Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) (27 page)

The Newark exit signs meant the Parkway was next. Rosie would guide her if he fell asleep.

“So your dad bought a fishing camp in Maine as a getaway?” she prompted.

“Not exactly. It used to belong to his father.”

“And he passed it down to you. That’s really sweet.”

He snorted. “Vasco Mallory was a jewel thief like Leon. The Royal Canadian Mounties threw a party when the old reprobate died. He’s buried in Montreal. He taught Leon everything he knew, except Leon took the family profession a step further by becoming a jeweler to eliminate tracing his stolen goods. Leon changed his name from Mallory so American cops wouldn’t make the connection.”

She was grinning like a kid with a new toy. “Wait a minute. Vasco. Leon—”

“And Cortez, yup.” He’d been waiting for her to make the connection. “My French-Canadian great-grandfather—name plain old Jean—had a thing for explorers. Thought about changing my name but never got around to it. Probably won’t now. The FBI would think I was plotting something.”

“I’ve kinda grown used to Cortez,” she said. “I can’t wait to see this fishing spot.”

“ ‘
FOUNTAIN OF MY YOUTH’
is a play on words. My grandfather used to joke the spring beside the camp was the fountain of youth—”

“So he named his son for Ponce de Leon,” she finished.

“Leon was grateful he chose Leon and not Ponce.” He slewed over a little in his seat so he could gauge her reaction. “The fishing camp’s only about an hour away from my place. I can be there and back no problem. And you’ll be safer staying at the cabin.”

“No frakking way.” Her eyebrows clashed in fury over her nose. “I’ve come this far with you. I deserve to see where the jewels are hidden. And
if
they’re hidden. You don’t trust me. That’s it. You
still
don’t trust me.”

He heaved a sigh. That wasn’t it. At least he didn’t think so. Or was it that she didn’t trust him? She had every right not to. “Not true. If Rousso has discovered somehow where the jewels are or he’s followed us, it’s too dangerous.”

“I suppose going there alone isn’t too dangerous for you.” She shot each word like a dart.

No point in denying the danger for either of them. “Maybe I could use a lookout,” he conceded. “No promises.”

Mara drove on as Cort slept beside her. At first he seemed to wrestle demons in fitful dreams. The Centaur guy? Or his father? When he talked about Leon now, his tone wasn’t so harsh, his words so angry. Maybe he was coming to terms with the man’s nature.

Finally when they reached the northern Connecticut state line, he fell into a deeper rest in spite of a hard rain that gave the wipers a workout. Stopping for a quick breakfast in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, woke him up, and he took over the wheel for the last leg of their marathon.

As they entered Maine, the rain gave way to drizzle and fog. “We’ve outrun the rain,” he told her, “but it’ll catch up. Storm’s heading down east as usual.”

After Portland they turned away from the interstate onto two-lane country roads that wound past lakes, over rolling hills, and through farmland and villages with white steeples and antique shops. She caught glimpses of mountains in the distance, their tops still snow-capped. Trees had just unfurled their leaves in new mint green and irises bloomed. The whole experience was like going back in time.

“There’s the school,” Cort said, his mouth a taut line.

A white wooden sign announced the Birch Lake Woodcraft Center.

“I didn’t expect a whole campus,” she said, gawking at the six Shaker-style wooden buildings painted barn red. Paths wound among the workshops. “Impressive.”

He didn’t comment, but sat up straighter. His work here had contributed to the school’s growth.

“Do you want to stop? You can deliver your friend’s souvenirs.”

“Finding the crown jewels comes first. I’ll stop by her house sometime.”

His face was again drawn into hard lines. This man who’d confronted hardened criminals and survived prison shrank from the disapproval, the rejection of people he worked with. People who already knew his prison record. She could cry.

Or hug him, but now wasn’t the time for either.

Cort gunned the engine to propel the truck past the school as fast as was prudent on the narrow highway.

“Maybe you could give me a tour someday,” she said, offering hope.

“Doubt it. I’m probably never going back there.”

She dug her nails into her palms. “Your boss let you go only when the board pushed him into a corner. He’ll welcome you back when this is over.”

When Cort made no comment other than an inarticulate grunt, the equivalent of a shrug, she was grateful. If she were less selfish, she wouldn’t feel this gnawing ache at her own words—
“when this is over.”

***

“Here’s my cabin,” Cort said, pulling the Silverado into his parking area. “I was lucky to find a furnished rental with a barn not too far from the school.”

“It’s cute,” Mara said, settling her hood on her hair as she exited the truck.

Cute? Only a woman would call an old log cabin with a hand-planked door and a roof with two different colors of shingles
cute.

She gestured at the barn, to the left of the house. “This is so isolated. All your tools and wood are valuable. Do you have a security system?”

“Spoken like a city girl who works with security. Oh, I forgot. You had to be burgled before you got a system.”

“Guilty. But answer the question, mister.”

“My security system consists of my friend’s son. Whenever I’m gone, he stops in every day to check on things.” A couple different tire treads dented the rain-dappled ground. The kid probably drove his dad’s truck. One set of tracks looked fresh. He was here earlier today.

“I’m sure that keeps everything safe.” She peered at the single lock as he inserted the key. “Not even a dead bolt.”

“This is Maine, sweetheart, not Washington, D.C. Unless I’m going out of town, I don’t even bother to lock the doors.” He ushered her inside.

A fine layer of dust coated everything. Maybe he should’ve had somebody come in and clean. But that would do little to brighten up the shabby and colorless space, so different from Mara’s bright and cheery apartment. Worn rag rugs, threadbare gray sofa, brown chair, all part of the rental.

Dark. Depressing. Lonely.

He deposited their bags beside the door and switched on the ceiling fan light. Good thing the bedroom door was closed. He probably didn’t make the bed before he left.

She made a beeline to the one piece of furniture not part of the rental. A cherry trestle table with some contemporary touches in the base. “Yours.” She ran a palm over the glass-smooth surface. But dusty. “Gorgeous. Feels like fine china.”

He couldn’t help grinning like a fool. “A prototype for a new design. Turned out okay. I liked it so I kept it.”

He watched her admire the table for a moment before he broke the spell. “We can clean up and rest for a while before I go to the lake. Maybe the rain’ll stop by then.”

“Before
you
go to the lake?” She stood in the middle of the small living room, her arms planted on her slim hips.

“I’m still thinking about that.” And agonizing over whether he’d foiled Rousso.

“The bad guys know all about you, including this cabin, but you said yourself no one but you and Leon would know about the lake. I’ll be safer with you.” She pulled her jacket more tightly around her.

He’d been wrestling with that very problem for days. “The cabin’s cold. I’ll fetch some wood for the wood stove and then we’ll discuss it while we eat the sandwiches we bought.”

“Way to duck the issue.”

He winced on his way out the door. He stalked around the barn to the woodshed. After gathering a couple logs, he stared into the woods. What she’d said was true, but he needed to think. A moment without her warmth and sweet smile derailing his brain, without her apparent faith in his too flawed character, without her challenging him to rethink... everything.

Like returning to the Birch Lake Woodcraft Center. Maybe they would rehire him. But did he want to return to this hermit existence, as she liked to describe his life?

Without her.

He hadn’t wanted to feel anything for her but lust. Not admiration for her courage and determination. Not respect for seeing this through with him when she no longer needed to. Not this burning drive to be with her, to argue with her, to comfort her, to bask in the warmth of her glorious smiles. But he felt all of that, and more. Deep emotions he never thought to experience.

And yes, he trusted her. She’d given him no reason not to. Not once. It was himself he didn’t trust. She’d said that often enough he had to acknowledge it as truth.

And yes, she’d be safer with him at the lake. Having her with him just felt right. Adding one last log to the pile in his arms, he headed back to the cabin. A load seemed to have been lifted. He didn’t even feel the weight of the firewood.

When he opened the cabin door, he nearly dropped the logs. Adrenaline gushed through his body.

Mara stood, ashen-faced, by the faded sofa. The man in the dark rain slicker behind her kept his left arm clamped around her waist. His right hand held a pistol, the muzzle pressed against her temple.

“Close the door,” the man said. “Do not try anything. I would hate to scar this beautiful face.” He pressed the pistol’s muzzle into Mara’s throat hard enough to pierce the tender skin.

“Mara,” he gritted out, “are you hurt? Has he—”

“I’m okay. He... he came out of the bedroom. I—” She grimaced. Fear was stark in her eyes.

He nodded, focused on sending Mara strength, forcing an appearance of calm, as if his heart wasn’t hammering against his sternum hard enough to explode out of his chest. As if fear for her wasn’t cutting him like glass. As if fire wasn’t roaring through his body.

When he’d willed his rioting emotions to simmer, he kicked the door shut. The new tracks. His mind raced with possibilities. The man seemed to be alone. Was André not part of this plot? A closer look—big nose, thinning hair. “Rolf Rousso in the flesh.”

Respect and surprise flashed across the Centaur man’s narrow face. “I would like to know how you discovered that. No matter. Rousso is as good a name as any.”

“You followed me in the Metro. Was the delivery man in San Francisco also you?”

“You are an observant man, Jones. Pity it will do you no good.”

The response was oblique but Cort sensed he’d hit the mark. “These logs are heavy.”

He flicked his gaze to Mara’s pale face. He had to get them out of this fucking mess alive. Somehow.

“You may put the wood down, but keep your hands where I can see them,” Rousso said. Never removing his pistol from Mara, he turned to watch Cort walk to the wood stove. “Do not bother with a fire. We will not be here long.”

“How did you find me?”

The creep laughed. “Very clever placing my transponder in a taxi. But I had other means of knowing your movements. A short visit as the cable repairman a few weeks ago and my electronics allowed me to listen to everything said. Ms. Marton could not resist telling her sister.” Mara sucked in an audible breath. Rousso’s gaze flicked between them. “Once I knew you were headed to this cabin, it was a matter of chartering a private jet.”

Reality pelted Cort like the cold rain outside. His gaze lasered to Mara. “Is this true? You told your sister?”

Tears glistened in her dark eyes. She started to raise a hand but Rousso clamped down on her. “God, no, I didn’t. Cassie wanted me to go to her. I thought if André was gone, it’d be safe to tell her why I couldn’t. But I swear I didn’t tell her where we were headed.”

She closed her eyes on a shudder. Fat tears fell as she shook her head slowly. She seemed to close in on herself.

And then he knew.

She hadn’t told Cassie. Rousso saw his doubt and played them both. The slime had researched him and used what he heard in Cassie’s house. A logical leap they would come to the cabin.

A tangle of emotions like frayed rope knotted up Cort’s insides. He’d yielded to one moment of doubt and lost Mara’s trust.

He’d lost
her
.

“Ah, André the romantic boyfriend,” Rousso said. “A tragic turn of affairs.”

“Not your source then?” Cort said, forcing himself to focus on what must be done and not on Mara’s anguish. Or his. Damn, he was a fool. And damn Rousso for manipulating them both.

He edged toward the wrought-iron poker in the rack beside the stove. His only possible weapon. If Rousso removed the gun from against Mara’s cheek, maybe—

The Centaur agent shook his head. “Not my source, but helpful nonetheless. He encouraged Cassie to talk about whatever Ms. Marton knew about you.”

That explained why they knew everything so fast. But André had to be something more than a wine importer. Too convenient, his hooking up with Cassie. Too many damn coincidences.

Another step closer to the poker.

Rousso’s mouth curved in a predatory smile. “Move away from the stove. Place the ring pieces on the sofa where I can reach them.”

Cort wasn’t giving up, not when Mara’s life was at stake. He could take Rousso if the man let down his guard. If his shadow of a life had taught him anything, it was patience. Seeing no recourse, he dug the ring pieces from his jacket pocket and placed the connected length on the sofa arm. When Rousso bent to retrieve them, maybe...

“You have
three
?” Surprise hiked Rousso’s voice half an octave. “Whose is the third? No matter. Bravo.” He directed Mara to hand him the rings.

Cort choked back a curse. Another chance missed.

Rousso had probably planned to kill them once he possessed the ring pieces. But the man didn’t count on the clue poem not giving the specific location. The Jeweler was cagey to the end.

No one could obtain the jewels, not without Leon. Or his son.

Rousso peered inside the rings. He dragged Mara to the kitchen table. She sank onto a straight-backed chair, her limbs rigid. He shoved a piece of paper and pencil at her. “Add the new words to the lines written here.”

Hand shaking, she picked up the pencil. She looked shell shocked as she copied the words. Rousso never wavered with the gun. Cort fought the urge to charge the fucker.

He stared at the lines already written and the realization hit him. “You have Falco’s ring piece.” Which meant he’d killed the old second-story man. Or had him killed. “Hauptman’s too? Obtained in that break-in?”

Rousso sneered, a beast of prey gloating over his kill. “So the police questioned you?”

“Police? No. Twyla Hauptman never reported the burglary.”

Rousso’s eyebrows shot up in denial. “But— Forget it.” He snatched the paper and read.

“STEEL WITHIN THE WOODEN HOLD

PROTECTS THE JEWELS AND ROYAL GOLD

BESIDE THE FOUNTAIN OF MY YOUTH.

THUS WE KEEP OUR HONOR, TRUTH.”

“What is this? A trick?” he roared. “It does not have location.”

“Yes, a trick. Nobody better at deception than Leon. Only he knew where he’d hidden the crown jewels. He kept the location secret.”