lo­oked li­ke she'd just rol­led out of bed. She was mi­nus ma­ke­up, ear­rings and the nar­row le­at­her belt that had wrap­ped aro­und the wa­ist of her St. John knit jac­ket last night. Marc lo­oked so­mew­hat bet­ter co­or­di­na­ted in gray slacks and a hand-ta­ilo­red navy bla­zer, but the bris­t­les still dar­ke­ning his che­eks and chin sug­ges­ted he'd just rol­led out with her. Of mo­re in­te­rest than his war­d­ro­be was the em­bos­sed card he grip­ped in one fist.