Take Me Two Times Read online

  Gwen nodded.

  “I was afraid of this. It’s why I didn’t want to talk to my dad. Liam has to get back to the States, where he has his get-out-of-jail-free card with the FBI. Problem is, they can pick him up right in the airport if he buys a plane ticket. Same with the train or a rental car. They’ll be watching his credit cards and mine, too. They’ll be watching the flight manifests for all four of his aliases.”

  “Sounds like it’s time to get him a new one. And pay with cash.”

  Avy nodded. “Yeah, given another day we can do that, same as we’re getting yours. But even after we bring him back to the U.S., it’s not like I can invite him home for Memorial Day weekend, Gwen. This is going to boil down to a choice between my dad and Liam. I don’t know how to make that choice. How can I have put myself in this position?”

  Gwen sank down on the bed and just looked at her. She shook her head as Avy’s cell phone rang. And rang. And rang some more.

  “That’s Dad,” Avy said bitterly. “He keeps calling and I won’t answer.”

  “Has Liam called? Do you know where he went? Is he safe?”

  “He’s all right. He can’t call—they’d pinpoint his location—but he gave a kid some money to bring me a message. He said that”—her voice cracked—“he loves me and he’ll be in touch when he can. He said”—she laughed wildly—“to trust him.”

  Tears streamed down her face and she went to the window, feeling behind the drapes. “I have a stolen painting that he wants to keep, but he says to trust him!” She yanked out the rolled painting Gwen had seen before.

  She extended it to Gwen. “You have to take it, Gwennie. It belongs to the insurance company. They paid out for it. It technically belongs to them as soon as they sign the check. Please, will you get it to them?”

  “Who?”

  “Hiscox.”

  “Where do I say I got it?”

  “You don’t. You recovered it; no questions asked.”

  Gwen nodded. “I’ll have to smuggle it in my suitcase, and God help me if I get caught.”

  “You won’t. You look like the type of woman who jets to Venice for a little shopping trip. That’s the beauty of your work for ARTemis. Nobody would ever suspect you.”

  “Because nobody takes me seriously.”

  Avy looked miserable. “I didn’t mean it that way, and you know it.”

  “Well, take this seriously: I do think you can trust Liam. More than you can trust your father at this point.”

  “Why?”

  “Gut. You’re the one who told me never to argue with it.”

  Avy tried to dash her tears away with her fingers and succeeded only in smearing her mascara under her eyes so that she looked like a woeful raccoon. “He didn’t give me any warning,” she whispered.

  “Avy. In your dad’s mind, he’s trying to save you from a mistake worse than death. Of course he didn’t warn you.”

  “Doesn’t he care if I’m happy?” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “Stupid question.”

  “He thinks you’ll be happier with this threat—Liam—out of the way.”

  Avy honked again into the tissue, then balled it up in her hand. She closed her eyes for a long moment. “What if he’s right?”

  Gwen stared at her.

  “What if Liam really can’t go straight? I’m so afraid, Gwen. What kind of man have I fallen in love with?”

  “I don’t know, Ave. That I don’t know.”

  chapter 34

  The man was beside himself. While the trial run on Esteban Velasquez with the Mardi Gras mask had worked like a charm, once again, the bitch had slipped through his fingers, this time courtesy of that cursed Gwen. And now Avy was holed up in the Gritti Palace, not leaving her room.

  He hoped she was crying her eyes out over the loss of her limey lover. He thought about showing up as housekeeping and blowing a hole through her, but it was far too risky, for a variety of reasons. Since the incident with the mask, the Gritti had tripled its security.

  He’d have to wait until she was back in Miami.

  He was developing a tic in his left eye, and his fingers literally itched to strangle her. His uncle was impatient after all this time, and had actually begun to mock him, the old bastard.

  The man threw his clothes into his Italian leather carryall, checked out of his hotel, and took a train over the border. Then he ditched his alias and flew back to Miami.

  God only knew when Avy would see fit to come back herself. In the meantime, he had to pretend that everything was normal. And unfortunately, it was time to dispense with Gwen as well. She was causing too many problems, and she wasn’t as dim as she appeared to be, damn her.

  chapter 35

  Life itself got more complicated than the most intricately plotted thriller. Gwen sat next to Quinn in first class on the flight home and evaluated what lay ahead.

  Her heart ached for Avy. How would she make a choice between the two men in her life, between the one who’d raised her and the one she wanted to grow old with?

  Though Gwen’s father might not be happy if she married Quinn, he’d get over it. She was a grown woman now, not a college kid.

  Everett Hunt was a different personality altogether. He’d never quit. And Avy wouldn’t, either.

  Quinn smoothed a hand over her stomach, distracting her. “Baci for your thoughts.” He held out one of the famous Italian chocolates between thumb and forefinger.

  She laughed and snagged it. “You knew better than to offer me a penny, didn’t you?”

  His teeth flashed. “Mmmm. I may not be wiser after all this time, but I’m more cunning.”

  She tossed the chocolate and caught it. “Okay. I’m worried about Avy. She’s so miserable about her personal life right now that I’m afraid her reflexes are slow. That she’s off her game. And there’s someone out there trying to kill her. I have to find that person, and yet here I am on a plane back to the U.S. while he may be on her heels in Venice.”

  “You’re a good friend,” Quinn said.

  “I don’t know about that. I screwed up royally, I hid everything from her for too long, and the company’s still in danger—while she’s too upset to care at this point. I have to fix this. She’s always had my back. I’m going to have hers.”

  “You certainly had her back at Carnevale.” Quinn shook his head. “I gotta tell you, Gwen . . . you were impressive.”

  “So were you.” His words made her feel better. His presence soothed her. She realized that she hadn’t thought about Xanax or vodka once during takeoff.

  “Here’s a thought,” Quinn mused. “Avy’s probably fine. Her father’s going to be watching like a hawk to see if Liam makes contact. And whatever their differences right now, he won’t let anything happen to her.”

  An anvil rolled off Gwen’s chest. He was 100 percent correct. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re pretty smart, Quinn Lawson?”

  He caught his lip between his teeth and eyed her lazily. “Whiz kid, that’s me. Check the Wall Street Journal for confirmation.”

  Something about Quinn had changed since she’d first walked into his office. He looked . . . happy?

  “Do you miss your job?” she asked, already reading the answer in his eyes.

  “Not a bit. I’m thinking of doing something else entirely. My only regret is not seeing Alaban, a drug of ours, all the way to market. I’d love to invest in it, but that’d be insider trading for sure.”

  Gwen waited but he didn’t elaborate. “What kind of something else are you thinking of doing?”

  Quinn stretched his legs out in front of him and pulled down the window shade. The corner of his mouth turned up. “That’s top-secret. If I told you, I’d have to marry you—and that’s not a conversation we’re ready to have quite yet.” He slid down in his seat and closed his eyes.

  Wait . . . but they’d talked about it that night on the gondola. “What do you mean? We’ve discussed it already.”

  “Ah. But not to my satisfac
tion.”

  He didn’t say anything else, the tease. Annoyance made her a little petulant. “Isn’t my satisfaction important, too?”

  He opened his eyes and scanned her body from knees to lips. “Always, honey. Always.”

  A streak of hot electricity lit all her naughty zones.

  Then the damned man closed his eyes again and went to sleep.

  His cryptic words made it hard for Gwen to focus, even once they were back in Miami. The heat, the vast expanses of highway and concrete, the urban sprawl—all of it took getting used to after jewel-like little Venice.

  But for the moment, she had no time to mull over Quinn and his enigmas. Right now, she had to focus on justice—and, if she were honest, revenge.

  Angeline Le Fevre and Eric McDougal had tried to kill her best friend, and that wasn’t okay. She was going to make sure they didn’t succeed.

  Home in Coconut Grove, Gwen booted up her laptop and searched for Angeline’s home address, with no luck. This was a job for the Nerd Corps, which was fine, since she needed to talk to Dante anyway.

  She threw off the clothes she’d been wearing, quickly showered, and re-dressed and made sure she had her company-issued SIG stowed safely in her bag. Then she headed downtown to the ARTemis office. A long line of cars slowly snaked into the parking garage, meaning that it would take a good fifteen minutes before she found a spot in there.

  Gwen sighed and inched forward toward the line just as a man in a Firebird pulled out of a metered space across the street. Yes! She snatched it, fed the metal money-muncher seven quarters, and she was good to go.

  “Hi, doll face,” Sheila said as she walked in the door. “What’d you bring me back from Italy? Gold, I hope.”

  Sheila didn’t need any more of that. She sparkled in a stretchy, low-cut gold top and so many gold chains that she rivaled Mr. T. She wore three or four rings on each hand, and they clanked against the keyboard as she typed. Or was that sound from the multiple bracelets? Gwen couldn’t be sure. Even Sheila’s reading glasses were gold.

  But today, instead of making her cringe, Sheila’s outfit comforted her. “I brought you half an unused airline ticket and some chocolate Baci. How’s that?”

  “Hmmmph.”

  “Do I have any messages?”

  Sheila handed over a stack of them. “You might be real interested in that top one, there.”

  Gwen scanned it and felt the blood drain from her face. “What does Sid mean, he’s on his way?”

  Sheila shrugged and displayed most of her capped teeth. “I guess lover boy got itchy and boarded his jet.”

  “No. No, no, no . . . he doesn’t know where I live. You didn’t tell him, did you? You’d better swear to me that you’ve given him absolutely no personal information about me.”

  “I haven’t. But maybe he figures that since you found his dog for him, he can now hire one of our agents to find you.” Sheila cackled. “Wouldn’t that just beat all.”

  Gwen glared at her. “Look. You have to make him go away. This is not a joke. You tell him that if he doesn’t scram, I will get a restraining order against him and charge him with stalking.”

  Sheila assessed her silently. “Something’s different about you. Did you get a haircut? Nope. Change your makeup? Nope. What is it? You’re harder around the edges.”

  “Is Dante here?”

  “I don’t think I can call you fragile anymore. It’s like you’ve lost your innocence. Our Gwennie’s been devirginized.”

  “Sheila, is Dante here?”

  “All right, already! Yes, he is.”

  “And have you seen McDougal?”

  “He hasn’t been around for a couple of days. He took some time off.”

  Time off to attempt murder?

  “Thanks.” Relieved to hear she wouldn’t have to run into McDougal, Gwen strode past Sheila and down the hall to Dante’s door, which was partially open. He lounged in his chair, his bad leg propped on another one, staring out over the bay with a grim expression.

  “Hi.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice. “Hi. Come in. So how did you find Venezia? It’s one of my favorite cities.”

  “Still magical. A little cold.”

  He nodded. He looked as if he hadn’t been sleeping well; the shadows under his eyes made them look darker and more enigmatic.

  “Dante, I tracked down the jeweler who made the copy of the mask, and he said that the original was brought to him and then taken away again by a woman. I also discovered that Quinn’s art consultant, Angeline Le Fevre, has ties to the mask. Her ancestors were the original owners, and she has an obsession with it.”

  Dante’s eyebrows shot up, but other than that he made no comment. He remained almost unnaturally still.

  “But here’s the kicker: Someone delivered a poisoned mask to Avy’s hotel room in Venice! If I hadn’t been there, she could be dead right now.”

  “Da tutti i santi . . .”

  “Sheila says that McDougal hasn’t been around for a couple of days. That he took time off. I think that he and Angeline are working together. He’s always had a grudge against Avy.”

  Dante rubbed furiously at the edge of his cast.

  “Who knows how they met, but I caught him half-naked in her office. I need to get Angeline’s Miami address from the Nerd Corps. She’s unlisted.”

  Dante stared at her. “You’re not thinking of going over there?”

  “I still have a recovery to complete, Dante. I’d swear on a Bible right now that Angeline has the original of that mask, and I’m going to find it. If it’s not in her home, then she’s got it in a safety-deposit box somewhere.”

  “She could have taken it out of the country by now.”

  “Maybe so. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check.”

  “Breaking into her house could be dangerous. You need backup. Let me come with you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not dumb enough to do it when she’s there. I’ll be fine. If you want to help, track down McDougal. He killed the Velasquez brothers, and I think he’s responsible for the missing nicotine at Jaworski Labs. Someone had a knowledge of B and E and the general skill set that we have here at ARTemis—and no other drugs were missing.”

  “And the attempt on Avy? Why would he try to kill her?”

  Gwen shrugged. “He hates her. I think this whole thing began in an effort just to ruin her reputation. Remember, the recovery of the mask was supposed to be her job, not mine. And everything else just snowballed from there.”

  Dante was silent. Finally he said, “It’s a plausible theory.” The shadows under his eyes had deepened.

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. “Just tired. And disappointed, disillusioned—whatever you wish to call it. I don’t like discovering nasty surprises about my colleagues.”

  “Neither do I. McDougal must have something in his past, and you’d think Kelso would have caught it before hiring him.”

  “It appears,” murmured Dante, “that even the great and mysterious Kelso makes mistakes.” He swung his leg down from the chair and struggled to his feet. “Well. Let’s get hold of Miguel and find the information that you need, shall we?”

  Cato loved it when his prospective victims were sprawled comfortably on their sofas, watching television. Through a crack in the blinds, he could see a pair of men’s Nikes resting on one arm of the couch, while an elbow hung off the opposite end.

  The TV was tuned to ESPN, loud enough that the volume covered the sound Cato made when he popped the lock and slid open the glass patio door. Couch Potato didn’t move.

  Talk about being caught napping, man! I’m gonna scare you into next year. Cato crept forward in gleeful anticipation. Dude, you’re gonna owe me a case of Negro Modelo.

  He sprang without warning, complete with Comanche yell.

  Nothing. No reaction. And when Cato landed, straddling the guy’s shins, he understood why.

  “Mierda!” He knocked the phone o
ver in his haste to dial 911.

  chapter 36

  That evening, Gwen stuffed Angeline’s address into her purse and headed out the door. A special surveillance team had confirmed that Angeline was at an art opening.

  Gwen hesitated briefly before pulling out her phone to call Quinn, but he’d made her promise to keep in close touch. Should she drag him into a breaking-and-entering situation, given the fact that the police wanted to talk to them?

  She’d promised. She hit his cell number on speed dial. “Quinn? It’s me. So, I’m headed to Angeline’s. If you want to help, you can be lookout. . . . You’ll have to meet me there, though. I’ll text you once I’m in.” She snapped her phone closed.

  Her car was across Brickell, with seven minutes left on the meter. She unlocked the door as a white stretch limo pulled up next to her. One of the tinted windows lowered, and she heard the words she least wanted to hear.

  “Gwendolyn, me beauty!”

  She whirled and stepped back, slamming her hip into the driver’s-side mirror.

  Sid Thresher peered out at her from behind his rock-’n’-roll shades, which he’d lowered in an attempt at seductiveness. His crinkled-leather skin retained a suspiciously orange glow. His sparse corn-husk hair had frizzed in the humidity, and the whites of his eyes gleamed crazily from the gloom of the limo’s interior.

  He wore a silk Versace shirt that showcased a heavy gold chain and a single tuft of gray-blond hair on his skinny chest. In defiance of any open-container laws, he brandished a Bloody Mary. His ugly shar-pei, Pigamuffin, sat next to him on the limo seat, wearing a black Subversion T-shirt from the popular Big Banger tour of 1983.

  “Sid, what are you doing here?”

  “Oy told you that me and my big banger were eager to see you, luv! ’Ere, hop in and oy’ll fix ye a Bloody!”

  Gwen forced her face into some semblance of a polite smile. Sid was, after all, a client. And she had (unbeknownst to him) once stolen his dog, for which she still felt guilty. “Sid, it’s lovely to see you and I wish I could stay to chat, but I’m on my way to an appointment.”