Deadly Little Secrets (3 page)

Pointing to a field on the second screen Ana was utilizing for her multiple searches, Pretzky snapped, “That entry is in Italian. Your translation skills aren't an issue here, Burton.”

“I'm aware of that.” Ana winced, and took a breath so she wouldn't sound so God-awful defensive. It was all she could do to keep her voice level and unemotional. “It's a pertinent entry on one of the individuals in the file who lost more than five million dollars in the art fraud case.” It was a big fat lie, of course. That entry involved Gates Bromley and an Italian supermodel on the Riviera, not his boss's art. She said a little prayer of thanks that the open window detailing Jen's boyfriend's financial data was decently covered by the photograph of the model.

Fortunately, Pretzky didn't read, or speak, Italian. Nor had she checked the names on the file.

The woman stood for a moment longer, trying, Ana guessed, to figure out a way to find fault. Hoping to get out of it with better grace, Ana offered, “Did you want a listing of the sites and the individuals I'm searching?”

“No need,” Pretzky said, but didn't bother to hide the annoyance this time. “Carry on.”

It took her a few minutes to settle her heart rate, but Anna did go on. She printed out several of the searches, then wiped them from her search list, from the history, and from her hard drive. A dedicated effort would bring them up, but no one else in the building, especially IT, had that kind of time.

She packed up for the day, and faced the prospect of an empty Friday night with a grimace. At least she'd have something to look forward to on Saturday, and there was always work she could do from home.

Saturday was full of Jen and her doings. Jen positively glowed and couldn't say enough about what a gentleman her Millionaire Jack had been. By the time they'd gotten through lunch, Ana was thinking longingly of her quiet apartment. Instead, Jen dragged her shopping and out to dinner.

By Sunday's solo dinner of leftovers, she'd seesawed back to actually being grateful that she'd had Jen's antics for a distraction. Monday was full of phone calls and meetings, and she was grateful for the distraction, working late again just to avoid her empty apartment.

On Tuesday, finally on the road to Mr. G's estate in the hills north of San Francisco, she was pleased with all the background work she'd been able to plow through on the defrauded victims. The thorough understanding she had of Mr. G's losses should make today's meeting interesting.

Ana drove up to the speaker at the edge of the driveway into the compound. Several workers bustled around a landscaping truck on the other side of the driveway, and there were workers cutting grass beyond the ornate fencing. By habit, she made a note of the license plate, counted the number of workers, noted the lone woman working the crew.

“State your business, please,” the voice said, a second time since she hadn't answered the first hail. Embarrassed, she briskly stated her business.

“You're expected, Agent Burton,” the man said, and directed her to drive through the first set of gates.

To her surprise, the gates shut behind her, trapping her between them and the next set. “What the hell?” she muttered, noting the openings in the second wall. “Huh, the modern version of arrow slits and murder holes,” she decided, seeing the shadow of movement behind one of the gaps.

The sharp-eyed and well-armed guard asked for her identification and, unsmiling, took it into the guardhouse. He was apparently reading the contents to someone who approved, because he nodded and put down the phone with a smile. He was far more pleasant when he returned her documents.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Agent Burton. As I said, you're expected, but we double-check everything.”

As an answer, she took her identification and put it away before she spoke. “I hope no one would attempt to impersonate an agent.”

The man grimaced. “They try everything,” he muttered, glancing beyond her car to the outer gates. “Really.”

She moved through the estate at an easy pace, appreciating the peace, quiet, and beauty that money could buy so close to the city. The estate was a huge, well-manicured fortress.

She arrived at the front portico, and a man was waiting for her. It was a bright day, but the area shaded by the overhanging canopy left the man standing there in shadow. Her dark glasses made it worse. All she could tell was that he was above average height. Judging by the dramatic doors behind him, he was at least six feet tall, probably a little over that. A dark gray, well-tailored suit emphasized his height, and showed off impressive shoulders. His hair was a medium brown; his eyes probably were too.

She tugged down her suit coat, making sure it and her skirt were straight, before she went around the car. She arrived at the hood ornament just as he came down the last step to meet her.

“Agent Burton?”

“Mr. Bromley?” They both spoke at once, and he smiled.

Fortunately, it wasn't a Hollywood, blinding white smile, otherwise she might have thought he was a god. The voice was just as luscious in person, but a crooked eyetooth and a scar over his eyebrow kept him from being too perfect.

“Please, come in. I regret that Mr. Gianikopolis won't be able to join us today,” he began.

“Wait. What?” Jeez, all that reading for nothing? Any warmth she'd felt for the man in front of her evaporated. A spurt of anger surfaced as well. “You didn't call to reschedule?”

“My assistant did, yes, but you were already on your way. As I'm sure you know, cell service is spotty coming up the hills. This was…unavoidable, I'm afraid. A family matter.”

Annoyed, Ana managed to overlook the physical attraction and focus on the irritation. A feat of pure determination, because Gates Bromley was one fabulously attractive man.

“Then I guess my trip is a waste.”

“No,” he said, motioning her to precede him through the doors. “I have a list of the stolen items, so we can move through the initial comparison to be sure everything was accounted for by your agency. Then, we can have a look at what you're doing now.”

His easy assumption that he was in charge pissed her off. She felt the stirring of her former, brash self rising up to protest. As he led the way down a gorgeous wood-paneled hallway, she was devising several methods of killing him, slowly and painfully.

She hated being treated like the freshman geek.

“Mr. Bromley, I assure you, we have a complete list. And I'm not at liberty to share information with you on avenues I might currently be pursuing.” Ana was pleased that she sounded professional, and firm.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” he said, and his smile was filled with infuriating superiority.

God, how she hated smugness. She hated when someone tried to bushwhack her or the Agency, and this was shaping up to be that kind of deal.

“Let's sit here.” He directed her to a table. “Coffee?”

She wanted to say no; she wanted to stalk out, head high and in full dudgeon. Instead, she repressed a sigh. Thanks to several months with the departmental shrink, she knew enough about her own patterns that she now recognized the defensiveness as her own inadequacies rearing their ugly heads. Nothing messed with her more, especially now, than someone being haughty.

“Agent?”

“Sure, why not. Black and sweet please,” she said, taking very petty satisfaction that he must serve her coffee. It was small, but it was a victory in its own way.

He set down two deep china cups.

“Thank you. Now, Mr. Bromley, as I explained to you when we talked last week, I can't discuss this with you. You're not the insured, nor are yours the paintings lost.”

“Actually, Agent Burton, you can.” He smiled again, and it looked warmer, more…personal. She wondered why. “Several of the paintings on the list were owned by the corporation registered here in San Francisco. As an officer of that corporation, I'm authorized to discuss that portion of the listed pieces.”

Ana wanted to seethe. She wanted to smack the warm, personal, and interested smile off his face. He could have told her he was an officer of the corporation. He could have…

She heard the voice of the psychologist in her head.
Is it always necessary to go on the attack, Agent Burton? Should you not consider your objective?
In the split second of silence before she spoke, she focused on the objective. She needed information.

Jeez, Ana, he's cooperating. Take it, for once.
With that in mind, she drew a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face. “That does change things, Mr. Bromley. Let's look at your list.”

You show me yours,
she thought, smirking,
and I'll show you mine.

He leaned forward unexpectedly, and before she could recoil, a long finger stroked a brief caress down her cheek. “You had a piece of fluff, just there,” he commented, leaning back. “It was quite distracting.”

She frowned as the air backed up in her lungs, caught there by the intimate gesture. Whoa. What the heck had that been about?

The yo-yo of emotion, enhanced by his switch from superior to personal, was not helping her. Maybe she did need more sessions with the psych guy.

Shaking off the feeling that she was losing control of every part of this meeting, she managed a “Thank you” as she took the list he now offered. Scanned it.

Now her frown was for the list. “There're two paintings on this list that aren't on my list, and one that's on my list, that isn't on yours.”

“Ah, very quick of you, Agent. You must have a photographic memory to have such quick recall.” He looked impressed, and Ana felt an irrational surge of pleasure. “The second item, the one you noticed that's no longer on our list, is a matter you'll have to discuss with Dav…Mr. Gianikopolis. However, the first two, which are not on your list, were items we discovered later to be fraudulent. They were uncovered as forged long after the case went cold. In fact, neither Dav nor I are sure if they are part of this, but I wanted them included, just to check.” He shrugged. “A decorator Dav was utilizing bought them on his behalf. Usually Dav buys his own stuff, but he was—” Bromley stopped, as if he'd been about to make a critical remark and thought better of it. “He was distracted.”

“Distracted?” she pressed.

Bromley smiled. “Beauty can be very distracting,” he commented, an even warmer smile on his face. She presumed he was talking to her now, not about his boss, but she couldn't be sure.

Weird. She was in no way beautiful.

“So you're dancing around saying that he was having,” she paused, chose a less inflammatory word, “dating the decorator?”

“Precisely. It wasn't until at least a year later that we discovered those two pieces were also counterfeit. They may be connected to your case,” he said, then shrugged. “Or not.” He took a sip of coffee and continued. “The lady in question claimed no knowledge of the forgeries. I tend to believe her, actually. I've listed her name at the bottom of the sheet there. You can contact her.” His features were poker smooth, but she could swear there was a ripe note of dark amusement in his voice as he added, “It would be nice to hear what she has to say to the Agency, rather than to us.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Anna murmured. She'd moved on from wondering about the decorator, and was now distracted by the data. “Red herring?” she muttered, quickly scribbling a note as her thoughts raced. “Connected? Maybe.” She stopped writing, tapped the pen on the table, then realized she was talking to herself again.

Damn it. She was going to have to break the habit of talking through the data out loud. Pretzky'd warned her, and here she was doing it with a perfect stranger.

Perfect being the operative word.

She hated it when she blushed. No help for it though. “Sorry. Thinking it through.”

“Good idea.” This time, there was real humor in the grin he shot her, not…attraction.

“Do you have photographs of the paintings? Something I could take with me?”

“Of course. There's a file of materials waiting for you at your office. It has photos, copies of the original purchase agreements, authentification, and so on. I included copies of the appraisals for each of the paintings, and the secondary appraisals proving them to be counterfeit. I had it couriered over, just in case I caught you on the way and you decided not to join me this morning.”

“Ah. Okay.” Now what? He'd sent her all the info she needed to get started. “The other painting,” she began.

“The other paintings will have to wait until we can discuss it with Dav. By your rules, Agent.”

Hoist with her own petard. Now that she'd made a big deal of not discussing it with him, she couldn't ask.
Wrap it up, Burton.

“Good, well then I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Bromley. And I'll look for the information when I get back.” She rose, and he did as well, shaking her offered hand.

His hand was warm, and large. It engulfed hers, but not in a bad way, necessarily. He didn't squeeze too hard, try to overwhelm her, or anything. He just pressed her hand, and released it. Slowly.

“I'll show you out,” he said.

As they walked, he let his left hand rest at the small of her back, just for a moment to direct her down the hallway to the door. Nothing overly familiar, nothing she could slap him back for, but it was a seductive touch nevertheless. Just like the caress to her cheek, it was personal. Private.

Sensual.

All without being overt. She was ready to hop out of her skin by the time they got back to her car.

“I'll look forward to meeting with you again, when Dav can be with us and we can discuss the entire matter,” he said, holding her door open for her. “We want to cooperate in every way.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bromley, and please thank Mr. Gianikopolis for me as well.”