Stolen Fury (5 page)

“Dr. Gotsi is available around four this afternoon, if that works better for you,” Elise replied.

Lisa reached for the light in the closet. She pushed aside slacks and jackets hanging from the bar above and stared down at the open safe in the back of the small room.

No way.

Her surprise was quickly blanketed by a wave of red-hot rage, as the reality of the situation hit her. “That lying sack of shit,” she muttered.

“Excuse me?”

The woman’s startled voice dragged Lisa’s attention back to her phone conversation. “I’m sorry. Um, it looks like I’ve just had a sudden change in plans. I’m going to need to cancel with Dr. Gotsi for the time being. I’ll call her to reschedule.”

“All right. If you’re sure.”

Lisa barely heard the woman’s response. Staring at the empty safe, she clicked off the phone and tried to settle her bubbling temper.

It didn’t work.

She closed her eyes and ran a shaky hand through her hair. The prick had stolen the relief right out from under her nose, and she’d fallen for his ruse like some sex-starved American hussy. She was smarter than that, dammit!

Fury curled in her stomach. She tossed the phone across the room, set her hands on her hips and tried to walk off the anger. Nobody stole from her, not after everything she’d been through because of that stupid relief. Not when she’d spent fifteen years searching for it.

Her vision blurred, and she pressed trembling fingers against her eyes. She’d purposely kept the relief in the safe in her room, because leaving it with hotel security would
have raised questions—ones she didn’t want to deal with and couldn’t afford at this point. No one here knew she had the piece. Which meant someone in Jamaica had spilled the beans. That, or someone had followed her here.

She looked up, steadier as she worked it all through her head. It didn’t really matter who had talked. At this point, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. The only thing that mattered was who had it now.

Thoughts of revenge raced through her mind. She dropped her hands and narrowed her eyes. Oh, he’d better pray she didn’t find him, because when she did, she was going to exact her own unique brand of vengeance on the bastard.

The son of a bitch had messed with the wrong woman.

“I don’t have ten minutes to give the press today.” Shane Maxwell ran tense fingers through his hair, brushed his jacket back and rested his hands on his hips.

Commander O’Conner wasn’t listening to him. But that was no surprise. With his eyes angled downward, the commander flipped papers as if he were alone. It wasn’t that Shane couldn’t fit ten minutes into his schedule. It was simply that he didn’t want to see the chirpy blonde reporter again. Ever.

And O’Conner knew that.

“The public’s screaming for a statement about the Hamilton murder. You’re the point man. Put your fucking personal life on the back burner and do your job, Maxwell.” O’Conner flicked Shane an irritated glare and waved a hand, dismissing him from the office.

Shane bit back a string of curses and let the glass door slam shut behind him. Son of a bitch, he needed a vacation.

Phones rang through the Detective Division of the Bureau of Investigative services in Chicago’s police headquarters. Computer keys clicked and printers whirred while the low hum of conversation drifted through the wide room.

The Windy City held less appeal these days than it ever had before. Part of it was career burnout—he’d been at this damn job way too long, had never responded well to being told what to do and was ready for a change. Although at thirty-eight, he didn’t have a freakin’ clue what else he’d do with his life. Part of it was a need to keep his distance from one overzealous reporter who wasn’t getting the hint he was no longer interested. And short of shooting her himself, he couldn’t figure out another option.

A vacation sounded a hell of a lot better than spending the next thirty years in prison.

The scent of coffee did little to brighten his mood. A hot beach, a bottle of beer and any woman who wasn’t blonde would suit him just fine right now.

“Hey, Maxwell.” The uniformed officer across the room lifted the phone in her hand. “You got a call on line four.”

So much for fantasies. Real life beckoned.

“Thanks.” He wove through the sea of officers and banged-up office furniture and settled into the seat behind his metal desk. His chair creaked as it rocked on its hinges. Lifting the phone, he prayed it wasn’t the press. “Detective Maxwell.”

“Find any two-thousand-year-old dead bodies in that city today?”

He smiled as he leaned back in his chair. “No. You know of any I should be looking for?”

Lisa laughed. “Not yet. How are you, little brother?”

“Miserable. What else?” He picked up a pen and tapped it against the edge of his desk. “Where are you?”

“Still in Italy. Shane, listen, I need a favor.”

“Sure, anything.” She was the only woman in the world who could draw those words from his lips.

“I faxed you a picture a few minutes ago. You should be getting it anytime. The guy’s name is Rafael Garcia—or at least that’s what he told me his name was. He gave me the impression he was a professor at the University of Barcelona, but no one at the university has ever heard of him. No one
fitting his description lives anywhere near Barcelona. Can you run him through the system, see if you can find anything?”

Shane glanced toward the fax machine on the corner of his desk. It beeped and clicked as paper fed into the tray. “Looks like the pic is coming through now. How do you know this guy?”

“I met him at a conference here in Milan.”

The tone of her voice had warning bells going off in his head. “Did something happen?”

“Sort of.”

“Lis?” he asked with concern.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. But I need to find this guy. I have a hunch he’s not Spanish, like I’d thought.”

“You think he’s American?” He took a close look at the photo. The dark-haired man was sitting at a table in a restaurant, the photo taken from the restaurant’s security camera. “Why?”

“The waiter said he paid for dinner with U.S. dollars.”

“In Milan?”

“Yeah.”

“So all you’ve got to give me is a photo of a guy who may or may not be an American, and a name that may or may not be accurate.”

“Pretty much.”

He frowned and tossed the photo on his desk. “Lis, this’ll take me ten years.”

“Would a fingerprint help?”

“Hell, yeah. But only if the guy’s got a record. Otherwise it’s still like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“I’ll fax you one of those as well. My gut tells me he’s got a record.”

“Wait. How’d you get a print?”

“A cute officer with the Milan
polizia
got a partial print off a wineglass.”

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t flirt with the kid, Lis. It’ll just frustrate the poor guy.”

“I’m older than you. Don’t try to tell me what to do.”

“By five minutes, and you know that doesn’t count.” He dropped his hand. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not yet. But I will.”

He knew that was the best he was going to get. “Where will you be in an hour?”

“Here at the hotel.” He jotted down the number when she rattled it off. “I still have some more packing to do.”

He turned toward his computer. At least this gave him an excuse to ignore the persistent Shelley Hanson and her identical pair of silicone-enhanced microphones. “Okay, don’t go anywhere until I get back to you.”

“Thanks, Shane. I owe you for this.”

“You owe me for a lot more than this. One of these days I’m gonna call in all these little favors.”

“Anytime, cutie.”

He smiled at the warmth in her voice. For a second, it lifted his spirits. “I’ll talk to you later.”

With his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, Rafe stared up at the massive relief on the lobby wall of the Art Institute of Athens. The ancient marble depicted Apollo, Artemis, Aphrodite and Eros deep in conversation. The plaque just to the right of the relief dated the piece to ca. 420
B.C.

He let out a low whistle. Old. And probably worth a fortune. A burst of excitement raced through him at the thought. If the marble in his briefcase matched the one he had back in Florida, he was close to collecting the payoff he’d been waiting for his whole damn life.

“Mr. Sullivan, Dr. Gotsi will see you now.”

Turning at the sound of the deep female voice, he lifted the case at his feet and followed the lithe woman down a long hallway. He waited while she punched in a security code and pressed her hand against a fingerprint analysis screen. The metal door at the end of the hall opened with a swish.

“This way.”

She led him to a secure conference room and slipped an electronic key into the slot near the door. She waited for the light to turn green, then pushed the door open.

A woman rose from her seat at the end of a long gleaming table. Dark hair fell down around her shoulders, a pale pink suit molded to her sleek figure. The feline smile curling her bright red lips was meant solely for him. “Mr. Sullivan, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Her Greek accent was thick, her eyes large and black as onyx.

Rafe stepped into the room, waited until the assistant backed out and closed the door, then turned his attention toward Dr. Maria Gotsi. “The pleasure is all mine, as always.”

Her heels clicked across the marble floor, and she reached out with both hands to grasp his arms, pulling him close as she kissed both of his cheeks in the familiar Europe an greeting. Her memorable jasmine scent wafted through the air, tickling his senses. She eased back and sent him an alluring gaze.

She was almost as tall as he was, easily six feet in her heels, a fact he knew gave her an advantage in her business dealings—and her personal ones, as well.

“I was thrilled when Elise told me you were in town.” She smiled, stepping closer. “As it turns out, I happened to have a cancellation just this morning.”

He hid his victory grin. He was pretty sure he knew who’d cancelled, and it was all the more reason to get this little meet and greet over with as soon as possible.

“Must be my lucky day.”

“Could I be so blessed as to discover you crossed the Atlantic simply because you missed me?” A bright red-tipped nail trailed down the sleeve of his jacket.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the chiseled features of her face—the prominent bone structure, flawless skin, supple lips. He knew from experience the body underneath all that pretty packaging was just as perfect as the face, and for
the first time since he’d met the Greek scientist, he had absolutely no desire to see any of it for himself.

That little fact shocked the hell out of him.

He lifted the briefcase in his hand, refusing to give the thought any more time than it deserved. “I brought you something.”

Interest flared in the dark depths of her eyes. “You tease me with history, Rafael.”

And it was the only thing he was going to tease her with, period. He unfastened the straps, dialed a code on the latch and popped the top. Then he lifted the velvet pouch inside, sliding the relief from its careful wrapping.

Maria’s eyes took on an excited gleam. He didn’t even need the analysis he’d traveled so far to obtain. The look on her face confirmed his speculation.

She reached behind her on the table and grasped her glasses. Eyes riveted on the piece, she slipped the small round spectacles onto her nose and leaned closer. “May I?”

“Of course.” He gently placed the marble in her hands.

She examined the relic from every angle, running her fingers over valleys and ridges, looking closely at the way light played over the surface, holding it back to get a better view. Long minutes passed while she studied the relief with unbridled interest.

“Alecto,” she said softly.

“That was my guess.”

“The first of the three Furies.” Awe filled her voice. “Conceived when the blood of Uranus dripped onto Mother Earth after he was castrated by Kronos. The three sisters of vengeance were powerful divinities who punished crime by hounding their victims until they died in a furor of torment and madness.”

“Lovely way to go,” Rafe muttered.

She didn’t seem to hear him. Her focus was intent on the relief in her hands. “Alecto was the oldest, unceasing in anger. Magaera was next, retaliator of jealousy, and Tisiphone, the last, regarded as the avenger of murder.”

Rafe had heard it all before; he didn’t need another lesson in Greek mythology. But the woman adored the lore surrounding each piece, and he’d learned early on to let her have her moment before diving into the business behind the legends. “Three women you wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley.”

She smiled at his comment and tipped her eyes up a split second before refocusing on the piece. “No, most definitely not.”

“Is it real?”

She set the relief on the table, leaned over and continued to examine it with a keen eye. “You’re asking if it matches the one you brought in three months ago. Magaera.”

“Yes.”

She crossed her arms over her chest as she stared at the aged marble. “I would have to do an in-depth analysis of the stonework, compare the chemical structure to that of the other piece, conduct a search of all work done before and after our target date.”

“Gut reaction. Is it the same age?”

She leveled her gaze on his. “Upon initial examination, I’d guess it dates close to 450
B.C.
.”

Tiny tendrils of excitement raced through his veins. “Is it done by the same artist?”

“I won’t know for sure until—”

“Best guess,” he cut in.

She let out a breath. “There’s no record Kalamis even created the Furies. Speculation has swirled for centuries, but—”

“Just tell me, Maria. Is it his work?”

She dropped her arms with a heavy sigh. “I think when we examine it in more detail, we’ll find it’s one of Kalamis’s lost pieces.”

A smile curled Rafe’s mouth. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Believe me, you have.” He reached for the relief and slid it back into the velvet pouch.