He looked as if he might respond, but he clamped his jaw shut, obviously realizing it was useless to fight the inevitable.
She took a deep breath, reining in her rising temper with another reminder that he meant well, however misguided he was. “Do we understand each other?”
“Perfectly.”
She managed a weak smile. “Good. Then let’s get this over with before Michael decides to blow our plan.”
Chapter 12
Veronica surveyed the corridor that led to the gallery. The hallway was dim, with the occasional spotlight reflecting off the marble-covered walls. And beautiful marble it was—lustrous, white and unblemished.
“Are sure you want to do this?” Simon whispered, leaning over her shoulder.
“Positive,” Veronica replied, even though she wasn’t as sure as she sounded. She turned to face him. “Besides, it’s not as if there’s a lot of choice, is there?”
“I suppose not,” Simon agreed, moving closer until he was only inches away. He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
She blinked slowly, inhaling his scent. He smelled like warm cotton and spice, and she automatically turned into his touch. Catching herself, she cautiously tried to distance herself. “If it’s any comfort, neither do I.”
She smoothed her skirt, turning her thoughts away from Simon. It’s like dancing, she told herself. Just an act. Giving them what they want to see.
“Be careful?”
She took a deep breath. Focus. “Completely.”
Simon melted into the shadows to wait, and Veronica began the long walk down the hallway, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. Squaring her shoulders, she forced herself to smile as she increased her pace.
Turning the corner, she ran into the guard. He was solid muscle, she realized as she bounced off his chest and stumbled backward a step. Dressed in black fatigues, he looked like the cover model of Soldier of Fortune magazine. She swallowed hard, her gaze sliding to the CZ 75 holstered at his waist.
Damn. She swallowed again, trying to work some dampness into her dry mouth.
“What are you doing here?” He spoke in Turkish, and Veronica cocked her head as if she didn’t understand. She twirled a dark curl around her finger, hoping she appeared pretty but dumb.
“I asked what you were doing here?” He looked her up and down, his annoyance faltering as he fixated on her cleavage. “You’re supposed to be with the other dancers.”
Once again, she played dumb. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m looking for the bathroom.”
The guard sighed, and in accented English said, “Go back.”
“Okay, but where is the bathroom?” Veronica asked, tossing her head. Looking past his shoulders, she squealed with what she hoped passed as girlish delight and slid around him before he realized she was moving.
Ignoring the guard’s protests and the click of his boots on the marble, she hurried across the room to where the Eye of Artemis was displayed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the guard press a code into a keypad on the wall, turning off the pressure alarm before he came to retrieve her.
Ignoring him, she walked around the case. The display was five feet in height and one square foot around. The Eye of Artemis was perched on a glass pedestal so it could be observed from all angles.
The artifact was more beautiful than she had imagined and more detailed than an ancient sketch could ever hope to capture. Solid gold and etched with symbols, it was as large as her hand. The crystal in the center was almost clear except for a silver sheen that caught the light. Fakhir might be slime, but she couldn’t fault his taste.
The guard grabbed her arm, jerking her to a sudden stop.
“Oh!” She’d forgotten about the guard in her excitement to see the Eye. Remember, it’s an act.
Taking a deep breath, she ran a painted fingertip up her sternum, drawing the guard’s attention to her cleavage. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” she asked breathily.
His eyes didn’t budge from her chest. “Yes.”
She leaned toward him, and he licked his lips and relaxed his grip on her arm. She leaned in farther, pressing herself against him. Could he really be this gullible? she wondered. Or that horny?
He ground his hips against her. It seemed he did. A seductive smile still on her lips, she had to force herself not to wince.
Where was Simon?
The guard traced a path from her arm to the small of her back, pulling her even closer. His garlicky breath quickened.
The last thing she wanted to do was kiss this guy. She would if she had to, but Simon was going to pay.
A shadow caught her attention. Simon. She tried to discreetly catch his attention, but the guard’s bulk dominated her scope of vision.
A thump broke the silence.
The guard whirled about, but not before a strong hand clocked him in the jaw. He fell, his thick body hitting the floor with a dull thud. Veronica dropped to her knees. He was out cold. She’d never seen anyone drop so fast.
“Thank God,” she mumbled. “Are you nuts, you might have killed…” Her voice died as she raised her head.
It wasn’t Simon who’d hit the guard.
It was Michael. Every nerve in her body sprang to readiness.
“I couldn’t have him kissing my best girl, could I?” Michael said, obviously pleased with himself.
She eyed the guard’s holstered weapon, but it was on his side that faced away from her. She glanced up at Michael. He didn’t have a gun. She edged toward the guard’s fallen pistol.
“Don’t even try.” Michael pulled a Glock from the inner pocket of his tuxedo. “I wouldn’t kill you, but I’m not above wounding you if you force me.”
Dammit. She eyed the guard again. There was no way she could move that fast. She was good but not that good.
And what was she going to do if she did get the gun? Shoot Michael? That would bring everyone running and she’d never get the Eye.
Her only hope was Simon. Where was he?
“Now, let’s get to business, shall we?” Michael held his free hand out to help her up. Veronica ignored it and rose on her own.
“The guard will be up and about soon enough and looking for the person who stole the Eye. Meaning you.”
Cautiousness morphed into rage as she realized what was happening. “You set me up. Again.”
“No,” Michael corrected her, his lips thinning. “Not again. There’s a difference from last time. Last time was a mistake.”
“You bastard,” Veronica bit out, her clenched fists at her side to keep herself from pummeling Michael. “There’s no difference. It’s all the same. Same motivation. Same outcome. Same scapegoat. This is Brazil all over again.”
Michaels face darkened. “This is nothing like Brazil, but I don’t have time to discuss this.” He thrust a manicured hand through his blond hair, mussing the strands into sloppy waves, caught himself and glared at her. “Now, get out of my way,” he said, and edged past her, his gun steady and pointed at her chest.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Veronica pleaded.
Michael stopped in his tracks. “You think you’re so holy,” he sneered, turning on her. “You robbed the Vatican. And now this.” He nodded toward the Eye. “Robbery again? We’re not that different. Not really. We are both here for the same purpose.”
Veronica’s skin burned. He was wrong. “I plan to return it all once I find the Stone,” she retorted. “That’s the difference. I don’t sell what I find, and I don’t keep what I borrow.”
“Borrow? You can say that, but we both know that you’re treading the line.” His face cleared of all expression. “Sleeping beauty, over there, will be waking soon. I wish I could trust you. If I could, I’d take you with me.” He reached into his jacket and took out a center punch—the kind firefighters used to shatter windshields. “Since I can’t, I’m taking the Eye, and you get to stay.”
His face reddened, and for a brief moment, she thought he might pull the trigger. Instead, he went to the display case that held the Eye. “You’ll be fine if you leave as soon as I’m gone. You’re a smart girl. You already have a way out of the country, don’t you?”
Her expression betrayed her.
“I thought so,” Michael said, a smug gleam in his eyes declaring him the winner. “I suggest you get to it as fast as possible.”
“How do you plan to steal it without setting off the alarm?” Veronica asked, grateful that Simon had Rebecca’s code-breaker and not her. The last thing she wanted to do was to make this easier for Michael.
“I don’t.” He pressed the five-inch, spring-loaded center punch against the glass. It shattered at his feet.
No alarm sounded.
Michael grabbed the Eye and shoved it in his inside pocket. “It’s a silent alarm. Most of the guards are watching the dance so you might have a minute before Security arrives. Two if you’re lucky.
“Michael, you son of a—”
Grabbing her, he silenced her with a kiss.
She tried to bite him, but he pushed her away, chuckling. “Always the wildcat.”
His expression softened, almost saddened, and he tried to touch her cheek. She flinched before he could make contact. “I never stopped loving you, Veronica,” he said, drawing away. “If you believe nothing else I told you, believe that.” Leveling his gun on her, he backed down the opposite corridor from which they entered, turned a corner and was gone, leaving her to take the blame.
She had to run. Not knowing Michael’s route or wanting to be shot if she followed, she started back the way she came.
There was a clicking of footsteps coming toward her. She glanced around, hoping for a place to hide. The gallery contained glass display cases, and the marble pillars weren’t wide enough to hide her unless she was a size four.
She turned down the hallway Michael took.
“Stop.”
She stopped midstep. This was it. Incarceration.
“Hands in the air and turn.”
Slowly, she turned, praying that at least Simon made it out okay.
Her captor wasn’t a guard. It was Deacon Gilchrist.
Barely her height, he made up in inches with bulk. Arms that popped with muscles. Pants that rode a bit snugly around massive thighs. It seemed he’d changed his facial appearance.
The last time she saw him he was clean-shaven and his brown hair was military short. Now his head was shaved bald and he sported a goatee.
It was as menacing a sight as she’d ever seen.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He stared at her as if she were a bug. Something to stamp out. His MK-23, equipped with a silencer, was in plain view. “You know too much, and after hearing Michael’s little display of affection, you’re more a liability than I want.”
He raised the gun and shot the guard, blowing a hole through his chest. Blood splattered, speckling Veronica’s legs and chest.
Her stomach rolled, but she dropped to her knees before she had time to be sick. The guard was dying. That was not supposed to happen. Applying direct pressure, she tried to stop the bleeding. Within seconds, her hands were covered with blood.
Another set of footsteps echoed behind them. The guards. The real ones this time.
“Why?” she shouted.
Deacon tossed the gun to her in answer.
In reflex, she caught it. In the time it took to realize her mistake, she dropped the weapon, but it was already too late. Fingerprints. She had her answer. For a man like Deacon, the thought of her in a Turkish prison was much more satisfying than a quick death. The bastard.
“Ciao.” Deacon said, and sprinted back down the way Michael had left.
With a rattling sigh, the guard stopped breathing.
She started CPR on the dead guard.
“Don’t move,” a voice screamed in Turkish.
She froze.
After her capture, Fakhir’s men had hauled her up a set of back stairs to the fourth floor and into what she thought was Fakhir’s study. There was a desk, some wooden chairs, bookshelves and little else.
Tying her to one of the chairs, they’d left her with only a wall clock to tick away the time. She suspected there would be an interrogation. Men like Fakhir didn’t use police or the law. They were a law unto themselves.
At first, the thought horrified her, and as much as she hated to think it, terrified her. She waited for Simon, but with the security surrounding the mansion, she knew he had little chance of coming to her rescue. Now, it was past midnight and if he stuck to their plans, he was gone.
She hoped he’d escaped. Not even the Midas Stone was worth spending a lifetime in a Turkish prison for accessory to a murder.
The only bright spot was that Iamar probably had no idea yet that she’d been caught. If she had, Veronica knew she’d try to help and she didn’t need the worry on top of everything else.
She had plenty already.
Another hour passed, and she was just beginning to wish for something, anything, to happen when the door swung open and a dark-haired man with a bodyguard entered the office, officially ending her boredom.
He didn’t say his name, but she recognized him from the pictures Rebecca had sent. Dark skin. Manicured hands. Armani suit. Smooth, dark hair and smelling like expensive cologne. Fakhir al-Ahmed.
Fakhir stood in front of her, hands clasped in front of him. “Untie her,” he barked. The other man kneeled down and cut her rope free with one pull from a short knife.
“And the cuffs.”
With a frown, he released her. Careful to make no sudden moves, Veronica massaged her bruised wrists. “Thank you.”
Much like Deacon, Fakhir looked at her as if she were less than human. “What is your name?”
“Elizabeth.” Veronica glanced around the room. Other than the window, there was no way out.
“Elizabeth what?”
“Elizabeth Smith.”
Fakhir chuckled, clearly amused and not falling for the lie. “A lovely name, and very unlikely your real one.” He stepped forward until he was almost touching her knees. With a rough hand, he grabbed her chin and jerked her face upward. “Now, will tell me your real name, or shall I beat it out of you?” He asked the question the way most people asked if someone wanted cream and sugar with their coffee.
Her mouth felt stuffed with cotton. This would not be like Brazil, she vowed. She would not give in to fear. Would not give Fakhir the satisfaction of breaking her.
“Elizabeth Cromwell,” she replied. Her voice dropped but she didn’t flinch from his penetrating gaze.
He thrust her away. “Good enough, Elizabeth. Next question, why did you kill my guard?”
She remained steady, unmoved either physically or mentally, and refusing to be anything else. “I didn’t.”
“The evidence says otherwise. You were found with the gun and blood on your hands, and I have an artifact missing. Did your partner steal it and abandon you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spat.
He raised his hand, and for a moment, she thought he was going to strike her, but he stopped. “Tell me your version of what happened.”
She didn’t blink. “I was looking around. That was all. Stupid, I know, but not illegal.”
Fakhir nodded in what she hoped was belief. “Continue.”
She briefly debated giving him Michael’s or Deacon’s names, but dismissed the idea. If she admitted to knowing either by name, Fakhir would want to know more. And more would inevitably lead to Simon and her real reason for being in the gallery. “I was talking to the guard and someone knocked him out while we spoke. Then the assailant took the artifact and killed the guard.”
“Then how did you come to have the gun?” Fakhir asked, frowning. Veronica knew she was losing the argument.
She plowed forward, hands in her lap,
twisting the fabric of her costume. “He tossed me the gun. If you have it tested, you’ll find that my fingerprints are on it, but they’re not on the trigger. I was trying to save the guard, not kill him.” She pointed toward the nameless man who stood at the door. “Ask him. He knows all about it. I was doing CPR when your men arrived.”
Fakhir frowned. “Was she trying to save Hadda?” he asked in Turkish.
The bodyguard gave a minuscule shrug.
Veronica kept still, not wanting to give away the fact she understood them. “What did he say?” she asked.
“He is unsure.”
Idiot guard. “Ask the others,” Veronica urged. “They’ll tell you.”
Fakhir gave a nod of agreement. “I will do that, but in the meantime, tell me who your accomplice is, and it will go better for you.”
She shut her eyes as a wave of hopelessness washed over her. He hadn’t believed a word she said. “Please, there is no one else.”
Fakhir raised his hand and this time he didn’t stop.
Veronica’s head rocked from the blow and her cheek stung. Otherwise, she didn’t flinch. That was a love tap compared to being hit with a closed fist by a Brazilian cop. She tasted blood on her mouth and licked it with the tip of her tongue. “You can hit me all you want, but that doesn’t change the truth.”
Fakhir stared down at her. “Then tell me the name of the one who took the Eye.”
“I don’t know.”
He hit her again, knocking her to the floor. For a moment, the world wavered and spun.
“Tell me who took my Eye!” Fakhir demanded.
“I don’t know,” she said, wiping her blood from her mouth and praying he’d grow bored or at least too frustrated to continue.
Fakhir glowered at her. “I am not a fool.” Swinging his foot, he landed a single kick to her ribs. Veronica curled into a ball and cried out despite her best intentions.
Turning, he motioned the guard to open the door. “Perhaps the police will have better luck getting the truth out of you, Ms. Cromwell,” he said. “If that’s even your name.”
He locked the door and Veronica lurched to her knees, tears in her eyes. Holding her side, she shuffled to the door, wincing at each jarring step. She shook the knob. It was locked. She banged on the wood, but it didn’t move and barely made a sound.
The Midas Trap Page 18
