Dark Cover (The DARK Files #2) Page 7

  Snow turned around. “All clear, Mr. M. Unknown vehicle parked down the block, but our guys have them boxed in. If it’s New Dawn, they’re ours.”

  Vanessa recognized Nick’s taut jaw as tension about arranging a funeral for his disgraced brother, not concern about safety. A hand on his forearm offered the only support she dared express.

  To her surprise, he covered her hand with his and gave her an answering squeeze. He opened the door. “Thanks, Snow. This won’t take long.”

  Mr. Falstone, as plush and dour as his establishment, ushered them through a display of cremation urns and caskets. Without a blink, Nick selected one before the funeral director could begin his spiel. Peering at them over his reading glasses, Falstone then suggested an elaborate memorial ceremony, including a choir, orations and responsive readings.

  In spite of Nick’s unusual upbringing — and because of it — family and family honor ranked above almost everything else. He would put his disgraced family member in the ground. He would do it with respect and reserve and hard-won control. To others he’d appear calm and dispassionate. But anger and resentment would churn inside him for a long time.

  She cringed inwardly at the pain Falstone’s over-the-top ideas must be causing. With a sideways glance at Nick’s hard mask, she stepped in and shook her head. She said with Danielle-cool disdain, “Your simplest ceremony will do. No choir.”

  Falstone’s jowls sagged.

  They agreed on a date, Nick signed a contract and they escaped. He’d been right about brevity. The entire process took twenty minutes.

  Only when they reentered the car did she register that during the entire meeting in the funeral home he kept possession of her hand.

  Snow announced, “Street’s quiet. Those guys were religious types handing out tracts to the neighborhood.”

  She could only stare at her hand, now cold and empty.

  ***

  Nick hit the basement gym as soon as they returned to the house. He worked out with weights and the punching bag, then ran five miles on the treadmill. Pent-up frustration sweated out, he showered and dressed for dinner. With Janine here, he and Vanessa would dine together for the first time.

  After the other night, she might still be wary of him, but he wanted her even more. He shouldn’t, but he refused to examine the desire any further.

  Janine would leave soon. He and Vanessa would be alone.

  In the dining room, she and the housekeeper were chattering in French. So perhaps DARK had chosen Vanessa for this skill as well as her red hair and people talents.

  Janine’s daughter Lise slouched in the kitchen doorway. The bored look on her face was an expression only a teenager could affect. She probably didn’t speak her mother’s native tongue and didn’t know what they were saying.

  Nick’s French was rusty, but he understood enough to know the Haitian woman was telling his fiancée about the troubles on her native island. After a hurricane killed her husband, she and her then infant daughter came to the United States, sponsored by a charity organization.

  Vanessa made sympathetic comments as Janine described her homeland’s lack of jobs and her dirt-floored hut with no electricity.

  “Et votre fille?” Vanessa was asking about Janine’s daughter’s plans.

  “Ici c’est meilleur. L’éducation lui donne l’espoir.”

  Here it was better, she said. Education gave the girl hope. Nick had never seen Janine so animated. Emotion tinged her cocoa-brown face. The linen napkin she clutched rose and fell with the Caribbean lilt of her musical voice.

  With him she was always reserved and deferential. He praised her cuisine and her efficiency and tried to converse with her, but she never shared anything of herself.

  The real Danielle would’ve addressed her only as a servant and elicited no more than a nod. Maybe a damn curtsey. Vanessa opened up the woman in moments.

  He strode into the dining room and wrapped an arm around Vanessa’s shoulders. “Ah, mes belles, about time you met.”

  Lise rolled her eyes. She jerked her shoulders and cocked her hip.

  Expression once again shuttered, the housekeeper folded the napkin and arranged it at one of the two set places on the cherry-wood banquet table. “Good evening, Monsieur Nick. The dinner, it will be ready in a few moments.”

  Eyes downcast, she dashed into the kitchen.

  “She’s still skittish of me. And the daughter doesn’t trust me. Fallout from Alexei’s high-handedness. At least I eliminated the silly maid’s uniform he’d insisted on.”

  “Trust takes time.”

  Tucked under the curve of his arm, she was temptingly close. He brushed a kiss across her soft lips. Even that light touch kindled a flame. “Miss me?”

  “Every minute.” Cheeks pink, she slid from his embrace and fluffed her hair.

  He preferred her thick mane up in the tumble of curls that offered access to her creamy neck. Stepping behind her, he absorbed her scent.

  “Thank you. You’re so attentive tonight,” she said, as he held her chair, to the right of his at the head.

  “Aren’t I always?”

  She merely smiled at him and spread her napkin on her lap. Dressed for a casual evening, she wore slim black pants and a sleeveless white turtleneck sweater that invited him to caress the toned flesh of her upper arm.

  Why not? Wasn’t she his fiancée? Yielding to temptation, he also kissed her bare shoulder as he pushed in her chair. Then he forced himself to move away.

  He’d no sooner taken his place than Janine and a pouting Lise covered the white linen with platters emitting mouth-watering Caribbean aromas.

  “Let me serve you, darling. Janine’s grilled salmon with mango chutney deserves a presentation,” Vanessa said after the other women had vanished into the kitchen. She lifted his plate and slid a serving of fish on it. “We’ve been too busy for me to act the proper hostess for you.”

  He gaped. Sarcasm and aloofness were so unlike Vanessa, and too much like Danielle. And she’d hit on the head the other woman’s role in his life. Too perceptive.

  She lowered the serving fork and touched the abstract silver pin clipped to her collar. “Thanks, Snow. Out.”

  She pressed the pin and turned to Nick. “Janine and her daughter have left. Their security tail reports they’re headed for the Metro stop.”

  Nick stared at the pin. The microphone. DARK had been listening to every word. Until now.

  DARK was gone. The housekeepers were gone. They were alone.

  He plied the corkscrew to the wine. Did she always keep the mic off when they were alone? Did DARK hear his damn confession as well as his aborted seduction? Even if they didn’t, the honesty and empathy in her clear green eyes weren’t real. None of this was real.

  Except for the uncanny way holding her eased the dull ache of grief and anger in his chest.

  Except for his attraction to her sweet sensuality.

  Except for the threat created by Alexei’s rip-off of the New Dawn Warriors.

  Chapter 7

  AFTER DINNER, VANESSA followed Nick to the back of the house. Geared for relaxation, the sunroom boasted a wall of windows facing the terrace, a breakfast nook at the end near the kitchen and a marble fireplace at the other.

  A wicker sofa and love seat created a comfortable semicircle at the fireplace. The cushions coordinated with the Oriental rug’s beige and green pattern. Lacquered cabinets in the wall hid a state-of-the-art entertainment center and a wall safe.

  Nick was the most striking man she’d ever seen, with danger and brooding intensity lurking beneath a dark and self-assured surface. And a more than world-class butt. Because the night was cool, he knelt at the stone hearth, crumpling newspaper and laying kindling. The movements flexed his shoulder muscles. Beneath the pushed-up sleeves of his soft navy pullover, dark hairs glistened on his tanned forearms. Only the white bandage on his thumb hinted at any vulnerability.

  Dragging he
r gaze away, she settled on the sofa.

  Detachment. She needed to get him talking again. She hadn’t made much headway in uncovering details about Somalia. But there were other critical factors. About ten million of them. Not politic to charge directly into that topic.

  “Janine said your brother never wanted her to cook her Haitian dishes.”

  His back was to her as he struck a long match to the crisscrossed kindling and logs. “He preferred European cuisine, mostly French. Janine’s a versatile cook.”

  “Saturdays and Sundays, she cooks at a French restaurant on Connecticut Avenue. She’s determined to get Lise through junior college.”

  He sat back on his heels and turned toward her. The firelight flickered shadows on his beard-stubbled jaw. For an instant she saw the Special Forces warrior hunkered by a campfire. His dark brows scissored together. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get people to bare their souls to you like that? You wormed more out of Janine in a few minutes than I have in a month. No wonder Snow called you the Confessor.” He shook his head and rose to his feet in a fluid motion.

  She felt heat zing to her cheeks. “I wish he hadn’t told you that. That nickname makes me sound like the head of a convent or something.”

  “Honey, I sure as hell don’t think of you as a nun.”

  The sexy resonance of his voice started a flutter deep inside her. She clutched a throw pillow in front of her, as if any physical barrier could block her reaction to him. She must pretend to herself it could, at least.

  He was smiling as he joined her on the sofa. “You do have a knack for getting people to warm up to you.”

  Before she could change the topic, the telephone rang.

  She sat up straight, alert, and clicked on her mic. “Snow? You on that?”

  “Affirmative,” said the voice in her ear.

  Nick strode to the phone extension in the living room. “It could be anyone. Falstone. Celia Chin.” But he didn’t sound optimistic.

  Vanessa bit her lip as he pushed the button on the receiver.

  “Hello.” His voice sounded strong and confident, but she guessed his nerves were wound as taut as hers.

  Through her earpiece, she could hear the entire conversation. The first words verified that the caller was neither the funeral director nor the import shop manager.

  “By now you know that we are close to you,” said the accented voice. “Are you prepared to reimburse what your brother stole from us?”

  “I told you before. I know nothing about your money. If my brother had it, he spent it.”

  “Ah, no matter to us how you repay the debt. What a shame if harm were to befall the lovely Miss Le Bec. An accident or … some mishap. You cannot protect her completely.”

  Nick gripped the receiver, his jaw firm and his eyes blazing with fury. “I don’t bargain with crooks. Your threats won’t work. If you come near my fiancée, you’ll have to deal with me.”

  With that, the caller disconnected.

  “Snow?” Vanessa said.

  “Hell. I should’ve kept him on the line longer.” Nick rubbed the back of his neck as he dumped the receiver in its cradle. “But that supercilious tone burned me. I wanted to stuff the damn phone down his slimy throat.”

  After a moment, she clicked off the mic and crossed to the liquor cabinet. “No problem. These days a trace takes less time than starting that fire in the other room. The bad news is the caller used a cell phone.”

  “So he could’ve called from anywhere. And the phone’s probably stolen or a burner without the subscriber’s real name and address.”

  She grinned. “You sure you’re not a cop or something?”

  “I read.” He scowled as if she’d maligned his mother’s parentage. “Now what are you doing to this valuable antique cabinet?”

  Vanessa stepped back from pushing carved leaves at random. “I thought a sip or two of that lovely Benedictine might be just the thing right now. I hardly had time to taste mine last time.”

  “I like the way you think.” The heated gaze gliding over her body showed appreciation for more than her mind.

  Tingles fired on her skin as though he’d touched her. He still wanted her. Correction — he wanted a woman. If she could hold him off during a little conversation over liqueur, she could avoid him until the museum reception on Friday. Togetherness in public she could handle.

  He pressed the requisite series of decorative ivory leaves, and the cabinet’s double doors swung open.

  She peered at the intricate inlay pattern. More leaves inside. The cabinet seemed to be deeper than the inside space would indicate. Her pulse danced in anticipation. “This is a puzzle chest, right?”

  He nodded, withdrawing the liqueur. “Chinese. Eighteenth-century, I think Alexei said. It’s on the inventory. Why?”

  “What happens if I press one of the leaves inside the cabinet?”

  Nick set the bottle beside the glasses on top. “Probably nothing. There are a number of false leaves. What do you think you’ll find?”

  She shrugged. “Dust? Or maybe—”

  “Ten million dollars?”

  “Would Alexei hide cash like that?”

  “Cash? Doubtful. If he didn’t spend the money, it’s in a Swiss account or some other safe place.” He folded his arms. “Maybe we’ll find his bank records. Go ahead.”

  She knelt on the carpet. The floor lamp cast magical shadows on the leaf design’s relief. Reaching around the bottles and decanters, she pushed one leaf and then another.

  Nothing.

  “Look. In the back. Isn’t that the exact pattern for the open-sesame sequence?” She lifted out two bottles and set them on the floor.

  He knelt beside her, his bent thigh against hers, his dark head close. “Where?”

  She traced the shapes with her index finger. “Try the same sequence.”

  His bandaged thumb jutted out like an awkward beacon, but he reached in and keyed the series of leaves.

  A click resounded against the dark wood. A barely visible seam that followed the design’s contours widened.

  “An opening!” Nick’s heart raced. “Damn, Sherlock, let’s see what’s inside.” He removed the remaining bottles and watched as she pulled open the small doors. Her fingers closed on a thick packet. She withdrew a letter-size manila envelope.

  He gave a long, low whistle. “If this has something to do with the ten million, shouldn’t you bring in Snow or Byrne?”

  “I’ll report in later.” She carried their prize to the cocktail table. “DARK doesn’t consider having the ten million bucks in hand a priority. Otherwise, a team would’ve been prying up every board and digging up the yard.”

  He joined her on the sofa with two glasses. “I see. Whether the money’s found or not has no bearing on capturing Husam Al-Din as long as he thinks I can pay him. I suppose I should be grateful they’re not destroying the property’s resale value.”

  She handed him the packet. “He was your brother. You should open it.”

  A band of volcanic heat cinched Nick’s chest. Damn, what new lows of deceit and greed would he find? Catching a curious look from Vanessa, he lifted the flap’s metal tabs. He extracted a loose sheaf of papers. The hand-numbered pages were out of order, some upside down and backwards. “Looks like he dropped them, then had to stash them in a hurry.”

  She scooted closer to him. Her touch on his arm drained a measure of his tension. “What are they? Can you tell?”

  “It’s an inventory, computer-printed.” He read, “‘Sumerian white marble mask, $2,000 to C.K. Cypress-wood altar, Chinese, from Anhui province, 1750, $300,000 to D.B. Black Babylonian boundary stone, $4,000 to A.R.’”

  Looking over his shoulder, she gasped in astonishment. “It’s the New Dawn sales.”

  In precise columns, the page gave each item’s description and origin, a date for some, a sale price and the initials of the bu
yer. She was right. Not seeing the proof of Alexei’s black-market dealings had kept that crime less real. Nebulous.

  Until now. He could barely swallow, barely breathe.

  “Look on the right,” she said. “The last columns.”

  One column gave the same price in the listings, but the other had a lower number.

  “Double bookkeeping. So my son-of-a-bitch half brother did skim off New Dawn profits.”

  “Why would he keep such exact records of stealing?”

  He huffed a laugh. “You saw the shop books. Every detail down to the most minute. He was meticulous. These secret records of his dirty deals are true to form. Even arrogant.” He thrust the papers at her. “Here. Looking at it turns my blood to lava.”

  He slugged down his drink and rose to cross the room.

  He heard her behind him leafing through the sheets. “Ottoman vases and jewelry, Assyrian plaques, Central Asian masks and statues. Pages and pages.”

  After a moment, she gave a long whistle. “He sold more than artifacts. There are paintings by well-known artists. Van Gogh, Hokusai, Picasso, more big names. I remember reading about a private gallery heist a few years ago in Vienna.”

  He unclenched his fists and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Doesn’t surprise me. Fanatics like the New Dawn Warriors who’d murder hundreds with bombs wouldn’t quibble about stolen artwork. Apparently neither did Alexei.”

  “Sale prices range from hundreds to several million. Ten million skimmed dollars might be about right.”

  Nick didn’t reply, but his mind turned over the other implications of finding that list. He glared at the elaborate tapestry on the wall before him. At any moment it should start to smoke.

  “There,” she said after a few minutes of fluttering papers. “But this isn’t everything. He had at least one more sheet. There’s no total. The last line reads, ‘converted and secured in…’ The printout stops there without the final page. As you said, in a hurry to hide it.”

  He returned to stand over the low table. Shoulders knotted, he fought to contain his emotion. He accepted the bundle and scanned the last page. “No Swiss account. Alexei intended to return before leaving the country.”