"You want us picked up by the cops?"

Jack just smiled and finished his text. When he hit Send, he turned and said, "Luckily, the U.S. Senator whose family is in both of our debts after last night's little exercise is a representative of the whole state of Florida. Not just Orlando."

Why didn't I think of that? After giving myself a mental palm slap, I asked, "So, you're going to have your buddy get the senator to keep our names off the police blotters?"

"Yes, and if a video does surface to help positively identify the guys or the Honda, I want to know that information too." His phone chimed, and he read the text, then turned it my way. On it. Ur covered. Will send DTs gained l8r.

"Which I'm translating as his promise that if he gets any details later, you will receive them too."

Jack nodded.

I chewed my lip, thinking. "How did the guys in the Honda pick us up? This is a new rental car, so no opportunity for them to add a tracking device. And I didn't notice them following from the airport. Did you?"

"They could have the car rental agent on their team. Most rentals are GPS tracked now, especially luxury models. But that gets complicated since they didn't know which company we would use. h.e.l.l, I didn't even know which company I was going to use." He shook his head and raised his phone, looking a moment at the screen. But he returned it to his pocket without using it again, then said, "My guess is one guy stayed in the car at Miami International, ready and waiting to move, and the other went inside and shadowed us from the arrival gate. I imagine our meeting the suits simply whetted their interest and concerns even more. As we all left the complex, they likely hung back at enough of a distance to tail us until they could pick their spot to drive us off the road to kidnap or hijack or..." His voice went almost to a whisper. "Or kill us. Who knows?" The volume of his words went up a smidgeon, but his tone remained deadly. "When they realized we spotted them, they moved in close and improvised. Almost always a mistake."

The semi-dark was getting to me, and I removed my sungla.s.ses to study Jack's face in the forty-watt lighting. I didn't know what to think, but I had a question I wanted to ask. "So, were they after both of us? Or just one of us?"

"What difference does it make?"

"If both," I reasoned, "then it relates to the project at hand, and it means we're getting closer even if we don't know exactly what we're getting closer to. If they only wanted one of us, then it may be something out of one of our pasts. And if that's the case, we might need to split up, to not only make sure the other person doesn't get hurt in the crossfire but to be better at reaching our objective if we become compromised."

Jack didn't say a word. He simply stared at me for so long I felt my pulse rising again, and not in a good way. I reached down to the floorboard, trying to break his focus by moving to retrieve my cell phone. The ploy worked. He slammed the gearshift into reverse, and we cruised for the exit.

A half hour later, Jack pulled into a side lot to the prestigious Browning Gallery, a small but world-renowned terra-cotta landmark with its distinctive 1920s architecture and gilded Art Deco design touches. In the open s.p.a.ces around the gallery, activity bustled as crews set up for an annual art fair scheduled to open the next day. The gallery was decked out for the fair and members-only party. Notables from corporate and various government interests would be on hand for the important event, and not just Americans. This event had reached the point of being truly international.

The preparations reminded me of the opening extravaganza for the gallery's Browning Art Studio that I attended more than a decade ago, when I was in my teens and my grandfather still made appearances at such occasions. My heart ached a little from the memory.

I hoped to look in on the studio before we left, to see if it had changed much in the interim. I remembered the s.p.a.ce as a fully contained facility, able to meet the needs of most artists. In the years since that opening event, an artist-in-residence program was implemented and continued to receive great buzz.

Despite the banners and party prep going on in the foyer, my pulse calmed as we moved through the streamlined decor. The Deco era was probably my favorite, though I loved the way baroque tastes color so many European buildings. I followed Jack down the taupe-carpeted hallway that led to the administrative offices.

"Jack Hawkes, as I live and breathe," a sultry voice spoke from an open office door. Seconds later, the scent of Obsession filled our personal s.p.a.ce, and the bronzed figure of Melanie Weems embraced Jack before he could fend her off. Not that he tried very hard, what with that d.a.m.ned flirty grin and c.o.c.ked eyebrow and all.

"Melanie, love, how have you been keeping yourself?" he asked.

I recognized his tongue-in-cheek tone, but she obviously never picked up on it. So she complied by running fingers across his cheek and answering with a low chuckle. She was nearly as tall as Jack, thanks to killer gold Louboutin heels so high they hurt my feet just looking at them. This woman and I had a long history, and it wasn't a good one. Something to do with a "mean girls" incident she implemented during a college internship that ultimately got a very good curator fired. Oh, and the subsequent wardrobe malfunction she experienced at a gala museum affair a few days later, which she blamed on me but could never prove.

I'd heard she'd made director at the Browning but hoped I could avoid her while we were in Miami. Surely, she wasn't his source...

"Oh, Jack," she breathed the words. "Keeping myself? You told me once that I was fabulous. Am I not still fabulous?"

Yeah, her intentions were blatantly obvious, and unfortunately Jack seemed to have forgotten why we were at the museum in the first place.

"Melanie...glad you had time in your calendar for us," he finally said.

She slowly rotated on one heel and pretended to see me for the first time. But she was trying too hard to hold her expression. "Us?"

He pulled me closer. "Melanie, I'd like to introduce you to Laurel Beacham of the Beacham Foundation."

"We've met-" I started.

"Before she had to fall back on getting hired by her family," Melanie said, cutting off my sentence. I held my breath and looked bored. I'd been the target of many backstabbers in my time. I had no problem backing away from this. She placed a hand on my arm. "So good to see you trying to build something out of all your family's embarra.s.sment." I subtly moved my arm away from her hand.

I smiled. "And it's wonderful the museum could overlook the discrepancies on your resume. They must have been desperate for a director."

"Wait a minute-"

"Ladies," Jack said. But he looked at me, shooting a warning glare I read as an order to behave. Maybe he needed something from her. Well, I would if she would. But I didn't say that out loud. Instead, I smiled again and took a step back, pivoting to get a better view of the Pica.s.so hanging behind her desk. I wished it was a print, but I knew better.

"Love your office, Melanie. Glad things have worked out so well for you."

No, she didn't believe me. She did, however, sheath her claws, and that's all I truly hoped for. I turned and smiled at Jack. "I didn't realize you two knew each other. Wonderful that you have friends here in Florida, Jack."

"Oh, we're more than friends," Melanie purred. I think she would have coiled her body around his if it wouldn't have come off as totally unprofessional. "Remember the lovely weekend in Austria? Those unbelievable comforters on the bed, duvets filled with mile-high goose down?"

Oh, for Pete's sake.

"Look," I said, moving farther away with my words. "You two conduct whatever business you need to attend to. I want to check out the studio while I'm here. Jack, why don't you come and collect me when you're ready to leave?"

I was still starving, and I wanted to make a comment about that too. However, I didn't want to try to digest food if Malicious Melanie joined our little dinner party and did her best impression of entertaining the troops whenever Jack was nearby. Gag!

"But, Laurel, I-"

"No, Jack, it's fine. I'll leave you to this and find my own way to the studio." I turned and sped down the hallway, calling over my shoulder as I escaped, "I'm pretty sure I remember where it is. Don't worry about me."

I wanted to laugh. Just too delicious a revenge to exact on him. Still, if he didn't extricate himself from the female octopus soon, I refused to get involved. Instead, I planned on taking to the streets to hunt down a food truck. Where was this freaking yacht he'd mentioned? Didn't all yachts have chefs? They'd have to feed me if I boarded the vessel and said I was Jack's guest, right?

"All I need is a d.a.m.n slip number. I could find the harbor and fall prostrate at the chef's feet to prove how famished I am." I turned a corner, and floor-to-ceiling windows replaced the wall. I looked outside, and all other thoughts flew from my mind.

A pair of twenty-something young guys in hoods, one muscled and the other rail thin, jumped into the cab of a flatbed wrecker. There was no writing on the driver's door, but the window framed the skinny guy I'd last seen shooting at us out of the pa.s.senger window of the silver Honda.

Sitting like a lovely parade princess on the high bed of the wrecker was our Mercedes 350 convertible. The first thought that raced through my mind was thank G.o.d we didn't use my credit card.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Food is not an obsession with me until I can't get anything to eat. When things reach that point, food becomes the only thing I can think about. A sticking point when police officers want you to describe car thieves and your mind is totally absorbed with imagining the perfect grilled cheese sandwich from Ms. Cheezious and whether you want a cup of soup to go with it. Since I was feeling a little crabby by that point, the crab sandwich had already crossed my mind. Until I thought about adding tomatoes. Tomatoes made me think of Italy, and prosciutto, and creamy provolone on a thick country white bread. Oh, my mouth watered. And to wash it all down with a nice gla.s.s of prosecco. Surely, there was a wine bar nearby.

"Miss...miss."

The officer reeled me back into the present where there was no food, no wine, and no real leads about who had stolen our car.

"Officer, I'm sorry. I've given you all the details I can. Both had dark hair and short haircuts, one beefy, one thin. No visible tattoos. Young, probably early twenties. They were the same pair we'd noticed earlier following us in a silver Honda, but we only got the partial plate, which Jack already gave to you." I shrugged and turned my head, using the opportunity to sweep my gaze around the perimeter.

Preparations for the weekend art event proceeded efficiently, though I caught several workers cutting their eyes our way to try to figure out why the police were onsite. Dozens of white tents dotted the area around the gallery, with a galley zone and bleachers marking one border, and chairs ahead for VIP seating. Like all events of its kind, beyond the premiered art and award accolades, major points of this weekend gala were about fundraising, allowing politically connected speakers their turn at the podium, and letting the rich, beautiful people see and be seen by their peers and powers. I understood-I was one of them once, and that much money meant constant security. I'd need an entrance card if I wanted to mingle with those gaining spots in the red chairs, and there was no way Melanie would provide me with the open-sesame lanyard I needed.

I turned back to the officer. "I'm sorry I can't give you more information, but if you have more questions-"

He shook his head. "No, I'll file the report and get the car theft division working on this one. We'll call if we find anything."

"Well, I hope you find our luggage," I said, waving a hand between Jack and myself as I added, "All we have are the clothes on our backs."

"I'm sorry, miss."

"Thank you."

He gave me a brief nod and a half smile, then moved back toward his squad car. Jack was on his cell and in deep conversation, likely to the car rental place and trying to get some replacement wheels. I wanted to strike off and find dinner, but another look at the tents made me pull my own phone from the Fendi.

It was near midnight in London, but Ca.s.sie answered on the first ring. I gave her a brief synopsis of current events, then told her why I'd actually called.

"I need you to contact the foundation office in New York and get someone to send me tickets to this weekend's Browning outdoor art extravaganza. The foundation probably received the tickets months ago, so they should be in a file somewhere."

"You don't think someone else is going to use them?" she asked.

"Doubtful. But if they are, tell New York I absolutely must have at least one pa.s.s in my hand tomorrow. I need to be able to get into all the VIP areas with no questions asked, and if I have two pa.s.ses, I can get Jack in anywhere too. But he probably has his own way in, so it's not critical for him to use Beacham invites."

"I'll get right on it and call or text you back."

"Oh, and if you hear from Nico, have him call me."

"I think he's in New York."

Perfect. Exactly what I needed to hear. "See if he can bring the pa.s.ses down to me. I could use him this weekend."

We rang off, and hunger hit me again like a donkey kick. I flagged down the nearest construction guy. "Is there a food truck nearby?"

"Saw a Jefe's truck round the corner a few minutes ago. Might try checking the other side of the gallery."

"Thank you."

So my choice was made for me. The guy was right, and even before I rounded the building and the truck came into view, I heard the exuberant music over the rest of the street noise. I grabbed enough fish tacos and fresh carnitas to be sure Jack wouldn't filch any of my share, added a couple of beers on the way back, and arrived at his side as Lady Bountiful. In the same instant, he jabbed an angry finger into his touch screen and made an overly negative groan.

"No car?" I asked, holding up what I'd determined was his share of the food and putting it down between us as he continued to do whatever he was doing with his cell. I scarfed down my own food in world record time, finishing off with a deliciously cold one.

He sighed and scooped up the tacos and carnitas, setting the beer on the low wall that ran along the side of the building so he had both hands free to eat. After he chewed and swallowed several mouthfuls, he answered me. "The car rental company is working on it. I'm not sure they don't believe that the theft wasn't actually our fault. Telling them the coppers are already working the case didn't seem to change any minds either."

"They're probably right." I took a small bite, then shrugged when Jack gave me a shocked look. "What?" I asked. "It was the guys from the Honda. They'd already been on our tail. Taking our car was their plan B."

"Or..." He glared at me. "They are Miami car thieves who already had an order for a car exactly like the one we rented, and the fact that they stole our car has nothing to do with the reason we're in Miami."

I shrugged again. "Believe what you want. If I were the rental company, I would blame us. I don't believe in coincidences, but if your theory turns out to be true, it points to why flashy cars may not be the best choice when you're trying to stay under the radar."

"I was trying to fit in with the crowd we need to talk to."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Jack. The fact no one we're going to be interviewing will likely see us in the car kind of blows holes in your story. And even if they did, they'd know we flew into the city and had to rent a car anyway."

"Says Miss I Have To Buy Designer Everything."

"What I wear is something everyone will see. And unfortunately, all of it is now gone with the car."

His jaw dropped. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. I didn't think about that. I'll make a call and get us some clothes."

"Good. I hoped the yacht you mentioned had some emergency clothing on board beyond bathing suits. Where is it located, anyway?"

Jack laughed and took a swig from his beer bottle. "Like I'm going to tell you. The only way I know you won't give me the slip is if I keep from telling you the harbor slip number."

"Cute play on words. But what's to stop me from just grabbing a cab, finding myself a nice anonymous hotel somewhere, and running my own game here?"

"Nothing, except you don't have the ready cash to do that. And the only chance you have to get in last minute to the VIP section is to get me to convince Melanie to give you a pa.s.s."

"Do you have a pa.s.s?"

"It will be waiting for me tomorrow."

"Then maybe I'll just let you mingle with the hoi polloi, and I can go shopping for replacement clothes."

"Again, you have no funds."

I did a slow burn. "What makes you think you know everything?"

"Because I know everything." He offered up his best superior smile.

Deep breaths. That was my only recourse. So had Nico turned on me? When did he and Jack get so chummy? Wait! Ca.s.sie had just told me about my budget freeze today. Still, I couldn't believe either of them would be traitors... But there was one person I could believe would talk a little too freely.

"Max! Max called you and said to keep me on a short leash for both finances and intel."

His smile broadened. I had my answer.

"That lousy, cheap bast-"

"Laurel, is that you?"

I turned to the sound of the voice and recognized Tina Schroeder, a throwback to my childhood. One of the few whose family hadn't turned their backs on me, but only because the older Schroeders ran all the angles. Younger than me by a few years, her shining brunette waves were pulled back off her cla.s.sically beautiful face. Long, graceful limbs, a figure to die for, and a killer tan completed the cover-girl perfection. I saw her here and there; she'd partied on the same yacht Simon and I were guests of while we were still a couple. I had a fleeting thought to pick her brain, to see if she knew anything about Simon's latest activities or sightings. Unfortunately, the girl was only about an inch deep when it came to mental processes.

Her history always reminded me of a latter-day Anne Boleyn, but it was her mother, Phyllis, who did the pimping instead of her father. Tina was born gorgeous, and her family didn't just live above their means, they jumped both feet into a money pit. Twice, Mama Schroeder secured "suitable engagements" to billionaire octogenarians for her lovely twenty-five-year-old daughter, but the engagements ended days before nuptials could be exchanged-one due to death and the other to the groom-to-be's family stepping in and getting great-granddaddy ruled mentally incapacitated before Tina could become a Mrs. and get added to the will.

I introduced Jack.

"I know your name from somewhere." Tina gave him her wide-eyed look and shook his hand. "Maybe from Debrett's?"

I couldn't help it. I snorted. Jack immediately started choking. Peerage, right. The girl couldn't help but husband shop. Putting my arm around her, I hugged Tina and carefully maneuvered her away to let Jack recover on his own.