Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  Recovering, she sputtered and looked around as if for rescue, but the hostess had skated away to greet another patron.

  “Sorry, Cleo.” He smiled. “Unless you can top the fifty I gave the hostess to seat me here, you have a dinner companion.”

  She sucked down a long swallow of her cocktail, a Campari and soda, if he wasn’t mistaken. An Italian aperitif, a long way from her usual light beer.

  He gave her a minute while he checked out the scene. White tablecloths, candlelight and flowers, brocade wallpaper. Could be an upscale place in D.C. or New York, except the view out the window—moonlight carving diamonds in a shield of water.

  Couples, a few families with older children. A single man in the corner engrossed in his mini tablet. No one watching Cleo.

  Her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened, but high color stained her cheeks. “You wasted your money. My name is not Cleo.”

  Thomas raised a hand and ordered a scotch. When the server left with his cruise card, he raised an eyebrow, pointed to the right sleeve of her blue silk blouse. “You can prove you’re not Cleo by rolling up your sleeve. If you have no band of butterflies there, I’ll leave you alone.”

  “I have to prove nothing. You’re the one here under false pretenses. I could call Security.”

  “Go ahead. But it will cause a scene, call attention to you. Raise questions about your identity. Do you want that, Cleo? Or should I call you Mimi?”

  The server returned with the scotch. Thomas eyed her as he signed the drink chit and stowed his card. All color had drained from her face, leaving only the shock and a few ginger freckles. And highlighting the smudges beneath her eyes. Not sleeping. Probably not eating much.

  They placed their dinner orders. He ordered Coquilles St. Jacques. Cleo chose Boeuf Bourguignon, the first entrée on the menu. She probably hadn’t even read the list. He added a bottle of Pinot Gris to the order, and the waiter left.

  Deciding to wait her out, Thomas sipped his drink. Good thing they were stuck on a ship or she would hit the road.

  She heaved a sigh and moved her small beaded bag from her lap to the table. “Why are you here and how do you know about Mimi?”

  “I know what happened in Venice. Your father sent me to protect you.”

  “My father? But how did he—? Oh, Greg called him.” She huffed. “But of course he couldn’t tear himself away to come in person.”

  He’d hoped to save this until a more private place. “The admiral’s laid up with a broken leg. He’s in the hospital.” He recounted the rest of the conversation, ending with, “He hadn’t told your mom yet when I spoke to him Friday.”

  She looked stricken, by turns guilty and afraid. Finally her gaze sharpened as if she’d set aside the emotion for the moment. “But why you?”

  “I’m out of the army. I own a security company. The admiral thought you’d trust me more than one of my operatives. I didn’t tell him why you wouldn’t want to see me.”

  The color found her cheekbones again. “You got that right. Tell my father I’m just fine. I don’t need your protection. I don’t know how you smuggled yourself onto this cruise, but you can smuggle yourself off at the next port.”

  “That’s my plan but you’re joining me.”

  “No way. As Mimi I’m safe on this ship.”

  “You’re not safe anywhere. By now the bad guys have probably figured out where you are. Centaur will stop at nothing to obtain the missing necklace.”

  “Centaur, like the mythological man-horse combo?”

  Her puzzled frown told him the boyfriend hadn’t shared any of his dealings with Zervas’s organization. No involvement. One of the knots in his shoulders eased.

  “This Centaur is a criminal organization that deals in contraband art and artifacts. The men who killed your boyfriend took the hard drive from his laptop. Only a matter of time before they trace you by messages between you and Mimi.”

  “You’re making this up. I don’t believe you.” Her stricken expression belied her words.

  Oh yeah, she believed him. After what had happened to the boyfriend and her cousin, she had no choice. She just didn’t want the messenger to be Thomas. But there too she had no choice. He had to persuade her to accept his help.

  “Cle—” Better if he didn’t say her real name, even here. “Look, I know you. You want to believe you left behind all the danger and death, that you’re safe. Why do you think they suspect you know where the necklace is?”

  She gave a small shrug. “Because of René, I guess.”

  “Facebook.”

  Her face went blank. Her eyes shifted away as she realized the ramifications of what she’d done. “The necklace. René took pictures of me wearing it. I thought it was jewelry he made on commission. Was it a copy or the real Cleopatra’s necklace?”

  “So you know what the piece is?”

  “I do now. I looked it up in the ship’s internet café. Egyptian archeologists discovered her tomb a few years ago, near Alexandria. The find included the necklace.”

  He nodded. “After they catalogued everything, the government organized a traveling exhibit of jewelry and coins and busts. After all the turmoil and changes in government, they need money. The exhibit opened in London and then went to Washington, D.C.”

  “But the necklace was stolen before the exhibit could return to Europe and open in Paris.” Her gaze sharpened. “This Centaur criminal gang… the art thieves?”

  “The obvious suspects, yes. Moreau made at least one copy for them. The police found sketches and measurements in his studio. You could’ve been wearing either, but both the copy and the original necklace have vanished.” He leaned forward, laid his right hand on her small purse, and grasped her left hand with his right. A flash of awareness jolted him. “Let me get you to safety... Mimi.”

  Tears welled in her pretty green eyes. She shook her head, pulled her hand free. “No, I’m safe on the ship. I’ll work something out myself.”

  “These are dangerous men. You can’t pretend everything will be rosy like you used to do when you were a kid. Running won’t fix this. They’ll find you.”

  She pushed her chair back, nearly tipping it over, and snatched up her purse. “Leave me alone. I need to think.”

  Sidestepping the server delivering their meals, she ran from the restaurant. Her wrap-around skirt gave him a tantalizing glimpse of endless legs.

  “Will madame be returning?” the man asked, his demeanor carefully neutral, as if a tearful spat was a normal occurrence.

  Hell no. “Possibly. Leave the plate.”

  On the back of her abandoned chair lay a black pashmina. Now that he’d planted his tracking button on her purse, he could deliver her shawl later. Her denial and suspicion were understandable. What she’d had to face would traumatize anyone.

  But why didn’t she ask about Mimi?

  ***

  Why, why, why did Tommy have to show up here?

  Cleo gripped the ship’s rail with both hands and fought to suppress the sobs crowding her chest. She’d managed okay before he appeared. Playing the part of Mimi and laughing with Deidre and Stacy helped keep up the pretense for herself as well as for them, but Tommy had to come along and scrape the bloody scabs off, rub her face in Mimi’s death. And remind her of the fool she’d made of herself over him.

  And could again.

  The rush of water against the hull far below and the cool breeze in her hair should soothe her frazzled nerves. But in the black water she pictured Tommy Devlin’s compelling face. No, Thomas. Andie said everyone called him that now, even her. He was the reason she hooked up with so many losers, his opposites. She could keep a part of herself distant, so when they hurt her, the pain didn’t cut as deep. Oh great, she could analyze her issues but not fix herself. Dammit.

  Rubbing the goose bumps on her arms, she jerked away from the rail and hurried inside to the forward elevators. She didn’t want to think about any of this tonight. If the damn man bribed the reservations
clerk to locate her, he could also find her stateroom.

  A few minutes later, she entered the darkened theater. Beyond the sloping rows of seats, the acrobats leaped about on the stage. Halfway down the aisle on the left, she spotted Deidre’s bright blond head. Safety. Escape. Perfect.

  When the two women saw her, they scooted over to give her the aisle seat.

  ”I thought you were too tired,” Stacy said, leaning across Deidre.

  “I felt better after I ate,” Cleo whispered.

  She crossed her legs and focused on the gyrating figures under the stage lights. The small troupe executed complicated dance-like formations and tumbling to music. Her heartbeat slowed, finally settling.

  Deidre elbowed her. She winked and jerked a nod toward Cleo’s right. “A hot somebody’s watching you.”

  A charge kicked her heart rate into high. Across the aisle, Thomas Devlin smiled at her.

  She frowned and mouthed, “Go away.”

  He pointed toward the stage as if to say, “I’m only watching the show.”

  “Keeping him a secret, huh?” Deidre said.

  “I ran into him at Cuisine d’Argent. That’s all.”

  “Looks like he wants to run into you again, hon.”

  Stacy giggled. “And again.”

  “Enough,” Cleo shot back. “Not interested.”

  “Whoohoo, if I wasn’t happily married, I’d sure as hell be interested,” Deidre said.

  Face burning, Cleo focused straight ahead on the acrobats. Not on Deidre or Stacy. Some protection they were, with tongues practically hanging out.

  No wonder. Thomas was just as sexy as ever.

  More. Shoulders impossibly broad in his crisp white dress shirt. Intense and very, very male. A few silver hairs gleamed in his thick brown hair, its unruly nature controlled by an expert haircut. Same square jaw and sensual mouth. Same eagle-fierce dark-amber eyes and slashing black brows. Same take-charge arrogance that used to piss her off, but with the edges smoothed into power and confidence. Confidence that tempted her to lean on him, rely on him. Like he wanted.

  Not gonna happen. She was safe here, as Mimi.

  She’d left her feelings for him behind her, or so she’d thought. Hot? Yowza. She flashed chills and fever just sitting across the aisle from him. And if his gaze penetrated her reaction to him, he would use his knowledge to get what he wanted.

  He wasn’t finished trying to drag her back to Dad. To safety, he said, but the admiral hired him, didn’t he? Cut from the same cloth. The kind of man who would control you and steer you without you realizing until it was too late. If she gave in and let him take charge, she’d end up living under her dad’s thumb again, smothered, stifled, and stuffed into a box of his making.

  But Thomas was right. This criminal gang Centaur thought she knew the necklace’s hiding place. Or did they want to kill her? Either way, her prospects were grim. The cruise would end, and she’d have to run for her life. And hide again, but how? She knew zip about being on the run, being anonymous. Maybe if she could get far enough away, somewhere else in Europe, she could go to the police.

  No police. They’re everywhere. René’s words sent her reeling. Again.

  But of all people why did her dad have to send Thomas?

  Everyone applauded and the lights came up. The show was over and she hadn’t seen any of the antics that wowed the audience. On stage the dozen or so brightly clad acrobats lined up taking their bows.

  She stood when her seat companions rose to leave. And Thomas. Her nerves sparked and leaped like the tumblers.

  His smile showed perfect white teeth. The better to bite you with, my dear. “After you, ladies.”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Mimi?” Stacy’s grin was bigger than the ship’s buffet.

  Without missing a beat, he said, “I’m Thomas Devlin.”

  Thomas. The name sounded right delivered by his deep voice. And Tommy didn’t suit the boss of a security company. One who spoke with authority and wore woodsy cologne. She could kick him for smelling sinfully delicious.

  Cleo squeezed the introduction to Stacy and Deidre from between clenched teeth.

  The two women declared how thrilled they were to meet him. He asked them what port they’d liked so far and seemed to focus on their answers with sincerity. With Deidre prodding her from behind, she had no choice but to walk up the stairs beside Tommy—Thomas. Deidre and Stacy fell in behind them.

  He took her arm and draped her pashmina over it. “You left this in the restaurant.”

  “Thank you. How did you find me?”

  “A lucky guess.”

  Oh, right. He’d probably bribed another one of the staff. She seethed, unable to blast him with her two all-ears pals on their heels. How could she shake him?

  When they reached the exit, Stacy spoke up. “We’re headed up to the nightclub for karaoke. Won’t you join us?”

  Cleo closed her eyes. No, no, please say no.

  He laughed, that sexy rumble she’d never forgotten and felt deep inside her, dammit. “Thank you, but I need my sleep. I have an early morning tai chi class.”

  With a wave, he strode away.

  She managed to keep her mouth from dropping open as she watched him go. The man did have a fine rear view. His tailored trousers cupped his firm buns. Muscular legs propelled him. He moved with an athlete’s natural and steady grace.

  She should be relieved he was going. What was he up to?

  Chapter 8

  THOMAS STOOD TO the side, away from the stateroom door’s peephole. He mouthed, “Now.”

  The white-jacketed waiter grinned and tapped on the door. “Madame? I bring you clean towels.”

  A rustling noise beyond the door. Then, “Just a sec.”

  Thomas held his breath. If she noticed the tray with its covered plate—obviously not clean towels—would she open the door? She could call Security, but no, too risky after what he’d explained.

  After an interminable moment, the door opened. Cleo, still dressed in the slinky green wrap dress, gaped at the waiter. One hand flew to her throat, shadows of emotion darkening her expression. Fear? When her wide gaze lit on Thomas, her brows drew together and her mouth thinned.

  Before she had time to object, he elbowed his way inside and held the door open. “You left without dinner.”

  She held up a hand. “You can’t come in.”

  “I’m already in... Mimi.” Her hair was loose on her shoulders the way he liked it. Her citrus scent tempted him to soften his approach. But no, he had to make her understand her life was at stake. “No karaoke?”

  “Maybe I have an early tai chi class too,” she huffed.

  “I’ll be there if you will.” He turned to the waiter, who stared, rapt, at their exchange.

  The man’s cheeks flushed the brick-red of the carpet before he ducked his head. He slipped past Cleo and deposited the tray on the cocktail table. “Buon appetito, signorina,” he said as he slunk out.

  “Thank you, Armando.” Thomas closed the door firmly.

  “How much did you bribe him?”

  “Bribe is an ugly word. He accepted a tip for his services. Worth every penny.” He set the goblets on the vanity counter beside the closet and poured wine into both. “I had a glass of this at dinner. Very nice.”

  “I don’t want any.”

  “You shouldn’t have opened the door so readily. The stewards already prepared the room.” He gestured toward the bed and its towel frog with coffee creamer eyes.

  “I suppose it could’ve been an assassin.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, worse. It’s you.”

  “Give me a chance to explain some things, and you’ll change your mind.”

  He put a glass in her hand and closed her fingers around it.

  Sipping his wine, Thomas watched her expressive face, emotions clear in her sexy eyes. Resentment. Indecision. Her shoulders lowered a fraction. And resignation.

  He might win this round. He skirted the queen bed and sat
on the loveseat. Uncovering the plate with a flourish, he inhaled elaborately. “Eat before it gets cold.”

  “Not hungry.” Her nostrils flared as the aromas from the beef dish lured her a few steps closer.

  “Right. I just heard your belly growl. Eat. Have some wine.”

  She sidled over and sat on the other end of the loveseat. Spread her napkin on her lap, gripped her fork and knife, and glared at him. He could hardly blame her if she attacked. But instead she stabbed the beef.

  She held herself rigid as if ready to bolt, color high on her cheekbones. It wasn’t fear keeping that thick wall of tension between them. He gave her a few minutes to enjoy her meal. Pick at her food was more like it.

  “Something we need to get out of the way, Cleo. I apologize for the shoddy way I treated you ten years ago. I deserved that punch in the gut. And more.”

  She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and pushed away her plate. Drew a shuddering breath. Shit, he’d made her cry.

  But she hiked up her chin and met his gaze with dry eyes. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I was stupid. I had too much to drink that night.”

  “We all did, but that doesn’t excuse my behavior.” An apology? Last thing he expected. Did she regret the whole thing? The reason for her anger and the major attitude?

  “Tommy, it was your room at your dad’s house. I sneaked in and climbed into your bed. I thought— Hell, I don’t know what I thought, but I was out of line.”

  “We were both in the wrong. But I should’ve apologized long before now.”

  Hurt flickered in her gaze and vanished. Her lips curved in a small smile that zinged around inside his chest. “Just forget it ever happened.”

  Forget it? How could he when the vision of her totally naked, pale body as she hurried to dress—rose-tipped breasts, curvy rear end, toned legs—was lasered permanently into his cortex. He had a lot to drink that night but not nearly enough to wipe out that memory.

  He swallowed, tried to puzzle her out while she returned to her plate. She’d abandoned the beef in favor of stirring around the potatoes. They weren’t back to being friends, but it was a step.