Take Me Two Times Read online

“Because I have evidence that puts Eric McDougal at the first Velasquez murder scene.”

  Avy’s head came up. “You what?”

  Gwen nodded. “He was there, Ave. He knew how Carlos had died and covered it with a lame excuse. And I found a piece of his jacket stuck to a finishing nail in the doorway.”

  “McDougal?” Avy shook her head. “That’s crazy.”

  Gwen said, “Is it? Let’s review everything again. I thought at first that someone was trying to ruin my reputation. But the recovery of the mask, Avy, was supposed to be your case. Remember? Then you had to leave the country immediately, for whatever reason, and you suggested me.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “That would have screwed up the plan. McDougal resents you. You get all the best cases. Remember how pissed he was when you got the Sword of Alexander assignment? How he questioned it?”

  Avy nodded.

  “Well, we all know he’s a man-whore. He hooked up with this Angeline woman, and I guess it came out how they both felt about you: Angeline because you’re dating her ex, McDougal because you’re the queen bee at ARTemis—or maybe for some more sinister reason. Could he be working for the Greek ambassador? Anyway, between them, they hatched a little plan to make you look bad, destroy your reputation. Meanwhile, she gets to keep her family heirloom.”

  Avy thought for a moment. “McDougal’s definitely not fond of me. But then, neither are some of the other team members—Valeria, even Dante.”

  “Do they have anything against you?”

  Avy laughed mirthlessly. “Sure. I didn’t want Valeria hired because of certain, ah, irregularities in her past.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t discuss it.”

  “Okay . . . and Dante?”

  “Dante.” Avy’s mouth twisted. “Dante’s macho Italian leg is broken because he disobeyed a direct order on that Berlin job we did together. Did he tell you that?”

  Gwen shook her head.

  “Yeah, well, his pride wouldn’t allow him to. Ostensibly, he’s doing office work and handling the assignments research and meetings because of the leg. The truth—and you don’t know this, understand?—is that he’s on probation for that little German stunt.”

  That was a piece of news. “But neither of them—not Valeria, not Dante—was at the murder scene,” Gwen pointed out.

  “That you know of.”

  “Come on, Avy. They’re not sleeping with McD, either. Angeline is. McDougal and Angeline hatched this thing, and they hired the Velasquez brothers to pull off the actual burglary. Then maybe the V brothers tried a spot of blackmail, which backfired.”

  Avy frowned. “I can see them gunning for my reputation, but my life? McDougal?” She shook her head.

  Liam raised his chin. “Are you certain that this mask was meant for you, love? Was there a note? Or could it have been meant for me? Not to be arrogant, but Angeline was rather devastated when I tossed her.”

  “No note,” Avy said.

  “But they waited until Liam had left the hotel,” Gwen reminded them. “No, the mask was meant for Avy.”

  Avy and Liam looked at her grimly. “Gwen, be careful. What if they look at taking you out next?”

  Gwen’s stomach roiled as the coffee she’d had earlier tried to revisit her esophagus. She should give up caffeine, too. “No . . . I doubt it.”

  “Why?” Avy climbed back onto the bed and sat Indian-style while she used a wireless connection to get onto the Internet with her laptop. “Gwennie, you and what’s-his-name are going back stateside immediately.”

  “Quinn. But the police are looking for us there. How are we going to get anything done? My first priority is to search Angeline’s property myself.”

  “I’ll send you with aliases, so your names don’t pop on the flight manifests.”

  “And you’re going to get these new IDs how?”

  Avy shot a quick glance at Liam, who nodded and said, “Got it covered, love. No worries.”

  “What about you?” Gwen asked. “What about this mask?”

  “Liam and I . . .” Avy glanced at him again, her color rising. “We still have a few things to take care of. But we’ll take the mask to the Venetian police.”

  Gwen looked at Liam. “Is that a good idea, given his, um, colorful past?”

  “No.” Avy skewered him with a look. “So I’ll take it.”

  Liam blew her a kiss. His gaze drifted casually over the rolled painting Gwen had spotted, and once again she wondered just what these two had up their sleeves.

  “Alitalia or British Airways, Gwennie? Preference?”

  “Ave, I can book my own flight.”

  “That’s nice,” said Avy, her fingers clicking away. “Here’s one that leaves in the morning. Perfect.”

  Gwen nodded. “Okay. But I want you two to meet Quinn, as soon as he’s back with our costumes. We’ll all stick together, go to the kickoff of Carnevale this evening. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  Avy hesitated.

  “It’ll be fine. Who’s going to pick us out of the crowds in costume? We’ll be unrecognizable.”

  “All right.”

  Gwen looked at her. “That was easy. And I still can’t believe you didn’t fire me. Careful, Ave, or your employees will think you’re getting soft.”

  Avy glared at her. “You are on double-secret probation, and I’m so mad that you can get my coffee and pick up my dry cleaning for a month. Two.”

  Gwen did her very best to look suitably horrified.

  “You want to try being the boss? I’m telling you, it’s not easy. Either people hate you or they try to take advantage of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean you, Gwennie. You just freakin’ lied to me, that’s all.”

  This time she did squirm.

  Avy noted it with evident satisfaction. “Okay . . . now we need to work on getting the same flight out of Venice for your ex—or is he really ex at this point?”

  Gwen shifted uncomfortably. “Why would you say that? Quinn is most definitely ex.”

  “Not for long,” Avy said cryptically.

  Gwen gaped at her.

  “Hon, it’s written all over your face whenever you mention the man. You’re still in love with him.”

  chapter 33

  Gwen went down to the lobby of the Gritti, in denial of Avy’s words. She was not in love with Quinn Lawson. She . . . cared for him.

  Uh-huh. And you’re having his baby, girlfriend.

  Oh, that. It hadn’t happened on purpose, though.

  What about the fact that he asked you to marry him?

  But he didn’t—he said he’d marry you if that’s what you wanted. He never said he wanted it. He didn’t mention love.

  He wants that baby. Badly.

  But does he really want me with it?

  Oh, please. Can’t you tell by his actions?

  I need to hear the words. . . .

  And why is that?

  She tried to push the question away, asking herself yet another. Do you really want him back on a permanent basis? He’s not an easy man.

  Quinn walked into the lobby as though, once again, she’d conjured him. His hair was windblown and his eyes danced as he crossed the space, his powerful arms full of zippered garment bags and boxes.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  Gwen pulled herself together. “Better than I expected. I can’t believe it, but she didn’t fire me.”

  “Good. Well, I think you’ll like what I have to offer,” he said, kissing her on the lips as the plastic bags crinkled between them.

  Oh, hell. I do. I do. And in that moment, there in the Gritti Palace’s lobby, Gwen realized that she was indeed hopelessly in love with her ex-husband . . . but she didn’t know quite what to do about it. She was glad that she’d have a mask to hide behind for the rest of the evening.

  When they met up with Avy and Liam, Gwen gasped in delight. Liam must have chosen everything t
he two of them wore. Avy was ridiculously resplendent in an enormous, multicolored headdress rimmed by pearls. It looked a bit like a giant, upside-down heart with her head in the center. She blinked from behind a chalk white mask with cherry red lips.

  Her costume matched the colors in the headdress; it looked like a cross between an Elizabethan doublet and a rainbow-hued fairy gown. Four ropes of pearls dangled under Avy’s chin.

  “I feel like a complete idiot,” she growled.

  “You look magical!” Gwen clapped her hands and walked around her to get the full effect.

  “That’s me: a one-woman Magical Mystery Tour.” Avy stalked to the window, the strands of pearls under her chin clicking together.

  Liam gazed at her through a chalk white mask of his own, looking like a scarlet-and-gold maharaja. His doublet was slashed to reveal crimson lining, and little gold instruments hung from his shoulders, elbows, and colossal turban. Two small, enameled violins dangled like earrings on either side of the thing.

  Gwen stared up at the headpiece in awe. The base of it looked a lot like a small upholstered hassock. Scarlet, white, gold, and black ostrich plumes shot up from it like Seussian flames, and in the middle of those sat a doll dressed exactly like Liam, its tiny feet dangling above his forehead.

  In his theatrical element, Liam nodded at Quinn and swept Gwen a bow, not realizing that he’d rake her face with the crazy plumes. “Buona sera. The dove is a lovely touch.”

  “Grazie,” said Gwen. “Liam James—excuse me, Sir Liam—meet Quinn Lawson. And Quinn, this is Avy Hunt.”

  The three of them shook hands and took stock of one another while Gwen removed a gold feather from the left eye of her mask. While Quinn had chosen a plain outfit of green and gold with a matching mask, hers was cerulean blue, painted with pink blossoms, silver stars, and ribbons of a deeper blue. A white silk scarf wrapped entirely around her head and crested in folds around her shoulders. Her gown was simple, long, voluminous, made of material the same hue as the mask. She held a bouquet of hot-pink silk roses crowned by a white dove with outstretched wings.

  The four of them posed for a photographer in the archway of the Gritti’s main entrance before bracing themselves for the crowds outside. They all held hands as they swept along en route to the Piazza San Marco, the core of the festivities.

  Opera music and the buzzing of thousands of voices filled the air. The rustling of elaborate costumes, the shuffling of feet, the rhythmic lapping of the water in the canal, shouts and mingled conversations in Italian—all of these sounds blurred together into a sort of loud Venetian poetry.

  Gwen could almost smell the tradition and history of Carnevales past, carried by the cold currents of wind. The briny scent of the gray-green canals mingled with the essence of old stone and the aroma of pastries; here she caught a whiff of fresh paint, there a puff of a reveler’s winy breath.

  This Carnevale was nothing like the Brazilian celebration where she and Quinn had met, with its pulsing sexual undercurrents and wild party atmosphere. Venetian Carnevale was pure pageantry, a colorful vogue that possessed an odd dignity. It was more parade than party, a fusion of theatrical fashion. Venice had become a giant stage, hosting a self-styled production with no clear structure.

  In the midst of the Piazza San Marco, backlit by the Basilica, hundreds of revelers danced a minuet. Liam laughed with sheer pleasure and squeezed Avy around the shoulders.

  Gwen simply watched Quinn’s smile as he took it all in. It was impossible not to be impressed with the great spectacle of Carnevale in Venice, and she took pleasure in his pleasure. His white teeth flashed under his mask, and his hand strayed to her neck, caressing it and making her shiver.

  She tried to pretend that everything was normal and that the last thing she wanted was Quinn back in her life, having any kind of power over her or her feelings. But her own masquerade was obvious to her. She no longer wanted to run away. She didn’t even want to walk away.

  Gwen shook off the thoughts, and had to laugh at a woman in a gorgeous jester’s costume and mask who carried a little dog dressed exactly like her.

  A couple holding hands passed by, dressed severely in ivory and black, the headdresses above their masks easily a foot and a half tall. They looked daunting, melancholy, a bit creepy.

  She spied three clowns next, in matching black hats and black gloves worn over funny, baggy costumes in orange, yellow, and red velvet.

  But it was the dark demon that unnerved her and shot foreboding to the pit of her stomach. He wore a black helmet, a gigantic collar, and a cape. His giant dark wings rose like vengeance into the night, and Gwen shivered as he turned his head and stared straight at Avy and Liam, who were executing the steps of the minuet.

  The demon held his wrist in front of his mask, and with sudden clarity Gwen realized what he was doing: He was speaking into a wrist unit.

  “Quinn,” she said urgently. “Something’s wrong.”

  His head whipped around, and she pointed as subtly as she could. “Surveillance.”

  She saw the demon’s head turn and followed his gaze to a stocky man who looked uncomfortable in his blue cape and brocade trousers. Gwen checked his feet. The guy wore white tennis shoes. Clearly he was American.

  Not Greek. Not Italian.

  Another attempt on Avy’s life? Or something else entirely?

  “That man over there . . . they’re tracking Avy and Liam. I can’t let this happen. We’re not going to let this happen.”

  Quinn squeezed her hand and she knew he was on board, if out of his element. She squeezed back.

  She kept her eyes peeled and saw another guy, this one in a plain black half mask and a deep purple cape over street clothes. Something was definitely going down. But this was an operation, a group effort, not a lone assassin.

  In the crowd ahead, Avy slipped her hand into the crook of Liam’s elbow and they pirouetted in time to the music, oblivious. They were out in the open because of Gwen. There was only one thing to do.

  She said to Quinn, “Block the demon when they start to close in. Use surprise. Go for the knees. I’ll take the guy in the brocade pants.”

  He nodded. Careful, he mouthed. But he didn’t protest. He didn’t get in her way. And that sealed things: Quinn was her next recovery. He’d give her his heart again . . . or she’d steal it.

  Gwen worked her way over to Liam and Avy and tapped Avy on the back. “May I cut in?” And then quickly, “You’re under surveillance. Liam, too. And they’re closing in. Americans. Four.”

  Avy swallowed. “Oh, Jesus. My dad?”

  “Or whoever sent you the mask. Either way, get out of here!”

  Avy stepped back, weaving her way over to the arcade of a nearby building.

  Liam steered Gwen into the steps of the dance. She leaned her head in toward him. “Don’t look now, but there’s a man—the demon—at your four o’clock. He has a wrist unit and is communicating with guys at your ten o’clock and six o’clock. They appear to be ready for a takedown. Could be Avy’s father. Could be assassins. Disappear.”

  Liam stood stock-still for a moment, then nodded to let her know he’d understood. Then he swept her a bow.

  In a flash she saw that he’d discarded his headpiece and she moved to block his body from view. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the demon step forward, then topple as Quinn dove for his knees. She almost cheered.

  In half a second flat, Liam had his doublet off, too. He vanished into the crowd and the shadows wearing only a black T-shirt and the bottom part of his costume.

  Gwen wormed back into the crowd, working her way behind Brocade Pants. She neatly tripped him, fell over him, and then made a big show of apologizing and dusting him off. By the time he got rid of her, he was screwed.

  Gwen found herself near the clown trio and took one clown’s arm, urging him into the dance. The demon in the black costume was unfortunately back on his feet, pushing his way through the crowd, but his enormous wings made it difficult for hi
m to move.

  He spoke into his wrist unit again.

  She’d lost sight of Quinn. Oh, God—was he hurt? No—there he was, tackling Purple Cape. He had a flair for this; he really did.

  Full of a strange pride, Gwen looked over at the arcade, but Avy was nowhere to be seen. Ave could go back to the Gritti for safety, but Liam could not. If Everett Hunt was behind this and had tracked them to the Piazza San Marco, then he surely knew where they were staying.

  What a mess. Liam was going to need a cloak of invisibility. Avy was going to need a friend. Gwen wove her way through the crowd, which had packed even more tightly into the square. She looked up at the winged lion of San Marco, supervising the festivities from his pedestal high in the air.

  She hoped Liam would sprout his own set of wings.

  An hour later, after ditching their own now-filthy and torn costumes, Gwen and Quinn tapped on Avy’s hotel room door at the Gritti.

  “Go away,” said a ragged voice, barely recognizable as hers.

  “Avy, it’s me. Let me in. Please.” Gwen waited for a couple of long moments, unsure whether Avy would open the door.

  “Is anyone with you?”

  “No,” Gwen said, begging Quinn with her eyes to go back downstairs.

  Bar, he mouthed, and she nodded.

  Avy opened the door, but wouldn’t look at Gwen. Her face was red, swollen, and blotchy. Taken aback, Gwen realized she’d never, not in all the years she’d known Avy, seen her cry.

  “Oh, sweetie.” She closed the door and pulled Avy close for a hug, but it was like putting her arms around a block of granite. Avy didn’t really know what to do with female affection—she was more likely to punch a friend playfully in the arm, like a guy.

  “Yeah. This really sucks,” Avy managed, pulling away and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

  “What do you think went down? Were those guys out to kill you, or grab Liam?”

  “There wouldn’t have been four of them if they wanted to kill us. There’d be one guy, with a silencer. No communications equipment. No big white tennis shoes in Venice, at Carnevale. I’ll swear on a Bible,” Avy said with disgust, “that was Everett Hunt in action.”