“Oh, okay.”
Then oh so casually, she leaned over to set the picture frame back on the window ledge. Wiggling her fanny to hide what she was doing, Maddie bumped the cigar into the trashcan.
Paulo never saw it and Maddie sauntered back to the sofa.
One minute passed. Then two.
Crap. Had the cigar gone out?
Three minutes. Four.
Just when she was about to despair over her foiled attempt to start a fire, the acrid smell of smoldering paper filled the air.
Paulo sniffed. “Do you smell something burning?”
Maddie shook her head. “I think it’s just Antonio’s cigar.”
Paulo nodded, her explanation appeasing him. Until bright orange flames began licking above the trashcan.
“Oooh, oooh,” Maddie gasped, playing her part to the hilt. “Fire! Fire!
Fuego! Fuego!
”
The minute Paulo ran for the fire extinguisher, Maddie darted out the door.
FOURTEEN
T
HE ROAD FROM
Nice to Monaco was breathtakingly picturesque, but David barely noticed. His focus was on Cassie and the disturbing realization that she had somehow fallen into Blanco’s clutches.
Was she even still with Blanco? The man was ruthless. Once she’d served her purpose, he was just as likely to kill her as he was to keep her. Unless he had an even uglier, more nefarious plan in store.
That thought shoved ice cubes up his spine.
What was Blanco up to? Was Levy behind Cassie’s kidnapping? Were they going to ransom her to Shriver in exchange for the Cézanne? Or was Blanco still in cahoots with Shriver and they were making some kind of an end-run around Levy?
Remorse gigged him unmercifully. Guilt over ditching Maddie at the Prado joined the party. He shouldn’t have left her, but he’d had no real choice. He’d already gotten one sister mixed up with Jocko Blanco; he certainly wasn’t placing both of them in danger. He had grabbed the next flight from Madrid to Nice, and then rented a car to drive the rest of the way into Monaco.
By now, Maddie had probably realized he wasn’t coming back. Which might explain the inexplicable burning sensation around his ears. No doubt, at this very moment, she was cussing him up a blue streak.
Oh well, he would live.
But would Antonio? David had left the poor policeman to deal with the fallout of Maddie’s obsessive devotion to her sister. He definitely owed the guy for keeping Maddie safe and off his hands.
The sky darkened the closer he drew to Monaco. It was early afternoon and a wicked rainstorm was on the way. He rounded a sharp curve and noticed the roadside barrier at the edge of the cliff looked as if it had recently been broken through.
He followed the curve, casually glancing in his rearview mirror and saw the glint of metal in a swatch of sun that managed to break free from the cloud covering.
Squinting, he took a second look. Could that be an automobile bumper?
Yes. It was definitely a car bumper.
Shades of Princess Grace. Had someone taken a header off the bluff?
Dammit.
He was already too far behind Blanco. He really couldn’t spare another moment, but how could he not stop and render aid if there had been a car accident?
Tick-tock. Cassie was in trouble.
But the people in the car might be seriously injured and he was the only one in sight.
He who hesitates is lost,
the phrase his father had drilled into his head from the time he was a tiny tot, sprang into his brain.
You must win at all costs.
Yet how could he ignore someone in need? And how could he overlook the lesson he’d just learned? His hunger to win at all costs had unnecessarily put Cassie in danger. Stopping to help would be a form of making amends.
David’s gut tightened, telling him what he must do. No matter how much stopping might go against his instincts to plunge after Blanco. He simply had to detour.
He braked and did a U-turn. He slowed and pulled over at the smashed barrier. He killed the engine, got out and walked to the edge of the cliff, gravel crunching beneath his shoes.
Cautiously, he peered over and caught his breath at what he saw.
It was a car wreck all right.
The reflective taillight of a nondescript tan rental car winked at him. The trunk flapped open. The hood was solidly embedded in the body of a cypress tree. If it hadn’t been for the tree, the car would be resting at the bottom of the ravine and whoever was inside would have no chance of survival at all.
Urgency shot a lance of fear through him. As far as he knew, he was the first on the scene. There could be a family down there. A mom. A dad. Kids. They needed him.
Worry shoved him down the cliff. Moving as quickly as he dared, David picked his way over the uneven terrain, his pulse pounding hard, sweat beading his brow and upper lip.
By the time he reached the driver’s seat, his body was at a ninety-degree slant and he had to grab on to roots and foliage in order to maintain his balance.
He could see a man slumped over the wheel but there was no one else in the vehicle. His heart rate kicked up another notch. He wrenched open the door.
The man groaned.
David spoke to him first in English, then in French, telling him to hang on, that help was on the way.
Dammit. Why hadn’t he called for an ambulance before climbing down the hill? He had been trained better than that. Why was he so scattered, so muddled these days?
Maddie.
No. He wasn’t going to blame her for his recent rash of bad decisions. This was his responsibility, no one else. David reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone. He peered at the numbers.
Funny, the back light wasn’t coming on. He punched the power button again.
And felt two heavy, hammy fists circle his neck and squeeze tight.
Startled, David jerked his head up to find himself nose-to-nose with a bruised and bloodied but very much alive, Jocko Blanco.
“You came after me, you saved me.” Cassie snuggled next to Peyton on the front seat of the ice cream truck after they’d climbed down the hill and taken the El Greco out of the trunk while Blanco was still unconscious. She nestled her head against his shoulder and savored his masculine aroma.
“Don’t read too much into it. I also rescued the El Greco.”
“But you could have left me with Blanco and you didn’t. That means you like me.”
Would he have done the same thing if the El Greco had been alone in the car with Blanco or if the painting hadn’t been there at all? She knew the answer. The painting was primary; she was the afterthought.
“You came awful close to getting left in the car along with Blanco,” he said.
“Oh?” She ignored the uncomfortable ping in the pit of her stomach. Maddie was the worrier, not she. “Why’s that?”
“I thought you had betrayed me.”
“Why would you think that?”
Don’t let him see you sweat.
“When I saw you in Paris, I thought you’d gone to Levy behind my back.”
“But I was never in Paris.”
“I realize that now, but it took me a while. Until I remembered you had a twin sister. I had no idea you two looked so much alike.”
“You saw Maddie?”
Peyton rubbed the back of his head and winced. “Yeah, I met her. And is she ever a bitch.”
“Hey, that’s my sister you’re talking about.”
“If it hadn’t been for that necklace I would have thought for sure you were still working with David Marshall. Actually, he’s the one who showed up to rescue me from your twin.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was dressed as a mime, casing the Louvre. When I came out of the museum, I spied you in the crowd. Except it wasn’t you, but I didn’t know that at the time.”
“Maddie hates mimes.”
“Tell me about it. I started mimicking you . . . I mean her . . . because I was mad that you’d come to Paris when you were supposed to be currying favor with your curator friend in Madrid. Then I saw the necklace. It was the right half of the heart. Your necklace is the left side.” Peyton reached over and fingered the gold charm at her throat. “That’s when I knew she wasn’t you. That’s also when she attacked me and Marshall had to pull her off.”
“Maddie attacked you?” Wow. She knew her sister hated mimes but this was beyond the pale.
“Like a lioness. The necklace chain broke off in my hand and she thought I was stealing it.”
Ah, that made sense. Maddie had been rabid about their necklaces ever since the frozen pond incident. “It means a lot to her.”
“So I gathered.”
“David Marshall didn’t recognize you?”
“I was disguised as a mime, remember, and I ran off quickly.” Peyton paused. “Plus, I think Marshall was drunk.”
“Weird. That doesn’t sound like David.”
“Do you know him that well?”
“Are you jealous?” She teased, doing her best to charm him.
“Not jealous. Just worried about your loyalties.”
Peyton eyed her speculatively and Cassie knew she had to do something to reassure him that she was on his side. Which meant now was as good a time as any to let him in on a small segment of her plan.
“Peyton,” she whispered in a singsong voice, leaning in closer and blowing softly into his ear. “Just to show you how committed I am to making this relationship work, I’m going to tell you an idea I have for doubling your take on the Cézanne and the El Greco.”
“Doubling my take?” That perked him right up. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Cassie nibbled his earlobe. “It’s dead simple.”
“I’m listening.”
“We hold a silent auction.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We get Jerome Levy and Cory Philpot to invite all the wealthy collectors they know to bring their . . . ahem . . . ill-gotten works of art that they’d like to sell or trade to our underground equivalent of an afternoon at Sotheby’s. We charge a broker fee and let Philpot and Levy split the take.”
“That makes no sense.”
Cassie raised a finger. “Hear me out. This would put you back in good graces with both Philpot and Levy. We could hold it at one of those elegant five star hotels in Venice. Since it’s Carnevale, a lot of their clients are likely to be in the city already.”
“But what about me? How do I get my money?”
“You tell Levy and Philpot that the impetus for the auction is to unload the red hot Cézanne and El Greco. Get them to tell their collectors that since there is so much heat on us, we’re willing to let the paintings go for bargain basement prices.”
Cassie’s heart quickened as she waited for him to take the bait. Do it. Go on. Say yes.
“But if we let the paintings go at a bargain basement price how am I going to double my money?”
“Simple. We make copies of the paintings. We show the real paintings to the authenticators, and then pull a switcheroo, keeping the originals to ransom back to the museums for a hefty sum.”
“But where do we get someone we can trust to make forgeries so quickly?”
“You’re looking at her.”
“You?”
“Me.”
“No kidding?”
“Hey, I spent months in bed as a kid with nothing to do but draw and paint. I loved working with watercolor and started imitating artwork I saw in picture books. I was quick and accurate. But, I was mightily disappointed to discover I had zero talent for creating anything original. However, I can copy like a Xerox.”
“How long would it take to replicate the paintings?” Peyton asked.
“Give me lots of chocolate and coffee, canvas and paint and then get out of my way. I can have them done in twenty-four hours.”
“Really? You’re that fast?”
“And that good,” she bragged shamelessly.
“You’re brilliant, luv.” Peyton kissed her on the cheek.
“Aren’t you glad you saved me?”
“Completely. We’ll go to Venice. You concentrate on making the copies and I’ll set up the auction.”
“Deal,” Cassie said and they shook on it.
She settled back against the seat and inwardly sighed with relief. Thank heavens he’d gone for her plan. Everything was falling into place. She would replicate the Cézanne twice and the El Greco again, thereby ending up with two sets of forgeries. She would keep the second set a secret from Peyton. It would be her ace in the hole.
Shriver would get Levy and Philpot to lure in the collectors and art dealers interested in picking up cheap masterpieces to Venice. Then in the meantime, she would call David Marshall and tell him exactly when and where to arrest Peyton, Levy, Philpot and the greedy collectors.
What could go possibly go wrong?
David lay battered and bruised on the side of the hill, the steep canyon looming below him, the road stretching far above his grasp. With one eye, he stared up at the blanket of clouds crowding the Mediterranean sky and knew he was truly screwed.
He lost all track of time. It seemed he had lain here for days. His throat was parched from hollering for help, his lips were dried. His right wrist was broken and his left eye was swollen shut and he couldn’t seem to muster the energy to crawl up the hill.
Blanco had pistol-whipped the crap out of him.
“You’re the world’s biggest schmuck, Marshall,” he growled under his breath, and then decided he needed to stop talking out loud. The vibrations made his head throb even harder.
Good God, he was no better than impulsive Cassie Cooper, shimmying down the hill, throwing open the wrecked car door without once stopping to think that Blanco might be behind the wheel.
And you call yourself an FBI agent. For shame.
He closed his eye and swallowed. And speaking of Cassie, he hated to even wonder about her whereabouts. She hadn’t been with Blanco, that much was clear. But had she escaped? Or had the thug done away with her?
What would he tell Maddie when he saw her again?
Correction,
if
he ever saw her again.
An overwhelming sense of loss washed through him. He’d made such a mess of things. He’d fallen down on the job, disappointed himself and placed not one, but two women in jeopardy.
All his life, he had feared being a loser. Of not being able to measure up to his father’s high standards and the lofty Marshall name. And now, his greatest fear had just come to pass.