Dead Ringer (4 page)

"So what exactly do you want me to do?"

"How about letting me in?"

Angelina stepped back from her front door so Finn could enter. The rumpled tuxedo had been replaced by a charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy tie. A briefcase added the finishing touch.

"Special Agent Carver. How nice to finally meet you."

He shot her a deadpan look and moved wordlessly past her, scanning the place as if checking for booby traps. "What are you hunting for?"

"You cleaned up."

"I do know how to use a vacuum cleaner."

Finn's eyebrows rose as if he didn't believe her. Stepping around an antique table that held a pair of Italian marble urns she and Beamer had found in Paris, Finn crossed into the living room, placed his briefcase on the coffee table in front of the Scalamandre sofa, and parked himself on one of its green and gold, satin-striped arms. His eyes took her measure, and clearly she came out lacking.

She flushed, and that reaction sent a spark of irritation through her. She could handle this. She could handle any man. "Are, you going to tell me what you want me to do, or are we going to play twenty questions?"

His jaw tightened, his eyes became two black stones. "Game playing may be your idea of sport, but it isn't mine. What we're looking for is simple. Four kilograms of weapons-grade plutonium."

She stared at him. Whatever she'd expected him to say, it certainly wasn't that. "You're kidding."

"I don't kid about enough plutonium to fuel a dirty bomb that could spread radioactive waste in all directions."

"You want me to find a nuclear bomb?" Her voice rose in incredulity.

"Not a bomb. Not yet. Just one of the main ingredients. Four kilograms of plutonium. The amount that could sit in the palm of your hand."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, she couldn't help laughing. "And how do you expect me to find something like that? I may know a thing or two about bombshells, but I don't know anything about bombs."

His lips compressed as he visibly reined in his patience. "We'll show you what to look for."

"Great," she said, rolling her eyes. "How about where?"

"We think the plutonium was smuggled into this country for purposes of resale. We've been hearing rumors among domestic terror groups that mention a man named Victor Borian, a wealthy businessman with connections in Russia and Central Asia where the plutonium was stolen."

She shook her head, still baffled. "Why me? Don't you have men in astronaut suits who do this kind of thing?"

Ignoring her gibe, he clicked open his briefcase. "You have something no one else does." He held out the snapshot he'd taunted her with that morning. "Your mother." She stilled. "She was married to Borian."

She heard the words but couldn't take them in. Was this some kind of trick? She examined his face for signs he was joking, but he only gazed at her, stiff and sober as Sunday. "Go ahead, take it." He pushed the photo at her.

But now that she could finally see what her mother looked like, she wanted to put off the moment. She wasn't ready. Not yet. Heart pounding, she took the picture from him and placed it facedown on the coffee table. "You said 'was' married? Is she divorced? Remarried?"

Finn hesitated, a shimmer of guilt wafting through him. He'd used her mother as bait, and it had worked. Now he had to tell her the truth, and given her reaction when he'd first mentioned the possibility of meeting her mother, what he was about to tell her now would be rough. "I'm sorry, Angelina, but she's dead. She died three years ago. Cancer."

The light in her beautiful face faded as the words sank in. "I see." She turned away again, but not before he saw bitterness and disappointment in her eyes. "So this was all a scam. You want me to help you and in return you give me a dead woman."

For half a minute he was tempted to put a comforting arm around her, but that was only his soft streak speaking. The farther away he stayed, the better. "Look, I can't bring her back to life, but I can get you as close as you'll ever get to her. Into the house she lived in, near the people she lived with. Her sister works for Borian."

"Her sister."

"That's right."

She nodded slowly, as though thinking it through.
Come on, 'Lina, work it out An aunt is better than nothing.

To help her, he took out the sheaf of reports and documents Roper had gathered. "We did a deep background check on Borian and his wife, and discovered she'd had a child when she was fifteen."

She gazed at him, green eyes wide and vulnerable. He looked away, not wanting to lose himself to their pull.

"Fifteen," she murmured. "So young."

Blindly, Angelina took the papers he held out to her. She had never been fifteen and pregnant, but she knew how it felt to face the world's scorn alone.

"She had the baby out of state in a home for unwed mothers," Finn said, "far away from friends and family. Here are the papers backing this up. Your birth certificate, the adoption records. Not that you'll need them. One look at the photo should convince you."

"What about my father?"

He shrugged. "There's no name on the birth certificate and the only person who could tell us for sure is dead. I'm sorry."

She heard the sympathy in his voice and shut it out. She didn't need pity. Not from someone like him.

"There is the sister," he continued casually. "Marian. She might know."

She looked at him, not for a second buying into his offhand tone or his implication: do this for me and find Daddy, too.

Instead, she touched the papers she'd tried for years to obtain. "How did you get these?"

As if it had been the easiest thing in the world, Finn said, "The court agreed to release your records to us in the interest of public safety."

She nodded, numb. Even the judicial system was in on the deal. "And this?" At last she pushed the photo out from under the other papers.

"Our research team dug it up. Take a look. The resemblance is uncanny."

Heart in her throat, she turned the picture over. Stating up at her was an attractive blonde in her late thirties, maybe ten years older than Angelina was now, but still youthful.

Her mother. The one person in all the world who was truly hers.

Tears gathered in the back of her throat and she swallowed convulsively, suddenly panicked. She would not break down. Not in front of him.

"Are you all right?"

His voice was gentle, too gentle. It nearly undid all her efforts not to cry, and for half a second she almost leaned against him, wishing for someone who loved her, someone to share this moment with, someone who would understand and help her absorb it.

But there was no one, only him, and when she trusted herself to look, she caught him appraising her, measuring her reaction, calculating... something. Her hackles went right back up again.

"What else is going on here, Sharkman? You want me to get into Borian's house. What does this"-she shook the photograph at him-"have to do with it?"

"Everything," he said curtly. "Borian adored his wife and never got over her loss. You're going to give her back to him."

Puzzled, she frowned. "Me? What do you mean?" "Your job is to look as much like Carol Borian as possible. That's the hook we'll use to get you inside the house."

Her jaw dropped, but before she could get any words out, he slid off the sofa and walked past her as if he lived there. His familiarity with Beaman's home sent another flash of irritation through her. She followed him into the bedroom.

"This is my bedroom. I didn't give you permission-"

"We have a deal, and I just held up my end. So let's skip the niceties. We don't have time."

He opened her closet and began riffling through her clothes. She shoved past him and closed the doors. "What are you doing?"

He lifted her off the floor and set her down a few feet away. The hands circling her waist were warm and strong, and she didn't like the way her heart thumped at their touch.

"Checking your clothes for something more..." He examined her from head to toe and back again. "Appropriate." Reopening the closet, he began wading through the clothes.

Who the hell did he think he was?

She stepped toward him, and like that, he turned, blocking her way.

"I'm going to do this whether you like it or not."

His gaze was steely and she returned it. "Just so we're clear-I don't like it."

He turned back to the closet and she leaned against the bed, staring moodily at the picture of her mother. Face it, the woman was a stranger. She looked refined and elegant, blond hair pulled back into a soft chignon, a string of pearls around the neck of her tailored dress. Nothing like the rebellious spitfire Angelina had imagined all these years. Nothing like Angelina.

A nip of disappointment bit and she caught her reflection in the mirror. She'd toned down the bright red lipstick, but her lips were still a beacon of color. "You really think I look like her?"

Finn spoke over his shoulder, his fingers moving through the clothes. "Enough to make her husband's hair stand on end, we hope. Especially if you lose the makeup and the Veronica Lake hair." He scraped back a section of clothes to examine a glittery black dress with a plunging neckline.

"What's he like?"

"Old-fashioned. European." He pushed the black dress into the "reject" section and held up a red strapless pant suit. "Does everything you own have sequins?"

"No."

"Good."

"Some of it has feathers."

He shot her a don't-mess-with-me look and she seat him one back. She didn't bother telling him that most of the flashy stuff had been presents from Beamer. That little red number had been one of his favorites.

Her heart squeezed.
Oh, Beam. Why did you have to go?

Finn rehung the outfit in the closet and closed the doors. "Nothing here. You'll have to lose the trashy wardrobe."

Trashy?
As if apologizing for it, she glanced down at her clothes, then caught herself. No cop was going to tell her what to do or how to dress. Especially one who'd lied to her. Well, not lied. Not exactly. But she hadn't missed the fact that he'd neglected to say her mother was dead- at least not until he'd reeled her in.

She rose and crossed to where he was leaning against the closet doors, watching her the way a cat does, intense and ready to spring.
Do I make you nervous, Sharkman?
She glided up to him, feeling his almost-imperceptible tension mount as she approached. "You don't like my clothesr

He sidestepped, neatly avoiding her. "It's not me you have to worry about. Victor Borian's blood is three-quarters starch. You want to hold up your end of our bargain, you'll play the part."

Oh, she'd play a part, all right. The part that paid back liars like him. Why else had she agreed to this?

Because you're tired of being you, party girl. Here's your chance to be someone else.

She
had
felt different after she'd agreed to work with Carver and hung up the phone. She'd showered and changed into the most conservative outfit she owned, a white silk suit that covered her from neck to mid calf. At the time, she thought it appropriate for her transformation into Finn Carver's little angel, but now she saw nothing she did would make a dent in his icy contempt.
Well, who the hell cares ?
To prove it, she undid the top button of the high, Chinese-style neck, fingers working slowly, provocatively. Without taking her eyes off Finn, she moved on to the next button.

"What are you doing?" His voice was hoarse and he cleared it.

Payback time. "It's hot in here. Don't you think it's hot?"

He gabbed her wrist, stopping her at the third button. "I told you I don't play games."

"I'm not playing games."
Now who's the liar?
"I'm just hot."

His eyes narrowed. "Let's get out of here, then. We have work to do." And before she could protest, he grabbed her purse, tossed it to her, and led her out the door.

The spring afternoon washed over her, warm and fecund. She
had
been playing games, pushing to get back at him for manipulating her, but now she really was hot His hand on her wrist gave her an electric thrill she wasn't too happy about.
You do nothing to me, Sharkman. I'm in control.
She tugged herself away and instead of getting into Finn's government-issue Ford, she opened the door to the '58 T-bird convertible Beamer had bought her last year. A classic in mint condition, he'd paid a small fortune for it.

"Can't cool down inside that tin box of yours." Not waiting for Finn, she slid behind the wheel, found her car keys, and turned over the ignition. Flooring the gas pedal, she squealed away, laughing at the slow burn in Special Agent Carver's face.

The wind blew her hair into a wild tangle, and she reveled in the feel of it whipping her face. Finn's car roared behind, taking the curves of the hilltop road with difficulty. She glanced in the rearview mirror and could almost see the fury heat those cold blue eyes. He leaned against his horn, demanding her to stop, but she pressed down on the gas pedal, laughed and watched his reaction in the mirror. The horn blared, and something about its warning peal made her focus on the road ahead.

Oh, my God.

She'd drifted into the wrong lane. An oncoming car headed straight toward her. Wrenching the wheel, she braked and skidded off the road as the approaching car buzzed by on an angry horn blast. Her right headlight connected with a tree, snapping her forward and back.

Shock rendered her motionless, hands locked around the steering wheel. The only thing that moved was her heart, and it galloped inside her like a runaway stallion. A screech of brakes, footsteps pounding over gravel, and the car door swung open.

"Are you completely crazy? You could have killed yourself."
Breathe, party girl Just breathe.
"Angelina." Finn barked her name. "Are you all right?" His voice closed in and then he was gently prying her fingers away from the wheel. "Angel." Softer. Something touched the top of her head. His hand. It slid down to cup her chin. He turned her to face him. He was kneeling beside the car. "Are you all right?"