To Catch a Thief (28 page)

“It means you're doing what it takes to heal. It means,” he said gently, “that he was a very lucky man to have a daughter like you. Somehow I think he knew that.”

Nell sighed as his fingers cupped her cheek. “We didn't get much climbing done today.”

“There's always tomorrow. And five long days after that.”

“A week of heaven in France.” Nell stretched lazily. “Give me another week to train you and you'll take first place at Chamonix next year, Navy.”

“Somehow I don't see a climbing competition in my future,” Dakota said. “I get paid to be invisible, Nell. I get the job done and then leave. People don't remember my face.” His voice turned serious. “That's who I am. Most of what I do I can't discuss and I'll never have a set schedule. Can you live with that kind of uncertainty?”

“Just as long as it's me you come back to when the danger is done. I'll make sympathetic noises while I bandage you up.” She leaned on one elbow, nodding thoughtfully. “Or anything else you want me to do.”

“Anything?” Heat glinted in his eyes. “No limits?” His hand skimmed her neck, then feathered lower, brushing every curve and hollow. Slowly, too slowly.

Nell's patience began to unravel. “Do you and your tiger have something dangerous in mind?” Her hand cupped his length.

“Anything I do with you feels dangerous.” His eyes turned serious and he pulled her against his chest. “This is feeling a whole lot like forever for me, Nell.”

“I know what you mean. Funny, I never expected that.”
A month maybe,
she thought.
Not forever. But forever it was going to be
.

An owl called out again in the darkness. Nell wriggled higher, her thighs opening to his, her body pinning his warm chest.

She whispered a breathless protest when he rolled free to tongue her breasts. Her fingers tugged at his hair as he moved down her flat stomach, tasting until she quivered and strained. His mouth settled over her wet heat, taking her fast until the pleasure left her blind.

Driven now, she twisted, bringing him closer, sighing as his thighs cradled her. His fingers worked a deep rhythm of pleasure, sending her up, breathless and lost, but this time her nails raked his chest and she moved against his heat, taking him deeper. In the dim gray light the tattoo on Dakota's shoulder seemed to wake and stretch luxuriously, looking hungry. Nell closed her eyes as the heat filled her, driving deep and pulling her with him, better than any dream she'd ever known.

He lifted them both in high, driving thrusts with Nell's legs wrapped around him and her hands locked in his hair. The heat in his eyes spilled into his heart as her fingers linked with his, both of them caught on the razor edge of oblivion.

Tight.

Tighter
.

She smiled with the fierce promise of a woman who understood the challenges that distance and danger and forced silences would create.

A woman who knew and wasn't afraid.

Was that part of the smile on the face of the
Mona Lisa
, a woman confident in her world and herself?

The question didn't matter. All that mattered was
now
as the pleasure snapped over Nell and she rode his length. The sight of his body in the moonlight was a clean sweep of need that could no longer be resisted. When he drove up, filled her, his very being poured into the hot, still center where their bodies met, and they made the long, breathless leap to pleasure together.

I
N THE NEXT DAYS
their fingers met and twined often. When they sat, their backs touched; when they walked, their shoulders brushed, side by side. Without looking, they always knew where the other was.

On the day that they had to pack and climb down the mountain, Dakota stopped Nell at the top of the trail. He touched her hair and brushed a smudge of climbing chalk from her cheek.

“I won't be able to discuss a lot of things, Nell. Sometimes I'll be distant and cold, a stranger that you won't even recognize. I'll always watch the shadows and when the phone rings I'll grab my pack and go. No explanations, no delays, no matter what we're doing. You can't expect answers and you can never talk about what I do with anyone.”

“You'll talk when you're ready and I'll make your life miserable until you remember you're not a stranger.”

After a long time he smiled. “Promise?”

“Count on it, Navy.”

If he hadn't been so moved, Dakota might have smiled at the thought of their future and how his life had tilted 180 degrees in just a few weeks. But now it was time to leave.

The wind lingered, then scattered small stones that caught the hot sunlight as they started back down the trail.

Macau

Two weeks later

T
HE BLUE COVES
and limestone cliffs of China glittered across the bay. Oblivious to the hot sun and the beauty around him, Dakota kept a silent vigil outside the well-guarded mansion on the hilltop. Sometimes crime paid
very
well, he thought grimly.

Between lush red hibiscus and jade plants, silent guards moved in low-profile rotations, and Dakota maintained his alert position near the car. He would have preferred to be inside, but the discussion taking place in the hilltop palace was to be heard by only two people. Even Izzy Teague's usual surveillance equipment was useless here.

Some kind of new shielding was in place. Izzy already had a line on a source, and the Foxfire team would have a prototype within weeks, if his research went as planned.

But Dakota didn't like being in the dark. He glanced impatiently at his watch. If Teague wasn't out in five more minutes, he was going in after him. He didn't trust Luis Gonsalves for a second, despite the careful groundwork Izzy and Ryker had laid.

Abruptly the big carved door opened. Luis Gonsalves, looking twenty years older than he'd appeared in Scotland, walked Izzy out to the curving driveway. The two men shook hands and then Izzy strode toward the car, his expression completely masked.

Dakota slid behind the wheel. “Where to next?”

“The airport. I'm finished here.” Izzy set his briefcase on the backseat and stared out the window. “Take the long route, will you? There's a bad smell in the air and I want to clear it out before I board the plane.”

Dakota drove past more estates that hugged the curves of the hills overlooking the water. He knew what had been discussed and shared Izzy's uneasiness.

Ten minutes later Izzy opened his window and breathed in the sea air. “It's done. Luis Gonsalves will turn over all his son's remaining records to our intelligence people. He claims to be shocked at the terrorist connections his son was involved with. The man deals in smuggling, racketeering, extortion and gambling. No terrorism, he swears that.”

“You believe him?”

“If I didn't, we wouldn't have come here. I checked him out, and the details back him up. He may be a thug and a vicious racketeer, but now he's
our
thug and vicious racketeer.”

“What about his son?”

“Luis made sure the plug was pulled as far as Martim is concerned. I don't like this outcome, but Ryker had the final call. Since the son is no longer a player, the father may be an asset in the future. His extensive contacts in Asia will be invaluable to our government.”

“You really think he can be trusted?” Dakota was still uncomfortable with what had been arranged.

“About as much as I trust a grizzly on steroids. But the deal is done, and it's way above our pay grade, pal. At least Ryker will be satisfied.” Izzy took a deep breath. “The son will be a virtual prisoner, watched at all times. In return for Gonsalves's freedom, we get the evidence to connect all the people Martim was working with. We were right about the October Twelfth group.”

“You're sure?”

Izzy nodded. “The group was a fiction, run by Agent Fuller's partner. He was the insider that Jordan MacInnes had long suspected. There are records of cell calls between Kolowitz and Martim. Martim has also been laundering money for known terrorist financiers for the last four years. All in all he had a nice, full-service operation going on over here, and Frank Kolowitz fit right into the deal. Except his motive was greed, pure and simple.” Izzy rubbed his neck and stared out the window. “This was probably the right thing to do, but it still makes me feel dirty. I like things black and white, not shifting shades of gray. Gonsalves and his son should be put away.”

“You do what you can do,” Dakota said. “Somebody made the call and they thought it was right. I'm just glad that I don't have to sit at a desk and make the policy decisions. Sometimes being the guy who slogs through the mud has its advantages.”

Neither spoke as they crawled through heavy morning traffic until they reached the airport.

Izzy grabbed his briefcase from the backseat as soon as they pulled up. “Let me contact Ryker, then let's get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Roger that.”

Southern France

N
ELL STOOD IN THE
French sunlight, listening to the wind sigh through the pine trees. The scent of lavender filled the sunny courtyard of the old stone house, its gray walls dappled by shadow. A pair of black dogs sprawled on the patio, asleep in the heat of afternoon.

Her hand trembled as she faced the mystery of her father's final gift. When she slid the cool metal into the old-fashioned lock, the big door opened with the whisper of well-oiled hinges.

“Is anyone home?
Y a-t-il quelqu'un là?”
She felt rude, like an intruder, but this was the right place. The letter from Nicholas Draycott had been very clear.

Drive through the first village. Pass the church and turn left at the olive mill. Watch for a pair of old stone lions at the little gravel drive
.

Nicholas had refused all further explanation. Nell had read the cryptic directions a dozen times since her plane landed, and a dozen more times during the train ride from Paris.

“Trust me, Nell. You'll understand it all when you reach the village. Just be sure to take your key.”

And now here she stood, her heart pounding in the hot silence of afternoon while the sharp scent of lavender filled her head. When there was no sound from the house, she knocked once again for good measure, then walked under the low door frame. Inside the small half-timbered foyer, time stood still.

Instantly Nell was surrounded by color—fuchsia to persimmon to turquoise. At her right was a Picasso sketch, followed by a Modigliani and what looked like—but surely
couldn't
be—an original Renoir. From canvases that filled every wall her gaze fell to an antique farm table holding a set of blue-and-white Chinese porcelain bowls and a Tang Dynasty ceramic horse caught in midstride. Even the carpet beneath her feet was antique, its reds and blues muted by centuries.

As she stared at the old stone walls, Nell knew she was in the home of someone with great wealth and impeccable taste. But none of her questions had been answered.

One of the dogs trotted in from the back of the house, tail wagging. Moments later a housekeeper in a spotless black uniform appeared. Her lined cheeks creased in a smile. “
Enfin
. You come. It is good, very good. Monsieur told me you would come one day and that I should always be ready. Everything clean and dusted,
comme il faut
.”

“I'm sorry, but—do you
know
me?”

“
Bien sûr
. Here, you are in the photo, you see? He tells me to wait and so I do.” When the housekeeper held out a gilt-framed photo, Nell caught a breath, shocked to see her own face, over two decades before, breathless with excitement. Behind her stood a taller figure with laughing eyes and a perfectly tailored tweed jacket.

Her father.

“
This
is your employer?” Nell didn't understand. This was her father's house? Had he built a secret identity here, in a place he would be safe? If so, he'd never mentioned a word about it to Nell.

“Certainly he is. And you are his daughter. He told me one day you would come with the key. You have it there in your hand, no?”

The puzzle began to fall into place. The key was his final gift to her, passing on his last secrets at his death.

Nell couldn't seem to breathe.

“But come, mademoiselle. You must be tired and you'll want to see your room. There's a fine view out over the lavender fields. On a good day you can see just a bit of the Mediterranean.” Sunlight flashed with sparks of color against old mullioned windows, open to the lavender-scented breeze as the old woman bustled through the room, opening the shutters. “When you've rested, I'll bring the white peaches he said you'd like, along with merlot from your grapes in the back. It is all yours, just as he meant it to be. Every painting, every chair, all to make you smile and feel like home.”

Nell shook her head. “You must be wrong. He—he never told me anything about this house. Not a word.”

“He always did love his secrets.” The old woman nodded, her eyes softening as if in memory. “But it is yours. I have the deed if you wish for proof.”

“I'll take your word.” Nell turned away, pain blocking her throat with the sting of tears. “Even if it doesn't make sense.”

The housekeeper made a clicking noise. “The answers must be here, no? Look around you and see them.”

Nell turned slowly. In her shock at the sight of so many valuable paintings she had missed the other walls. Their rough gray limestone was dotted with a dozen framed photos of her father laughing, head back and arms open wide.

One with a gracious, aging movie star. Another with a former president. Two photos with a long-legged British photographer known for her stunning safari scenes—and her equally stunning love affairs.

Jordan MacInnes looked at ease in every one, a man with no cares in the world. Younger, confident, as he'd been before his arrest.

Nell gripped the heavy key, her heart filled to full measure, drinking in her father's happiness. With her emotions rising as fast as her tears, she ran her fingers along the old frames and pristine glass, savoring the sight of her father's joy.

It made the pain of his loss easier, to remember how happy he had been.

Something hummed near the door. Nell realized it was her cell phone, shoved deep in her big leather travel bag.

The housekeeper bustled to the kitchen as Nell dug the phone free.

“Hello?”

“Nell, it's Nicholas. Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”

“I'm fine. I'm here at the address you gave me, Nicholas. It's a beautifully restored French farmhouse, and there are pictures of my father everywhere. I still can't take it all in.”

“Sit down and breathe. You'll be fine.” He sounded very calm, Nell thought.

“Did you know?” she asked suddenly. “Did he tell you about this place?”

“Not a word. I found out when Izzy Teague tracked the key. The company had not produced that kind of lock in fifty years, but they kept the owner's records from a previous renovation, so they were able to trace the address in Provence. All the same, I'm not surprised that Jordan had a refuge where no one would look. It was his way to be cautious.”

“But this art—is it…stolen?”

“Definitely not. He was a shrewd businessman, Nell. He kept flipping the art, always getting something he loved more. They are yours, legal and clean.”

So her father had told no one about this place. Yes, being careful was a habit for him, Nell thought. There were a thousand more questions, but she couldn't seem to focus on them. She was mesmerized by the smile in her father's photographs and the people who had once been a part of his life. She smiled at a photo of her mother, walking through a field of lavender with a white rose in her hair. Next to that was a picture of Nell, chasing a kitten over a smooth green lawn back in California.

So much love, all of it his final gift to her.

“I'll let you go, then. I just wanted to be sure everything worked out. Ring me if you need anything.”

“Of course, Nicholas.” A bee droned through the sunlight at the open door. Nell turned at the sound, then froze as a figure appeared in the doorway. The face was unfamiliar, heavily wrinkled beneath a shining bald curve.

No one that Nell knew. But when the eyes twinkled in apology and excitement, she couldn't look away. “Do I know you?”

“Oh, definitely.”

The voice caught at her. Then the eyes.

Even through the thick glasses she knew those eyes, knew that cocky gleam.
It couldn't be.

Nell gripped the huge wooden farm table as her legs went weak, the phone call forgotten. “You?”

His face was in shadow, but his voice was resonant and deep. “So it is, my dearest girl.” He came closer, circling the peaceful room, straightening a vase and adjusting a flower with an owner's care. “Forgive the little piece of drama. It was necessary, I'm afraid.”

The words rolled over Nell as she stood frozen, pinned to a bar of sunlight. “But how?” she whispered.

Jordan MacInnes smiled. “Thanks to Izzy Teague and your Dakota. They knew that my death was the only way I'd be free of the past.” His voice wavered. “I'm sorry for all the pain it caused you, sorry for every tear. Believe that.” He reached out a hand that trembled. “I love you so much.”

Overwhelmed, Nell closed her eyes and hugged him while the rich, ripe scent of lavender filled the air and the beaming housekeeper carried tea and lemonade outside to the stone patio.

“A
RE YOU SURE
?”
Nell said. “Absolutely sure? You're finally free of them, and they'll never know the truth?”

“I'm sure. Jordan MacInnes is dead on every government record. Everyone important in my old world saw me ‘die' in Scotland, and the word has spread. No one will be bothering either of us now.”

A Bluefaced Leicester sheep wandered in from the meadow, rosemary sprigs matted in its thick fleece. “Now,” Jordan MacInnes said, refilling Nell's glass of lemonade, “tell me about your man Dakota.”

There was a father's clear curiosity in the question, along with the refusal to believe that
any
man was good enough for his daughter.

Nell cleared her throat. She didn't have neat and tidy answers. She'd spoken to Dakota only twice since their climbing trip, and both calls had been short.

“It's serious, then?”

All she could do was nod.

“About time,” her father said calmly.

Bolder now, the sheep moved across the patio to nuzzle her hand while Nell pulled out the captive rosemary stems gently. Her fingers tangled in the soft wool.

She raised her face to the liquid sunlight. Suddenly her life was full of possibilities.

She turned to look at her father. “You aren't going to ask me what he does or what our plans are?”

“Why should I? The glow you have right now is answer enough. You need a good man in your life, Nell. And if Dakota doesn't marry you, I'll have to shoot him.”

Suddenly the two dogs raced down the gravel drive, barking wildly. A car motor whined, circling up from the highway.

Nell stood up quickly, trying to see past the banked roses. “I'd better go clean up. It's been a long trip and I doubt I'd be good company for your visitors.”

She started to move away, but her father took her hand tightly. “I think this is someone you should see, my love.”

Footsteps crunched over the gravel, and one of the dogs shot over the low stone wall, tail wagging. Behind him Dakota Smith appeared, a travel bag over his shoulder, a bunch of freshly gathered lavender mounded in his arms. “So the secret's out.” He nodded at Jordan MacInnes and then his gaze lingered on Nell's face. “You look beautiful. And a little overwhelmed.”

“I am.” Nell took a shaky breath. “You and Nicholas planned this to protect him?”

“Draycott had the idea first.” Dakota dropped his bag and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Izzy and I helped put all the pieces together.” He reached out to shake her father's hand. “Good to see you, sir. I'd say the cosmetic implants were a success. I wouldn't have recognized you, which is the whole idea, of course.” He turned, prowling the room. “I like the Chinese clay horse. My uncle used to tell me how they were made, with running glazes and bodies so real you expected them to fly. I can see that he was right.”

“You know about Chinese ceramics?” Nell's father sounded pleased by the possibility.

“Not much. Just that I like them.”

The housekeeper bustled in. “The tea is arranged outside, if you would like.”

Jordan MacInnes glanced out the back window and smiled. “I see that Izzy Teague has arrived and is already helping himself. Probably he's charmed his way into samples of my best Bordeaux, as well. I'd better go check. No doubt you two have things to discuss anyway.” As he turned toward the kitchen, his movements were stiff and awkward, and Nell realized that he was in pain. For all his bravado the sickness must be growing worse.

How long did he have?

But she fought a sense of panic with the reminder that she'd had one wish granted, and that other miracles might be possible, too.

Find your grip.

Go forward.

The last thing her father would want was to see her cry.

“You okay?” Dakota's hand brushed her cheek.

“Fine. Jet lag…and everything. You look good.” Their hands met, fingers curving together as if they'd been apart for only five minutes instead of almost three months.

“How about we go somewhere and talk?” Dakota said.