Secrets and Lies
SELENA MONTGOMERY
For Carolyn, Robert,
Andrea, Leslie,
Richard, Walter
and Jeanine Abrams.
My family and inspiration.
Contents
Chapter 1
Nighttime suited Sebastian Caine. In the shadows, he could prowl…
Chapter 2
“It’s not here.” Sebastian resisted the urge to smash the…
Chapter 3
Taking a chance, Sebastian eased into a sitting position, his…
Chapter 4
“You’re tying my hands.”
Chapter 5
Sebastian remained stretched across the cavern floor, watching as Katelyn…
Chapter 6
Katelyn lingered where she stood. Stay the hell away from…
Chapter 7
The Jeep rumbled along the valley floor, heading south, away…
Chapter 8
“Kat?” Sebastian spoke from the doorway. “We need to move.”
Chapter 9
“We need to report in.” Enzo halted on the winding…
Chapter 10
“What are we going to do?” whispered Kat, her voice…
Chapter 11
“Can you get us inside?” Kat whispered the question at…
Chapter 12
“Immortality?”
Chapter 13
“Fifteen thirty-eight.” Sebastian ran light fingertips over the date, scratched…
Chapter 14
“We need to go.”
Chapter 15
Fluorescent light flickered unsteadily overhead, filaments crackling as they connected.
Chapter 16
Enzo stood inside the drawing room and stared at the…
Chapter 17
“What are you doing, Kat?” Sebastian yawned, his jaw cracking…
Chapter 18
“Sebastian, can you go to the storage unit and grab…
Chapter 19
“Katelyn.”
Chapter 20
Helen read Sebastian’s e-mail again. His latest demands were steep,…
Chapter 21
Sebastian stood frozen, his mouth tingling, his hands itching to…
Chapter 22
“How much did you hear?” Sebastian intentionally leaned against the…
Chapter 23
Gabriela Martinez fell into step behind Ruiz, heart pounding in…
Chapter 24
The return to Canete passed quickly. Sebastian and Kat used…
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Selena Montgomery
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Nighttime suited Sebastian Caine. In the shadows, he could prowl the quiet streets, invisible to the unsuspecting eye. Dakkar or Paris, New York or New Delhi, the nighttime yielded its secrets to him with a delicate sigh.
Or, perhaps, with the muffled shorting of a cross-circuit alarm system.
“Not nearly as poetic, but effective,” Sebastian acknowledged, as sparks cascaded to cobblestones where he knelt. He eased the door open, alarms successfully disengaged. Looking down at the now-darkened keypad, a frisson of awareness tightened his skin. Cutting the alarm hadn’t been simple, but an incongruity niggled at the back of his mind. Circuit broken—check. Alarm pad disengaged—check. Brass locks picked—check. He’d done this a hundred times before, stealing inside deserted buildings to relieve unsuspecting owners of their possessions. Still, tonight felt different. Unsettled. But, he reminded himself ruefully, standing outside a mark’s house was not the place to figure out what bothered him.
Quickly, he slipped inside the doorway that led into a kitchen most chefs fantasized about. Nearly the size of the walk-up he’d lived in as a toddler, Sebastian thought, but much quieter. As he’d planned, nothing sounded beyond the distant lapping of waves. The perfect spot on the Pacific coast for a thief.
Narrow cobbled streets and brightly colored stucco homes had conspired to give him access to his quarry without the requirements of scaled walls or burrowed tunnels. No, to night’s endeavor required little more than a cooperative quarter moon, his personal finesse, and the absence of the homeowner. By the time Senor Felix Estrada returned home from his buying trip to Buenos Aires, Sebastian would be retired and sunning on a tropical beach. Far, far away from the tiny South American nation of Bahia and his pockets full.
With that pleasant image dancing in his head, Sebastian tucked his instruments into a leather bag and switched the palm light on. Swiftly, he moved through the kitchen to the main rooms. He turned the corner and, instantly, Sebastian flicked the light off and flattened himself against a wall.
According to photos he’d studied, Estrada lived in a sprawling mansion filled with carefully tended objets d’art that rivaled many museums. To night, though, those priceless pieces had been flung aside with malicious hands. The place had been torn apart. Apparently, whoever had preceded Caine cared nothing about discovery. Sebastian scanned the room, alert and ready for ambush.
Suddenly, he understood what had bothered him about the alarm. He’d cut the power, he realized, but he hadn’t heard the telltale sound to reveal that the line had been active when he severed the wires. Someone had disarmed the house. Someone who might be still inside.
For an instant, Sebastian considered leaving and telling his client that he’d been too late. He could hop a plane to New York and be in bed by dawn. But two thoughts kept him rooted in place.
Of paramount importance was his payoff for to night’s job. In exchange for delivering a sixteenth-century manuscript known as the Cinchona, Sebastian’s client offered $500,000. The client hadn’t provided any more detail about Cinchona, and Sebastian hadn’t pressed for more. Curiosity in his line of work was not appreciated. Where, when and how much were the necessary particulars. Why did not concern him and could be dangerous. He’d worked for this client too often to delve into queries, and a hundred-thousand-dollar retainer wired to Sebastian’s Grand Cayman account easily dampened any natural inquisitiveness.
The part of him that might have cared had been ruthlessly trained against that indulgence because prying didn’t pay the bills. If his client was willing to shell out half a million dollars for the plea sure of owning some ancient papers another man wanted, who was he to argue?
Standing in the shadows, Sebastian acknowledged that annoyance ran a close second to greed. From where he stood, moonlight crested inside the mansion, highlighting his opponent’s damage. Paintings leaned drunkenly against silk-covered walls or sprawled on the floors. Gleaming sculptures of twisted metal had been toppled from pedestals. Books—likely first editions—lay jumbled ignominiously on the floor below high mahogany shelves.
“Philistines,” he muttered soundlessly. Even thieves could have an appreciation for art.
A slight noise caught his ear, the sound creeping across polished hardwoods. Sebastian pressed deeper into the darkness, his ears tuned. A nearly unheard thud followed the slight bending of wood floors, then silence. He blew out a thin breath. He definitely wasn’t alone in the house. But there was only one way to discover who had beaten him there, he decided, peeling away from the wall. Go and find him.
As he slipped into the hallway, Sebastian reached into his leather bag and closed his fingers around the hilt of the knife he carried. The ceremonial dagger had been a present to himself years ago, and he’d so far been able to keep its blade clean. He didn’t relish the thought of using the weapon, but he also rejected the notion of dying. Turning the corner, Sebastian peered into the next room and found it empty.
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br /> He moved with alacrity through the darkened house, melting into shadows. Adrenaline settled into a steady pulse of blood that belied the danger. Senses heightened for every aberrant sound thrummed as he cased the mansion. He slipped into the dining room, dagger clutched tight in his hand. Suddenly, he heard the skitter of feet and, seconds later, the thud of the kitchen door closing. Sebastian sprinted out of the dining room and toward the rear of the house. He flung open the back door just in time to see a dark form blend into the night. He followed, but by the time he reached the hedges, the thief had disappeared.
“Damnit.” The quiet oath emerged as he debated giving chase, but he’d have to guess at whether to go left or right or straight across. He could track him, but the search would take valuable time, and the house had already been breached twice to night. If his rival had stolen the Cinchona, Sebastian should verify it first, then notify his client. However, he thought, stepping into the house again, the thief could have been searching for other targets. Before he called his client, he decided, he should be sure the Cinchona was gone.
Hand-woven Persian rugs cushioned his quiet footfalls as his weak beam crested over polished woods littered with Estrada’s possessions. Sebastian bent over a tumbled Kahlo, the edge of its frame bent by a rough fall. With a gloved hand, he righted the painting. In the center of the capacious room, he noted a second heap of books piled onto the dining-room table. Observant eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate skimmed the Spanish names, effortlessly translating titles, courtesy of his mother’s intractability on the issue of college. The authors were unfamiliar, the subjects less so. Bartolomé de las Casas. El Diarios de Pizzaro. Nueva crónica y buen gobierno. Bernal Díaz del Castillo. More tomes were stacked on chairs nearby. Whoever had preceded him into the house hadn’t been after the books or the paintings. They, like him, hunted for what might lie hidden behind them.
According to the intel he’d received from his client, the manuscript would probably be in a safe upstairs; but Sebastian didn’t trust other people’s intelligence. He stepped over a toppled chair and around more haphazardly tossed paintings, including one he recognized as a Henry Tanner, a tear in the canvas visible beneath his light. His cool rush of blood heated with indignation.
Sebastian took pride in his ability to admire the magnificence of the collections of his prey, and wanton destruction offended his sensibilities. Estrada had built a fantastic collection, one that Sebastian might have envied were he a different sort of man. However, envy, like sentiment, had no place in the life of a recovery specialist—Sebastian’s glorified term for his life as a thief.
He and Felix Estrada had chased the same treasures for as long as Sebastian had been in his line of work. Sebastian considered his tussles with Estrada to be the results of friendly rivalry, especially given the fact that Estrada had once saved Sebastian’s life. Unlike Sebastian, though, Estrada was a collector, willing to pay any price to possess the beautiful and rare.
Stepping into the next room, a wide great room drawn in golds and creams, Sebastian froze. It appeared Senor Estrada had finally paid too much.
The body of Felix Estrada lay sprawled on the glossy hardwood, blood pooling at his side. Shocked, Sebastian dropped into a crouch and eased over to the still form. The gaping wound in Estrada’s abdomen held a pearl-handled knife. A look told Sebastian that the knife had staunched the flow of blood, while it had simultaneously severed the artery that poured Estrada’s life onto the floor. The internal bleeding would be severe and fatal. He lifted the limp hand and found a weakened pulse. Abruptly, Estrada’s eyes flashed open.
“¿Donde es cat?” he rasped, his question interrupted by a harsh cough. “Where is cat?”
Sebastian ignored the broken inquiry about the missing pet. The blood soaking into his black pants concerned him more. Rage welled, unfamiliar emotion for a thief and a liar who prided himself on limiting his emotions to ironic resignation and smug indifference. But Sebastian knew from the pallor beneath the brown skin that Felix Estrada was a dead man. Fifteen minutes ago, Sebastian could have saved him, but not now. All that was left was to find out why he was dying. And who killed him. “Do you know who did this to you? Who stabbed you, Senor Estrada?”
Estrada thrashed his head back and forth. “No. No. Cat. Where is she?”
I can’t believe the poor dying bastard is worried about his damned pet, Sebastian thought grimly. He continued to hold Estrada’s wrist, feeling the pulse slow. “Tell me who hurt you, Felix. There isn’t much time. Tell me, and let me call the ambulance.” But he knew Canete would not have an ambulance swift enough to save Estrada’s life.
The feeble hand twisted beneath Sebastian’s to take his larger one in a fierce hold. “No ambulancia. Find her. Find cat. Muy importante. Promise me.” The hold tightened. “Promise me.”
“Sure,” Sebastian lied, stunned by Estrada’s burst of strength. “I’ll find your gata.”
“She knows the answers.” Estrada gasped for the breaths that slowed.
“Smart cat.” As his words sank in, Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “Knows the answers to what?”
“To the secret you are here to steal.”
Sebastian rocked nimbly on his heels, ready to bolt. “You know what I’m looking for?”
“The Cinchona.” Estrada managed a weak smile, his grip loosening. “A fine goal, Sebastian. You took the Oglasi from me in Ségou. And the statue from the temple of Malay. Too often, you have sneaked away my treasures with elegance. My latest find is what you would steal. You have been an excellent pupil.”
“Pupil?”
“You have found much by—” A hacking cough racked the thin chest and the vibrations traveled up their joined hands. “By following me. You have an eye for beauty. For history. Perhaps in this, you will find the balm for your restlessness.”
“I’m not restless,” Sebastian protested, slipping his hand free to test Estrada’s pulse.
Estrada frowned, in annoyance rather than pain. “Do not lie to yourself, Sebastian. You no longer steal for money but to find purpose. Meaning. Redemption for our sins. We all seek such, no? Few of us succeed. I—I almost did.” He stopped, dragging air into weakened lungs. “You still can.”
“Stop, Senor. Save your strength,” Sebastian urged. Now was not the time for meditations on his life, such as it was. For now, the path he’d chosen years ago suited him. Instead, he delicately probed the area around the protruding knife. Crimson spilled around the blade. Definitely, removal meant instant death. “We need to get you help. Tell me who did this.”
Ignoring the urgent question, Estrada continued with effort. “Remember the favor you owe me?”
An image of a vault and Samurai sword flashed in Sebastian’s memory. “Sí. You saved my life.”
“Yes, then I ask the same of you,” he extorted harshly. “You must find cat. Protect her.”
“Sure.”
Estrada lifted his head, captured Sebastian’s evasive gaze with a hard, determined look. To emphasize, he grasped the wiry wrist near his death wound. He had no more time, not to finish what had destroyed him. But here was his final chance. He fought off the muzziness that crept into his thoughts, fighting for the last seconds of lucidity. “Promise me, Sebastian. Protect cat. Swear it.”
“I swear. I’ll protect your cat.”
The broken body shuddered with pain, yet he patted Sebastian’s cheek proudly. “Gracias. Thank you.” Felix gasped, taking in gulps that seemed to accomplish nothing. The death rattle of failing lungs filled the room. “You want. The Cinchona. I. Did not. Intend to die. For it.”
“Art isn’t worth murder, Señor.” He’d never taken a man’s life, by God. Certainly not for a manuscript, the piece he’d been hired to “recover” for his latest client. His last client.
Estrada awkwardly patted Sebastian’s hand where it lay near the gaping wound. “Wrong, mi amigo. Art is life. Cat knows this. She knows how to find life, how to save it.”
Sebastian focuse
d on Estrada’s irrational claim. “Your cat knows how to save lives?”
Before the dying man could respond, the strong grip on Sebastian’s hand fell away. Estrada coughed, struggling to draw in air.
Sebastian lifted the gray head and urged air into lungs wet with blood. “Senor Estrada? Who did this to you?” His voice was low, ragged. The strangled airways hissed with effort. Sebastian pressed his ear close to the parted lips that curled against death throes. “Senor! Tell me who did this!”
“Cat.” The whispered confession barely reached Sebastian’s ear, though it pressed close to Estrada’s cheek. “Cat.” A shudder, a rasp of noise. Then silence.
Minutes, seconds later, Sebastian uncurled his six-foot-plus frame and started toward the phone to ring the police. He closed the distance with long, angry strides. Grief threatened, stirred compassion. An ornate ivory receiver perched on a round base with old-fashioned rotary dial. Elegant and beautiful and anachronistic. Wholly fitting. Sebastian reached for the receiver, then he stopped himself, quelling ruthlessly the prick of conscience that demanded he seek justice.
Estrada was dead now, Sebastian reminded himself coldly. And Sebastian Caine was no altruist. He was a thief and a damned good one. One who had a job to do.
“The manuscript.” Sebastian spun away from the phone. “Find the manuscript, first, then you can call the police. They’ll find the killer…when you’re not here.”
He stalked over to one of the overstuffed chairs and lifted a length of Egyptian cotton dyed a somber black and returned to the body. Carefully, Sebastian draped the fabric over Estrada, a fitting shroud. He muttered a prayer taught to him decades ago by his mother. “Farewell, Senor. May God have mercy on your soul.”
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