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  As we walked toward the tent, one of the workers shot off a great wolf whistle. Tina turned away stone faced, obviously on orders from her mother—I mean, Phyllis—not to fraternize with hourly workers. But I smiled, accepting the compliment, as I glanced over my shoulder to see Jack's reaction. Nothing. No smile, no frown. But he was watching. I decided to take it as a good sign.

  "We don't have a cappuccino machine," Tina apologized. The white canvas flap was tied back for easy entrance. "But the brand is pretty good if you like standard ground roast."

  Since the only thing I was interested in was information, I would have been happy with pure ground mud. Light filtered by the canvas tent gave everything a soft glow, and the shade reduced part of the heat. A huge fan blasted from one end. We got our cups, and I steered her to seats in the far corner.

  "Gosh, Tina, I don't think I've seen you since last summer in Nice. But you're really looking great." Jimmy Choos made her firm legs look outstanding. She carried herself straighter and with greater confidence than before, and her cheekbones showed more definition. I figured Phyllis had her working with a trainer. "Do you like this job?"

  She shrugged a narrow shoulder, her black Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress moving infinitesimally to show a little more cleavage. "I guess. Phyllis thinks I can make good contacts this way."

  "I imagine she knows better than anyone." I smiled to make my words sound friendlier than their hidden meaning, but I needn't have bothered.

  "Oh, absolutely. She's a pro at making connections. She conferences with me three times a week so I can maximize my potential."

  Yeah, right. "Look, Tina, I was wondering if you've run across Simon Babbage in the past couple of months. Maybe spoken with him at an event?"

  "Simon?" She scrunched her forehead. "I thought you two had a thing for a while. Are you trying to hook up again?"

  "No. I mean, yes." I stopped and took a deep breath. "What I mean is, yes, Simon and I had a bit of a fling." Okay, an eight-month fling. "But I'm not trying to get back together with him. I would like to find him, however."

  "I thought he worked for Beacham."

  "He's parted company with the foundation."

  "Oh." She scrunched her forehead again. I had to wonder how long she'd be able to do that before Phyllis started pumping Botox in to manage any future wrinkles. She smiled and asked, "So, do I need to give you the snuffbox, then? Or does it belong to Simon?"

  "What?"

  "He sent a snuffbox a couple of weeks ago and asked me to hold it for him. Said it was related to Beacham, and he had a buyer in Miami. He wanted the snuffbox in the city in case the buyer wanted it before he could get over here to deliver it in person."

  This was so not what I expected. "What does the snuffbox look like?"

  "Seventeenth century, gold with inlay—"

  "Stop." I held up a hand. Ohmigod, it had to be the same snuffbox I was supposed to get in Italy when everything began to go wrong, but how did Simon get it? We had thought he was only connected to the sword. But now… "Yes, you need to give the snuffbox to me. Is it at your place? Can we go now and pick it up?"

  She looked at her Rolex. Probably a knockoff, but a good one. "I have a meeting in just a few minutes, and I really can't be late. Also, I have plans tonight. But I can bring the box tomorrow. Can you meet me here at ten o'clock? I have to monitor the VIP desk."

  Darn, darn, darn! This close and I'd have to wait? Could this actually be the same snuffbox I was supposed to have picked up in Italy the night this whole escapade started? The night I found the first body. The night I met Jack for the first time. The artifact he was supposedly chasing to stop an international heist we were currently still pursuing. It had to be! I felt dizzy. "Look, if we could just—"

  A shout on the other side of the canvas stopped me.

  "What the hell are you doing there? Eavesdropping?" A baritone voice bellowed, "Get back to work, or you're fired!"

  I jumped and headed for the nearest opening, trying to see who had been listening to our conversation. But no one was between the two tents when I got to the other side of the canvas wall. Frustrated, I headed back to try to convince Tina to skip her meeting. Again, no luck.

  She was a figure disappearing in the distance. "Tomorrow, Laurel," she called. "I'll meet you at ten o'clock and have the package for you." She picked up her pace and disappeared in the crowd of activity in the final phases of set up.

  To my right, well within hearing distance of Tina and me, I saw Jack. He had his phone to his ear as he glared at me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I sank back into a chair near the tent opening, stretched out my legs, and eyed Jack. With the phone now glued to his ear, the uncompromising gaze directed toward me promised retribution. For what, I had no idea, but I didn't particularly care either. There was a lot to consider, and none of it included putting him "in the know."

  Several workers walked by with supplies. I waved at Jack and waited for him to come to me. Whatever he was up to at the moment, I had too many things on my mind to risk allowing myself to get sidetracked. I rapidly ticked over what Tina said and what it truly meant. One part of me wanted to skip the yacht Jack booked us on and find my way alone to Tina's condo. I would have suggested a catch-up sleepover, but she'd vanished too quickly. There was so much I needed to learn, and getting the information from Tina would take time and finesse. Not because she was holding back, but because she had no idea what she actually knew.

  Surely Tina still lodged in the Brickell Key. No way Mommy Dearest would let her leave such a prime locale for catching a billionaire. I'd attended a forgettable party there, but the view from Tina's apartment still came immediately to mind. The septuagenarian age of the neighbors she and Mommy hunted as possible candidates also came to the forefront.

  Top urban neighborhoods in Miami were often rated for their walkability. The area still known as Brickell used to be known as Millionaires' Row in the early twentieth century and was now called the Manhattan of the South. The neighborhood was a go-to place for the up, the coming, and the arrived. Full of financial, residential, and investment properties set right on the Gulf.

  Forget the daydream—here he comes. I rose from my chair. Jack shoved his phone in a pocket as he walked, his face unreadable.

  "Any luck?" I asked. I even raised my eyebrows to punctuate my bright question. He shot back an even darker look. Either his phone conversation hadn't gone according to plan, or something else had happened while I was out of sight in the tent. "You weren't happy when I left to talk to Tina, but you were at least in a decent mood. Now you seem…on edge."

  I could almost see the waves of excess energy ripple off his body, and his face suddenly went from tense to incredibly tired. I instinctively reached out and touched his arm. He moved his free hand to cover mine.

  "What is it, Jack?"

  "Nothing. Everything." He shrugged, then pulled me aside as two workers came up lugging a huge piece of plywood. We walked on to the front of the gallery, so we were well away from the overtime setup.

  "Were you on the phone with the police? The car rental place again?"

  He shook his head. "It's time to regroup, and I think the best place to do that is on the yacht. Neither of us has had enough sleep, we've almost been hijacked, and our car's been stolen. We can't talk here, but we do need to talk, and I think a luxury ship on the open water is where we need to begin our conversation."

  Personally, I didn't like the reference to open water, but he had a good point. If he had gotten any information from Melanie, it wouldn't pay to tell me in so public a setting. And the ride to the yacht, and whatever other activities before our debriefing, would give me the chance to figure out what I wanted to tell Jack about Tina and the snuffbox. I'd play fair if he would, but past experience told me that wasn't going to happen unless I had treasure to trade. Jack didn't outright lie. Well, yes, he did, actually, but I was getting pretty good at spotting when he tried. I didn't want to think about why that
was probably important, but I knew I needed to do so sometime soon. At this moment, I shelved my concerns in the box marked Later.

  "Should I call a cab? Or do you have a better idea?"

  "A brilliant idea that involves a hired car sent by the yacht. I called, and the captain said he would dispatch the vehicle right away." Jack looked down the street and took a step closer to the curb. "In fact, I believe it is here now."

  Seconds later, a Lincoln Town Car slid silently to a stop right in front of us. Jack had the back door open before the driver could do his duty, and moments later we were cruising again down the Miami streets, this time cocooned in caramel smooth leather comfort and sipping the sparkling dry prosecco I'd dreamed about hours before. It was tempting to believe things were looking up, but every time I had thought that lately, something unexpected fell from the sky instead.

  As we settled into the seats, I looked out the tinted windows and saw again the tent Tina and I had escaped to, and it reminded me about the eavesdropper. "Jack, when you were on the phone and I was with Tina, did you notice a couple of guys come out from the backside of the tent? One shouting at the other?"

  "You're joking?"

  I shook my head.

  "Laurel, there were people yelling at each other the entire time we were there. The place is a madhouse."

  "This would have probably been a foreman yelling at a worker."

  "No…I…" He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Why? What would have been different?"

  I could have told him then, but I knew the harbor wasn't far, and I wasn't sure how much, if anything, I presently wanted to tell Jack. So I hedged. "While we were in the tent. It sounded like some kind of altercation on the other side of the canvas. Just wanted to make sure no one was hurt."

  "Not your problem."

  "Yeah, I guess I have more than enough to worry about already."

  The rhythm of the Town Car made me drowsy, and that coupled with the wine was enough to push me over the edge to sleep soon into our journey. I woke when Jack gently shook my shoulder. "We're here."

  Jack offered a hand to help me out of the car. It was near enough to full dark that the harbor was lit up like Disneyland. The docks were full, every slip taken. Though winter was approaching, the balmy Miami temps meant these hardy crafts wouldn't have to wear winter covers through the season and would be operational for all the upcoming Christmas and New Year's blowouts. But in early fall, the scene only boasted a couple of booze cruises starting up from their slips.

  I'd always loved sailing and had spent many a sun-drenched day crewing for my father as soon as I was old enough to tie a decent knot. A connection Simon and I had shared. That alone should have warned me about the man. Should warning bells be sounding for Jack now, too? I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help generalizing about men and sailing. Well, any experiences that reminded me of my father.

  No. A yacht is different. You can't vanish alone on something that big.

  A brisk, damp wind whipped across the cold water and slapped my hair against my face. I brushed the strands from my eyes and looked around. Beyond the two boisterous boating crews, the marina remained relatively quiet. The lap of the water against the posts and planks even relaxed my jangled nerves a little. The car pulled away. Jack and I made the boards thump as we strode down the main deck. Strings of bulbs were laced above the gangways we walked, and even more lights shone on all the boats that bobbed in place with the evening tide. I smelled fish and sea creatures in the brisk air. A couple of spectacular yachts sat at the end of the far dock, but Jack kept us headed toward the end of the main dock. There were some larger boats off in the deeper water, and I asked Jack which one was ours.

  "Out there."

  Out there was a fairytale sight of the kind of sinful extravagance that I truly loved. The kind that reminded me of life before my grandfather passed away. A sleek vessel, all black and brass and sensuous curves to reflect the light from the harbor area. It appeared to be four-tier, but before I could assimilate any more information, Jack halted at a cigarette boat moored along the edge of the planks.

  "This will take us the last leg of our journey," he said and offered a hand to help me step in, something I was grateful for, given the gently bobbing gangway.

  Even before he started the engine, the muscle of the forty-plus-foot missile spoke to me. I recognized the Mercedes-Benz emblem and knew the boat operated in the neighborhood of thirteen-hundred to fifteen-hundred horsepower. A lot of speed for a simple shuttle ride. I wanted to grab the controls myself and push the phantom thing to its limits. "Jack, could I—"

  "No, I'm doing all the driving this time."

  I guess he still hadn't forgiven me for the motorcycle ride through London during our previous adventure together. No matter. It only took what seemed like seconds for us to reach the yacht. As its strong steel masts grew closer, I was able to focus between the two Jet Skis hanging at the stern to read the lettering that gave the boat's name and home berth:

  Folly Roost

  Great Britain

  "Interesting name," I murmured as Jack held my waist to help me mount the ladder.

  "Interesting owners," he replied.

  I took a moment to shoulder my purse a bit higher so I could look down at him to ask, "Employers or friends?"

  "Countrymen who were happy to extend an invitation to someone working on Her Majesty's behalf."

  Oh, aren't we the noble-sounding one, Mr. Jack Hawkes. I wanted to say it out loud but knew to hold my tongue.

  I'd been to Florida many times, but this was only the third time since college that I'd been out on the Gulf. My father used to go deep-sea fishing, and I tagged along if Granddad's yacht was involved. But with the loss of the family boat, I'd lost my desire for Florida water sports and usually flew in and out of the state on quick pickups and one-day events.

  It was a long climb, and when my foot finally hit the deck, I knew why. I'd been on my share of yachts, both personal and pleasure, but this was by far the biggest and looked to be the most modern. Clever brass lanterns hung from various posts on the main deck, obviously electrified but giving that getting away from it all air as the yacht still offered to take everything along too.

  From the nearest of several upper decks, a small dingy hung ready, yet lashed securely, above my head. I took note. One never knew when one would need to make a quick and untimely escape. As Jack joined me on deck, I heard a radio crackle and turned to see a man in a white uniform striding our way.

  "Morgan, good to see you," Jack said, striding closer with his hand outstretched. "And we are so grateful for your sending the car."

  "My pleasure."

  Jack made introductions, and then Captain Morgan waved toward the middle of the boat. "Margarite has dinner waiting for you in the saloon. She's making sure you have clothing and supplies in your room, so everything is as you need it to be." His radio squawked again, and he took his leave with a wave.

  Might as well enjoy the experience. Jack set his hand to the small of my back and directed me toward dinner, which I was grateful to the captain for arranging. The car was terrific, but food was my siren call right then. Having nothing but the light food truck lunch several hours past the noon hour, I was ready for a good dinner. My escort led me up some stairs and into a grand saloon.

  Spectacular, spacious, and simple. I'd been on a few yachts in my time, but the Folly Roost cleared the field. My eye was drawn to a portrait on the wall opposite the pulpit, or pointy, side of the vessel. My feet moved toward that interior wall as if of their own accord. I simply followed their lead, my gaze held by a painting I recognized in its gilded frame as the Woman Dressing Her Hair.

  "Lovely." I wasn't sure I'd even spoken the word aloud. I was too focused on the long, full locks, the refined hands holding the brush, and the subject's ivory complexion. Then I noticed something near the spotlight and moved in for a closer look.

  "Yes, it's a fake," Jack said from behind my right shoulder. When I turn
ed to look at him, he added, "A good fake, I'll grant you. Nevertheless, a fake. The original was stolen decades ago, and this copy is but a reminder of the kind of masterpieces that are out there and kept from the public." He stepped forward and brushed the bottom edge of the painting with a gentle fingertip.

  "While it might not be the original artist's work," I said, still searching the brushstrokes as if to will it to be real, "it truly is a lovely item within what is likely a gifted artist's body of art. Even if the painting is a forgery."

  Jack offered me a twisted smile and turned back toward the center of the saloon. "Shall we dine?"

  "Thought you'd never ask."

  A buffet had been set up on the aft side of the saloon near an exquisite mahogany dining set. While most of the yachts I'd sailed on used the narrow pulpit corner of the boat as a build out for an elongated booth seat, much like one huge sumptuous window seat, and used that seating with a couple of extra chairs for all dining, the designers of this space had built the room to include the luxurious champagne-colored crescent-shaped seating as well as a full eight-setting table, and chairs covered in the same fabric. A uniformed waiter stood in attendance, and another waiter approached Jack with a wine bottle. At Jack's nod, the second waiter popped the cork and set the bottle down on a nearby table. The wine was left to breathe, and the waiter moved across the room to acquire two glasses.

  The smell of food made my stomach rumble, and I realized the fish tacos had been a million years ago. Jack laughed. "I'm glad you're hungry, Laurel. Chef prepares food you'll be talking about for weeks."

  "So you're often a guest here?"

  His smile vanished, and he gave me a look both steady and a little disconcerting. "I make it a practice to afford myself of all luxury at every opportunity."

  Those words were some silent message, I knew, and I would be thinking them over again soon.