by Rebecca Deel
When he finally drew back, Ivy’s lips tingled and her heart raced. “Wow.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “Combustible chemistry.” Alex’s thumb brushed over her lower lip. “I have a gift for you. I planned to give it to you last night, but became sidetracked when you were injured.” He unzipped his duffel bag, pulled out a velvet covered box and opened the lid to reveal a bracelet.
“Alex, it’s beautiful.”
“It’s a charm bracelet. It reminded me of you.” He lifted the jewelry from the box and, after setting the box aside, fastened the bracelet around her wrist. “I picked this up for you when Josh bought Del’s engagement ring.”
All those weeks ago? They’d only known each other a couple weeks at that point. She knew he was special, but she had no idea he felt anything other than protective of her, couldn’t quite make herself believe someone so fascinating might be interested in her.
The bracelet had one charm already attached. Ivy turned the bracelet until she could see what Alex had attached. Pleasure exploded like confetti inside. “It’s an angel.”
“Delicate but strong. Like you, baby.”
Her vision misted. “Thank you for the gift. I’ll treasure it.” She tilted her head, smiled. “Will there be more charms to come?”
He grinned. “Oh, yeah. I have nine more. After that, if you want more, we’ll get whatever you like. I chose the ten specifically for you.”
“Gimme.” Ivy wiggled her wrist.
“One at a time, angel. I’ll give you another one tonight after dinner if you’ll come for a walk with me.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Her eyes narrowed. “I want those charms.”
He chuckled. “You’ll get them. I can’t wait to see your face when you see some of them.”
“I don’t have anything for you.”
Alex sobered. “Yeah, you do, Ivy. You gave me you. I couldn’t ask for a better gift.” He tapped her nose. “Enough mush for now. Let me set you up in Dad’s office with the laptop.”
Together, they retraced their steps downstairs and into the office. “Where do you want to work, couch or the chair? I need the desktop for a while.”
“Couch. I like to sprawl when I research.”
Once she was set, Alex sat behind the desk and began his own searches.
Ivy turned on his laptop, stared at the screen. His computer was password protected. No surprise given his occupation. “Password?” she asked, hands poised to type.
The silence brought her gaze up to his face. Alex’s cheeks were flushed. Hmm. Must be an interesting one. He shoved back from the desk, stood. Her eyes narrowed. No way, he wasn’t wiggling out of this. “Oh, no. Sit down, Mr. Morgan. This is bound to be good. Spill.”
Alex dropped back into the chair, blew out a breath. “Elfin angel,” he muttered.
Aww. Her tough sniper hid a tender heart. “Capitalization?”
“Both Es.” He waited, watching her intently while she typed in the password. “You’re not going to comment?”
Ivy laughed. “How could I when my password is Hot Delta man?”
He shook his head, chuckling. Yeah, they were a pair, all right. They both settled down to work in the quiet office. Ivy searched through various art archives, museum websites, art history journals, and scanned information on the masterpieces that had been sold privately in the last eighteen months. She recognized some of the paintings from the Morgan home.
Her eyebrows raised as she added the sales prices. “Alex.”
“Hmm.”
“Some of the original paintings have been sold on the private market for just over 20 million dollars.”
Alex’s head whipped in Ivy’s direction. “Over 20 million?” A staggering amount of money. No wonder his father always complained about the art Mother bought. So if the paintings had been sold for that much, where was the money? Had his father been in trouble financially? Maybe that was why Porter was so touchy about Alex returning home.
He rubbed his jaw, winced when the bristles scratched his hand. No time to clean up this morning. He should do that before his beard growth scratched Ivy’s beautiful face.
Porter had to know about the money since he managed the family fortune. Were the paintings sold to pay the blackmail? Or had Porter made some bad investments over the years? Either explanation made his gut churn. Whether his brother liked it or not, they needed to talk.
“That’s a conservative estimate,” Ivy said. “I didn’t find all the copied paintings listed as sold.”
“And that means?”
“Some of them may have been sold to black market dealers.” She frowned. “If so, the paintings wouldn’t bring nearly as much money to your family.”
“When you’re desperate for fast cash, you’ll take any amount. Is it possible to sell a painting to a museum in a hurry?”
“No. They need to authenticate the painting, check the documentation is in order. It’s called provenance. All of that takes times. Plus, museums have limited budgets. The money may not be available when a painting is offered.”
“Where would you go to sell a masterpiece?”
“Private collectors first.”
“How would you know who to contact to offer the paintings?”
“Personally, I wouldn’t know names. Art patrons are part of a community. They know each other well. Every collector has a certain style or artist they prefer. Some people collect western art, others focus on impressionistic paintings, water colors, pastoral scenes, anything that calls to their soul. Still others collect only one artist. Those collectors who focus on one artist are pretty rabid collectors, willing to pay almost any price to own another painting by their favored artist. Art patrons can be obsessive.”
“All right. Let’s say you have a masterpiece an old maiden aunt bequeathed to you. You need money and don’t know where to unload the painting. Where would you go?”
“Art broker. They’re a bridge between buyers and sellers. They get a cut of the sales price, but if you don’t know where to turn, the broker is your best bet. At least you wouldn’t take pennies on the dollar, but you can’t expect a fast turnaround. You might get lucky, but art patrons want authentication just like the museums. Display a copy as a masterpiece and you lose standing in the art community.”
“So if one of these private collectors bought a painting, he’s going to show it off to everybody else?”
“Not necessarily. Sure, there are those who want bragging rights. However, some collectors buy and hoard masterpieces for their own personal enjoyment and don’t want anyone seeing what they have. If people know, the collector becomes a target for art thieves. Like I said, some patrons are very obsessive about their artwork. A few are like misers who hoard gold and count it over and over while living in squalor because they don’t want to spend it. Those collectors want to gorge themselves on art without sharing the treasure with the world.”
“And you think they should?”
She smiled. “I’m an art teacher. Absolutely they should share with the world.”
He’d had no idea art patrons were so varied, though he should have realized given his mother’s art collection. To him some paintings were nice, others ugly as a mud fence. His lips curved. His mother had despaired of his taste in art. He couldn’t understand why everybody didn’t appreciate posters. They were colorful and covered wall space adequately, didn’t drain the bank account or cause sleepless nights worrying a thief was going to make off with a marketable treasure.
Wonder what kind of art Ivy might choose for his house? Hopefully not the mud-fence variety. “Do you know any art brokers who might can help us get a line on the seller?”
“I know a couple. One of them lives less than an hour from here. Just don’t expect too much. Sellers and buyers may not want to be identified and a good broker won’t break their confidence. If confidentiality is requested and the broker talks, his job is toast. Word will get out and no one will trust him again. Wouldn’t it be simpler t
o ask Porter about the copies?”
“I want proof before I confront him.” He had a feeling his brother was hiding something. Porter never responded well to being backed in a corner, but he’d cave if confronted with proof. At least he used to cave. Now, Alex didn’t know what to expect. The Porter he’d grown up with no longer existed.
Alex didn’t know if the paintings had anything to do with his father’s death. But he wanted to find out if this was part of Evans’ revenge plot or the symptom of another problem entirely.
“Do you feel well enough for a visit to the broker?”
She shut down the computer and set it aside. “Need my cell phone. I’ll call him, see if he has time for us today.”
“Ivy.”
She scowled at him. “I’m fine. Nausea’s gone. Headache is a little better.”
He dug her phone from his pocket, handed it over. “Tell me if that changes. Look, you’ve done a lot of work in the last couple hours and you didn’t sleep much last night. Rest until lunch. If you feel up to a road trip, we’ll go see your broker friend and maybe get a few answers. Tomorrow I’ll be tied up with the visitation. Tuesday’s the funeral.”
“We’re going to be tied up,” Ivy insisted. “You won’t be alone. Even if the rest of Durango is busy, I’m staying by your side.”
“Baby, it’s going to be a media circus. All the political movers and shakers will make an appearance either at the visitation or the funeral.”
“I’ll handle it.” She stood. “Don’t let me sleep through lunch.” She closed the door behind her.
Alex grinned. Oh, yeah, his angel’s fire was coming back. He swung around to face the computer screen and began to dig deeper into his father’s computer files. One file stopped him cold.
His father shouldn’t have had access to that information. Where did he get it? More importantly, what had he done with the information?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ivy shut the door to her room, grateful the light was off and shades pulled. Maybe a nap would ease the headache. Part of the pain came from her injury. Some, though, was from lack of sleep. Her face heated. Except for the last few hours when Alex held her.
She frowned. Alex couldn’t have slept much if at all. Ivy considered what he’d told her the night before, that if Evans was searching for her in a hospital, he wouldn’t have to look far. She knew beyond a doubt Alex didn’t sleep so he could protect her. Every time she woke, he was awake, at her side. He didn’t seem to need as much sleep. In fact, none of Durango slept more than four or five hours a night. Maybe it was a military thing. They certainly didn’t seem to suffer for the habit.
Nothing like her. Not enough sleep meant a grumpy Ivy.
Laying on her side, Ivy scrolled through her contact list and chose Henry Watkins. “Henry,” she said when he answered, “It’s Ivy Monroe.”
“Ivy! Well, I haven’t heard from you in ages, young lady. How have you been?”
“Good.” If you didn’t count someone trying to kill her twice in the last three months. “Listen, I have a friend who needs help with some paintings. He’s interested in finding out what you know about them. We’re nearby. Would you have time to see us this afternoon?”
“For you, Ivy, I’ll find time. Three o’clock?”
“Perfect. You still at the same place?”
“That’s right. Looking forward to seeing you, dear.”
Ivy grinned. Henry Watkins was a sweetheart. The man must be in his sixties by now. She’d met him during graduate school. He’d been a guest lecturer in one of her seminars.
Her phone chimed. A text. She moved to the home screen, noticed she had ten new text messages. She could guess who those were from. She should check in case a message came from one of her students or her parents, though the latter wasn’t likely. Marigold Monroe was still furious with her for pressing charges against Lee.
Ivy called up the text messages, winced. Alex wasn’t going to like the latest messages from Evans. More graphic in nature. He came across as furious that she was with Alex. More threats against him. She’d show him the latest after lunch.
She scanned the rest. More of the same with the exception of the last one. Her mother had sent a text, asking her to call. Ivy checked the time the message was sent. Great. Last night. Her mother was bound to be furious that she hadn’t responded yet. Waiting until after lunch to contact her couldn’t make the relationship with her mother any worse, but a confrontation with her was bound to exacerbate Ivy’s headache. She’d call on the way to see Henry.
Turning her phone to mute, she settled on her side, closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, a light knock on the door had her struggling to raise her heavy lids.
Stella poked her head around the door frame. “Hey, sleepyhead. Nate’s put together a fabulous lunch. Come eat before you have to leave.”
Ivy stretched, sat up and laced her tennis shoes. “Where’s Maria?”
“Porter told her last night to take a few days off. She was very upset about Senator Morgan’s death.”
In the kitchen, Nate handed her a plate. He nodded toward the laden countertop. “Chicken salad, ham salad, egg salad and croissants here. Fresh fruit on the table along with two types of chips. Iced tea, soft drinks, and water in the refrigerator.” A pointed look at her. “Don’t skimp. You need fuel.”
She grinned. Every member of Durango pushed food her direction every time they got together. Quite a change from Lee and her own mother telling her she weighed too much. Ivy saluted him and proceeded to fill her plate. Conscious her stomach may not be up to a full meal, she chose the chicken salad without bread and grapes.
Sitting beside Rio, she asked, “Where’s Alex?”
“His father’s office.”
Still? “Has he eaten lunch yet?”
Rio shook his head. “If he doesn’t come out before you finish, take him something. Nag him if you have to, but make him eat.”
Something was wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on what, but something had happened while she was asleep. Ivy dropped her fork and stood.
The medic caught her hand, tugged her back down. “Finish first, sugar. He won’t be happy if you ignore your own needs. You can take care of him after.”
Knowing he wouldn’t let her go until she complied with his request, Ivy concentrated on eating. Finished, she grabbed another plate for Alex, loaded it down, and grabbed a couple bottles of water.
At the office door, she peeked in, frowned. He wasn’t inside. Her gaze skated to the French doors. Garden? She set the plate and water on the desk, stepped into the garden. On the far side, under a shade tree, Alex leaned against the trunk, staring into the distance.
He looked so alone and troubled standing there. Her heart hurt for him. Ivy walked through the garden and crossed the grassy terrain to his side. “Hey.”
Alex’s gaze dropped to her face. “Sleep well, angel?”
She nodded. “What’s wrong?”
“I ran across a file in Dad’s computer, a file he shouldn’t have had access to.”
“What kind?”
“Durango’s mission to kill the terrorist and Roger Evans.”
“Your missions are classified, right?”
“Only the Army’s top brass and the President should have access to the report.”
“How did your father get the information?”
“That’s a good question. An even more troubling one is what did he do with the information?”
“Maybe he wanted to see for himself what your job entailed.”
Alex shook his head. “Dad was in the Army for one tour of duty.”
Ivy scowled. “Why was he so dead set on you not enlisting, then?”
“He was a paper pusher, baby. He worked in logistics. But he had friends who were in Special Forces, saw a lot of them die or suffer grievous injuries from combat operations.”
“Was he enlisted during a war time?”
“Vietnam.”
She sighed. That expla
ined his father’s vehemence for Alex not to enlist. “He was shown great disrespect when he came home, wasn’t he?”
“Dad told me that one woman spat in his face when she saw his uniform. He never got over that.”
“He didn’t want you to experience the same thing.”
“It happened anyway.”
Ivy stiffened. “Somebody spat in your face?”
“Angel, we’ve all been cursed, spat on, called baby killers and hired assassins.”
“And yet you could have died defending their right to be free idiots.”
“What we did mattered, Ivy. We made the world safer, made a difference for the people we could help. I don’t regret my service. None of Durango does.”
“So what’s really troubling you about that file, sweetheart?”
His lips curved a little. “Sweetheart?”
Her cheeks burned. “Should I not call you that? Would you prefer something else?”
“Angel, you can call me anything you want.” He paused. “Within reason. Just caught me by surprise. No woman has ever called me by a pet name before.”
“Not even your mother?”
“My mother is not very maternal. She had the proverbial heir and a spare to satisfy Dad, not from any yen to have children.”
“I’m sorry. She missed out on a lot of joy. Children are such fun.”
“You want children of your own, babe?”
She sighed. “A house full of them.”
“Perfect.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Me, too.”
“Alex, tell me what’s bothering you besides the obvious.”
The man cradling her so gently remained silent a moment. Ivy waited. Finally, he said, “My mother wants Dad to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“I don’t know what my father did with that file, baby, but there’s a chance he was a traitor.”
In Alex’s arms, Ivy jerked. “Oh, Alex, no. Is there any way to confirm that?”
“Keep digging. I called Fortress, set their tech squad on trying to trace the origin of the file. Doubt that’s going to net us much information. There are a few people I can call. The main problem is we don’t want to alert whoever gave the information to Dad. Not much of a surprise in D.C. but some mole leaked the info. I guarantee at least one military person’s head is going to roll over this, probably more.”
