Seducing the Colonel's Daughter: Seducing the Colonel's DaughterThe Secret Soldier

by Jennifer Morey

  Travis leaned forward, bringing his handsome face closer to hers. “He tells you to come alone and you do it?”

  “You’re being overprotective.”

  His eyes hardened and he leaned back again. “I’m taking you home, and that’s final.”

  Chapter 4

  Habib Maalouf saw Lucian LeFevre walk into his Monrovia, Liberia, market and was happy for the sparse appearance of customers this morning. Lucian always dressed well and was one of the few clients Habib trusted. While he didn’t believe Lucian’s claims that he purchased diamonds only to fund his interest in art, Habib didn’t mind doing business with him. He didn’t care what the man did with them when he left. He only was grateful he wasn’t tied to Hezbollah or other terrorist-labeled groups. Habib had lost too much from men of that sort to feel at ease doing business with them.

  “Mr. Maalouf, and how might you be today?” Lucian asked in his rich, deep voice. He kept his thinning brown hair trimmed short, and his starched white shirt peeked out from the suit jacket, tucked into dark gray slacks. He wore a tie as well, managing to still look cool on this warm September day.

  “I am well. Thank you. And you?”

  “Very well.” He glanced around.

  “There is no one,” Habib assured him. “Not such a good day that way, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah.” Lucian smiled. “Then I have something for you that will improve it.” He pulled out an envelope from an inside pocket of his jacket. “This is the usual deposit.”

  Habib took the money from him and slipped it beneath the counter. He kept the shelves along the front of the market stocked high so as to hide transactions such as this. In Monrovia he didn’t have much to fear from authorities, but one could not be too careful.

  “What is it you need from me? I did not expect you to return so soon.” From what Habib had learned so far, Lucian bought and sold diamonds to support his growing black-

  market art sales. Lucian frequently shared details of his activities with Habib, particularly those that gave him pleasure. That was mainly due to their common bond. Both dealt in illicit business.

  “I have a very special piece of art I am trying to purchase. The seller is a bit shy, however, so I fear I will have to be very persuasive. More persuasive than I have been. This is a deal I will have to take care of in person, it seems.”

  “You sent someone to make an offer and the buyer declined?”

  Lucian inclined his head in affirmation. “It was a generous offer. But he is shy, as I have said, and rather attached to the piece. He also does not want his identity known. Lucky for him, I can understand his predicament.”

  Which was why he intended to offer more. “Then you are in a hurry, I presume?”

  The smile that still remained renewed its energy on Lucian’s mid-thirties face. “That is why I am so fond of doing business with you, Mr. Maalouf. I am never disappointed.”

  “It’s business such as yours that feeds my family.” He glanced around the market. “This brings me a bare minimum here in Monrovia, but it falls far short of keeping us comfortable.”

  “Then we do each other equal service. How soon can you bring me double of what I previously ordered?”

  Double...so much. “How soon do you have a need for it?”

  “I would be most appreciative if I could arrange for my pilot to fly me to Anguilla by this evening. I realize this is not much notice for such a transaction, however, and can make allowances.”

  Habib began to worry. He couldn’t get that much in such a short time. Lucian would have to come back. “If this is a special work of art to you, then it is special to me, as well. If you give me one hour, I can have half for you today, but I am afraid I will need a few days for the other half.” He kept an inventory of diamonds in a locked safe, but not for the amount Lucian had requested.

  Habib feared half wouldn’t be enough. Lucian’s heavy sigh made him nervous.

  “Very well. I shall return in a few days for the balance.”

  “What is this special piece of art that awaits you in Anguilla?” Habib had little interest in Lucian’s black-market activities, but Lucian was one of his best clients. He had to keep him happy.

  “A rare painting.” Excitement lit up Lucian’s entire face. “I have been searching for this particular piece for many months. It is very valuable. Stolen from a Jewish art collector during World War II.”

  “Stolen, you say?”

  “Yes, by a Nazi collaborator. But what’s even more spectacular is the story that goes along with the theft.”

  Habib felt himself lean closer. Not only had he managed to keep his client happy, this was fascinating.

  Lucian hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”

  “I have little interest in art, Mr. LeFevre. So if you are concerned I may try and outbid you, rest assured, I will not. It is your business here in my market that I most value.”

  Lucian’s smile changed. “My apologies, Mr. Maalouf. I meant only to protect you from further hardship.”

  Catching his meaning, Habib was grateful for his caution and also alerted to the danger of his interest in the painting he sought.

  “I have not forgotten the sorrows you have suffered, my friend,” he added.

  With the allusion to his wife, Habib lowered his head, unable to meet Lucian’s gaze with the fresh and powerful grief that always consumed him when talk of his beautiful and loving wife arose. Their five children were motherless now.

  “I am so sorry. I did not mean to—”

  Habib lifted his head and right hand to stop his client from continuing. “No. Your sympathies are most appreciated.”

  “Your business is most appreciated by me.”

  “It is my pleasure, sir.”

  Lucian regarded him with more trust floating from his not-so-handsome face than was probably wise. Habib held no alliance with any man. Not after his love had been taken from him. Not after his life had been torn apart by terrorists.

  Lucian’s only redeeming quality was that he was an art dealer, not a terrorist. But what he didn’t understand was that Habib sold these blood diamonds because he had to.

  “This painting,” Lucian finally said, entirely too pleased with himself, “belonged to a Jewish woman whose lover was murdered by her husband. Upon her death, the painting was passed to her son, a Jewish man who married a woman who also had an affair with a German businessman who supported Hitler’s ideology.”

  Habib found himself leaning in again.

  “This German was in love with the Jew’s wife. But when he professed his devotion, she rejected him and chose to stay with her husband. The German became a Nazi collaborator and eventually stormed into the couple’s house and took the painting, but not before killing the woman.”

  Habib straightened. “He murdered her?”

  “Yes, and then he fled Germany with the painting before the war’s end. No one could find him.”

  Until...

  “You’re saying that you...”

  Lucian’s smile beamed brilliant rays of pride. “I have found his descendants...in Anguilla.”

  “How? That is quite simply fascinating, Mr. LeFevre.”

  “Now you know why I love collecting art.”

  “Not any art, sir.”

  “No. Not any art. My art is untraceable. That is why it sells so well in my market.”

  A black market...

  Habib did not want to know any more.

  * * *

  “What do you mean I should go back to California?” Jada Manoah asked the art dealer she’d been working with for several months now. “You know how long I’ve been looking for that painting.” She stood in the salon of his eighty-foot yacht, refusing to accept that she’d come here for nothing.

&
nbsp; Rorey Evertszen turned from the double glass doors leading to the aft deck as he’d done a few other times since she’d come to see him. “I told you. Someone else has discovered it. Another dealer less than reputable. I’ve gotten several phone calls from him with offers to buy it. When I tell him I already have a buyer, he insists that he’s the buyer now.”

  She tucked her long brown hair behind one ear and tapped her small purse against her red sundress. “Are you saying you’re going to sell it to him instead?”

  “I’m saying I want to get away from here for a while. I want you to get away from here for a while.”

  “Do you think he’ll give up if we do?”

  Rorey sighed with exasperation. “I don’t know.”

  He was really afraid. And she might lose the painting because of this dealer.

  The television played a documentary on whales and was annoyingly loud. She wished he’d turn it off. “You know what this painting means to me.”

  “Yes, Jada, I do. But these people are dangerous.”

  “Who are they? How did they know to call you?” Just her luck. Someone had found her painting. Why did they have to get in her way now? She was so close….

  “Word must have gotten around when I was looking for a buyer.” Rorey twisted his upper body and looked toward the doors again.

  “We can still arrange a meeting with him. As soon as the deal is done, the dealer will leave you alone.”

  He scoffed. “You have no idea what you’re saying. I’m not arranging anything. I’m sailing to Yost van Dyke this evening. The only reason I stopped here today is to warn you.”

  It was close to six now. She was supposed to have the painting by three this afternoon. She wasn’t leaving without it.

  Rorey didn’t get it. And she was growing tired of playing this docile part. “Go ahead to Yost van Dyke. I’ll handle this myself from here. Just tell me who the owner is and where he lives.”

  “He doesn’t want his identity revealed.”

  He’d stuck to that nauseatingly well. As many times as she’d tried, he’d refused to divulge the seller’s name. She could understand why. Art collectors and museum curators all over the world would rush for the chance to possess The Portrait of Sarah. And the current owner was likely related to the Nazi who stole it.

  “Things have changed. I want the painting before the other dealer gets it. Tell me who the owner is.”

  “It isn’t safe, Jada. You have no idea what you’d be facing if I told you and you got the painting. This dealer will do anything to have it.”

  “So will I.” That was the part he didn’t get.

  He looked at her with new dawning.

  Voices on the aft deck made them both look toward the sliding glass doors. She caught sight of three men. Jada’s pulse quickened with apprehension.

  “It’s him. Go out the side door. Hurry,” Rorey said. “Don’t get caught.”

  “What about you?”

  “Just go.” He pushed her toward the hall along the galley.

  If a black-market dealer was coming to see him, he should run with her. But he’d made his decision, and Jada wasn’t going to waste any time. She ran to the side door and paused, hearing the sliding door open. She cracked the door ajar. A man with a gun approached along the deck, looking toward the upper deck. She was trapped.

  Shutting the door, she searched for a place to hide.

  “Mr. LeFevre,” she heard Rorey say. The narrow hall offered a scant view of the salon. Leaning just a bit toward the room, she saw Rorey’s back and another man beside him holding a gun.

  “My apologies for this unannounced visit,” an accented voice said. She couldn’t see this man. He sounded French.

  “I told you I already had a buyer. I can’t sell you the painting.”

  “Circumstances have changed since our last conversation. Since just this evening, in fact.”

  Seeing Rorey back up toward the hall, she spotted a closet in the opening that led into the galley. She’d seen Rorey use it when she’d first arrived. Upper-level shelving securely held cans and other non-refrigerated food, but the lower half was reserved for bulkier items that Rorey hadn’t utilized. There was enough room for her to crouch inside. She pulled the door with her fingers under the bottom edge, not shutting it all the way out of fear that she’d be heard. Now she was glad Rorey hadn’t turned off the television.

  “I don’t have the painting,” Rorey said.

  “I am well aware of that. Your hesitation has cost me not only time but opportunity. I wasted an entire trip to West Africa and had to arrive here by boat due to the airport being closed from the storm. I am at the end of my patience.”

  Rorey didn’t respond. They were still in the salon, but close to the galley.

  “Where is Dietrich Artz?” the Frenchman demanded.

  “You know his name?”

  The man who possessed the painting. Jada had his name now.

  “Where is he?” the Frenchman said again.

  “Have you checked his restaurant?”

  “Do not play games with me, Mr. Evertszen. As I have informed you, my patience wears thin.”

  “I don’t know where Deet is. I haven’t seen him since before the storm.”

  A storm she’d weathered in a nice, comfortable hotel. All for the same painting this...this...criminal was after. She wouldn’t have traveled at such a time if not for the painting. Now some stupid Frenchman was here asking for it. She should have acted sooner. She should have insisted Rorey rush the sale.

  Shuffling alerted her to things turning physical.

  “I swear I don’t know where Deet is. I just sailed back to Anguilla today. A hurricane and boats don’t mix too well.”

  “Then you are of no further use to me.”

  “Wait.”

  “Kill him.”

  A muffled shot preceded a grunt from Rorey. And then she heard his body fall to the floor. She covered her mouth. Had the man with the Frenchman shot Rorey? Was he dead? She didn’t hear him moving.

  The Frenchman was willing to kill for the painting….

  Footsteps made her feel faint. She needed more air but didn’t dare take deeper breaths.

  “All clear,” another Frenchman said. The third man, the one she’d seen on the deck.

  “We go now.”

  Jada waited for several more minutes before she felt safe to leave the closet. Her knees ached and her limbs trembled as she emerged. Only the loud television broke the stillness, eerie, deadly.

  Crawling because she didn’t think her legs would support her, she went to Rorey. Blood pooled under his body. His eyes were closed. She checked for a pulse. Nothing.

  What should she do?

  She couldn’t talk to the police. The police would want to know what had happened. The painting would be revealed. It would be in the news. She couldn’t allow anyone to know she was here.

  Standing up, she went into the galley and tore some paper towels off the roll and began wiping everywhere she’d touched. Then, leaving out the side door, she looked around. No one was on the yacht next to Rorey’s. She left off the aft deck, passing a yacht with people laughing around a table, drinking wine. They didn’t notice her.

  It was all she could do to walk normally down the dock to her rental car.

  * * *

  By the time the taxi stopped in front of her hotel, Jada was calmer. She’d managed to get herself back on track. She had a reason for doing what she was doing. A purpose.

  She alighted from the taxi and entered the hotel lobby.

  Ever since she’d learned the story of the painting, she couldn’t forget it. She began collecting similar pieces, pieces that were stolen by Nazis, and returning them to their rightful owners. The injustice of the thefts fuel
ed her. She’d developed a reputation, and when asked why she did it, she simply replied, “I’m Jewish.”

  Eventually, she ran across an amateur art collector who’d gone to Anguilla on vacation and had a conversation with a man who lived there who claimed to own The Portrait of Sarah. The art collector couldn’t recall the man’s name, but he’d given her enough, a location. She’d kept her excitement hidden and feigned ignorance. The amateur art collector hadn’t known the value of the painting, only thought the history was interesting. And Jada hadn’t enlightened him. After searching for an art dealer who could help her while keeping her identity anonymous, Rorey had contacted her. She’d been so close. And now this.

  The lounge of a hotel restaurant caught her eye. Realizing she’d stopped in the middle of the lobby, she wondered what she’d do next. Try to find Dietrich Artz? Fly home in the morning?

  She’d come too far to go home now. Even Rorey’s murder wasn’t going to stop her. But she had to remain anonymous. Deet, as he seemed to be called, didn’t know her. The black-market art dealer didn’t know her. She had to keep it that way.

  Needing some time to think, she went into the lounge and sat at the bar.

  “Iced tea,” she said. “And I’ll take a menu.”

  Glancing down the length of the bar, a man sitting with two others at a table gave her a shocking jolt of recognition. It was the man who’d held a gun on Rorey. Beside him another man looked right at her.

  The Frenchman.

  Did he know who she was? He couldn’t. None of them had seen her. Still, fear chased through her until she managed to control it.

  He tipped his glass of wine toward her and sipped, a look in his eyes she didn’t misinterpret. He liked what he saw.

  After a moment of indecision, she smiled. This could work in her favor. It was risky, but the payoff would be worth it.

  He spoke to his friends and stood. Tall, lean, with thinning medium-brown hair and unremarkable brown eyes, he wasn’t a handsome man by her standards, but he had an aura about him. Power. Intelligence. And a passion for her painting. He dressed expensively, wearing an impeccable black suit. She felt herself responding to his confident approach. There was something intoxicating about that. About his power. She didn’t have to fear him if he took an interest in her.