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From USA Today Bestselling author, Ritter Ames, comes a story of international intrigue, priceless works of art, and high stakes romance...
Laurel Beacham grew up in wealth and society—until her grandfather died and her father gambled away the family fortune. Now with more pedigree than trust fund, she is the premier art recovery expert for museums that need to stay one step ahead of international thieves. Her latest assignment pits her against a mystery man, Jack Hawkes, who is not only her equal with blue bloods, but also seems to know where all the bodies are buried. Suddenly Laurel is racing against time to find a priceless art object before the enemy does, locate a missing art world compatriot with crucial information, and decide whether she can stay ahead of this new nemesis, who seems to know too much about her and her business.
Chapter
One Excerpt
Clouds
shrouded the moon. The Dobermans, Zeus and Apollo, snoozed by the
rose bushes after devouring the tasty treat I had offered. Waves
crashed in the distance and gave the crisp sea air a taste and smell
of salt spray. The estate’s showplace lawn ended a hundred yards
away at a private beach.
Like
my previous visit, I wore head-to-toe black. For this jaunt, however,
I hadn’t donned the ebony-beaded Vera Wang halter gown and Jimmy
Choo stilettos I sported the last time. No, for the current foray my
Lycra garb more closely resembled Catwoman, with my blond hair hidden
under a dark hood. Night vision goggles finished off the ensemble.
The difference between arriving invited versus an incognito—and
illegal—entrance.
As
I slipped through the mansion’s side door, the left wall security
pad flashed. I patted the ring of leather pouches attached to my belt
and removed a cute little gizmo I’d picked up in Zurich that
resembled a garage door opener. Only this handy gadget decoded
electronic security systems, rendering them harmless. The tiny
warning whine never had a chance to turn into a scream; my device
made friends and invited us to enter.
I
slipped down the rear hall and up the staircase that my research had
uncovered in a back issue of Architectural
Digest. At the upper
landing, infrared lasers protected the area from unwelcome visitors.
I opened another pouch and withdrew a small, specially formulated
aerosol can, and sprayed in a sweeping pattern. As the particles
fell, laser lines were revealed in vivid detail. Seconds later, I’d
picked the lock on the turret gallery door.
The
last time I stood in that room the master of the house provided a
guided tour and made a blatant pass beneath the gaze of a Dutch
Master. My ability to deflect the Lothario took grace and diplomacy,
plus restraint to curb my strong desire to disable his favorite body
part. Still, the event had been worth the effort. A six month quest
was over, and I had found my Holy Grail of paintings.
“My
father started this collection,” the slimy billionaire had bragged.
“He made purchases while stationed in Europe in the mid-1940s. I
added to the works and specially constructed this
temperature-controlled castle safe-room.”
On
this return visit—my acquisition finale—I slid into the darkened
gallery. The circular space, lit only by the minimal luminosity
filtering through a half-dozen narrow arched windows, allowed my
shadow to mix with those already in residence. Night vision goggles
allowed the glorious set of Rembrandts and French Impressionists to
glow alongside the beauty I came to liberate.
It
was a vibrant seascape, circa 1821, and a breathtaking scene of
energy and clear passion. A little known work by a well-respected
artist, which had been cherished by the family of its previous owner
before eventually falling into the hands of the billionaire’s
father. Gazing upon the work I could almost hear the buoy bell
ringing in the distance, but the room’s current illumination left
the scene too dark to see beyond the receding foamy water. I shivered
as if the wind picked up; the
painting
was that powerful.
I
heard a noise. A human-moving noise.
I
had to hurry. I slipped a blade from my belt and ran it along the
frame’s edge.
The
moment the
canvas was free, I heard the master of the house bark, “What are
you doing?”
I
spun to find him standing behind me. Holding his gaze, I sheathed my
knife and dug into another pouch, then threw a capped vial into the
darkness between myself and potential capture. The glass broke, and
when the chemicals inside hit the air a dense smoke obscured all
vision. But I had already calculated the distance to the nearest
window, moved to it, and affixed a suction cup with a braided nylon
line to the wall. The painting protected in one hand, my remaining
gloved fist, fitted with brass knuckles, shattered the narrow pane. I
slid through the turret’s slit-window, taking a few shards of glass
along for the ride. Then I rappelled down the rough stone wall to the
manicured lawn.
“Zeus!
Apollo! Robbery! Attack!” my impotent enemy screamed.
*
* *
Next
morning, the painting and I slipped into the back of Greg’s shop
for the new frame constructed per my specifications. A close
facsimile to photos, and infinitely better than the garish gold
number that restrained the seascape during its turret imprisonment,
the burnished brass frame even evoked a nautical theme that conjured
the look of a spyglass.
I
changed into blue coveralls and left his shop with the newly-framed
painting wrapped in brown paper. Magnetic signs attached to my van
implied a courier service, as did the faked breast pocket insignia on
my uniform. The drive to Mrs. Lebowitz’s tiny home was quick.
“Yes?”
she answered the door. A Holocaust survivor, the only one in her
family to make it out of Europe alive, she was a child when the
Allies freed her from Auschwitz.
My
brown-wrapped package once graced her grandmother’s dining room.
Before it was stolen by Nazis and purchased with fictionalized
provenance by my adversary’s father.
“Mrs.
Lebowitz, I have a very special delivery.”
*
* *
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