The man gave her a long once-over and smiled, teeth white against his olive skin. “Pleasure to meet you.”
She stepped forward. “He kidnapped me.”
Giovanni gave a good-natured laugh. “He must really like you.”
Simon leaned past her. “She’s had a few drinks. Mind if we use the back room?”
“I have not been drinking,” she sputtered.
Giovanni just laughed harder. “Sure, sure. Come in.”
He let them pass. Simon smirked at her knowingly, and Jillian threw her hands up in defeat. So much for rescue. Did she not look like she was in trouble?
A dark hallway led to the front room and a glimpse of quaint tables on one side and wooden stools lined up against a bar on the other. Lively Italian music played in the background. The aroma of tomato sauce and garlic made her stomach growl.
Giovanni showed them into a small room and turned on the lights. In the center of the room, an orange swag light hung over a single table, four chairs, and a vintage hand-painted teapot stuffed with plastic flowers.
It looked safe enough. No mob bosses in sight. No implements of torture. No bullet holes in the walls. But the night was young.
Simon murmured something to Giovanni. “Coming right up,” he replied, winked at her, and left.
Jillian set her handbag down on the table and muttered, “I can’t believe I got kidnapped again.”
Simon dropped into the chair across from her and regarded her with skepticism. “Does this happen to you a lot?”
She glowered at him and then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, who would believe she’d been kidnapped three times in the span of six months? And twice in under two minutes? No one. She barely believed it herself.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Okay, what do you want with me?”
Simon slipped off his leather jacket, revealing a blue oxford shirt, tanned forearms, and a gun holster. He threw a passport and a wallet on the table and rubbed his eyes. “I have no fucking idea. I was hoping you could tell me.”
She gaped at him. “You don’t know why you grabbed me?”
“Nope.” He opened the wallet and pulled out a license. “Franco Baldwin. That’s your kidnapper. Know him?”
He held up the picture of the first man who’d tried to abduct her, and she shook her head. “Never seen him before tonight. Where did you get his wallet?”
“Lifted it off him.” He frowned after he opened the passport, and his gaze rose to hers. He turned it around to face her. “This is your passport.”
Her mouth went dry as she took it. It was hers. How would anyone get her passport?
“Franco had this. Where was it stored?” Simon asked her.
“In my file cabinet—” She froze. They had been to her apartment. In her apartment. In her things. She suddenly lost her appetite. “Why would they want my passport? Why would they need it?”
“To leave the country?”
Oh, God. She rubbed her throbbing head. This was getting weirder by the minute.
Simon leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Ever hear from a man named Dennis Jackson?”
She looked over the top of her passport. “No. Who is he?”
Simon shrugged. “Just checking. I thought he might be involved. Do you have any idea why Franco would want you?”
“No,” she said. That much was true. “I have no enemies.” Which was also true. She’d just leave out the part about her family of former thieves. They had plenty of enemies.
Simon asked, “Okay. What do you do for a living?”
She put the passport in her bag. “Curator. Most of the things I work with are already dead.”
He was silent, as if waiting for something else. But there was nothing else. That was her life. Work, home, some continuing adult education classes, and a rare night out with friends.
Simon finally said, “You told me you were kidnapped before.”
“Six months ago. He was caught. It’s not the same man,” she said and narrowed her eyes as a thought occurred to her. “You were following them. Who are they?”
He looked very unhappy. “I was following you, because they were following you.”
“And you haven’t a clue why,” she stated.
His eyes narrowed. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, a feeling of dread washing over her. “How do you know who I am and where to find me? Why is everyone trying to grab me? And who are you?”
He watched her for a few long beats before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a velvet bag. From it, he removed a rudimentary concave lens. Jillian’s breath caught at the way it reflected the faint light, and she forgot about her million questions. There was something about it. . . .
Simon handed it over, and she took it in utter fascination. The two-inch-diameter lens was smooth and perfectly clear in the center, but the outer edge was thick and rough, hand-hewn. Not glass. Rock crystal, but of superior quality. She held the lens up to the light, and facets emerged as if embedded in the crystal itself. At just the right angle, the light fractured into a thousand spokes.
“Where did you get this?” she whispered.
“Was left on my doorstep today, with a message.”
She dragged her concentration back to him. “On your doorstep? Do you get presents like this often?”
“More than I’d like. What is it?” Something about the way he didn’t blink made her nervous. On the other hand, it was all pretty relative at this point.
“It’s a rock crystal lens.”
Simon stared at her in all seriousness. “I think it’s more than your average rock. The message said it was prehistory. That puts it at least ten thousand plus years in the past.”
She gave a short laugh. “I doubt that. We have no evidence of any civilization during that time period having this type of technology. Was it found with any other artifacts?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where was it found?”
“Message said Mexico.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” she said with a sigh. As soon as the words came out, she knew she’d made a big mistake, and her gaze shot to his.
Nothing. No emotion on his face. Either he didn’t believe her or he just realized he didn’t need her, after all. That would be bad, and considering how the evening was going, possibly fatal.
“Of course, this is not my area of expertise. Perhaps I could find someone to help you,” she added hastily, trying to act like she wasn’t bargaining for her life.
“You’re the key,” he said, his voice tight.
“What?”
Giovanni emerged through the doorway at that moment carrying a tray balanced on one hand and a bottle of Chianti in the other.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he announced and set the tray on the edge of the table.
Jillian covered the lens with her hand while he placed two heaping plates of ravioli, a basket of crusty bread, and wineglasses before them. She thanked him, and he chuckled and mumbled something about kidnapping as he left.
She leaned forward. “What key?”
Simon poured wine into the glasses. “Message said that I would need you to find whatever this led to. That you would know how to use it.”
A shiver ran up her back. Why on Earth would she be the key to anything? “I don’t. That must be a mistake.”
Simon looked at her over his glass. “Had your name.”
How did all these people know her name?
He added, “My guess is that Franco and company have also heard this story. Ringing any bells yet?”
She clenched her teeth. “Will you stop asking me that? If I knew what was going on, I’d tell you.”
Simon stabbed a ravioli. “Would you?”
She watched him eat and realized she was starving, but she was too furious to let him have the last w
ord. “Look, I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but I’ve had enough.”
She started to rise, but he latched on to her wrist so fast and with so much strength that she nearly yelped. His eyes were dark now, humorless and angry. His soft voice sent a chill across her skin.
“Lady, let me tell you a little something about my day. I’ve been out of the country for three months in the fucking jungles of Africa donating my blood to every damn bug known to man. I get home after the plane ride from hell to find a big pile of crap on my doorstep. Next thing I know I’m tied up into some kind of mess with people who play with guns. If I don’t get some answers, I’m dog meat. And so are you.”
Jillian stared at him. He wasn’t kidding.
“Sit down so we can figure this out.” He released her wrist and went back to eating.
She couldn’t believe this was happening to her, of all people. A thought struck her. “There must be other Jillian Talbots in this cit—”
He cut her off. “You’re the one.” He reached into his shirt pocket and tossed a photo of her on the table. It was her old official Met picture. She swallowed. This wasn’t about her sister or her father or some ransom. She lifted her hand off the lens and looked at it. This was about her.
She was the key, and the lens was part of it. How? What could she possibly know about any of this? She’d never even seen it before Simon showed it to her.
She held the lens around the edges. Why would anyone put them together? Then she lifted it to look through it, and a ghostly movement flashed on the table. Her breath froze in her throat as she zeroed in on the hand-painted teapot. Brush to ceramic, the ghost of an old woman painted each flower petal. The vision emerged perfect, clearer than any she’d ever seen before, and she wasn’t even trying. The old woman leaned back to admire her work, and Jillian was transfixed at the details—weathered hands, wise brown eyes, a wisp of gray under a bright red kerchief. Her past visions had always been blurry and muted, but this . . . this was extraordinary.
“Something wrong?”
Simon’s question ripped her from the scene. The lens trembled in her fingers as she worked to compose herself. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before.
Her gift.
Her curse.
Oh, God. Maybe all this was true.
Warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, and she looked up at Simon.
“Tell me,” he insisted. “You see something?”
It was more of an order than a request, and she shook her hand free. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was studying it, trying to recall any historical precedence.”
His eyes were steady on hers, and she realized he didn’t know about her vision. He couldn’t see what she just saw through the lens. No one could. She didn’t flinch. You aren’t getting close to this. I don’t even want to be close to this.
He reached over to take the lens from her and slipped it back into his coat pocket. “You might want to eat some food, because this night isn’t over with yet.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“We’re going to Boston.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I am not going to Boston with you.”
His expression mocked her. “Oh, yes, you are. Unless you’d rather wait around for Tweedledee and Tweedledum to find you.”
“Or I could just call the police, like most normal people do when they’re in trouble.”
Simon met her gaze. “And what are you going to tell them? That a couple of goons are after you because of some old lens that, by the way, you don’t have possession of? You think New York’s finest will protect you day and night for that?”
She hated to admit he was right. For all she knew, those men could be waiting in her apartment or hanging around work to pick her off the street again. How would she stop them? It came down to who was she more afraid of—them or Simon?
“Maybe if I just talked to this Franco person and explained that I don’t know anything—”
Simon started laughing. At her.
Red-hot embarrassment burned in her face. Bastard. She pushed back from the table, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. She didn’t make it three steps.
Simon came from behind, spun her around, and backed her up to the wall.
“You can’t go out there,” he said.
She tried to shove him away, but his hands were like steel bands around her arms. “Regardless of what you think, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have lived in this city my entire life—”
“These guys aren’t fooling around. They’re pros,” he said. “You don’t stand a chance.”
Rage rose in her belly, and she had to rein in her temper. “If I’m such a big target, why are you here? Why did you rescue me?”
“I didn’t rescue you. I kept my meal ticket alive,” he said, leaning closer.
She stared at him in disbelief. “Are you saying that if you didn’t need me, you would have let Franco kidnap me?”
His gaze was unwavering. “That’s what I’m saying. Trust me when I tell you I’m the best thing that’s happened to you today,” he said, like he meant it. “So unless you have something useful to offer to this train wreck, we’re going to Boston to the one place I know we’ll be safe until I can figure out what the hell is going on and where you fit in.”
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a better idea. At least not at the moment. She’d been kidnapped—twice—and she was getting the bad feeling that there were no safe places to hide in New York City from the people chasing her. Her entire extended family was out bonding in the Mediterranean, and she couldn’t think of another soul she’d want to drag into this.
She narrowed her gaze at him. “So if you don’t rescue, what’s in this for you?”
“My life,” he said bluntly. “Because the guys who are after you are after me, too.”
So that was it. He was here to save himself. Not for her, and certainly not for the lens.
“You don’t care about that crystal, do you?” she asked.
“If I could get rid of it this second, I would.”
Her eyes cut to the teapot, and yearning flooded her. She tried to tell herself that she didn’t care. Just ignore it. Leave it. But somewhere in the back of her mind, the whisper rose: I want answers.
Besides, she was sure of one thing: Simon would keep her safe. At least until he decided he didn’t need her anymore. Which might not be a bad thing, unless, of course, it got her killed. Which would be very bad.
She looked back at Simon, who was watching her. She wanted to tell him to go to hell. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t need his help or his protection or his cocky, condescending attitude. And if she had an ounce of her sister’s skills, she would. Truth was, she needed his help and protection, and she’d put up with his cocky, condescending attitude until she got her answers, too.
So she lifted her chin and said, “Fine, we go to Boston.”
CHAPTER
4
Just after midnight, Simon pulled into Yancy’s driveway and parked on the lawn in the back. The rain clouds had parted, and the moon cast a blue glow over the quiet Waltham neighborhood. He killed the engine and rolled his stiff neck. If he closed his eyes, he’d be gone for at least six hours. And since Jillian had slept most of the way, he’d had to keep himself awake with silent questions he didn’t have answers to.
He looked over at Jillian. She was pressed into the corner of the seat, her body wound tight even in sleep. He’d bet his eyeteeth she didn’t have a spontaneous bone in her body. Everything she did had purpose, was pondered and measured. From the top of her tidy hair clipped back in a barrette to the perfect crease in her black pants to the tips of her designer boots, she was in complete control.
Which led him to the next question: Why was she involved?
He couldn’t picture her in the jungles of any country. Hell, he couldn’t picture her outside Manhattan. She sure wasn’t a tomb raider, and she wasn’t part of his world or Jackson’s
. She didn’t belong here, yet here she was.
Everyone had come for her at once—Jackson, Kesel, and Franco. Which meant that they must have just discovered they needed her, or they decided now was the time to move. Or they were following each other. Or some of them knew about the crystal and some knew about her. Or they knew about both and had split up the job between them.
And then there was the crystal lens. Which didn’t fit in at all, because she claimed to not know what it was. Unless she was lying. Maybe she knew damn well what it was and exactly what was going on. Maybe she was double-crossing someone. Maybe this whole thing was set up to pull him in and find out what was at the end of the rainbow.
He was giving himself a headache. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel, unable to get the picture of Celina bound and gagged out of his mind. Despite two years of wedded hell and as crazy as she was, she still topped his short list of people he gave a damn about. He couldn’t leave her hanging.
This was not the way he’d envisioned his early retirement. All he wanted was to live quietly and not have to look over his shoulder every second of every day. It’d taken a year to finally pay back all his debts and markers, and now he had the sinking feeling he was about to cash them all back in again.
“You can’t go home, either.” Jillian’s voice broke the stillness.
He straightened and turned to her. “No.”
She tilted her head slightly, and moonlight grazed her delicate features. Soft eyes, high cheekbones, full lips. She was beautiful, no doubt about it.
“I’m sorry,” she said so earnestly that he almost believed her. Almost. Every soul on this planet was here for one reason—to get their fair share. Women were especially dangerous, and he had a long string of disasters to prove it. Besides, how could she be so generous after he’d kidnapped her? No one was that decent. She was playing him. It was always the gorgeous ones that caused the most trouble.
“Me, too,” he said and opened his door. Cool air filled his lungs and cleared his head. Time to crash Yancy’s Home for Wayward Screwups. Some things never change, no matter how hard you try.
Jillian came up beside him and stared at Yancy’s traditional brick colonial with wide white trim and graceful porches. Inside, there were five bedrooms, two bathrooms, and the best liquor cabinet this side of the Mississippi.
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