To Catch a Thief (15 page)

“Because they're watching him and he couldn't talk.” Nell rubbed her arms, feeling cold. “Can you track the accounts by country? Isn't there a bank routing code as part of a full account number?”

“I'm having it checked out.” Draycott leaned back slowly. “Do you know someone named Lydia Reynolds?”

“She's the curator at the National Gallery, the one who handled the tests on the da Vinci. I've met her several times. Her reports were in the file you gave me.”

“What did you think of them?”

Nell hesitated. “Some of the results looked wrong. Since it was slight, I wanted to be sure before I said anything. Two of the X-rays showed perfectly acceptable linen content in the paper, consistent with the materials of da Vinci's known work, several other X-rays suggested much lower than normal linen content. It seemed odd to me, but hardly conclusive,” Nell said slowly. “It suggested—only suggested—that there might be two pieces of art being tested.”

Nicholas's eyes narrowed. “How would that be done?”

“Not easily. Once a piece is logged in, there is a consistent chain of documentation for everyone who handles it. Especially on a piece of this value, no one could remove it without approval and written notation.”

“So what happened?”

Nell worked through the possibilities. “It could be that the initial tests began with the real piece, establishing the probable date and use of authentic materials. Then more complex tests were done, the kind of tests that always show contestable results. The uncertainty is something every scholar lives with. Only in the second phase someone may have substituted a forged piece of art with similar, but not the same materials.”

“Why?”

“To give a thief time to remove the real piece safely from the museum. Only when the theft of the forgery took place did the pandemonium ensue.” Nell shook her head. “But any expert going over these reports would have noticed the inconsistencies. It was just a matter of time.”

“Exactly. A matter of time.” Nicholas stood up, watching clouds darken the woods to the south. “They needed time to get the real art away, and Lydia Reynolds bought it for them. But none of the technicians would have noticed that the second piece was a forgery?”

“Not if she'd limited access to the piece. The quality of the art is not a technician's area of expertise. Assuming the copy was good, they would be busy with the chemistry, not the
look
of the thing. As a short-term tactic it would work.” Nell drummed her fingers on the table. “But Nicholas, this curator might know where the painting is. If she was involved, you can ask her—”

“I'm afraid no one can ask her anything, Nell. She died several hours ago. These people are taking no chances on being found.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I'm afraid I have more calls to make before I leave for London.” He glanced at the darkening sky. “You should go inside, too. There's nasty weather on the way, I understand. Storm before morning.”

Wind shook the white tablecloth as Nell stood up. She felt cold, afraid for her father.

“Marston will provide whatever you need in my absence. He will also have my cell phone number if you need to reach me. I will try to be back by midday tomorrow.”

T
HE AFTERNOON STRETCHED
into the long shadows of evening. After picking at her dinner, Nell took a walk to fight off her growing restlessness. Back in San Francisco she practiced at a climbing gym and walked the hilly streets every day. Being cooped up made her feel like a captive.

Retreating to Nicholas's paneled library, she pored over her notes and narrowed the list of probable buyers for the da Vinci, double-checking the most recent auction databases. All the while she prayed for a call from her father.

But the call never came. Finally she pulled out an old manuscript on siege instruments written in da Vinci's curious mirror script, part of the abbey's singular collection.

Somewhere a clock chimed. A bird cried out shrilly in the darkness.

Nell barely heard.

N
ELL SLEPT FITFULLY
.
The house seemed too quiet, the wind too loud. She awoke with a cramp in her neck. Through the big French doors overlooking the moat, she saw swans cut through silver water, their wake forming cryptic hieroglyphics.

She sat up, yawning. Time to get back to work. She had to recheck all the Asian databases for collectors who had bid on works by da Vinci.

Her father's life could depend on every clue she unearthed.

A
N HOUR BEFORE DAWN
she was still huddled in Nicholas's big leather chair, surrounded by research books and computer printouts.

With her laptop she had logged into every online research database, tracking recent auctions for da Vinci sketches. Stacked on the desk was a list of every private collector or institution that had acquired similar da Vinci pieces over the past three years. She could have gone back further, but she had a feeling the pattern she was looking for would be recent.

Unfortunately, her databases would only reveal one part of that pattern. There would be others who had purchased illegal art, the kind that passed from hand to hand through underground networks in Rome, London and New York, never surfacing officially. Nell knew stolen art could vanish within hours and not be seen again for years—if at all.

This kind of collector bought from a need to possess, not to display. Transactions would be in cash and appear in no academic databases or auction catalogues.

Her father would know those names better than anyone, since that shadow world had once been his domain. Nell had never spoken to him about that world or its dangerous allure. As a child she hadn't understood his secrecy or late-night meetings, followed by sudden, unexplained travel.

As an adult she had been
afraid
to understand.

Now, standing by the window of Nicholas's study, watching wind toss the banked roses, Nell thought of all the things she should have asked and the dark, hard truths about her father that she ought to have faced long before. She wanted to believe with all her heart that his old life was over, that it would never touch her or her father again. But there was no point in pretending things were normal or ever had been normal.

Jordan MacInnes had been a very good thief, and she was a thief's daughter. Nell had evaded those hard facts, shoving her memories deep to escape their pain, working harder and longer than her colleagues to prove the past couldn't harm her. But it had. Now there could be no more refuge in lies.

As the wind prowled, whipping waves across the moat, she pulled on her jacket. The violence of the night seemed to call her as she went outside to face the storm. The roses were ghostly in the moonlight, their perfume lost in the cold wind. A few beads of rain fell as she walked toward the gravel driveway.

She had felt like a guest for most of her life, moving from foster home to university and then on to months of advanced study throughout Europe. Always she had been an observer and a quiet traveler, without roots or deep contacts.

The distance in her life had never been painful to her. She loved the infinite challenge of her work and the focus it required. But now Nell wondered if she had used her travel as an excuse to hold people away. She had no relatives except her father. Even with her closest friends, she had always shunned anything that hinted at attachment or dependence.

No leaning.

No trust.

MacInnes rules.

How much joy and rich experience had those rules cost her, through years of rootlessness meant to ensure that she would never be abandoned again? She had never been to a therapist or a priest after her father's arrest. She had never joined discussion groups or cathartic seminars. Words had seemed like a weak bandage for the unhealed wounds she carried.

But the past had to be healed. The realization shook her now, forcing her back into the dark times, churning up the memory of her father thrown to the ground and beaten, then shoved facedown into a waiting police car. Eighteen years later, she still remembered the streaks of blood on his face as he had tried to sit up and smile at her, cocky and reassuring as he was driven away.

One more act. One more facade in a lifetime full of them.

Nell hunched her shoulders, trembling at the buried memories that began to surface. Struck by a sudden sense of loss and pain, she closed her eyes, squeezed her hands to fists.

And then Nell cried for the first time in longer than she could remember.

From child to teenager to woman, the scars had stayed with her, always pushed deeper and firmly ignored.

All the more reason to face them now.

When the first gusts of rain fell, she stood on the little bridge above the moat, gripping the weathered stone until it bit at her skin, but the pain in her fingers was nothing compared to the pain of remembering.

She wanted her life back. She wanted to remember what living had been like before the world had closed in on her. She was tired of being the constant stranger at the table. She wanted a real future and a life without shadows.

Her face to the driving rain, caught in memories too long ignored, she didn't hear the moan of the wind or the peal of distant church bells, swallowing the growl of a motor coming fast.

D
AKOTA TOOK
the turn from the village too fast, took the abbey's gravel driveway too fast. He was angry at his orders, angry at being forced into a mission with a civilian.

Not any civilian. Nell. A woman he couldn't ignore or forget.

The price was too high.

Soldiers understood the risks of the job. Their deaths were mourned but accepted. Civilians…hell, civilians shouldn't be involved.

The wind howled as he passed a moat speckled with rain. Two pale shapes that had to be swans drifted on the dark current.

Swans. Moats. Stone turrets.

What kind of place was this?

But he knew the answer. This house belonged to a world filled with money and old power. Nell would feel comfortable in a place like this, he thought grimly. She would be right at home amid the grand antiques and priceless art.

Nell…

Why the hell
couldn't
he get her out of his mind?

Why did he have the feeling that in the end, she was the one who would be hurt most by her father's reckless choices?

When the curve loomed up, Dakota throttled back. Abruptly a gray cat flashed across the road. He pulled hard to the left to miss the cat and his vision blurred. Gravel cracked, kicked up by his tires, and he leaned hard to keep the bike steady.

When he came out of the turn, he saw something else in the rain, motionless on the top of the small bridge. He had a sudden glimpse of the abbey's dark parapets looming at the end of the driveway, but his vision wouldn't clear.

Then he realized it was Nell standing at the far side of the bridge. With her face turned up into the rain, she didn't hear his shout of warning.

T
ORN FREE BY THE WIND
,
leaves sailed over Dakota's head. Only his skill and instant reflexes helped him twist sideways and brake while controlling the skid as he shouted another warning.

Nell spun, her feet slipping on the wet bridge, and Dakota threw his weight to the side, feathering the turn while his leg raked the cobblestones.

It was five in the morning. Why was the woman outside, face to the rain, her clothing soaked?

Bigger question: why hadn't he seen her sooner?

Fury made his hands clench. But the fury was at himself, not Nell. His vision should have offered some color shift to pick her out of the rain, heat against cold, living human form against wind and stone.

But he had seen nothing to warn him. Moments before, the colors of the night had blurred, impossible to read, in a way Dakota had never experienced before. In that one moment's lapse, he could have run her down. Some kind of electrical effect from the storm?

There was no time for answers. Nell was on her knees on the wet cobblestones, coughing as Dakota shoved the motorcycle onto its side and sprinted to cover her with his jacket.

She blinked at him, her eyes dark with confusion and wariness.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

Dakota didn't believe her. “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't expect anyone to be out here.” He bit back a curse. He'd slept on the long flight to England. Then he'd taken every turn from the small military airport near Hastings too fast, but he was trained to drive fast and push the limits of the high-performance Triumph Izzy had located for his use. Rain or not, his driving skills weren't in question.

His vision was at fault, and his vision had never wavered like this since he'd begun his Foxfire training.

Gently, he brushed wet hair from Nell's face. “Are you sure you aren't hurt?”

“I'm f-fine.” Her voice was stiff.

“What were you doing out here?”

She looked away, avoiding his eyes. “Nothing that matters.”

His hands tightened. Dakota considered the possibility that she had been waiting for someone. She could be buried deeper than they knew, part of a complex level of betrayal in her father's game.

No, he didn't believe it. He would have sensed her guilt and the effort it took for her to hide it. He couldn't pull words from her mind, but he could read intensity and physical response in heat patterns.

He felt that intensity now, felt her struggle to clear her mind.

“Talk to me, Nell. I need to understand.” He pulled his jacket tighter around her.

She grimaced and tried to stand. “I was taking a trip down memory lane.” Her voice shook. “It wasn't pretty, so I'll spare you the details.”

He didn't understand, but right now the blood on her leg was more important than her terse explanation. He cursed himself silently as she put her weight on her right foot and then winced, gripping his arm. Without a word, Dakota slid his arms around her waist and lifted her.

“Hey, I can walk,” she protested.

“And I can sew up a torn parachute with dental floss if I have to, but I don't do it unless it's an emergency. Now how much does it hurt?”

She looked away, her mouth in a thin line.

Which meant it hurt like hell.

“Where's your room?” Dakota hunched closer, shielding her against the rain.

“In the gatehouse. Then down the hall to your left.”

She didn't argue as he shoved open the big wooden door with his foot. Dakota had time for a quick impression of yellow curtains and blue walls before he set her down on a bed covered with thick down quilts. He didn't waste breath in more apologies. He doubted it would make either of them feel better. Something was wrong and he needed to figure out what.

He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and dried her hair, then sat down beside her. “Slide your leg onto my lap.”

She sat stiffly. “I'll take care of any problems later.”

“Not later—now.” He shoved up her wet skirt and felt a pang of guilt as his fingers slid along her icy skin. “You've got a bad cut on your ankle, and there's gravel in the wound.” His hands curved gently around her ankle. “It has to be cleaned, Nell. I've got supplies in my pack.”

She stared at him, frowning. “I told you I can manage.”

“Is it just
me
that's the problem, or do you brush off help from everyone?”

“I take care of myself. No leaning. It's one of my life rules.”

He shook his head. “It's a stupid rule. Everybody can use help sometimes.” Frowning, he found a clean washcloth in the spacious bathroom. Armed with alcohol and bandages, he lifted her leg onto his knee and waited for her to protest.

She didn't look at him.

“No more arguments?”

“You seem to know what you're doing.”

Dakota leaned closer and cleaned the short gash. “Sorry if I'm hurting you.”

“Just finish. I'll survive.”

Was a woman ever more prickly? Dakota worked carefully, picking away small bits of gravel while Nell sat stiffly, never speaking. But he heard her breath check, felt her muscles tense. He saw the heat of her body as it warmed, colors shifting, every degree of change clear to him.

No lapses now. Strangely, now that they were inside the abbey his vision seemed better than ever.

“Done.” Dakota's pulse seemed loud as he leaned close to wrap a piece of clean gauze around her ankle. “How does it feel?”

“A little throbbing. Forget it.”

He couldn't forget it, that was the problem. His reflexes were perfect and his driving skills exceptional, but something had happened to him out in the rain, something that left him adrift in a sea of gray shapes, just for a second. For a man who relied on his special skills to survive in dangerous places, this kind of lapse was unacceptable.

He scanned the room, checking colors and heat signatures. Yellow pillows, blue blanket, condensation on cold windows, all absolutely normal. Everything was just the way it was supposed to look. So what had gone wrong outside?

Nell was sitting very still, staring at him. “Why are you so angry?”

Dakota kept all expression from his face. “Other than the fact that I nearly hit you? That cut's clean now. The gauze should hold for a day.” Tense, he stood up and turned away, raising his hands to check the play of colors and heat.

Normal. All normal.

Whatever had happened appeared to be temporary. Problems could develop despite the highest technology that had gone into his enhancements, and considering that he'd been traveling straight through the night, in and out of time zones and weather conditions, maybe…

No way. Dakota had been in tough conditions before, but never with a slip like that. He'd have to report the situation to Izzy. Maybe the Foxfire tech genius could come up with answers.

Meanwhile, there was a mission to plan.

He prowled the room, noticing the quiet good taste and colorful antiques, then turned back to Nell. “Do you need something for the pain? I can ask Draycott if—”

“There's no need. My ankle's not broken. It's happened before, so I'd know.” She sat up slowly, keeping one leg straight in front of her. “All in all I'll live. But you still haven't told me what's wrong. You wouldn't race to get here if it wasn't important. Is my father—” Nell hesitated. Her fingers locked on the quilt.

Dakota realized that she was expecting bad news. “It's not your father. As far as we know, he's fine.”

He saw her eyes close, body sagging in relief. “I thought…” She ran a hand across her face. “I thought you came to tell me he was dead.”

Wind from the open window tossed her hair. When she shoved it back, Dakota saw the faint marks of a dozen old climbing scars on her strong fingers.

He didn't know her at all, he realized. He had seen a laughing woman in the photographs on her wall back in San Francisco. He had seen a brave adventurer on that snowy peak in Scotland. And yet he still didn't have any idea who Nell MacInnes really was.

Finding out suddenly seemed very important.

In the still room the faint scent of lilacs clung to her skin, cool with rain. He watched her work soft strands of hair through her fingers and remembered how they had felt against his chest when he'd carried her inside. The memory was sharp. Too sharp.

He imagined how her hair would feel wrapped around his hand, spilling over his chest. He wanted to feel her that way now, skin to skin, her eyes dark with passion.

His body went absolutely still.

Nothing
broke his focus.

Women were a pleasure to be savored then forgotten. When it was required, Dakota had used sensual pleasure to gain a woman's trust or cooperation. Afterward, he had walked away without looking back, his distance intact.

Feeling nothing kept you safe, and being safe, were all that mattered in his uncertain world.

But he wasn't feeling distant now. Impersonal, noisy sex had never been half as intimate as it felt just to look at Nell while his hand traced casual circles on her leg.

His fingers slowed. He skimmed her calf.

There was no mistaking the first stir of her response. He saw the flare of heat at her neck, at her cheeks, across the swell of her breasts pressed against damp cotton. He knew without words what would give her the greatest pleasure because the heat of her body told him.

Heat
.

His fingers slid lower.

He didn't intend for his hand to curve over the arch of her foot. He didn't plan to draw her sigh of pleasure as he kneaded a knot of tension at the back of her heel.

But he couldn't look away, watching heat changes in her skin, flowing eddies of pale yellow and red that gave precise physical messages to an experienced man. And Dakota was very experienced, very patient. He told himself that touching her meant nothing. Only the mission mattered. The mission was what he was.

A lie. He wanted more than this slow glide of fingers. He wanted to slip his hands into her dark hair and lift her until their bodies met with rough lust and brutal honesty. Angry, he ignored the impulse and buried his emotions, clenching his hands as he turned to cross the room.

Stay cold.

Stay distant.

He repeated the words in his mind. “Get changed,” he said. “I'm behind schedule and we've got work to do.”

“We?” Nell frowned at the sudden edge in his voice. “What kind of work?”

He kept his face impassive. “Whatever I tell you. Your father's in way over his head, Nell. If you want to get him out alive, you'll do whatever it takes.”

Color swept her cheeks. His blunt words had cut her, as he'd meant them to. Safer this way, fast and sharp. Better to kill any possible feelings between them right now.

“Don't pretend this is about my father,” she said quietly. “You want the art, and nothing else matters. None of you care what happens to my father.”

“Is that a question?”

“No.”

Dakota didn't tell her she was wrong because she wasn't. The mission was far bigger than the safety of Jordan MacInnes. In spite of that, Dakota had promised Nicholas Draycott to do everything in his power to bring MacInnes out alive. So he would. No matter who stood in his way.

He didn't tell Nell that, either.

“If we're going to work together, here are the rules,” Nell said.

Dakota frowned.

“Don't lie to me, not ever.”

“Acceptable.” Within security limits, he amended silently.

“Two—when you hear any news about my father,
tell
me. Even if it's…bad.” She swallowed. “Very bad.”

Guts and brains, he thought. They were always a dangerous combination. “Okay on two. What about three?”

Nell crossed her arms. “When I think of it, I'll tell you.” She pulled down a thick robe from the bathroom door. “What do I have to do?”

“We'll start by looking at some photos.”

As she took the robe, her wet cotton shirt shifted and brushed every curve. Her breasts were clearly outlined by the movement, smooth and full, shadowed by the thrust of dark nipples.

Dakota wanted her with a savagery that he'd never experienced before. He wondered if his response was somehow connected to his vision lapse on the drive. He wouldn't accept that it was
personal.

He tossed her a towel, forcing his eyes away. “Dry off. If you get sick, you're no good to me or your father,” he said curtly. He glanced out the window at the small parking area behind the abbey. “Is Draycott back from London yet?”