Marked Masters (19 page)

A huge grin spread across Gordon's face, and
Clive took three slow steps back again.

"That's exactly what I was going to talk
about," Gordon said. "Imagine using Leonardo da Vinci's work of
grotesque figures to base your painting,
A Grotesque Old
Woman,
as a means to give a social statement in the fifteenth
century about women who try to look younger than they are."

Yes, the thought occurred to me about the
pot calling the kettle black as Gordon sat there in his tight
leather pants and pushed his salon-colored hair behind one ear. But
I remembered I was a guest, and I knew Clive was counting on me to
keep Gordon occupied. Somehow, I didn't think the rock guitarist
would appreciate the irony.

Still, his passion was contagious, and I
found myself enthralled by the tales of how he acquired each of the
favorite works in his collection. My world began tilting though
when he pulled a sheath of photos from a leather briefcase standing
alongside his chair. He flipped through them and said, "Heard you
were at the Browning event. Even saw some snaps on social media.
What did you think of their setup for the Sebastian exhibit?
Getting one of his works is on my bucket list, but only one since
he isn't a Brit. But the one I really want was stolen years
ago."

He turned his hand to show the top photo,
facing out, and I stared at a small archive print of
Juliana
.

I had to clear my throat a couple of times
before I could speak. Wordlessly, I took the print from him,
placing it in my lap so I could look down and no one would see the
tears I knew shined in my eyes. "Yes, I think everyone is under the
assumption this piece is in the private collection of some
megalomaniac." Maybe the term was a little over the top to apply to
Tony B, but my knees still tingled when I thought of crawling to
escape from the gallery room. At the same time, my heart ached
because I left without setting
Juliana
free.

I just hoped I'd have another chance before
Tony B decided to carry out his threat.

The ear-bleeding rhythms were cranked up
again an hour or so later as we buckled up for landing in Florence.
While the rock-and-roll appearances weren't anything I wanted to
relive anytime soon, I did hope I'd see the band again. I had a
chance to talk to the other members when Gordon finally decided our
face time was completed, and the rest seemed like a bunch of
regular guys with leather clothes and electric instruments. You
know, just boys next door with a trillion rabid fans and the bank
accounts to match.
HA
!

However, the best part was Clive took over
my care and maintenance when we landed, all with the band's
blessing. He handled my luggage, returned the burner phone, and
gave me the new smartphone Cassie had brought along, and he made
sure his direct number was loaded in case I needed to reach him or
the band later for any contingency. I knew part of my allure was
the fact Gordon wanted me as his personal art listener, but I'd had
worse gigs, and none of them kept me in the luxury of a private
jet. I especially counted my blessings and wished for my very own
roadie when I was ushered through customs in the blink of an eye.
Then Clive shook my hand and gave me a wink as he turned to stride
back to the plane. I headed for the taxi stand.

I texted Nico and Cassie that I'd safely
arrived in Florence, then used the burner phone to do the same for
Jack and Max. I didn't trust either of the latter at the moment and
wanted to be able to rid myself of any inconvenient GPS tracking if
I determined I should. I got immediate responses back, positive on
the first two and livid abbreviated rantings from the latter
micromanaging duo. When the burner phone started buzzing with a
call, I turned it off and decided not to wait to see what happened
next. I dropped the now nonemergency phone into the closest trash
bin. I'd call Jack later when he had the chance to cool down, but I
notified Cassie in the meantime that if he or Max called to tell
them I promised to stay in communication. Nothing more. I had a few
things to do before I let those two spew at me with their expected
rancor. At least the cab ride was short. The reason we'd wanted the
Aeroporto di Firenze-Peretola was because downtown Florence sat
only a fifteen-minute cab ride away.

The first cabbie in line was a Florentine
native who looked like he could have been Nico's much flirtier
cousin. He opened the back door for me with a flourish, then stowed
my rolling bag in the back of the small vehicle. A second later he
was behind the wheel and firing off incoherent questions, a broad
smile flashing across his face.

"English, please." I pointed to myself.
"American."

"Ah, Americano." He nodded, then pulled out
into traffic. "Destination? Address?"

I knew enough Italian to function, but
playing dumb had always served me well. Since Nico was still
working on lodging options to hide me from Tony B, I figured I may
as well see what I could find out in the meantime. With an
exaggerated shrug, I shook my head in the negative and said, "I
have to find something. Do you know a good place to stay?"

He pursed those beautiful lips, and I knew
he was contemplating my clothes and designer accessories. "Four
star?" he said, hopefulness in his eyes.

"No." I shook my head, frowning. I raised a
hand and held my thumb about an inch from my index finger. "I'm on
a budget."

"Eh…a budget," he said, disappointed.
Turning his head to look at me again, he almost sideswiped another
vehicle. I don't care what city in Italy I traveled to, I refused
to drive myself. If it was that dangerous when a native was
driving, I knew I had no hope of getting anywhere in one piece if I
were at the helm.

Time to check what cash I had. "Just a
minute," I said, then held up a finger. "
Un minuto
." I
assumed that was right, because he nodded and turned all of his
attention back to the road.

I unzipped the smaller side pocket of my
luggage and found an envelope Cassie stashed inside. As expected,
it contained enough euros to last me several days. And since most
of Florence was accessible by a fifteen or thirty-minute walk, I
could stretch this a little further if I stayed out of any more
cabs. "Something reasonable." My cabbie raised his eyebrows in a
questioning way, and I held up my finger and thumb again. "Budget.
Comfortable but cheap."

"Two star? Three star?" he asked.

"I'd prefer three, but it depends on the
price." He acted like he didn't understand, but I figured he knew
more English than he let on. Then I had a brainstorm that should
have come to me sooner. "A
pension
? Please? Close to the
Duomo? Or to the Via dei Serragli maybe?" The Palazzo Medici was on
the Via dei Serragli, and I had no hope of staying there. But at
least it gave him an idea of the area I aspired to and might give
him some ideas. Apparently, the clues worked.

"Across the Arno?" he asked.

"If it's close."

He nodded and made a quick turn.

I had some contacts in Florence, of course,
but if I could use the taxi driver to secure my room, I'd be a
little more incognito. Max knew many of my European connections and
had the contacts to easily find out more—and spill the beans about
where I was, much like he had to Tony B just a few days ago. It
wasn't a perfect plan, but it was a place to start.

At some point, when I had a little privacy,
I needed to get some digital face time with Cassie to explain the
whole situation to her and get her focused on new tasks. While I
needed to keep old "loose lips" from giving away my current
location and everything else, she needed to be the go-between for
Max and me. Nico and I had worked too hard to get me to Florence
under Tony B's radar, and I needed to keep Max from telling anyone
else. Cassie had turned into quite the charmer where he was
concerned, and I decided I'd better use that asset in this
situation. I didn't particularly like talking to my boss on a good
day—unless I had earplugs to combat the shouting—and this was far
from the figurative blue skies kind of moment. Though the literal
sky outside my taxi window was pretty close to perfect.

Ten minutes later we were on the Oltrarno
side of Florence, and a short street past Via dei Serragli. I
didn't catch the name of the street we turned onto but understood
when he pulled up to a nondescript white-and-blue home. The place
was small in comparison to its Medici-inspired neighbors. In fact,
I think it was once a carriage house of some sort. But my driver
opened my door with a flourish, grabbed my bag, and motioned me to
follow him to the door, my luggage bouncing on its little wheels
behind him.

I had no real idea what he told the severe
dark-haired woman who greeted us. She thawed a bit when my driver
started talking euros, and I pulled money out to pay him. He quoted
another number, looking at the hotelier for confirmation. When she
nodded, he flashed his white teeth at me and raised his eyebrows as
if proud of the bargaining he'd accomplished on my behalf. The sum
was less than I expected, but I also assumed it didn't include any
meals. That was fine. A soft bed in a quiet house off the beaten
path and off Tony B's or Moran's radar was all I asked. The driver
left, and minutes later I was ushered up the narrow stairs and into
my accommodations.

The room had a lovely view of the cathedral
skyline over the intermediate rooftops and a balcony where I could
gaze onto the
signora's
garden. She spoke to me in
rapid-fire Italian, of which I knew enough to realize she was
asking if the room was satisfactory. "
Sì. Buono."

I didn't try anything further. My mind was
feeling a little foggy, and I didn't want to misspeak and risk
accidentally saying something offensive. I passed enough euros to
cover a week, thanking the heavens that Cassie had sent what money
she had. The
signora
actually smiled then, but the facial
movement was so fleeting I almost missed it. She motioned that the
toilet was down the hall, and then she finally left me alone.

I sank onto the twin bed, covered with a
lovely rose and lace spread. The walls were white, and a crucifix
hung over the plain wooden headboard. It was austere but
comfortable. A tiny closet was in one corner, and an overstuffed
chair upholstered in a muted floral stood in the other, with a pine
chest topped by a wood-framed mirror filling the space between.
Overall, acceptable. Close to the main part of Florence, and the
perfect bolt-hole for someone who needed to venture out yet have a
place to run and hide.

There on that lovely lace coverlet, I felt
my body start to quiver. My gaze drifted to the window, picking out
Brunelleschi's magnificent dome atop the Duomo. I stared hard at
the sight, willing myself to calm, for my courage to return once
more to the forefront.

I didn't know if it was some form of shock,
a bit of exhaustion, or a large measure of common sense that
invaded my physical being, but I soon realized my mind and body
were trying to tell me what my stubbornness attempted to ignore. I
couldn't do this alone. Not here. Not now.

Tony B could have eyes and ears all over
Italy, and we were already here because we presumed Moran had
something in play in Florence. And despite all of my safeguards,
either of them could play cat and mouse with me as long as it
remained interesting, whether I liked it or not.

True, I had resources of my own, people who
would keep me safe and work with me as I needed. But I'd
acknowledged the risk of trying to reach out in any of those
directions. Who was to say that any or all of my contacts hadn't
already been compromised? Hadn't already spotted me on my journey
in and left a friendly message to that "nice Tony B" who would have
called earlier and asked to be alerted if the
signorina
arrived in the city? I already knew Moran's objective was stealing
masterpieces, but I had no idea what game Tony B was playing at the
moment beyond holding
The Portrait of Three.

My body shook harder, and I hugged my torso,
feeling aghast when tears splashed onto my skirt.

Okay, this is quite enough. The paranoia
must end this minute.

There was only one thing to do. Call the one
person I could count on to back me against Moran or Tony B. Nico
was out. He hated fieldwork and had reiterated his feelings on the
subject back in the Miami airport. Cassie would be in Florence on
the next flight if I called her, but an art restorer/personal
assistant was not the skill set I needed.

I retrieved my phone from my bag and dialed.
The call was picked up immediately.

"Where the bloody hell are you?"

I took a quick breath, then answered, proud
of the steady tone in my voice, "Florence, of course."

"Meet me at Ghiberti's Doors in fifteen
minutes," Jack barked.

"I'll be there in an hour."

He was sputtering as I cut the
connection.

Before I met Jack, I needed to talk to
Cassie. However, before I could talk to Cassie, I needed to make
sure Jack couldn't storm the castle because I'd put him off
schedule. I turned off my phone and removed the battery. If he'd
worked at superspeed, he may have locked onto my GPS position
already, but I doubted it. I can remove a battery in record time,
and I was primed to do so even before he gave his ultimatum.

So how was I going to call Cassie? Well, my
very bright assistant obviously realized I might ditch my burner
phone, so she had included another something extra with all those
lovely euros she added to my rolling wardrobe bag—one of the
Italian-based phones we kept in the office. The foundation had
phones for every country, and for a country like Italy that was
particularly helpful. I won't go into detail, but while my
smartphone contract is supposed to enjoy worldwide coverage, such
isn't always the case.