Marked Masters Page 10

  They resumed the tag-team escort, and I realized we were in an underground parking garage. I began to realize where I was going and why.

  "Laurel, what a pleasure to see you." Tony B greeted us when the Danger Twins shoved me into his office. He took in my appearance in one piercing comprehensive glance. "I'm sorry we had to do things this way, but I heard you were asking about Tina, and I wanted a private place to give you the bad news."

  "Tony B, I appreciate that, but I already got word. You really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble." I glanced back at the Danger Twins. I summed up the situation quickly and decided I needed to take the offensive. Let Tony B believe I considered all of this the fault of his over-enthusiastic goons not understanding his orders. "Your men take their commissions seriously." My upper arms felt bruised, and I played it up for all it was worth, rubbing my muscles as if to assess the damage, and I warned, "You do realize your people stuffed my own scarf in my mouth, manhandled me out of the gallery against my will, and stuffed me into a car trunk? Your car trunk. To your office. By any stretch of the imagination, I could level a charge of assault, battery, and kidnapping. Surely you want to apologize and put this all right again."

  He walked around the massive desk and leaned against its dark wood front panel, his posture stiff and tone of voice menacing. "How did you hear about Tina?"

  "Why…from the event planner. She said Tina took off. Quit, I assumed." With my words I saw the steel tension leave his body. He smiled slightly and waved a hand for his henchmen to leave us.

  He motioned me into one of the visitors' chairs, and I sat, holding the Fendi in my lap and keeping a bit of space between us. He shot me a glance, letting me know he recognized what I was doing. He poured scotch from the decanter on his desk and held out one of the glasses. "Please, let's have a drink together," he said.

  I didn't want to mix alcohol with this scenario. I needed to stall and figure out how to get rid of the liquor. Not much else I could do though. I took the glass. "To what are we drinking?" I asked.

  "We're celebrating. A long-lost item has returned to my possession after a series of events conspired to keep it away. Or, should I say, a series of people?" he mused as he sipped his drink, then produced the smile of a shark going after a school of fish.

  Damn, damn, damn! Of course he referred to the snuffbox I was supposed to pick up at the castillo last month. Until I'd found my mustachioed contact dead and the snuffbox missing. How had Tony B gotten involved with it? Rapidly, I replayed the history of the snuffbox as I knew it. Neither Tony B nor his organizations fit in at any point. Was he the one responsible for the mustached man's death? Surely not. But the hit man who confessed was Italian. While Tony's name was associated with a lot of high-powered, albeit often shady, dealings in the art world and various other activities, I hadn't heard the word murder associated with him. But he could hire someone, and even if everyone knew the guy who confessed hadn't actually carried out the murder, the Italian connection was still there. So the confessor could have covered for one of Tony B's compatriots who did the deed and needed protection.

  I set the glass on the desktop and stood up. "Would you excuse me?" I smiled. "As you can tell, I'm a bit worse for wear, and I'd like to visit the powder room." He pointed, and I headed toward the executive bathroom.

  "By all means, proceed," he said smoothly. "But please leave your bag here."

  "Oh, but—"

  "The bag stays here, Laurel. I want to speak with you, and I don't want you getting in touch with someone who will interrupt our conversation."

  I couldn't help it. I slammed a fist against my hip and said, "One of your underlings already stomped my phone in the alley. I couldn't get in touch with anyone short of sending a message in a bottle through the sewer system."

  He nodded. "Very well. I will, of course, see that your phone is replaced."

  As I hurried to the bathroom, the sound of his low laughter followed me.

  I rolled a towel to set at the bottom of the door to help hide any sounds I created and let my gaze rove over the lavish room. A Jacuzzi took up a corner, as well as a toilet and bidet. There was a small shower as well as a closet filled with more Italian suits and shoes.

  One of the other things I'd learned on the yacht trip circling Gibraltar was Tony B's wife couldn't hold her liquor either, and she was one of the most bitter harpies I'd ever met. Not that I blamed the woman. Her husband openly flirted with anything in a skirt, and once when I'd helped her to the couple's stateroom and poured her into bed, she'd mumbled something I hoped would be useful in the present situation. In a slurred cadence she'd sung the words, "The bastard doesn't know it, but I know his safes are in his toilets."

  Naturally, I didn't learn where in his restrooms, but with the size of this space there was plenty of room to hide one. I started with the obvious and checked the medicine cabinet for a trip button to make the whole unit swing away from the wall. Then I moved to the toilet tank. Another minute and I had the shoe shelves silently rolling out of the way and found the tiny ribbon marking where to pull to remove the carpeting.

  The safe was a standard model I had opened many times thanks to some wonderful training received from an Irish thief during my year abroad after finishing college. He taught me some wonderful moves. I was surprised Tony B didn't have anything high-tech, but he wasn't really known for having a love of gizmos. I'd heard him say many times if he "couldn't eat it, screw it, or intimidate it, what was the use?"

  As the safe opened, I held my breath. I ran my hand through the papers and cash and searched a small velvet bag containing some not very good jewelry. No snuffbox in sight. I closed everything, feeling a bit defeated.

  No! If Tina was killed today, the snuffbox was still in Miami. And if Tony B had it, it had to be in this office building. It had to be here. Maybe he had another hidey-hole.

  I moved to the shower, and that's when I noticed the flaw. The recessed soap dish was flush on one side but out just a fraction of an inch on the other. I tugged, I pressed, I prayed. And just when I was about to give up, I removed the bar of soap and the unit moved soundlessly toward me. Damn, it was weight activated.

  Ignoring my fear of spiders, I reached blindly into the dark opening and had to swallow a squeal when my fingers closed on the object I knew was the snuffbox. Quickly, I wrapped it in my scarf and then hid it in one of the secret pockets of the Fendi. I flushed the toilet and turned on the tap, taking the opportunity to wash my face and hands. Those were comforting moves designed to give me time to swallow my excitement so Tony B wasn't aware of my true intentions. Also, of course, I needed to figure out how to get out of this mess.

  There was a bottle of imported Swiss lotion on the counter. I smoothed some on my face, and the smell reminded me of my mother. I shut the memory down and stared into the mirror. I had to get out of here and back to the Browning. Or find a way to contact Nico and Jack.

  Still in the exact position where I left him, Tony B reached again for the scotch. "Come on, Laurel, drink up. I can't think of anyone I'd rather celebrate with, and I find it very fortuitous you are here with me. How's Max?"

  "Same. Tight, frustrating, and determined to have his own way."

  "Oh, yes. I think most of us are extremely determined to have our own way. Don't you, Laurel? You wouldn't have reached your level of, shall we say, success in your field, if you weren't so bullish about your recovery process. Or convinced your way was the right and only way."

  I picked up my glass without sitting but played along. "I'm not sure I know exactly what you're implying. I work for my family's foundation, and this latest incarnation finds me heading the London office."

  "Of course. My mistake." He smiled and rose, the glass in his hand. "I'm interested in what you think of a work I'm relocating. Would you accompany me?"

  I followed as he opened a door to what looked like a study and wondered what this Neanderthal would be doing with a study. Heavy drapes blocked the sunlight. He flipped a sw
itch, and a wall sconce came on, perfectly positioned to illuminate a small yet spectacular landscape unmistakably the work of the artist Sebastian.

  For five decades, Sebastian's paintings and prints had graced art galleries and museums and been used to raise money for a variety of causes, mostly connected with improving the lives of children. His earlier works centered around portraits, although he had also ventured into landscapes, particularly those concerning the Normandy region of France and the Tuscany region of Italy. Paparazzi had searched all over Europe for him to no avail. It was believed he lived a reclusive existence, continuing to paint, though no one had proof one way or the other.

  We approached the painting. About three paces away, we both stopped and stared. The foreground held a lovingly cared for lily pond and the land around it. In the distance a house appeared deserted, waiting for its owners to return home. As with all of Sebastian's work, it looked as though the painting somehow glowed with a vibrant light. Hundreds of critics and art fans had speculated on how he achieved that effect in his work, and hundreds had been frustrated. Equally frustrated were all the artists who attempted to duplicate his style.

  We remained silent and appreciated the painting.

  "Beautiful," I breathed, awed by the variety of feelings Sebastian's art always produced. I may have seen his work already that day at the Browning, but one could never see too much of sheer genius. "I don't think I know this piece."

  He dragged his gaze away from the painting with what appeared to be difficulty. "It's never been displayed. It's always been in the hands of a private collector."

  "It looks like it's from Sebastian's earlier period."

  "It is. Probably painted over thirty years ago."

  "Is this the possession you recently recovered?" I asked, playing along, continuing to stare at the brushstrokes.

  I could almost feel the cruelty in his smile. "Oh, no. I acquired this many years ago from the original collector."

  Reluctantly, I turned away from the painting and looked at him. The debonair playboy good looks definitely had a sadistic, sinister slant. Or maybe it was the focused lighting.

  Fun time was over. Time to go. I didn't know what Tony B was up to and didn't want to find out in this precise minute.

  "Thank you for allowing me to see such a master. I'm afraid I'll have to be going. Duty calls as usual. I have a plane to catch, but I'm sure we'll run into each other again soon."

  "While I appreciate your diligence and haste to get back to work, I'm afraid that will be impossible just now." I took off walking back to his office, heading for the exit out. With impeccable manners, he waited for me to precede him into the office. However, at his words I bristled and stopped walking.

  "I'm not sure I understand," I prevaricated. I needed to keep the situation from escalating.

  He reached out and took my right hand. I used every ounce of self-control I possessed not to jerk away from him. He said, "I told you it was fortuitous you appeared when you did. I heard you were coming to Miami and hoped we would run into each other."

  I was puzzled and knew my face showed it. He smiled. "I don't mean to sound so mysterious. I have something else to show you. Come back into the room with the Sebastian. There's another connecting room we can access inside. I have a painting you wrote a piece about several years ago, and I've been waiting for a chance to get you and the painting together ever since I read it."

  Periodically, when something caught my interest and I wanted the public aware of an injustice, especially those injustices I could physically do nothing about, I gathered research and wrote op-ed pieces for the New York Times or the UK's Guardian. Unsure as to which article he was referencing, I asked, "You've got a painting I wrote about?"

  "Yes. I had heard you were coming to Miami, and I wanted to share it with you so you could see it did indeed still exist."

  How did he know I was coming to Miami? "Talk to Max about my itinerary? Or do you have another mole in Beacham?"

  He laughed. "Oh, nothing so clandestine, believe me. I ran into him in Baltimore Wednesday afternoon, and he asked if I was still interested in investing in the Browning. I told him I already had. That's when he told me you were in Orlando for a short time and headed to Miami in the morning. With that information, I made it a point to do everything in my power to see you today. I find it necessary to take this chance opportunity when we're both in the same city to correct a little misinformation you seem to have. Misinformation that appears to have upset you. Far be it from me to cause distress to a woman as beautiful as you, Laurel. Your passionate plea for the loss to the world of such important artwork piqued my interest as well as melted my heart."

  Interesting and creepy. "Is there a reason we can't do this another time? As I said, I'm a bit tied up at the moment, but I'll be in Miami for several days—maybe—"

  Who knew at this point?

  "I apologize if this is an inopportune moment, but since you're here now, I feel I must insist upon the right to take advantage of your presence."

  I had no doubt the Danger Twins were standing sentry on the other side of the door. Maybe if I reminded him of the risk. I pulled my hand free and said, "I don't want to sound ungrateful, but continuing to hold me against my will is a federal offense, Tony B. A felony. You've always been so careful to keep your hands clean. Can't we please do this the next time I'm in town? The weather is turning a little ugly, and I want to get to the airport before I miss my flight."

  He retrieved his glass from the desk and savored a long sip, his pleasure at the taste of the liquor obvious. Everything he did had a sensual feel to it. Ick.

  "I didn't plan the day this way. You're without wheels, and I had a car available to bring you here. Nothing that could be considered kidnapping."

  Except, of course, that I rode in the trunk.

  He continued. "Unfortunately, your actions preempted my plans." He took another sip, his eyes never leaving mine.

  I preempted his plans? Of course. I felt thunderstruck. "You're the one who took the Mercedes!"

  He smiled. "I've watched you for years, Laurel. I've known Max a long time. We've often talked about our sleeping beauty, referring of course to you. You maintain such a cool businesslike front, but when you're writing about what you perceive as an affront to the world of art, your words contain so much passion. It's an interesting dichotomy, is it not?"

  I tried but couldn't stifle a small sense of betrayal. Max had talked to this letch about me? More than a few times? Up to this point, I had considered myself not Tony B's type—he'd never even hinted he found me attractive, although he was well known as the worst kind of womanizer—so why was he coming out with this now? Something didn't fit. Would Max really discuss me with him? He knew how my grandfather felt about Tony B.

  My shoulders straightened even more. I'd had enough. Time to take a stand. "I'm not sure I understand where all this is going, and frankly, I don't care. I've never had a high opinion of you, but now what small good opinion I did have has tanked. I'm leaving."

  I headed toward the door, keeping my ears peeled for any movement from his direction. I reached for the knob as a knock sounded. Tony B reached around me and opened the door, his hand gently grasping my elbow to move me out of the way. I hadn't even heard him come up behind me.

  It was Danger Twin number one. "Can I be of any help, sir?"

  "No," Tony B answered. "We're on our way to look at the second grouping now."

  Danger Twin number one closed the door, and I heard it lock. Tony B grasped my elbow again and pulled me back toward the room housing the Sebastian. "You really do want to see this."

  I really didn't but recognized a power play when I experienced one and hoped if I cooperated, I would either be released or find a way to free myself.

  "I have been looking forward to this ever since I heard you were coming to Miami." He seemed to have an honest grin on his face for the first time. We crossed the room, and he led me through another door into total darkness.


  "Wait just a minute—"

  "No worries, Laurel. I don't want to ruin the surprise." He let go of my arm. After a soft click, three lights came on across the opposite wall, illuminating three portraits.

  I stared as a light bulb went off in my head. Of course! Sebastian's Juliana, Weaver's Greensleeves, and Gilmaier's Retribution. The Portrait of Three.

  I tore my gaze away from the pictures and stared at Tony B. He stared right back at me, his expression triumphant. He broke the thick silence.

  "I had to show you. After I read your article, I felt as though you understood exactly what I felt when these first came into my possession. They are magical, are they not?"

  My gaze returned to the three. Painted at different times in history, the artworks had been loaned to a museum as part of a retrospective on the changing faces of women. The three came to the museum from the same source, a company named The White Pelican. Their owner had insisted the three be displayed together, and I could see why. Each portrait, while emphasizing its own merits, also complemented the one next to it. The Juliana, a larger piece, tied the others together and was mounted on the wall between them.

  They had been stolen a little over fifteen years ago, on the opening night of the exhibition from La Galleria del Giardino della Vita in Florence, Italy. At that time, the privately owned museum specialized in exploring topics related to all things human and had just begun to make a name for itself, when the art was stolen. The owner of the museum, as well as the owner of The White Pelican and all the other donors, were investigated, as was every guest attending opening night, but no connection was found and no arrest ever made. After the theft, the portraits became known as The Portrait of Three.

  While art theft is fairly common, and everyone was insured, for the next year a string of bad luck seemed to follow the museum owner, Andrea Tessaro. He eventually killed himself, creating more speculation that the owner knew more than he let on. Again, nothing was proven.