“You’d be surprised,” Max said. “I have a buddy in the country. Knew him in the Stan.” At her blank look, he added, “Military slang for Afghanistan. Gramornia sent troops as part of the NATO forces. When he went home, he moved up to the Royal Guard. Happened to mention in an e-mail the palace scuttlebutt about the UC agent. There’s other political dirt but it probably doesn’t connect to this.”
Mara doubted the buddy just “happened to mention” the agents. More likely Max led him to the revelation.
“I was followed on the way here,” Cort said. “About five-ten, big nose, receding hairline. Lost him at Metro Center.”
Mara pictured the huge transfer station, an octopus of connecting lines. Definitely a place to lose a tail. Cort continued to impress her with his resourcefulness.
Max shrugged. “My buddy didn’t mention descriptions or names or the number of agents. If I ask, he might balk. Catch on I was pumping him.”
“First the over-muscled gorilla who grabbed me. Now this guy,” she said. “Are they working together or are they separate factions?” Her head reeled. Were she and Cort in danger from all sides? Feeling surrounded by enemies, she wiped her palms on her pants.
“I have no knowledge of the connection between those two or their stake in the jewels. But clearly we have more than one faction.” Devlin’s chair rolled a little as he leaned back. To Cort, he said, “Your father ever mention a group called Centaur?”
The question threw Cort. Brow tight with perplexity, he slid his hand from Mara’s. Time to focus and not on the sympathy in her eyes or the fear emanating from her. “You mean like the mythological part horse-part man?”
“This Centaur is an international criminal syndicate involved in stealing and selling art and artifacts on the black market. Centaur’s relatively new, formed in the last several years.” Devlin waited, his penetrating blue eyes watchful and wary.
Cort shook his head slowly, meeting Devlin’s gaze. “The only time I talked to Leon since my trial was two days before he died. He never mentioned any criminal gang.”
“He told you only about the puzzle ring?”
“Yes. He said he’d leave up to me what I did with the jewels once I found them. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’d heard about this Centaur in prison.”
“Or if they’d contacted him.”
The air snagged in Cort’s lungs as the import of Devlin’s suggestion sank in. If Leon knew Centaur wanted the Gramornia crown jewels, would he have put them on the trail of the puzzle ring? If true, another betrayal. Then why send Cort for the first ring piece? Mara placed her hand on his knee. The contact anchored him, brought him back. No, Leon making a deal from a prison he’d never leave made no sense.
“What about Centaur?” Mara asked, breaking the suffocating tension.
Apparently satisfied Cort knew nothing about the criminal gang, Devlin nodded. “I started picking up mention of Centaur a few years ago. Then Max had a run-in with their activities last fall. Word is they began in Europe around. Started small but various groups of art thieves around the world have joined them. Besides black-market dealings with unscrupulous collectors, they’re involved in art forgery.”
“And now they want the crown jewels?” Cort asked.
“While I doubt Gramornian agents would attack anyone or break into an apartment, at least with such appalling lack of finesse—” he tilted his head toward Mara “—I know for a fact Centaur agents employ violence without compunction.”
Cort blew out a breath. “Mr. Devlin, if your offer still stands, I’ll have that stiff drink now. Bourbon on the rocks if that works.” The break would give him time to consider bringing Devlin in on his other problem. The man might have the connections he needed.
“No problem, and make it Thomas. I’ll join you. Anyone else?” The others shook their heads. He crossed to the wall cabinets. An opened panel displayed crystal decanters and an ice bucket. A moment later he handed Cort a glass and sat down with his.
Cort thanked him and downed a healthy gulp. The amber liquid spread its warmth down his throat. Maker’s Mark. He recognized the rich flavor and smoky aroma. Had tasted it once or twice before. Too pricey for his wallet.
“Big Nose could’ve been either Centaur’s man or a Gramornian agent,” Max put in.
“Or FBI,” Mara said.
“Not FBI,” Cort said, shifting in his chair. “FBI tail was a different guy. Crew cut, shades, windbreaker to cover his sidearm. They have a look, these Feds. I lost him too.”
Max sputtered a laugh into his iced tea.
“And there’s something else,” Cort continued. “I talked to Kaplan—that’s FBI Special Agent Al Kaplan—before I came here today. They want me to lead them to the jewels.”
Devlin leaned forward, planted his elbows on the table. “Why would they subcontract to the Jeweler’s son? What’s going on?”
“I asked Kaplan that. It took me awhile to get through his doublespeak but here’s the crux. He’d hoped Leon’s old partner Dante Falco would spill on the hiding place. Until last night. Falco was found dead.”
Stunned silence, the same reaction he’d had when Kaplan laid it on him.
“Go on.” Devlin picked up his whiskey. “How’d he die?”
“Preliminary police report said it was an accident. He’d just robbed a condo in Alexandria. Owners were out to a party. He fell from their ninth-floor balcony.”
Devlin’s pen flew across his paper. “How did he gain access?”
Falco might’ve used the same technique Cort remembered from the Smithsonian job—a grappling hook and rope. Or maybe he’d climbed the bricks and then jimmied the slider. Speculating aloud might implicate him. Cort shrugged. “Kaplan didn’t say.”
Max emitted a cynical huff. “People think balconies on the high floors are secure. So they don’t lock the sliders. An old hand like Falco would know how to take advantage.”
Cort nodded. Leon had taught Falco all his tricks, probably that one. “He apparently fell on the way back down with his loot. His backpack was loaded with jewelry and cash. One of the tenants found him on the ground. Broken neck.”
A nine-floor drop. He guessed a fall like that would break more than a neck but didn’t say so when he caught Mara’s ashen face.
For a few moments the only sound in the room was the ticking of the antique clock and the scratch of Devlin’s pen.
“You think it was really an accident?”
Chapter 10
Cort lifted the box containing Mara’s new desktop computer CPU. She’d crammed the car’s hatchback with state-of-the-art electronics. They’d stopped at an office supply store for the PC and at the Apple Store for a MacBook.
He’d restrained himself from whistling in reaction when he glimpsed the bills over her shoulder. Her money. Her tools. He would’ve spent that much on power tools if he had it. And insurance would cover most of her cost.
Mara slid out a bag of Chinese take-out. The aromas had tortured him for the past half hour. The meeting ran until seven and his stomach needed more than lemon bread.
She locked the car and headed into the building. “You never answered Mr. Devlin’s question.”
No, he’d needed time to process. Analyze the possibilities. Consider the odds.
“Believe Falco’s death an accident?” he said finally. “As much as I believe in the Easter Bunny. Leon called him the Human Fly, like he had suction cups on his feet and hands. His taking a header at this particular time is too big a coincidence.”
And too big an opportunity to pass up. Kaplan had insisted the cops didn’t find a ring piece in Falco’s house. Didn’t mean one didn’t exist.
“And what did my boss want when he pulled you aside after the meeting ended?” She angled her head, suspicion crimping her brow.
No reason not to tell her the first part of their conversation. He grinned at her over the big box. “Not much. He delivered a warning.”
“About me?”
“Wanted to make
sure I wasn’t playing you.”
Devlin had put his warning in no uncertain terms. His tone was low but lethally clear. “My file on you says you’re on the level but who knows. Mara’s savvy and sharp but I wouldn’t want some asshole taking advantage of her soft heart. If you’re conning her or if she gets hurt, you’ll have no place to hide. You’ll wish you were back in a nice, safe fucking prison. You hear what I’m saying?”
Cort heard him all right. Loud and clear. You hear what I’m saying? The question he’d heard in stir from the COs. Except the correction officers delivered their warnings at bullhorn decibels.
She huffed in exasperation. “I can take care of myself.”
“Mara, he was only doing what he does best—protection, security. Chill.”
Because of that, Cort had made a leap of faith and asked for the man’s help.
“There’s another player in this game,” he’d said, “on the opposite side.”
“The guys who gave you those?” Devlin indicated the fading wounds on his face.
Gratified Mara’s boss respected him enough to assume it was more than one, Cort nodded. “Mara can’t know about any of this, but I’m asking for your help.”
Devlin studied him for a long moment before he spoke. “What do you need?”
“Know anybody in the Gramornian embassy?”
“Matter of fact I do.” Devlin smiled and handed over his card. “Call my private number and we’ll talk more.”
Feeling more hopeful than he had since Colonel Yerik and his clones showed up, Cort had shaken the man’s hand with enthusiasm.
Inside, he watched as Mara punched in her new code and pressed her thumb to the biometric pad. Her bunched-up shoulders relaxed as the device flashed a green light. The living room looked the same as when they’d left it. No breach, no burglary, no threat. For now. Her face had that wide-eyed, scared expression, probably the result of the meeting’s revelations. The main reason he’d called Kaplan and spoken to Devlin about Yerik still stood—her safety.
“Put that here for now.” She deposited their dinner on the small dining table opposite the kitchen bar. “I have to do something about the desk before I can set up in the bedroom.”
The aromas of sesame chicken and Hunan beef made him salivate like a retriever. Ignoring her directions, he kept walking. Maybe his surprise would cheer her up. Or not.
For the first time since he’d surveyed his handiwork, second thoughts crowded his brain. Had he crossed some invisible line? Maybe she’d hate what he’d done. Shit, did he screw up? His gut clenched tighter than a vise grip.
“Cort, where are you taking that?” She trotted along behind him down the hall. “Not the bedroom, it’s—” Her almond-eyes widened when she spotted the new desk.
He set the box on the floor. “I wanted to build you a desk but I don’t have the tools or work space. This was the next best thing.”
She wandered to the new installation and ran her small hand across its polished surface. “Cort, you did this for me.” Wonder floated in her words.
“I wanted to repay you for putting me up. And putting up with me.” He tried a smile but his mouth was too stiff. “The salesman said this L-shape was better for the corner space than one long desk like the original. More room for the two monitors and the new laptop. It’s wood, sturdier than that orange-crate the burglars crushed. If you don’t like it, I can take it back.”
“Never.” She’d thrown her arms around him and pressed her warm little body against him before he realized she’d crossed the room. “Thank you.”
She bestowed a tremulous smile on him. Tears like iridescent jewels shimmered.
“You’re crying. I wanted to make you happy.”
“You did. I love it. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” She tipped her head back, offered her lush mouth.
He needed no further invitation. He lowered his mouth to hers and feasted on her sweet taste, her heat and hunger that matched his. In only a few short weeks, this woman had tangled up his mind and jump-started something in his chest he thought was dead. Her arms slid up to tighten around his neck like she too felt the heat detonate between them. He slid his hand to her mass of hair, wrapping his fingers in it, reveling in its warm slide.
The power of his kiss had every muscle in Mara’s body going lax. His rich, dark taste exploded on her tongue. She’d tried to protect herself against the sensual onslaught but his generosity and his hard-soft mouth crushed all her defenses and aroused a hunger more intense than any she could remember. Deep, burning kisses, drugging and devastating.
His hands trailed fire everywhere he touched. Her head, her throat, her breast. She gloried in his scent—fresh-cut wood and male—in the scrape of his chin, in the press of his arousal. No man had ever kissed her with such urgent hunger. Desire flooded through her. Before she lost control, she had to stop him. She didn’t do impulse sex.
When he rained kisses down her neck to the open collar of her blouse, she whispered, “This is happening too fast. We’re all wrong for each other. It’s insane.”
“Not insane,” he said. “I want you. You want me. We’re free adults. What’s wrong with that?” He nibbled her ear and her lower lip before molding his mouth to hers again.
She absorbed the sharp thrill. No denying that she wanted him, wanted this.
Her passion was only natural. She hadn’t been with a man in months. But this wasn’t just any man. This was Cort Jones, a man she couldn’t afford to trust. Once a crook, always a crook. Somehow her dad’s motto rang false. Or did she just not want to listen to the little voice?
The question brought her back from the brink. She flattened her palms against his chest—his very hard chest, where his heart pounded a heavy beat—and pushed. “Cort, stop.”
He went rock still, then released her and stepped back.
She swallowed and straightened her blouse.
“I’m looking for happily ever after, and you’re not it. I can’t allow sex to confuse my emotions,” she said, her voice unwillingly rough. “I wanted to thank you for my beautiful desk. I didn’t mean to do it with more than a simple kiss.”
His gray eyes gleamed dark as charcoal and his breath rasped, as if he’d run miles. “Nothing simple about that kiss. The chemistry between us is explosive. So are the complications. Life has taught me control and patience, but you make both damned hard.”
Heady words. Her body pulsed. He was right about the chemistry. And the complications. After that kiss, he knew how much she wanted him. No time to be reckless when danger surrounded them like cobras ready to strike.
He turned toward the door. “I’ll get the other box.”
Control, yes, essential where Cort was concerned. Patience? He wasn’t giving up. Her racing pulse hitched a beat.
***
Mara observed Cort across the table trying to manage rice with chopsticks. Sinewy muscles rippled beneath the tattoos of his free arm as the hand fisted.
The two of them sat at her small table, the food containers between their plates. From the iPod speakers, Marcia Ball sang “Red Beans” and boogied on her piano. Not the right ethnic group, but food.
When most of the clump of rice dribbled from his awkward grip, she decided he’d had enough. “Yeoman effort. Give it up and use the fork.”
A sigh of frustration escaped him. “You don’t have to say it twice. I’m starving. No wonder so many Asians are skinny.” He dropped the chopsticks as if they were live wires and snatched up his fork.
She enjoyed watching him put away the heap on his plate. He must need a lot of fuel to power that strong body. Shoving away the sensual memory of their hot kiss, she scissored up a bite of chicken but her real enjoyment came from watching Cort enjoy his meal. Her nerves were still strung tight as her tennis racquet. She could barely swallow.
“Me being followed, the break-in, the added players we heard about today—all that has you tied in knots,” he said.
Damn, she’d ho
ped to keep her fears to herself. “The danger seems to be growing exponentially.”
As she thought about the threats all around them, her heart thumped hard and her stomach twisted. In spite of her resolve, she wished she could throw herself into his arms and forget everything except the heat they generated.
Her appetite gone, she set down her chopsticks. “The situation reminds me of that old movie It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, where all these different people race to find a buried treasure. Don’t they try to kill each other?”
Outside, a horn blasted, slamming Mara’s heart into high gear. Her hand flat on her uneasy stomach, she crossed to the iPod dock. She stabbed the button to turn it off, shuddering involuntarily at Coldplay’s “Death and All His Friends.”
“Don’t make it worse than it is,” he said, studying her when she returned to her seat. “These guys want what we have or might find.”
She drank some more wine to calm her nerves. “Don’t be too sure. Maybe whoever took my computers used the files to find Falco.”
And kill him. He swore, as if wishing that conclusion were fantasy. “Like I said in the meeting, the FBI will keep tabs on us but not interfere. If we get into trouble, they’ll step in. So the players we have to worry about are Centaur and maybe the accomplices.”
“Unless there’s only one now that Falco’s dead.”
“We’ll figure that out soon enough.” He slugged down the rest of his Snake Dog IPA.
The local beer’s weird label gave her the creeps but her nerves had nothing to do with the graphic. “I don’t like the FBI being involved. I don’t trust them.”
“Me neither.” Cort said. “But I trust them more than the devil I don’t know.”
Although she wasn’t convinced, his concern made her smile. “After we eat, I intend to set up both computers and transfer my files.”
“Even though copies of our stuff are on your tablet, those bastards got all your other files. Tough break.” He raised his bottle of beer toward her in a sad toast, then added more Hunan beef and another egg roll to his plate.
Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) Page 9
