by Vonnie Davis
Table of Contents
Mona Lisa’s Room
Copyright
Praise for Vonnie Davis
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Mona Lisa’s Room
by
Vonnie Davis
The Red Hand Conspiracy,
Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Mona Lisa’s Room
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Vonnie Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-296-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-297-2
The Red Hand Conspiracy, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Vonnie Davis
“If I ever thought to write a romance book, I'd only hope that this would be my style of writing. STORM'S INTERLUDE has sweet romance, heartfelt feelings, a whole lot of sexual tension, and its own share of on-edge suspense.”
~Night Owl Reviews
~*~
“This book has easily found its place on my keeper shelf and has become one of my personal favorites. If I could pull these characters from the pages and make them real I would. This is a family that I would want to be friends with and hang out with on a Friday night at a barbecue. I will revisit them again in the future and I very much look forward to it.”
~Long and Short Reviews (Book of the Week)
~*~
“Vonnie Davis wrote such wonderful real characters that once I started this book I finished it in hours! This author is now on my auto-buy list. Please keep them coming, Ms. Davis!”
~The One-Hundred Romances Project
~*~
“Readers, prepare yourselves for a breathtaking emotional journey. STORM'S INTERLUDE is simply a book you should not miss. The characters are well crafted and I fell in love with Storm, Rachel, Sunny, Sawyer, and so many more. Vonnie Davis' writing is tender, witty and beautiful. I devoured each page but didn't want the story to end because it's so powerful.”
~Siren Book Reviews
Dedication
Many thanks to Beka, Carol, Debbie, Jessica, Jesslyn, Kanisha, Lona, Melissa, Michael, and Vicky—fantastic servers at Lynchburg, Virginia’s Bob Evans. You have no idea how many scenes in this book were written while you kept my coffee cup filled.
To Anne and Tina, the ever-smiling hostesses who knew which booths Calvin and I preferred, many thanks, also.
I watched all of you ladies work to keep your customers happy, showering them with attention and Southern charm. In the process I stole qualities from each of you to fashion Alyson and her sister. Which qualities? Guess. You'll be surprised to see yourself in a phrase, an attitude, or a look.
To Jeff and Steve, restaurant managers, thanks for allowing two writers to turn your business into their creative zone.
~~~
To Calvin,
all my love and gratitude
for introducing me to Paris.
Chapter One
A grim-faced guard stepped in front of Alyson Moore when she raised her camera to take a picture. “Madame, in the Louvre, we do not photograph the Mona Lisa.” His lips fashioned a thin line of disapproval.
Alyson’s eyes scanned the crowd, for even as the security guard admonished her, scores of other tourists, their arms upraised, used cell phones to snap photos. “Am I the only one trying to take a picture here?” Without waiting for a reply, she pocketed her camera, and the snippy guard moved on.
She shouldered her way through the early morning crowd in the Salon Carrẻ to get a closer look at the painting encased in bullet-proof glass. Seeing Da Vinci’s masterpiece was a long-held dream come true. No one, not even an overzealous guard, would spoil her time with Mona.
Once the museum opened its doors at nine sharp, and Alyson passed through security, she hurried to see this woman of mystery. The throngs of people already crowding the room surprised her.
She slipped between two men and stepped closer to the leading lady of the gallery. Her nose twitched from the sweet and sour blitz of assorted perfumes and various degrees of hygiene. Murmurings of adulation echoed off the gallery walls as if the Mona Lisa were a five-hundred-year-old rock star. How had one painting achieved such stardom?
If the ever-present guard wouldn’t allow photographs, she’d sketch some of Mona’s fans standing, spellbound by her enigmatic smile. When she finally tugged her large sketchpad free from the tight confines of her yellow leather bag, other items fell and scattered.
Alyson crouched to retrieve pieces of charcoal, just as the man standing next to her bent to place a black shoulder bag, the style European men were so fond of carrying, on the marble tile floor.
Their eyes locked.
“Excuse me, you’re standing on my things.” Alyson pointed to his shoe. The man, face damp with perspiration, scowled, raised his foot and snatched her navy scarf, hotel keycard and passport, crushing them into a ball. He stuffed the wadded scarf into her outstretched hand and stood.
Alyson reached, fingering for the last charcoal pencil that rolled beyond her reach. She straightened and realized the man was walking away. “Sir. Sir, you’ve forgotten your bag. Monsieur.”
He didn’t respond.
She called after him again.
The man disappeared into the crowd.
The museum guard approached. “Is there a problem, Madame?”
“Yes, that man left his shoulder bag here.” Alyson indicated the canvas bag on the floor. “He set it down at the same time I dropped some things.” She held out her navy scarf to show the guard and suddenly it hit her. “My hotel key and passport!” Pulling apart the sides of her shoulder bag, she rummaged through its contents, hoping against hope they were there. With her passport the same shade as her scarf, she assumed it was wrapped in the scarf’s folds. “He took my keycard and passport. I don’t believe this. Why would he take my things and leave his bag behind?”
The guard’s eyes widened for a sec
ond. “Madame, you are sure the man left this bag?” He snapped his cell from his belt, a scowling gaze intent on Alyson.
“Yes. He…he was setting it on the floor at the same time I squatted to retrieve my fallen items. I asked him to move his foot since he was standing on my scarf, keycard and passport.” Alyson groaned as realization sunk in. She was in a foreign country with no passport. Oh, hell!
The guard cautiously unzipped the shoulder bag. Yellow wires. The man spoke rapid-fire French into his cell. Pandemonium erupted. Armed guards rushed toward the abandoned black bag. Once the word “bomb” was uttered, visitors screamed as they stampeded from Mona Lisa’s room.
Suddenly, Alyson stood in the eerie deafening silence with only the pounding of her heart and the cocking of guns reverberating in her ears—she and the black bag containing explosives surrounded by eight armed guards.
****
She was unceremoniously hauled to Paris police headquarters, the Prefecture de Police, and interrogated for nearly three hours by various detective teams, each more stern-faced than the last. Visions of being locked away forever in a French dungeon flashed in front of her like a neon “No Exit” sign. She had zero rights in this country. No passport. No one to help her. If they were to grant her one phone call, whom would she call? The American Consulate. Surely they would help.
When the door to the interrogation room opened and two men walked in, the testosterone level rose by a factor of five. Even though the first man, middle-aged with graying temples and silver-framed glasses riding low on his nose, was handsome in his own right, it was the second male who commanded her attention—and her fascination.
He was striking. Or, as Gwen, her free-spirited sister, would say, “Oh my God, he’s make-my-panties-damp gorgeous.”
While the young man wasn’t overly tall, he was excessively male. Sex appeal oozed from every pore on his skin. Alyson’s body responded, which surprised her.
She judged him to be around thirty, with the firm and muscled yet slender build of many European men. He had an olive complexion and short, wavy black hair styled like that of a GQ cover model. His eyes were dark and angry. What’s his problem? I’m the one held here against my will, hungry and thirsty. And, dammit, I have to pee.
The older man sat while Mr. Macho Male prowled the room like a tightly-reined panther.
“Ms. Moore, I’m Field Supervisor Henri Moreau. I head the French task force on counterterrorism. The irritated man behind me is my second in command, Niko Reynard.”
The young man deigned to spare her a nod in greeting. Oh, she knew the type. She nodded once in return with a dose of her own attitude. After all, she hadn’t been a teacher all these years without perfecting a piercing glare. One of his eyebrows quirked in response. She raised her chin and held eye contact with him for a few seconds. Touché. Okay, so she was being bitchy, but after all she’d been through, frankly she didn’t care.
“We’ve reviewed the Louvre’s security tapes and completed a thorough background check on you.” Moreau flipped open a manila file. “You’re a high school art teacher from Asheville, North Carolina. Went to university at Duke. Additional studies in New York City. Worked for three years at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.” His head nodded as he cited her life’s history, almost as if it were nothing more than another series of boring facts—which unfortunately it was.
“You’ve been teaching art for thirteen years. Married for twelve. No children.” His gaze lifted to hers. “You’re recently divorced. Your husband…”
“Ex-husband.” She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. She may have to put up with this interrogation, but she didn’t have to like it. Nor did she like having strangers inventory her personal life, no matter how damn boring it was.
He spared her the briefest of smiles. She closed her eyes, sensing what was coming next. “Your ex-husband is now living an openly gay lifestyle…” A wounded sound escaped from her chest, her broken heart giving one last whimper of pain perhaps.
Macho Male stopped pacing behind his partner and nudged him with his elbow. “Gentillesse, Henri.”
“Of course, one must always be gentle.” The older man glared at her. “If it is appropriate. Coworkers claim you had surgery four months ago for a female prob…”
Macho Male expelled a loud string of profanity, and Henri smirked. “You a re too sensitive. Comes from all those women in your life. I’m sure Ms. Moore does not mind if we discuss her medical history. American women love to talk about their surgeries.” The older man gave a wave of his hand as if to deflect the younger man’s outburst.
Alyson looked from one male to the other, wondering what battle of wills was going on between the two and why she had to be the one in the middle of their ego-driven conflict. Or were they merely playing good cop/bad cop?
Henri shrugged in that arrogant, self-assured way Frenchmen had. “You have no criminal record. No known ties with terrorists. Your bank records and tax records seem in order.” He closed the file with a snap, and she flinched. Obviously, her nerves were frayed. “We have concluded you are innocent of trying to harm one of our national treasures, the Mona Lisa.”
Indignation simmered. “Of course I’m innocent. I would never try to harm her or any work of art. As I’ve told countless interrogators over the last few hours, I have no association with the man who carried in those explosives.” She shuddered and closed her eyes, thinking of all the lives the bomb would have extinguished had it exploded. Mona Lisa’s room, as she came to regard it, was crowded with onlookers just like her, hoping for a glimpse of the famed masterpiece. Life was so fragile, especially in the hands of violent people.
“One question does keep rolling around in my mind, Monsieur Moreau…” The field supervisor waved his hand once as if to signal he’d grant her one question; as if anyone could stop her at this point. “How did this man get a bomb inside the Louvre? My shoulder bag was searched and x-rayed when I entered. Also, I had to acquire prior approval to sketch the Mona Lisa. Passing through security was rather arduous. Why wasn’t it for this man?” She tapped one finger against the table as she spoke, her tapping emphasizing every word. “‘Someone was asleep at the switch,’ as we say in America.”
The older man seemed insulted she dared criticize the French for anything. “Rest assured, we are investigating that very question. We have concluded he was not acting alone. One of the janitors at the Louvre has gone missing. We suspect he was a comrade of the man you saw. Even so, these facts are no concern of yours.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “You are free to go, Ms. Moore.”
“I…” She cleared her throat. “I have no passport.” Dear Lord, what would she do without one? How would she get home to the States?
Field Supervisor Moreau jerked his head in the direction of his second in command. “This young man will see to that. He’ll also guard you until this matter is resolved. Have no fear, he may look like a rock star, but he’s passably effective.”
“Screw you.” Macho Male leaned a shoulder against the wall, his hands in his pockets, all scowls and attitude.
Alyson tore her gaze from his handsome face to the man seated across from her. “What do you mean, guard? I don’t need a guard. All I need is my passport.”
Moreau tapped her folder on the edge of the table. “You got a good look at the terrorist. He was smart. Cunning, in fact. His face was always turned away from the security cameras, as if he knew where they were located and aimed. Now we know he probably did. Niko studied the tape showing the x-rays of this man’s bag at security when he entered the museum. It contained a wallet, sunglasses and one of those plastic coated street maps of Paris tourists use.
“Later, security cameras show him entering a restroom in the Richelieu Wing shortly after the now missing janitor, who appeared to have a similar bag. We suspect a switch was made in the restroom.”
“They had every detail planned out, didn’t they?” She looked first at Moreau and then Macho Male.
&n
bsp; The younger man ran a tanned hand down his red-and-gray-striped necktie. “I was able to analyze the security data to follow his movements throughout the museum. He checked his watch often. So, yes, everything was timed to the second.”
“What does all of this have to do with me? Why do I need a guard?”
The second in command focused his dark eyes on her. “You saw enough of him to give a good description and sketch his face. If he took your passport and your hotel keycard, he did so for a reason. That reason being you two made eye contact. He’ll want to find you and neutralize your threat to him and his organization.”
A chill galloped up her spine like a runaway horse. “Neutralize? You mean—” she swallowed and fiddled with the hem of her top. “This terrorist wants to kill me?” Her eyes darted around the interrogation room searching for a safe anchoring point. Oh, good Lord! She willed herself to sit still, to keep from screaming, to keep her breathing even so she wouldn’t hyperventilate. Mostly she willed herself to make logical steps. Her life was ruled by logic and routine. Safety resided in routine.
The older man stood. “Niko will escort you to your hotel and then to a safe house for the weekend. You have an appointment at ten on Monday morning. Niko will take you to the American embassy, where they’ve been apprised of your situation. Although the embassy is open all weekend, the officer—the only officer, it seems—who issues replacement documents for stolen passports won’t be in his office until Monday.” His face twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. “Another one of your government’s budget cutbacks, it would seem.” He sniffed in arrogance.
Thoughts of kicking him came to mind.
“Your government’s employee is in Norway on vacation. When he returns Monday, the embassy will have all the necessary information required to issue you a new passport. Then you’ll be able to return to the United States.
“You’ll be safe enough in Niko’s care. My apologies to you from the French government for this inconvenience. We value our tourism and our guests.” The man sounded like an insincere infomercial. He stood to leave, his hand in his pants pocket, jingling his change.
