“I’ll put on the charm—and my goggles.”
She laughed but it had no mirth in it. “Watch that no one follows me around his condo. Buy me time.”
He drove into the Watergate garage. “Time is easy.”
“Injured or not, one look at you and few would mess with you.”
“Just as long as you mess with me, we’re good, babe.” He winked at her and pulled into an empty space.
As they walked into the elevator, she told herself to chill. But she was angry, yes. Angry at Mike’s abrupt entrance to her life once more. Insulted, maybe still a little, yes. Appalled that someone would hire him to bird-dog her. But she was comforted by his presence. That she would not deny, even if the fact that someone had hired him to guard her made her stomach queasy. Above all, she was lured to him, definitely. Enchanted by him. Too much. And she had to keep her mind clear for this. Her breathing regular. Normal. No drama.
And that was the problem. Mikael Lyons by her side gave her something else to think about. Last summer in Paris, she’d grown used to his presence. She’d had time to adjust. But he could not blithely walk into her life, her workplace, one summer afternoon, carry her off, tell her bits about him being her bodyguard, kiss her silly and then sweep her off to bed for hours and not raise her pulse. Panic in her heart. Fear in her soul.
And what she could not be, amid all that, was overwhelmed. Robbed of rational thought. Or so spooked that she missed the clues she needed to gather here tonight to add to her investigation…and get the damn thing over and done.
Clutching her little purse with a special USB and stretchy gloves inside, she tried to chill for this party. Sweeping her mind blank of her afternoon in Mike Lyons’ embrace was a giant task. And she had to have her wits about her to maneuver tonight.
“Good evening, Miss Tierney,” Vincent Mayhew’s butler greeted Mike and her at the front door. The luxurious penthouse condo lay open to the western horizon and the rays of August brilliance burst like diamonds against the glazed white tiles on the patio and in the gold and ivory great room. “So glad you could come.”
“Thank you, Valmont. This is my friend, Mikael Lyons.” She smiled at the thin, bald, eagle-eyed servant. “We’re delighted to be here.”
“Please join the others in the living room. Maurice is serving cocktails.”
“We will.” She and Mike edged their way past a group of people discussing the next election.
Mike jerked a brow, noting the lavish appointments of her boss’s home. “Does well for himself. French empire furniture. A Matisse?”
“Yes.”
“Real?”
“I think so,” she murmured as she led the way into the throng near the patio doors.
“What else is the real McCoy?”
“A lot. Enjoy.” She stopped in front of the under-butler whom she’d met on previous visits. “Hello, Maurice. How are you?”
“Very well, Mademoiselle Tierney. Comment allez vous?”
“Tres bien, Maurice. This is my friend, Monsieur Lyons.”
“Bonsoir Monsieur. What may I serve you, Mademoiselle? Monsieur?”
“I think you know what I like, Maurice,” she said with a twinkle in her eye for the silver-haired gentleman. He and the butler Robert Valmont were “an item.” Their boss knew it and in fact, appreciated their devotion to each other.
“I do.” He snapped his fingers and reached for a bottle. “I keep it here just for you. The very best crème de cassis and good white Burgundy. And you, Monsieur Lyons? What is your pleasure?”
”Water, Maurice. Merci beaucoup.”
She kept up a conversation with Maurice while he poured their drinks, allowing Mike to take stock of the scene before him. Glasses in hand, they moved toward a group clustered around an alabaster grand piano.
“Ah, here she is!” Vince broke from the others to walk toward her, hands out. Though he was forty, he had affectations that were a mix of old European manners and nouveau riche kitsch. He was sometimes quite embarrassing to watch. Like now.
She smiled at him and allowed him to give her air kisses on both cheeks. “Vince. Thanks for having us. My friend is Mike Lyons.”
“Mike.” Vince held out his hand, but from the cool look in his pale grey eyes, the gesture was purely formal. “Great to have you. You must tell me how often you work out at the gym to be able to carry Rebecca out the door the way you did.”
“I try to put in an hour a day when I’m not working. But I don’t recommend it.”
“No? Why not?”
Mike gave him a wry smile. “Like a lot of things, it’s addictive. Takes time and effort and you think about it too much. Makes going to work a problem.”
“And what is your work, Mike?”
“I used to be a SEAL. Now I’m figuring out what to do next.”
Becka didn’t bat an eyelash. She’d thought he was settled with Holden in the Omega Team. What was up with the indecision? Just a white lie as small talk?
Vince said, “A SEAL. Very commendable. Any missions you can tell us about?”
“None.”
Vince laughed. “That’s what I figured. What are you drinking? Vodka?”
“H2O,” Mike said.
“Staying long in Washington?”
Becka shifted. She didn’t like the third degree Vince was giving Mike.
Mike nodded. “Like Rebecca told you on the phone, two weeks. Maybe longer. I’m a native. Grew up here. Love the town.”
“Few can say they’re from here. Those who do form a tight little social set, all to themselves. Is there a Lyons family business?”
“Not a business, no. My dad was a columnist for The Washington Post. My mother taught French lit at Georgetown University.”
Vince put a finger to his lips. His brow wrinkled. “Eric Lyons?”
“The same,” Mike said with some warmth.
“An expert on NATO and the European Union. My father knew him,” Vince said with a true smile on his lips. “They were friends.”
“Really?” Mike sounded delighted. “Nice. Haven’t met many friends of my dad’s in a while.”
“As I recall, they did not see eye-to-eye on the return of art confiscated by the Nazis from the French and German citizens during the world war, but they agreed to disagree.”
Becka stiffened, but shrugged it off quickly. She didn’t want to give signals their conversation meant more than it did. But why would Vince bring that up? Okay, so it was fine to follow up on such a friendship but the topic of lost art seemed too scary. Too coincidental.
Mike’s eyes widened. “Interesting.”
It certainly was. Becka took a sip of her kir. Was it coincidental that Mike’s father and Vince’s had been friends and debated the ownership of confiscated art? Was that a clue of some aspect of the forgery that she investigated here? Had the person who hired Mike for the job of protecting her known about the men’s friendship? Was it of any importance?
Or was she adding two and two and getting five?
Mike took a swallow of his drink. “Is your father an artist or a critic or what is his interest in lost art?”
“He’s a private collector.” Vince smiled. “My grandfather acquired quite a few pieces after the war. Most of them sold to him by the families themselves.”
“I see. He was in Europe then after the Allies took Normandy?”
Vince emptied his wine glass and put it on a nearby table. “He was with a cultural attachment from the American Army, stationed in Paris after August 1944.”
“The best place to be when the missing pieces were brought in and recorded,” Mike added.
“I agree.”
Mike tipped his head. “Would I be right to assume that your grandfather is no longer with us?”
“Right. He died more than twenty years ago. My father continues to collect art he likes.”
“What is your father’s opinion of the World Court’s attempt to prosecute those who refuse to return known artwork to former o
wners?”
Vince shrugged. “Ah, well. C’est la guerre, as they say in France. Things that happen in wartime are often out of anyone’s control. Things get messy. And for the World Court to take legal action against private individuals who bought items in good faith, means they’ll have to show malice and intent to deprive.”
Mike shook his head. “But the Court says those in possession now will have to show bills of sale.”
“Again. Difficult to do because of the conditions under which the works were sold.”
“During air raids, you mean?” Mike asked.
Becka clutched at Mike’s provocative words.
“Or in battle,” Vince shot back.
“Or starving. In need of a few francs to buy milk for the baby, a man would sell almost anything.”
Becka noted that beneath his tan, Mike was flushed, getting hot under the collar about this discussion. It wouldn’t do for her boss to hate him and she had to step in. “I’m sure the Court can resolve this by paying attention to specifics of each case.”
“Of course they can,” Vince said with a curt smile at Mike. Then he took hold of Becka’s elbow. “Let me introduce you around, Becka.”
With a sharp eye at Mike to cool his irritation at Vince, she allowed her boss to lead her over to the group at the piano. John Corman sat playing idly at the keys. His song of choice was Cole Porter’s “I Get a Kick Out of You”.
“This is my new assistant, everyone. Rebecca Tierney. Fine girl. Some of you have met her.” He introduced two women Becka hadn’t met previously and they exchanged smiles. “She has a great command of many things. French. The Impressionists. Rococo furnishings. Annnnd she sings! Don’t you, darling?”
The last word made her flesh crawl. She was not, had never been, would never be his darling. And she’d given him no indication she welcomed it. Nor had he ever presumed so much—dare she call it?—affinity.
And to add trouble to injury, one look at Mike and Becka recognized the predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Thank you, Vince, for the kind words. I’m afraid—“ she said, smiling at the others before her, “—he exaggerates.”
“Not at all. Do not believe her,” Vince said, taking her hand to lead her to the edge of the piano. “Disprove me, Rebecca.”
She demurred. “Really, Vince. I haven’t done this in ages.”
“I heard you the other day in the back room.”
Alarm zinged through her. She never sang these days. Unless she was nervous. And she had been because she was fiddling with his computer back there. Seeing if it had a USB port access. Seeing how old it was. If Vince had looked in on her—
“Well, guess I’m hooked.” She smiled with resignation at the piano player. “Hi, John. How are you?”
“Hi there. I’m well and I’ll be better after you do your bit,” he said, arching a brow in question as he tickled the keys with a few bars. “Good key for you?”
Nodding, she cleared her throat. Relax.
“I’ll do it once around, okay?” She licked her lips.
He gave her the intro to the Cole Porter.
She hadn’t sung in years. Not for anyone to listen to, only humming in her car or when she danced around her apartment. But she hadn’t felt like dancing since last summer.
She took at shot at the lyrics, looking straight into Mikael Lyons’s dreamy eyes. She’d always gotten a kick out of him. No other men ever matched him. She’d tried to replace him. Tried others in the sack. Told herself he was no good for her. Would never want her—and when he had finally joined her in Paris last summer and they’d made love, to her the joy of having him beside her, inside her, was better than Champagne or flying off to some new and thrilling place. All other men had bored her. And she was a fool to think anyone else could ever supplant him. So why did she try?
Yeah. She got a kick out of Mike. She loved him. Wanted him. Still. And she might as well get used to the truth of it. She must have him. No one else would ever do.
And she’d move on to that reality only after she finished this song and this job.
She blinked, her solo done. Smiling, a hand in the air, she acknowledged the polite applause.
Vince laughed, his pale eyes dancing. And as he reached for her elbow, she leaned into Mike. He kissed her on the crown of her hair.
Vince took the hint and backed off. “Rebecca, I think you’re a staple at all my parties.”
“You’re kind, Vince. But I won’t do that again.”
“I’ll try to change your mind. Allow me to leave you. Mingle. Meet others.”
“I will,” she said. “After I get Maurice to mix me another drink, I’m dragging Mike off to gaze at your Matisse.”
“Like the Impressionists, do you, Mike?”
“Renoir, mostly,” he told Vince. “But I’m always eager to see others.”
“Well then, after you get your fill of Matisse, you need to go into my study. Rebecca, take him, why don’t you?”
She brightened. “Thanks. I will.”
“Take a gander then.” Vince nodded, his glance at Mike one of incredulity. Then he excused himself.
“A stroke of luck,” she said to Mike beneath her breath.
“Let’s get you another drink first.”
“A little courage,” she said as she tucked her arm in his and they strolled back toward the under-butler, “is a good thing.”
“Where’s the study?”
She smiled at him as if he’d said something funny. “Near the office and the powder room.”
“Lucky us.”
She got another kir from Maurice and Mike got a refill of water. They were headed for the study.
“Hello-o-o, Rebecca Tierney!”
She turned to face a woman whom she’d known in college. Back then, the girl had been the picture of the obsessed, depressed artist, up all night sketching or painting. She’d been a plain Jane, wiry hair, spindly body, dressed in shapeless cottons and scruffy sandals. A blend of yogi and philosopher, she’d lived across the hall in the dormitory. Becka had liked her, even though she was constantly bumming a dollar here and there to afford her daily lattes at the local café. But the girl who had never seemed to have a dime looked like she’d gotten not only money, but a first class stylist.
“Diane Lavalle!” Becka greeted her with a grin. “You look fabulous.”
“Thank you, thank you. So do you. But you always did.” Diane hugged her, her toned arms grasping her securely to her muscular torso.
Becka couldn’t get over how much Diane had changed. Her unruly dishwater blonde hair was now a sleek, golden mass pulled back in a severe knot at her nape. She wore a slinky white cocktail dress that splashed like a twenties’ flapper girl to her calves. She’d put tiny crystals in her ear lobes and bright red lipstick on her lips. Her eyes—always the most arresting part of her—were rimmed in black and silver shadows showing her ice blue eyes to stark advantage.
“Diane, allow me to introduce my friend, Mike Lyons.”
“How do you do, Mike,” Diane said putting out her hand and they exchanged a few pleasantries about weather in Washington. “How do you know Vincent, Rebecca?”
“I work for him.”
“Do you?” she asked and there was some note in her voice that did not speak of surprise.
“For a few months now. And you?” Becka had to know.
“He has admired my work.”
“Is that right?” Becka remembered Diane had been talented, even if she lacked a dedication to perfecting her own style. “He likes to find young new artists whom he can shepherd through the warrens of the art world. So what are you doing? Painting? I remember you took classes in those, as well as graphics.”
Diane flipped a hand to dismiss Becka’s words. “I worked in graphic design for a PR firm for a while after graduating. It paid the bills. But it wasn’t very rewarding otherwise. I had to get on with it, if you know what I mean. I moved to Rouen in northern France. Not far from Monet’s gardens of Give
rny, actually. I loved it. That’s where I met Vincent.”
“He did tell me how he loves to walk along the lanes in Normandy. He found you there, did he?”
“Wandering, I’m afraid. He likes my work.”
“Good for you,” Becka said, recalling that what Diane did well was imitate a certain Impressionist known for painting in dots. “What are you doing?”
“Ah. Well. My own explorations. Sort of Jackson Pollack.” She laughed. “Nothing like the items of Vince’s more traditional taste.”
That was for sure. And so how did Diane pay her bills now? She certainly looked better heeled than when she’d been in college. “Do you live in Washington?”
“No, I’m here for only a few days. I live in Miami.”
Becka felt Mike stiffen. He was thinking of Garcia and Vince’s connections. However, she thought it intriguing that an artist would live so far from New York where so many more in the art world lived or traded. “Miami? Wow. You came to hot from hotter.”
“I had a bit of business to take care of.” Diane regarded Mike with covetous eyes. “What do you say you and I do lunch next week?”
“Sounds good.” Terrible, actually. She had better things to do than socialize. “Call me at the shop. We’ll set a date.”
“You’re on. And now I’m off to drag Corman from the piano.”
“Oh, good,” Becka said, interested in how Diane knew the man. “You’ve met.”
“We have. Years ago.” Diane waggled her fingers at Becka and Mike. “I’ll call.”
“Do.”
“Interesting,” Mike said as the two of them wandered past a couple, through the patio doors and out onto the deck. No one else was out there. Becka was sure he’d led them out here to talk privately.
The sun was setting, sparkling white-gold rays off the ripples of the Potomac. Becka had to turn her back because the spray of light was so brilliant it put spots before her eyes.
“What’s she doing in Miami, I wonder,” Becka murmured.
“Odd place for an aspiring artist.”
The Omega Team: The Lion (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 7
