Dark Cover (The DARK Files #2) Page 11

  “Yamar again. They’re everywhere.” That pinch between his brows was back.

  “Laura mentioned this sculpture last night. A Yamari artist created it to commemorate Washington’s assistance with their transition to democracy. There’s an unveiling ceremony soon, I think.”

  “Bully for them. I wish they’d unveil Husam Al-Din instead.” His scowl darker than the shadows beneath the Hirshhorn’s pillars, he shot his cuff and looked at his watch. “I’ve seen enough. Snow will be waiting for us.”

  She tucked her arm in his as they crossed 7th Street. “Now don’t go all stormy on me again. We were having fun. You can’t deny it. If I’m Ms. Optimist, you’re Mr. Grim.”

  “If only this were a fairy tale.” He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips. His breath across her hand ribboned warmth inside her. “You’ve lifted my spirits with your kindness and that sexy dress, and I’m grateful. But—”

  The screech of tires not far behind them alerted Vanessa. She stopped, turned.

  Nick spun on his heels. He tucked Vanessa behind him.

  A green sedan pulled to the corner, the window open.

  “Down. Now.” Vanessa yanked hard on his sleeve.

  Together they dove to the ground. Nick rolled over to shield her with his body.

  Three loud pops shattered the tranquil afternoon.

  The sedan pulled away.

  Another squeal of tires and the DARK car roared up in pursuit of the attackers.

  Vanessa lay flat, half on the sidewalk and half on the adjacent grass, sheltered by Nick’s big body. Had he been hit protecting her? Fear clutched her heart. She pressed a hand to his chest. His heart raced as fast as hers. “You all right?”

  “Fine. You?” His voice sounded mechanical, automatic. Special Forces soldier mode.

  She pushed against him to free herself. She needed to see what was going on. An immovable cage held her fast.

  “Wait,” he commanded.

  Pounding feet raced to surround Nick and Vanessa — their DARK protection.

  A little late.

  Nick sprang to his feet and helped her up.

  A scattered circle of pedestrians gaped at them.

  “False alarm, folks,” said one of the officers, shooing them away. “Just a backfire. Everything’s all right.”

  Farther down the street, the sedan ducked down a side street. The DARK car sped along in pursuit.

  “Did you get their license?” She clicked on her mic.

  “HQ’s running it now,” said another officer.

  Snow pulled up beside them in the Mercedes. “Get in.”

  Time to face the music. But where was Nick?

  He stood apart, his back to the others, shoulders rigid. He appeared to be staring at the Capitol Building, but she’d bet his gaze focused inward.

  “Nick, we have to go.”

  Without looking at her, he marched to the car. Sweat dripped down his temples. As he reached for the door handle, his hand shook.

  Chapter 11

  ON MONDAY MORNING, Vanessa went over the day’s schedule with Janine. Baking aromas filled the kitchen, brightening an otherwise gray day.

  A bell rang, and Janine whisked to the oven to remove two browned loaves. “Banana bread.” She slid the pans onto wire racks.

  At the breakfast bar, Lise and her boyfriend Ray bent over Lise’s college textbooks. Notebooks and scribbled-on sheets fanned across the counter. Ray kept his academic abilities under wraps, but Janine had said that he helped the girl with math.

  “You can go about your usual routine. We shouldn’t be in your way,” Vanessa said. “Are you all set with lunch?”

  Janine picked up a file card. “Grilled chicken breasts in lime marinade served on mixed greens and with fresh-baked French bread. Kiwi-peach tarts for dessert.”

  “Just after breakfast, and my mouth is watering. An upscale menu. You should have your own restaurant.”

  The housekeeper’s mouth curved into a dazzling smile, and a rosy tinge highlighted her cocoa-brown cheeks. “Oh, mademoiselle, c’est mon rêve.”

  “What is your dream?” said a deep voice.

  Her pulse skipped, and she turned on her heels. Nick had come soundlessly up behind them from the sunroom. How could a big man move so silently?

  “Oh, it is nothing, Monsieur Nick,” Janine said, flustered. “Would you like some coffee?”

  He shook his head. His damp hair gleamed like black ice, but his Mediterranean-blue eyes held warmth. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “It’s good to have a dream. A goal.”

  Good. He wasn’t letting the wary housekeeper push him away this time. “Janine’s dream is to own a restaurant.” Vanessa turned to the woman. “Caribbean cuisine?”

  Nick slipped an arm around Vanessa and pulled her against him. He was all heat and hardness and woodsy scent. Oh, if only this casual affection were for real. She linked her hands at her waist before she yielded to an impulse to touch his freshly shaven cheek.

  “Caribbean, yes. Island cooking.”

  A disdainful snort came from the breakfast bar.

  The housekeeper’s gaze darted to her daughter and Ray.

  Scowling, Lise scooped books and papers into her backpack. Ray jammed folded papers in the pocket of his worn camouflage jacket.

  “I got a class,” Lise barked, as the two shot down the back stairs.

  “Lise doesn’t approve of your dream?” Vanessa asked.

  The other woman lifted her shoulders and tilted her head in a classic Gallic shrug. She began to slice the banana bread. “She does not believe it is possible.”

  Nick filched a slice of the warm and fragrant bread. “You have two necessary ingredients, talent and hard work. You’ll get there.” He bit into the slice and murmured his delight.

  Janine flashed him the first genuine smile Vanessa thought she’d ever granted him. “Thank you, Monsieur Nick.”

  A rush of pleasure swept through Vanessa’s blood. In spite of the turmoil and anger inside, his kindness and sense of fair play shone through.

  Saturday he’d protected her with his body. With his life.

  He hadn’t been injured, physically. The carnage was emotional, and her heart bled for him. The shooting incident threw him unwillingly into combat mode and revived his nightmare. The adrenaline rush left him sweating and shaking. When she tried to thank him for protecting her, he wouldn’t discuss it. Today he seemed to have shoved the demons back in their cages.

  She slipped an arm around his slim waist and nudged him toward the door. “I’d better get this man out of the kitchen before he eats up all the food.”

  “Thanks, Janine.” He snagged another slice. “I plan to work the import staff hard. They’ll need sustenance.”

  Vanessa slipped from beneath his arm as soon as they passed through the sunroom. Being near him danced electric attraction on her nerves. Those careless embraces were to convince everyone of her identity as his fiancée.

  She needed no convincing. Quite the opposite.

  They continued in silence to the library, where Nick had organized clipboards with copies of Alexei’s inventory and appraisal list. The import staff, experienced with art and antiques, would compare the listed values to the rooms’ contents. Whether or not they found some new priceless treasure, the inventory would be updated, ready for auction.

  He leaned against the mahogany desk. “Could Janine or those two kids know where the ten-million-dollar jackpot is?”

  Eyes narrowed in thought, she flipped through one of the clipboard lists. “The kids might know where things could be hidden in this house. Janine has no idea, doesn’t want to know. She just shakes her head about your brother and how obsessed he was with wealth.”

  He levered away from the desk and lifted the clipboard from her. He tossed it back on the desk and took her hand in both of his.

  “Thanks for helping with this whole thing. I’m glad it’s you here with m
e.”

  Her gaze tangled with his. The seductive stroking of his thumb on her palm stirred an ache within her. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She shouldn’t ask, but the words came out anyway. “And … not Danielle?”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Danielle wouldn’t have the patience or the generosity.”

  How odd. What was his relationship with his fiancée? Theirs was a strange sort of engagement, with him coming on to a substitute. Curiosity elbowed aside detachment.

  She pursed her lips, ready to delve. Bad idea for lots of reasons, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “I haven’t heard you say more than a few words about Danielle in the two weeks we’ve been together. And those words have mostly been critical. You don’t talk — or act — like a man in love.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You have the mic on?”

  Her free hand flew to the high-tech pin on her sweater. She didn’t blame him for wanting to keep his love life private. What intimate secrets might he reveal to her? Her stomach tightened. Did she really want to know?

  “Mic’s off, but I’ll turn it on when the import staff arrive. Even though they’ve been vetted, the CO’s antsy about their running freely through the house.”

  He lifted one shoulder, and his gaze slid away. But he didn’t release her hand. “Love doesn’t enter into my relationship with Danielle. We have an … arrangement.”

  “An arrangement. What do you mean?”

  “Our marriage will be mutually beneficial. She gets security, prestige.”

  “Sounds more like a merger than a marriage. What’s your benefit from this contract?”

  “A hostess.” He eyed Vanessa. “Regular sex.”

  Glaring back at him, she yanked her hand away. “Arm candy. What else?”

  His throaty exhalation was a good imitation of Lise’s snort. “Mamas will stop throwing their socialite daughters at me. Women will stop seeing me only as rich husband material.”

  He folded his arms, pulling the crew neck of his white sweater down so her gaze was drawn to the dark hairs curling above it.

  She dragged her gaze back up to his. “Sounds like what I know of Danielle.”

  “At least she’s honest about it. No fake lovesick sighs or declarations of love.”

  Like the guys who used to hit on her to wangle an introduction to Diana. The painful similarity hit Vanessa square on the chest. She hadn’t given up. But he had.

  Her probe had surpassed professional need to know. She cared about him. The new insights ought to deter her. Instead empathy propelled her onward. A loveless marriage would be a grave mistake for a man who felt so deeply. Her chin went up. “And what about a family, children?”

  “No children.” He clamped his mouth into a grim line.

  Her heart twisted at the pain and longing that flickered in his eyes before pride concealed it. “But home and family are what marriage is all about. Kids to play ball with, to read bed-time stories to, to teach to ride a bike. A family to love. You don’t want that?”

  He strode around the desk and organized the already organized clipboards. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I won’t cheat a family by not being there for them.”

  Ah, he didn’t want to be an absentee father like his. He didn’t trust in love from others, and he didn’t trust himself not to fail those he loved.

  She leaned forward, her palms on the desk. “Nick,” she said softly, “you’re not your father.”

  She felt his heated glare burning a hole through her.

  “You don’t know anything about it.” His voice was raspy, disgusted. “You see me here full-time. But this domesticity is temporary. I travel from New York to London to Hong Kong. My business is important. I don’t have time for home and family.”

  “Bull-oney! You’re lying to yourself. You’re the poster boy for family loyalty. You’ve hidden Alexei’s crimes and the circumstances of his death from your father, the father you love in spite of his absence from your life.”

  “How could I tell him? He’s a sick old man.”

  “You’ve left your business aside to try to redeem your family’s honor and make up for the transgressions of a half brother you despise. Think about it.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Oh, you had a choice. You could’ve let DARK handle everything. You could’ve stayed in New York. You could’ve shipped Alexei’s ashes to New York or Athens for burial. You could’ve flown off to join your real fiancée. No choice? There are always choices.”

  He leaned on his palms and brought his face so close to hers she felt his heat and the angry puff of his breath. “May I remind you that it is my life? And I damned well choose to build my company.”

  “For whom? Why? What do you have to prove?”

  In response, chimes tolled an Oriental-sounding melody. The doorbell.

  “They’re here.” Nick lifted the stack of clipboards. He marched out the library door as though at the point of a spear.

  “Saved by the bell,” she muttered.

  ***

  Vanessa held the clipboard while Emil Alfieris foraged through the Internet for information on the marquetry table beside the spindle bed.

  If she found the hidden ten million, DARK wouldn’t hound her so about keeping Nick with the program. They’d have one less reason not to trust him. For her peace of mind, she needed more reasons not to trust the man. More reasons to hold the line. The line she’d leaped across this morning like a broad jumper. And landed with both feet in his love life!

  She shook her head and returned to her task. So far the inventory wasn’t making her hopeful of finding Alexei’s stash. This bedroom at the end of the hall seemed to hold all the antique bric-a-brac he couldn’t find other places for. Every bend of an elbow threatened some delicate object.

  None of them priceless.

  Dammit, she’d threatened something priceless earlier. The tenuous rapport she had with Nick. She should’ve kept her mouth shut. If he wanted a marriage of convenience with Ms. Iceberg Le Bec, that was his decision. No, even if her probing skewered tender spots, she wasn’t sorry. Not if it made him think more deeply about what he was getting into. Her concern was for him, for his happiness.

  His marrying Danielle made no difference to her personally. If she believed that, she wouldn’t have thistles rolling around in her belly pricking her. She wouldn’t feel this hot tightness in her throat.

  She was supposed to be proving to herself she could remain detached and neutral, but she was failing miserably.

  “Ah, here it is.” Alfieris clicked madly on his laptop. His bow tie bobbed with his Adam’s apple as he spoke. “It’s a reproduction. Too bad. This listing has it at $400.”

  She ran her finger down the list. “The inventory says $350. Should I change it?”

  “I’d leave it. You probably won’t get more than that at auction anyway.”

  She glanced down the list. “We’re already halfway through. You’re good at this, Emil. Quite the expert.”

  The dapper little man beamed at her. “Thanks. Someday I’d like to have my own antique shop.”

  “I suppose a would-be dealer must already be a collector,” she said.

  “I have a few pieces. Nothing like Alexei.” He lowered his gaze to a tall cobalt-blue-and-white urn. “Nothing like this. Alexei has it listed as eighteenth-century Ming-style, but that’s wrong.” He turned the urn upside down. “This four-character mark is by the early fourteenth-century Imperial artist Hongwu. Perfect condition. Typical dragon and phoenix design.”

  “You must have to be careful. Choose wisely, I mean.”

  “Right. I don’t want to waste money.” He set down the urn and tapped on the keyboard. “Wish I had some of that pricey stock Alexei sold for those terrorists. Chinese cabinets and Assyrian plaques and bronze statues. I’d be all set.”

  “And how about that urn?” Maybe the Ming was their El Dorado. She held her breath.

  Alfieris emitted an ap
preciative whistle. “Whoa, this is the most valuable piece we’ve found today.”

  “How much?”

  “Looks like at least fifty grand. Here, I’ll write down the description.” He slid the clipboard from her hand.

  Vanessa slumped. A week ago if anyone had told her she’d be disappointed at a find worth fifty thousand dollars, she’d have called them nuts.

  “What’s next?” she asked.

  ***

  A complete ass. That’s what he’d been, allowing her to suck him into that useless argument. Why should he have to defend his life to her? She didn’t understand. She couldn’t.

  Nick tramped from room to room observing the import staff as they examined and measured every piece of furniture and art, estimating and comparing with the research on their laptops. But his thoughts barely grazed the household inventory, or even the reason for it.

  No, dammit, his addled brain ping-ponged between the shooting attack and today’s stupid confrontation with Vanessa the Confessor.

  What do you have to prove? Ridiculous question.

  He had nothing to prove to anyone. He ran N.D.M. for himself, for the challenge, for the commitment and control. He was responsible for hundreds of employees, for a network of buyers and distributors. Achieving success and immersing himself in work were matters of pride, of honor. He shouldn’t have to tell Vanessa that. Or anyone.

  What he did have to do was tell her about his engagement. To tell the truth — at least to himself — if Danielle hadn’t ended it, he would’ve pulled the plug before any exchange of vows. Not that Vanessa was right about the kind of marriage he wanted. He should’ve told her the truth at the outset. Damned awkward at this point. He cared about her. A lot. Just seeing her every morning lightened the load, made the day go a little easier. He had to find the right words, the right time.

  Deception was her stock in trade. Maybe his lie of omission wouldn’t matter to her.

  Like hell.

  When he entered the living room, Celia Chin glanced up from the blue vase she held. “So far, Mr. Markos, the inventory appears to match what I’m finding.”

  “Excellent. Keep up the good work.” He slid from the room before she launched into her acquisitions-and-contacts litany.